by Donna Hatch
She rose to her feet without a word, crossed to where he sat and added a spoonful of sugar to his tea. He watched her movements as she reached for the milk jug and added a small trickle. Then she picked up a spoon and stirred. Finally, she retook her seat and gazed across the table at him with frankness.
“Sometimes when life has dealt us a bitter blow, someone else must add the sweetness back into it,” she said in a soft voice, tilting her head toward his teacup as if she’d given him a concrete example. “That’s how I envision marriage to be. Whatever challenges we face in life, if we have a partner to face them with, we can find joy.”
Victor studied her for a moment, her deep blue eyes, her golden hair barely tamed by the ribbon she’d added to it, the v-opening of her robe that exposed the dip of her night rail so that her delicate collarbones were visible. He picked up the teacup and took another drink. The heat had calmed, and the taste was akin to a pastry. It was, to be honest, sweet and delicious.
“Perhaps you’re right, Lady Juliet,” Victor said in a slow voice. “I’ve no doubt that you’ll enjoy the fruits of such a marriage. As for a man like me, those sorts of opportunities never come knocking.”
“What are you? Thirty in age?” she asked. “Surely you can’t profess to have the bitterness of a man twice your age.”
“I’m nearly thirty, but I have as much right to bitterness as the next man.”
“Did you fight in the war?” she pressed.
He was taken aback by her direct question, yet his chuckle didn’t seem to bother her. “I’m the only son of the Duke of Wycliff. All I was allowed to do was transport a few private letters.”
Her eyes widened a fraction. He probably should have told her sooner who his father was. “You were a spy?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t go that far—”
“The eldest sons of dukedoms are valuable to the estate and seen as a commodity,” she said. “It’s no wonder your father didn’t want you to go to war and risk your life.”
“That’s a pretty thought in your pretty head,” Victor said. “My father could care less if I was alive. But his estate solicitor informed me I’d be disinherited if I took up any sort of uniform.”
She sipped her tea as if she were considering his statement. “You must love your home, at least,” she observed.
Her words had a way of driving straight into his heart and twisting hard. “It’s the only thing I’ll ever be able to call my own in this life.”
Lady Juliet held his gaze, not looking away. “I suppose that’s the truth of a man in your position. And I suppose that’s why a woman wants to have children, despite the risk to her life. Once I marry, my dowry and possessions become the property of my husband. Only my children will belong to me.”
Victor decided not to contradict her words because in truth, a woman’s children legally belonged to the father. He was curious about Lady Juliet and her future, especially since her brother had tried to wager away her hand and dowry. “Is a wedding on the horizon for you, Lady Juliet?”
“Oh, no,” she said, looking down at her teacup.
Victor didn’t miss the flush of her cheeks. “You’ve been proposed to?”
She hesitated, then gave a short nod.
Victor’s curiosity grew. He took another swallow of the sweet concoction she’d made for him and leaned forward, his gaze intent on hers. “Has your brother consented?”
Lady Juliet waved a hand in front of her face as if to ward off a fainting spell. “Goodness, no. It was just today . . . I mean yesterday. But I cannot fathom myself marrying the man.”
Victor arched his brows, waiting for more.
She exhaled and rested her chin on her hand, still avoiding his gaze. “It was surely out of pity. Our age difference is great, and I’ve lived an isolated life, so I am not very interesting.”
Victor bit back a smile. “I think you’re very interesting.”
Her cheeks stained red, and she rose to her feet, collecting her half-finished teacup. “You’re bred to compliment ladies.”
He rose as well and blocked her path to the sink. “Horses are bred, not me.”
She looked up at him. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” he said. “But this . . . gentleman . . . who asked for your hand is no fool, and he’s not asking you out of pity.”
She stared at him as if he were out of his mind, and perhaps he was, because he did something then he knew he’d regret. Eventually. He took the tea things from her hands and set them in the sink, then he turned to find that she hadn’t moved at all. He grasped one of her hands and brought it to his lips.
She merely watched him as he pressed a kiss on her smooth skin.
“Lady Juliet, you are a beautiful and enchanting creature,” he said in a low voice. “And you are undoubtedly well on your way to breaking a dozen men’s hearts.”
She laughed.
Victor was at first startled by her outburst, then charmed.
“You, sir, are getting ahead of yourself.” She poked a finger against his chest as if they were children teasing each other. “Since my brother has gambled away most of our funds, there will be nothing left for me to have a season. Of course, at nearly twenty years of age, I’m a bit old to debut in London anyway. So I will most likely break only one or two hearts—and they will be very aged hearts—before some poor sop with a crumbling manor house from the north will court me for my dowry.”
“From the north, eh?” Victor grinned. “Care to make a wager?”
Her eyes glinted as she laughed again. “I’m no gambler, Lord Locken.”
“I beg to differ,” he said. “You gamble every time you climb upon a horse. You gambled by opening the door when a stranger knocked upon it.”
She tapped a finger to her lips—those pale rose and perfectly shaped lips—and Victor felt a thrill of warmth brush his skin as if she’d touched him instead.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I am a gambler. What will your terms be?”
Ah. He’d caught her. With a slow smile, he said, “That you’ll have three marriage proposals by the end of the summer.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Only three? I thought you said I would break a dozen hearts.”
“That will be true as well, but only three men will have enough courage to propose.”
She laughed again. “And how will all this come about?”
“Your brother will throw a house party here,” Victor said. “If I come, many will follow.”
“You have quite a high opinion of yourself,” she said in a dry tone, her eyes belying her interest. “And what do I get if you lose?”
“That is for you to say, Lady Juliet.”
Her smile was soft as she stepped around him, then moved to the other side of the table, putting distance between them. From her position, she surveyed him as if he were a horse up for auction. “All right. If I do not have three proposals by the end of the summer, I get your pair of bays outside.”
Victor nearly stopped breathing. “Those horses are purebreds.”
Her smile widened. “Are you backing out of our wager, Lord Locken?”
The challenge in her blue eyes was irresistible. He smiled back. “Never.”
Chapter Six
Juliet had to put distance between herself and Lord Locken immediately. His dark brown eyes missed nothing, and the way he was looking at her now made her feel like she was standing beneath the sun on a hot summer day. There was no sun in this kitchen, though, and she’d just made a wager with a man who had probably won every bet he’d ever made. If the lift of one side of his mouth, the quirk of his dark eyebrows, and the way his shoulders were squared with confidence were anything to go by, this man wasn’t used to losing.
The wager was ridiculous, she told herself. Yes, she’d been proposed to by Lord Stratford, but he was a man more than twice her age. And even if her brother did agree to throw a house party and a dozen eligible men attended, that would bring all the
ladies as well. And Juliet didn’t hold a candle to ladies of the ton in either fine manner or appearance.
Lord Locken might have called her beautiful and enchanting, but he was a gentleman of the ton, and flirting was all a part of that. She could not fathom two other gentlemen proposing to her. Good thing Lord Locken was the heir to a dukedom and had more money than she could ever dream of, because he was about to lose a pair of very fine bays.
Juliet moved toward the kitchen window and gazed at the streaks of rain pelting it. “Perhaps you should stay until the storm lifts. At least give your horses shelter and food.” When she looked over at Lord Locken, he still wore that amused smile.
“You’re quite worried about my bays, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I always take good care of my horses.”
He chuckled. “Very well. I’m assuming I’ll be acting as groomsman.”
“You assume right,” Juliet said. “The stables are on the north side. They’ll be warm and dry even in this weather. There’s plenty of room since we only have two nags.”
Lord Locken nodded. “Thank you. I’ll return in a moment.” He paused by the doorway and said, “The tea was nice, but do you by chance have anything a little stronger?”
Juliet hid a sigh. Men and their brandy were all the same, it seemed. “There’s brandy in the library. I’m afraid none of the bedchambers are prepared for guests, but perhaps you aren’t too picky?” Don’t blush, she commanded herself.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” he said. “I think propriety demands that I stay downstairs if you are to sleep upstairs.”
Yes, he was right. “I will bring you some bedding.”
“I don’t think I’ll be sleeping,” he said. “I’ll be gone as soon as the weather is passable.”
She watched him leave the kitchen, and it was like she could breathe freely again. She hadn’t realized how much Lord Locken’s presence had affected her, and if she didn’t have to see to her brother or their guest, she’d cloister herself in her bedchamber for the remainder of the night.
Juliet heard the front door open and shut, and with Lord Locken completely out of the house now, she decided to write Mrs. Campton a note about their guest. She left it in the center of the kitchen table, then found a clean glass to go with the bottle of brandy in the library. It had been around for many months, since the only person who drank in the household was her brother. She entered the library and lit a few more candles. Noticing her abandoned correspondence to her brother, she crumpled up the half-written letter and put away the ink and quill.
Then she hurried upstairs to check on John. He hadn’t moved, and the bruising around his nose had darkened. One of his eyes was quite swollen, and Juliet was sure when her brother awakened, he’d be in plenty of pain. She left her brother to his rest and located a pillow and blanket for Lord Locken, despite his declaration that he wouldn’t be sleeping.
By the time she returned to the library, she was surprised to find that he’d already returned and was sitting in a chair that faced the cold hearth. He’d removed his outer jacket and cravat and draped them over the back of the chair opposite him. A half-empty glass of brandy sat on the side table.
“You’ve returned,” Juliet said and crossed to him, holding the blanket and pillow.
But he didn’t respond, and when Juliet rounded the chair, she saw that his eyes were closed.
Was he . . . asleep?
She wanted to laugh. He’d declared that he wouldn’t be sleeping, but here he was, not many moments later, dead to the world.
“Lord Locken?” she whispered, reluctant to disturb him, but she wanted to make sure he was comfortable for the night.
He didn’t move, didn’t stir.
“Lord Locken?” she said a little louder this time. Still, nothing. She set the pillow on the chair across from him, then draped the blanket over his body, covering him from his torso to his calves. He should have taken his boots off to be more comfortable, but he probably hadn’t planned on falling asleep in a chair. Taking off his boots for him wasn’t something she dared to do.
She couldn’t help but gaze at his sleeping form, the way his long legs stretched out before him, the relaxed state of his capable hands, the dark lashes lying against his cheekbones, and how the whiskers on his face emphasized the chiseled line of his jaw. A piece of his hair had fallen across his forehead, and at this close of a distance, she could smell the rain in his damp hair. She leaned forward, and ever so gently, she moved the lock off his forehead. Her fingertips brushed the warm skin of his forehead. She drew her hand away, primarily because she shouldn’t be touching this man and secondarily because her heart was thundering so loudly that there was risk of waking him.
Juliet took a step back so that she wouldn’t be tempted to touch him again. He was a beautiful specimen of a man, and that made her more wary. He was about to become engaged, and he probably knew plenty about her brother’s financial mess.
His wager was also ridiculous, and she didn’t know what had possessed him to make it. Perhaps it was the lateness of hour, and they were both quite out of their senses. Maybe if she won the wager, she could sell the pair of bays and make a dent in her brother’s debts. Or she’d sell the bays back to Lord Locken. The thought made her smile. She left the library, and Lord Locken to his rest, then ascended the stairs to her bedchamber.
Juliet made her way to her bedchamber, blew out her candle, and nestled between the cold covers. It was still raining outside, and eventually the sound of the raindrops against her windowpanes lulled her to sleep.
* * *
“Juliet!”
She awakened to her brother’s voice calling her. For a moment, she couldn’t remember how John happened to be home after such a long absence. Then her memories of the events from the night before swiftly returned. She sat up in her bed. The sky outside had lightened to a morning gray, and the rain had stopped, although the clouds were still dark with threat.
Was Lord Locken awake? Was he still there?
Juliet scrambled out of bed and grabbed the robe she’d been wearing the night before. She didn’t take time to dress because her brother’s voice echoed down the hall once again. Knowing she looked a fright, she hurried out of her bedchamber. If she crossed paths with Lord Locken, well, she couldn’t look any more disheveled than she had in the middle of the night when she’d opened the front door to him.
“Coming,” Juliet said as she approached her brother’s chamber and opened his door.
He was sitting up in bed, and it was obvious that he’d been sick in the wash basin. The stench was like a slap to her senses.
John’s blue eyes bugged when he saw her. The bruising on his face had settled into a deep purple now. “How in damnation did I get home?” he growled.
Hello to you, too, brother. Juliet wanted to back out of the room or, at the very least, cover her mouth and nose against the stench, but instead she stood erect inside the doorway. She used a scrap of her remaining patience to reply in a calm voice. “Why, Lord Locken brought you home. He said that you’d been in a bit of a scrape and—”
“Victor Roland brought me home?” John nearly shouted.
Juliet’s mouth fell open. How dare her brother lash out at her in this way? She’d had nothing to do with the events that brought John to his own bed. “You were . . . incapacitated. He knocked on our door, and then I helped him get you up the stairs.”
John shoved his covers aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The color drained from his face at the effort. “How dare you let that vile man enter my home and set foot onto my floors? Let alone come into my most private chamber!”
Her face heated. “You weren’t exactly in a position to make your opinions clear.”
John pushed to his feet, grasping the nearest bedpost to steady himself. “If he ever sets foot on my property, I’ll be forced to call him out.” He swayed as his face reddened with anger. “Never, I mean, never speak to Locken again.”
“That will be quite impossible, Southill,” a deep voice drawled behind Juliet.
She spun around to see the man himself. He, of course, wore the same clothing from the night before, but in the light of gray morning, he looked ever the impeccable gentleman.
Lord Locken had somehow tamed his hair and retied his cravat, making himself presentable as if he’d merely appeared for a morning house call. He stepped up to Juliet’s side, and his presence seemed to take over by his mere appearance.
But her brother didn’t falter. “You. I don’t know what blasted lies you told my sister, but if you don’t get out now, I’ll be forced to put a revolver to your heart.”
Lord Locken tightened his grip on his cane. “Is that how you should speak in the presence of a lady, Southill?”
John sputtered, his red face growing even redder. “You can’t sweet-talk your way out of this.”
Lord Locken chuckled. “If I remember right, you were the one sweet-talking, or should I say begging to join my card game last night at White’s.”
Juliet inhaled. “You were gambling with my brother?” she asked Lord Locken.
Lord Locken’s gaze moved to focus on her, and his brown eyes were like amber. She remembered touching his forehead last night, and her breath hitched at the memory.
Before he could reply, her brother blurted, “Locken’s a notorious gambler.”
Juliet didn’t look at her brother because she wanted to read the truth in Lord Locken’s eyes. There was no denial there, and a slow wave of disappointment built inside of her. He’s a gentleman of the ton, she told herself. That’s what they do. Gamble. What did I expect? Although men who were heirs to a dukedom had the money to finance such habits, unlike her brother. She shoved back the ridiculousness of why she should care about what this man did with his time.
“He’s a gambler,” John repeated, his voice only growing more agitated, “and a rake.”
Lord Locken’s gaze didn’t falter from Juliet’s. His lips twitched before he replied to John’s accusation. “That last bit was quite unnecessary, Southill.”