by Donna Hatch
A soft knock sounded at the door, and Juliet flinched. The man—Lord Victor something—was still there. He was most certainly a member of the peerage, and his name did seem familiar, although she couldn’t place it under her current duress. Hopefully he was only a baron and not a viscount or earl, or heaven forbid, a marquis.
“Miss?” he said.
Juliet leaned her forehead against the door and sighed. “Can you take John somewhere else?”
“This is Southill Estate, correct?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think your brother has the funds to pay for a night at the inn,” he said.
Of course he didn’t, and Juliet’s cheeks burned hot to know that this man knew of her family’s financial devastation. “Is that why you traveled so late at night?”
The man didn’t answer right away, then he said, “Partly.”
Juliet wanted all of this to go away. She wanted to be in her bed, sound asleep. But she’d fallen asleep in the drawing room, and that’s why she heard the knock on the door. Mrs. Campton slept like the dead, and the butler was gone for a few nights to his ailing father’s home.
“What do you mean by partly?” she asked.
“Do you think you could open the door so we might have a proper conversation?”
It was true, his voice was quite muffled, and hers must be as well. It would be more practical to open the door and speak with the man face-to-face. She turned the lock and cracked the door open no more than a hand span.
“That’s better,” the man said, his deep voice rumbling softly.
Now that Juliet was over her original shock, she had a good look at the stranger on her doorstep. He was certainly of the elite class. His dark jacket—perhaps navy or black—was tailored to fit his broad shoulders, and his light brown vest looked to be imported silk. His breeches were also tailored, but Juliet wasn’t about to assess their particular fit. The singular glow of the candlelight made it no secret that his boots were of high quality and expertly polished. She was surprised to see that he used a cane, which defied the youth of his voice. When her gaze finally rose to his face, his dark eyes gleamed with amusement, as if he were calling her out for scanning him from head to foot.
His mouth quirked, and Juliet didn’t miss the slight dimple on one side of his face. The late hour was also made apparent by the presence of whiskers on his chin and cheeks. The dark wave of his hair completed the visage and reminded Juliet of a hero in a contraband romance novel she’d once read. She really shouldn’t be thinking of him in such terms. He could be married, or even worse, a drunk gambler like her brother. Although . . . his black eyes didn’t appear unfocused in the very least.
Juliet realized she was staring at him, and she took a deep breath to refocus her thoughts. “Were you injured?” she asked, gesturing toward his cane, then immediately regretted her question. This man had nothing to recommend him, other than a title, which he could have made up. And the fact that her brother was in his carriage . . . Well, she didn’t even know that.
“I was,” the man’s tone sounded surprised. “I fell off a horse a couple weeks ago. Turned my ankle.”
Juliet nodded. So not a war injury or something from a drunken brawl. She swallowed against the dryness of her throat because the man seemed to be doing a thorough exam of her own person, and she was clothed in her night rail. It couldn’t be helped, and after tonight, she would never see this man again.
“I don’t mean to pressure you,” he said, “but I plan to return to London tonight, so I’d like to get your brother situated sooner rather than later.”
“Lady Juliet Baldwin,” she said. “That’s my name. Remind me of your name. I’m afraid I was a bit distraught at waking to someone banging at my door.”
“Understood. I’m Lord Victor Roland, Earl of Locken.” He gave a brief bow.
Juliet quickly hid her shock—he was an earl, beneath a marquis and a duke. Unless he had yet to inherit a higher title . . .
“Nice to meet you, Lady Juliet Baldwin.” His dark eyes seemed to pierce right through her. “Is there a butler or groomsman who might help me carry your brother to his room?”
She hated to tell Lord Locken that there was no man here to help, and she refused to call upon a neighbor at such an hour. The fewer people who knew about her brother’s deplorable condition, the better. “I’m afraid only myself and the housekeeper are currently in residence,” she said.
To his credit, Lord Locken didn’t look aghast. He simply said, “I can probably manage on my own if you will but lead the way.”
“All right,” she said. “I need to find a robe first.”
It seemed that Lord Locken used great effort to keep his gaze on her face when he stepped back and said, “Very well. I’ll try to rouse your brother in the meantime. Perhaps fortune will be upon us, and he will rise on his own.”
Juliet nodded and turned from the doorway. She kept ahold of the candle and hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber. She was out of breath by the time she reached her room. Not only was she about to help her drunken brother to his room, but she was about to let the most handsome man she’d ever met into her home. Not that she’d met many men of the ton, so as far as she knew, he paled in comparison. Somehow, she doubted it.
She drew on a robe and tied it about her waist. Then she smoothed her hair back and fastened a ribbon to hold the unruliness into place. A lady’s maid would be useful right now, but Juliet hadn’t had that luxury. She snatched up the candle again and set it on the hallway table near her brother’s room. Then she went into his bedchamber and lit another candle.
By the time she returned to the front door, she’d lit several other candles so that Lord Locken would be able to navigate his way throughout the house.
She stepped outside, leaving the door wide open, and walked right into a light drizzle. Of course it would start raining now. There wasn’t much else that could happen to make the night worse. She found Lord Locken standing inside the curricle, where her brother must be.
She paused by the pair of bays. Lord Locken must be a wealthy gentleman indeed. The bays were well-bred, beautiful specimens. She stepped around them and moved to the curricle.
Juliet recoiled at the first sight of John. His clothing was rumpled and soiled, and he had a swollen nose, the blood crusted about his mouth and chin. “I thought you said he was uninjured.”
“He got into a bit of a scrape with a horse,” Lord Locken said. “But he’s passed out from the alcohol.”
She decided to question him on the fight her brother had gotten into later. For now, they had to somehow transport the man. Lord Locken’s cane was propped against the side of the curricle, reminding Juliet of his injury. Mrs. Campton would be useless, so Juliet would have to help carry her brother.
She lifted her night rail enough to step into the curricle. Her brother reeked of alcohol and something more rank. “John,” she said, shaking his shoulder. “John, time to wake up.”
His head lolled, but his eyes didn’t even crack open.
Lord Locken said nothing as Juliet continued trying to wake her brother.
Finally, she turned to face the dark-eyed man. “Tell me how to help you. I don’t want you to injure your ankle further.”
His brows drew together. “My ankle is of no concern. A small thing like you could hardly carry a full-grown man.”
For some reason, his words made her pulse hammer. “I can lift his legs at least, if you hold up his torso.”
The man hesitated, then nodded. “That might work. I’ll prop him up,” Lord Locken said, “and you can go before me and grab his feet.”
So she and Lord Locken had to change places, and Juliet brushed against him as they moved. When she climbed out of the curricle, she realized she’d been holding her breath. She wiped at the rain on her face and exhaled. Then she grasped her brother’s ankles and walked backward as Lord Locken hefted him until John was out of the curricle. Juliet had really done nothing,
but now the real work would begin.
“Ready?” Lord Locken said.
He was hardly breathless, even though his ankle was surely in pain.
Juliet kept her brother’s ankles hoisted and propped on her hips as she walked with Lord Locken into the house. He paused when he saw the flight of stairs.
“We could put him in the drawing room on the settee,” Juliet suggested.
Lord Locken’s gaze connected with her. “He’ll be more comfortable in his bed.”
“If you think we can make it up the stairs,” Juliet said, giving him an out if he should care to have one.
“We’ll make it.” Lord Locken began to move up the stairs backward.
Juliet couldn’t help but notice Lord Locken wincing every couple of steps as he put weight on his injured ankle. She gritted her teeth in commiseration and cursed her brother once again. His actions certainly had far-reaching consequences.
It was nothing short of a miracle that they managed to deposit her brother on his bed without dropping him. She tugged off his boots and then rolled him to the side to work his jacket off one of his arms.
“Let me help,” Lord Locken said, moving to her side.
Inside now, she caught a whiff of his decidedly male scent—spice, rain, and the outdoors. She ignored the way her pulse seemed to jump while in close proximity with him, and she started to undo the buttons of her brother’s vest.
Together they made quick work of removing John’s jacket, his vest and cravat.
Juliet decided to leave his shirt and breeches on.
“I’ll roll him if you want to pull the covers out from under him,” Lord Locken said.
A practical suggestion. They worked together in silence, the only sound the light snores of her brother and the increasing rain slapping against the bedroom window.
“I’ll fetch a glass of water to put by his bedside should he wake,” Juliet said, knowing she was making an excuse to leave the room. But with John settled into his bed and Lord Locken’s dominating presence, she had to keep moving, keep working.
She paused in the doorway. “Should you care to come to the kitchen, I can brew up some tea to sustain you on your return trip.”
Lord Locken’s eyes flicked to hers. “Thank you. I’d welcome the refreshment.”
Juliet’s step felt light as she left the room and went downstairs. The front door was still wide open, and the damp air seeped into the entryway. She should fetch Lord Locken’s cane at the very least, and what about his bays?
She hurried out into the weather to fetch the cane, and the wind whipped stinging rain against her skin. Juliet paused by the bays, who were stalwart in their patience as they endured the weather. Neither of them seemed bothered by the wind and rain in the least. She stroked their noses, then went about her task of retrieving Lord Locken’s cane. By the time she made it back inside, her hair was quite damp, and Lord Locken was coming down the stairs. His hand had a firm grip on the banister as he took each stair slowly. She shut the door behind her, then headed up the stairs to meet the man halfway.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said as he took the cane from her outstretched hand. His gaze surveyed her damp appearance.
“Nonsense.” She brushed wet hair from her face. “You’ve put more strain on your injury.” She took a step back from the dark gaze of Lord Locken. She now realized that his eyes were not black, but a dark brown. “Come to the kitchen, and I’ll put the tea on.”
He looked as if he were about to change his mind. Instead, he nodded and continued down the stairs.
Chapter Five
Southill’s sister was a temptress of the worst kind, Victor decided. Meaning that she was beautiful and sensual without even knowing it. Her innocence was more attractive to Victor than a woman who knew the art of seduction, and the soft light coming from the few candles in the kitchen only added to the allure. He tried to push such thoughts out of his head as he observed her moving about the room, and it was clear she wasn’t too familiar with the workings of a kitchen, but she was trying, and that certainly counted.
“Let me stoke the fire.” He moved to her side after she’d tried more than once to get the embers to ignite into flame. He couldn’t help notice the scent of rain on her skin and clothing, and he’d never before realized how enticing it smelled.
He added a few bits of kindling to the hot coals and gently blew on them. Moments later, the kindling caught on fire.
“Bravo,” Lady Juliet said, clapping her hands together. “You did it.”
Victor straightened and smiled down at her. “It’s rather simple once you know how to do it.”
She blinked her long lashes, and he noticed her blue eyes again, much like her brother’s, yet different too. The blue of her eyes was a deeper color, reminding him of a pond on a summer’s day. “I’m not as helpless as I might seem.” Her lips curved upward. “I’ve some skills, just not in the kitchen.”
He held back the rather suggestive comment that popped into his mind and let her move past him to fill the tea kettle with water.
Once she set that on top of the warming stove, she opened a few cupboards, searching. “Ah, here it is.” She turned, holding a plate of butter. Setting it on the table, she again busied herself looking for something else.
Victor leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He stifled a yawn. He was quite tired, yet content as well.
“Here’s the cake Mrs. Campton made yesterday.” Lady Juliet carried a plate to the table and set it in front of Victor. “It’s still moist.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I didn’t expect to be fed in the middle of the night.” He took the fork she’d handed him, then paused. “Are you not eating?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly eat,” she said.
He waited. When she didn’t continue, he prompted, “Because . . .?”
She looked away from him. “I haven’t had much of an appetite of late.” Standing there, she looked forlorn with her damp hair and delicate features.
“Are you ill?” he asked in a quiet voice.
Her gaze cut back to his. “Oh, no, nothing like that.” She exhaled. “Things have not been easy since the passing of my father a year ago. And my brother’s follies have compounded my distress.”
Of course. Victor should have guessed some of this—what with all the gambling her brother did, and her being practically alone at this big estate. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She blinked and turned away, attending to the tea kettle. Surely, she was not still grieving so deeply? Victor supposed it was possible, especially if she’d been close to her father. Victor wouldn’t grieve the passing of his own father, and he supposed that unfortunate attitude might give him something more to feel guilty over, but it was the truth.
“John has taken it hard,” Lady Juliet said, her back still turned.
“Yes,” Victor said for lack of a better response. Something hung in the air between them—questions he wasn’t sure it was his place to ask. “And how are you faring?”
Her hands dropped to her sides, and she didn’t respond for a moment. “I think you’re the first person to ask that.”
The tremor in her voice was unmistakable, and he wanted to find a way to comfort her. Was her brother such a cad that he’d neglected his sister’s tender feelings?
“What was your father like?” he asked, knowing that the cozy warmth of the kitchen had lulled him into asking more personal questions than he ought.
Lady Juliet looked over at him with her deep blue gaze. “He loved horses,” she said with an affectionate smile. She lifted the kettle from the stove, then poured the steaming water into a teapot. “Our neighbor breeds horses, and the two men could talk for hours at a time about them. My father taught me to ride almost before I could walk. He gave me my first pony on my third birthday.”
Victor nodded. “I expect you’re an excellent horsewoman now.”
She lifted one of her shoulders. “I ride as often as I can, when
it’s not raining of course.”
Victor glanced at the dark window that blocked out the rainy night. “What about your mother?”
“She died when I was twelve.” Lady Juliet turned to the teapot, but not before Victor saw the fresh sadness in her eyes. She lifted the teapot and poured the tea through a strainer into the two cups she’d set on the sideboard. She delivered one steaming cup to him, then she set a pitcher of milk and a small bowl of crushed sugar on the table.
“I never knew my mother,” Victor said when she took a chair across the table from him. It had been years since he’d spoken of his mother to anyone. In fact, he wasn’t sure when he last had. Perhaps it had been at Eton when they were all required to write an essay about their family lineage.
“Were you a baby when she died?” Lady Juliet asked, her gaze filled with compassion.
Under ordinary circumstances, Victor would have despised any pity or commiseration. But here, now, he didn’t mind the way this woman was looking at him. In fact, it made him feel like they had something in common, since death put everyone on a level playing field. “She died from blood loss after giving birth to me.”
Instead of saying how sorry she was, or how horrible of a death, or some other pitying comeback, Lady Juliet said, “Childbirth is a great risk to all women.”
Victor took a sip of the steaming tea. The burn felt good in his throat. “Yes, and it has made my decision all that easier.” He felt Lady Juliet’s gaze on him, so when he looked up, he wasn’t surprised to see her curious expression. “I’ve decided to marry the woman my father has selected. I do not love her. Therefore, if she doesn’t survive childbirth, I won’t turn into a drunken, pathetic man like my father.”
Lady Juliet’s lips parted in a soft gasp. “I am sure you don’t mean you won’t care for your wife, even if it’s not a love match.”
Victor took another scalding swallow, then winced. He should pour some milk in to cool the temperature, but he refrained. “I mean it with all my heart, Lady Juliet. Taking care of someone is not the same thing as caring for them.”