by Kate Bateman
“Oh, all right. But wear a shawl.”
As Juliet rushed off to dress, Georgie suppressed a twinge of envy. At least her sister had heard from her beau. She hadn’t heard anything from Wylde for the past three days. Perhaps he’d reconsidered their outlandish deal. Perhaps that was for the best.
She’d been proud of the cool, logical way she’d presented her case, because when it came to Benedict Wylde, her feelings were thoroughly illogical—a confusing mix of wariness, mistrust, and heart-pounding attraction. She shook her head and went to find a bonnet and an umbrella in case her prediction of rain proved true.
It was only a short walk from Grosvenor Square, down Upper Brook Street to Hyde Park, and although grey clouds threatened, the day was surprisingly warm for March. They hadn’t been in the park more than a few minutes, strolling down the long avenues and trailed by Juliet’s long-suffering maid Charlotte, when disaster struck.
Juliet had just bent to sniff some early-blooming daffodils when she gasped.
“Oh! I see Simeon! Over there, on the other side of the pond!”
She waved her reticule at the thin figure, which had the undesired effect of disturbing a bumble bee that had been buzzing among the flowers, minding its own business.
“Aargh! A bee! Get off!”
Georgie tried to catch Juliet’s flailing arms. “Just stand still. It’s not interested in you. Once it realizes you’re not a flower, it will leave you alone.”
But Juliet was deaf to all reason. She flapped like a demented chicken. The blameless bee managed to get caught up in her shawl.
Juliet clapped a hand to the side of the neck. “It bit me!” she gasped.
“Stung you,” Georgie corrected automatically. “Bees don’t have teeth.”
“I don’t care!” Juliet wailed. “Oh Lord, I can’t breathe!”
Georgie rolled her eyes. This wasn’t the first time her sister had been, in her own words, “maliciously singled out for assassination” by a bee. The orchard back in Little Gidding was full of them.
Charlotte bustled up, her plump, kindly face the picture of concern. “Now, miss, you’ll be all right. Come on, let’s get you home.”
Juliet turned and squinted expectantly across the pond at where Simeon had been standing. “Oh, this is perfect! Where is Simeon? He can come and rescue me. When Mother sees how kind and gallant he is, she’s bound to soften toward him. Can you see him, Georgie?”
Georgie squinted across the lake. Simeon’s thin figure was heading toward them. “He’s coming.”
Juliet swayed slightly. “I wish he’d hurry. I really do feel faint.”
Her face had turned quite pale. Alarmed, Georgie put a hand out to steady her.
“Can I be of assistance, ladies?”
Georgie turned at the masculine voice, expecting to see Simeon, but it was Wylde’s handsome face that had appeared next to them. “Mr. Wylde!”
“Miss Caversteed.” He shot her an amused, sympathetic glance then turned to the flustered Juliet and offered his arm. “Miss Juliet, may I escort you home?”
Juliet clutched at his arm like the sole survivor of a shipwreck, her fear of fainting in a public place clearly greater than her desire to wait for Simeon’s aid. “Oh, Mr. Wylde. Thank goodness. Yes, please. Your assistance would be most welcome.”
Georgie glanced across the pond. Simeon had witnessed the entire incident but had been too far away to come to his beloved’s rescue. He hovered at the edge of a small copse of trees, apparently in an agony of indecision now that his chance to play knight-errant had been usurped by another. She shooed him away with a subtle gesture of her hand and turned back to Juliet.
“Were you on your way somewhere, Mr. Wylde?” she asked, as they began to escort Juliet toward the park gate.
“As a matter of fact, I was, Miss Caversteed,” he replied with exaggerated politeness. “I was on my way to call on you.”
Juliet gave a little gasp, which Georgie ignored. “How very fortunate. We are honored, of course.”
They were halfway home when Juliet’s steps faltered, and she touched one hand to her forehead. “Oh! Oh dear. I really do think I’m going to faint.”
Georgie groaned inwardly as her sister sagged elegantly against Wylde’s side.
With a resigned sigh, he caught her before she could crumple to the ground. He bent, hooked one arm behind Juliet’s knees, set the other around her shoulders, and swept her off her feet.
Charlotte gave a scandalized gasp.
He strode along Upper Brook Street like some well-dressed pirate, as if he barely noticed the weight of Juliet’s slim body in his arms—which, considering his wonderful physique, was probably true. Georgie bit back a sting of completely irrational jealousy and tried not to imagine what it would feel like to be held in those strong, capable arms or cradled against that wonderfully broad chest. Darting in front of them, she ran up the front steps, opened the door, and ushered them into the hall.
Wylde, still carrying Juliet, turned this way and that, then shot her a questioning look. “Where do you want her?”
Georgie glanced upwards. “The salon’s upstairs, but you don’t need to—”
He didn’t wait for her to finish. He simply mounted the stairs two at a time and deposited Juliet gently on the chaise longue in the salon at the front of the house.
He wasn’t even out of breath.
Juliet managed to settle, long-limbed and tragic, with one hand dramatically covering her forehead. Georgie was just about to pat her sister’s cheeks when Mother burst into the room and started fluttering like an overexcited pigeon. She was so intent on Juliet that she didn’t even notice Wylde, who had sensibly retreated to the corner of the room.
“Juliet! My love! What happened?” She caught Juliet’s wrist to check for a pulse.
“She was stung by a bee in the park,” Georgie said.
“Quick! My smelling salts. No! A feather. We must find a feather!”
“Why do you need a feather?”
“Why, to burn, child. She must be roused!”
Georgie grimaced. “Please don’t. Burnt feathers smell awful. She’s coming round on her own, look.”
Juliet opened one eye and sent Georgie an incredulous look. “I really fainted? Oh, how mortifying! Where’s Sime—”
Mother ignored them both. “Where can we get a feather? A pillow? Don’t just stand there, Georgiana. Wait! I have it. My hat! There’s a feather in my hat.” She tugged the bonnet from her head.
Juliet, ever conscious of fashion, roused herself enough to protest. “No! Don’t ruin it! It’s such a pretty hat.”
Mother was momentarily diverted. “Do you think so? I had second thoughts about it this morning when I looked in the mirror. I thought, ‘Whatever could have possessed Madame Cerise to suggest mauve?’” She tilted her head and studied the offending garment with a critical eye. “You can have it if you like. It will suit you better than me.”
Juliet wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you. Lavender makes me look ill. Maybe Georgie would like it?”
Georgie rolled her eyes. If Juliet was back to discussing fashion, she was well on the road to recovery. “Perhaps we should all have a nice cup of tea?” Georgie darted a quick, embarrassed glance over at Wylde to see what he was making of this introduction to her ridiculous family. From his expression, he appeared to find it highly amusing.
Mother frowned. “Tea? She needs laudanum for her excitable nerves!”
Wylde stepped forward. “Might I suggest a cold compress, to reduce any swelling, and some calamine lotion?”
Mother jumped as though she’d been shot, one hand pressed over her heart. “Oh, good gracious!”
“Mother, this is Mr. Benedict Wylde. He was kind enough to help Juliet back from the park.”
Benedict bowed. “Your servant, ma’am.”
Mother melted like a glacier under the midday sun. “Mr. Wylde! Of course. How can we thank you enough for coming to dear Juliet’s aid?”
<
br /> “I’m just glad I was able to help.”
Mother preened under that irresistible smile. “It was an extremely romantic gesture.” She glanced meaningfully from him to Juliet, and Georgie groaned inwardly. “How fortunate you were in the vicinity.”
“Indeed,” Georgie said dryly. “Extremely fortunate.”
In all fairness, she couldn’t accuse Wylde of engineering the disaster, but he’d doubtless been only too happy to play the gallant hero to someone as pretty as Juliet. The gossip mongers would have a marvelous time dissecting this. It was too much to hope that nobody had seen him carting her sister into the house like some medieval groom carrying his bride over the threshold.
“I’ll have Mrs. Potter bring some tea up,” Mother said cheerfully. “And the calamine and compress.” She shot an arch glance at Wylde. “I’m sure you won’t mind keeping Juliet company for a few moments, will you, Mr. Wylde?”
She bustled out of the room without waiting for an answer.
Chapter 14.
As soon as their mother left, Juliet raised herself weakly from the pillows. “Whatever happened to Simeon? Did he see what happened?”
“He saw,” Georgie said. “He seemed rather surprised that you’d swooned into the arms of another man.”
Juliet’s face fell. “Oh dear. I truly didn’t mean to. You don’t think he’ll be jealous, do you? He has no reason to be.” She glanced over at Wylde. “No offense, Mr. Wylde, and I do appreciate your help, but my heart is already taken.”
He smiled. “No offence taken, Miss Juliet.”
“Did he follow us home? Look outside!”
Georgie crossed to the window. Sure enough, standing forlornly behind the iron railings that delineated the small garden in the center of Grosvenor Square, stood Simeon Pettigrew.
“Yes, he’s there.”
Simeon was only a year older than Juliet, nineteen to her eighteen, and was personally responsible for convincing Georgie that love really was blind. And quite possibly deaf and stupid as well. There was no other way to explain Juliet’s inexplicable attraction.
Simeon had a long, thin face with eyes that drooped down at the outer corners and gave him the look of a perpetually disappointed puppy. Round spectacles perched on his long nose. Not because he needed them—the lenses were clear glass—but because he was under the erroneous impression that they made him look more scholarly. Unable to grow a full beard, he maintained the few straggly hairs that sprouted from his chin and a sad attempt at a mustache, which appeared as a shadowy, peach-like fuzz on his upper lip. He kept his wavy black hair deliberately long, chin length, so it was always getting in his mouth; he sucked the end of it absentmindedly when he was concentrating.
Without meaning to, Georgie glanced over at Wylde: a decade older in years, and a lifetime older in experience. A man, compared to a boy. Unlike Simeon’s waxy pallor, his face was bronzed from his time spent abroad. The few lines that fanned from the corners of his wicked brown eyes only added to his unholy allure. Even at this hour of the morning, the dark hint of stubble on his jaw made Georgie’s fingers itch to touch it, to feel the rough texture.
She pressed her hand to her chest and felt the lump of her wedding ring beneath her dress. She’d taken to wearing it suspended on a chain around her throat, a physical reminder that she’d taken control of her own destiny. It nestled against her skin, against her heart, like a secret. What would Wylde think if he knew? Would he think her sentimental? Longing for him? The thought brought a weakening sensation to her knees and a confusion in her stomach.
The sudden spatter of raindrops on the windowpanes snapped her out of her reverie.
“I should take my leave.”
Georgie glanced at Wylde and frowned. “It’s raining. Did you leave your carriage at the park?”
“I don’t keep a carriage.” He shot her a self-deprecating smile. “Too expensive. But it isn’t far to St. James’s. Walking takes twenty minutes. A carriage takes fifteen. It’s almost the same.”
“You can’t have expected the rain, though,” she persisted. He was wearing an extremely well-fitted morning coat of dark blue, a neatly tied cravat, white shirt, and breeches. None of which would benefit from a soaking.
He shrugged, an impressive feat considering the fit of his jacket. “I’ve been rained on before. In several different countries, thanks to Bonaparte. I shan’t dissolve.”
“Well, you’re probably made of sterner stuff than Simeon out there.”
Wylde moved to stand behind her. He glanced over her shoulder, and she became intensely aware of the warmth of his body, so close, the faint tang of his skin. A slow heat curled in her belly.
Simeon was still staring up at what he probably believed was Juliet’s window. He was wrong; Juliet’s room faced the back of the house.
“Lovesick idiot. He’s bound to catch a cold,” Wylde murmured. His tone clearly suggested, You’ll never catch me doing something so stupid for a woman.
Simeon looked thoroughly miserable now, hunched against the drizzle. As they watched, he glanced upward, and his thin shoulders rose and fell in a sigh, as if such treatment was no less than he expected from the pitiless heavens. As if in response, the shower quickly became a deluge of biblical proportions. The rattle of carriages was drowned out by the hiss of the rain on the pavement as it collected in runnels and washed into the drains.
Juliet sat up, all lounging forgotten. “Oh, my poor Simeon! Is he getting terribly wet?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Wylde caught Georgie’s eye, and they shared an amused look.
“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that,” he muttered. “Oh, I almost forgot. Do you have any plans for tomorrow evening? I’m meeting someone at Vauxhall. If we’re seen there together, I can show you some conspicuous attention and get rumors flying.”
Before Georgie could reply, Mother returned, accompanied by Mrs. Potter, the housekeeper, carrying a large tray.
“Will you stay for some tea, Mr. Wylde?”
“I’m afraid I cannot, Mrs. Caversteed. But I was hoping I might see you ladies at Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night. I hear Madame Sacqui is performing her rope-walking tricks, and there will be fireworks at ten.”
Mother shot a congratulatory look at Juliet. “That sounds lovely! Juliet’s been wanting to see the fireworks for an age, haven’t you, dear? If the weather is fine, we’ll be there.”
He bowed slightly. “Shall we say nine o’clock, by the rotunda?”
“Perfect.”
“I’ll see Mr. Wylde out,” Georgie said, herding him toward the door.
The front hall was uncharacteristically deserted; Pieter was doubtless below stairs making a cold compress for Juliet. Georgie opened the front door—and came face-to-face with a sodden Simeon, who was standing at the bottom of the steps, apparently summoning the courage to knock. His black hair was plastered to his skull, and in one hand, he held a limp posy of flowers, presumably purloined from Hyde Park’s borders.
She gave an exasperated sigh. “Oh, come in, Mr. Pettigrew, for heaven’s sake.”
She stepped back to avoid his sopping figure as he splashed up the steps and into the hall.
“You are an angel, Miss Caversteed,” he breathed fervently. “An angel.” He tried to possess himself of her hand, then changed his mind and sneezed instead. “I do beg your pardon, but I couldn’t stay away. I saw what happened in the park.” He glanced over at Benedict and frowned, then turned back to Georgie. “Is Juliet well? Bee stings are no trifling matter. And Juliet is such a delicate creature. Why—”
Georgie cut off what promised to be a long list of Juliet’s attributes. “She will be perfectly well, I am sure, Mr. Pettigrew. But please, you must go, before Mother hears you. You know she disapproves of your association.”
Simeon scowled. “My love for Juliet could survive anything! Even the direst of opposition—”
“Yes, yes,” Georgie said impatiently, “that’s all very well. But you’re
dripping on the rug.”
Simeon looked down. “Oh, sorry.” He stepped sideways onto the checkerboard tiles. A steady stream of water dripped from his hat and made a shiny puddle by his feet. He shot Wylde a beseeching look, as if to appeal to him man-to-man. “My love and I have been cruelly separated, sir. Like Romeo and Juliet. My heart is torn asunder, cleft in twain!”
“That’s Hamlet, not Romeo and Juliet,” Benedict said quellingly.
Georgie sent him a surprised glance—who’d have thought Wylde would know his Shakespeare?—then turned back to Simeon. “You must be perfectly miserable, Mr. Pettigrew. Why don’t you go back to … wherever it is you’re staying … and dry off?”
Simeon shot her a kicked-puppy look. “What is corporeal discomfort, Miss Caversteed, when the pain in my heart, nay, my soul is infinitely worse?”
“You won’t say that when you have pneumonia,” she said tartly. “Who will Juliet marry if you die?”
He brightened marginally. “You mean to say that you support our union?” He caught her hands in his own thin, wet fingers. She tried to tug them back, but his grip was surprisingly strong, despite the sodden bouquet.
She nodded. “I do. You seem to genuinely care for my sister. As this present situation proves. But you cannot go standing around in rainstorms. There is nothing romantic about the ague, I assure you.”
He opened his mouth to argue. “But I—”
She shot a pleading glance at Wylde. “Would you escort him home?”
“It will be my pleasure.” Benedict eyed Simeon darkly. “Let go of her hands, you.”
Simeon glanced down and seemed surprised to find himself still clutching Georgie’s fingers. He dropped them immediately. “Oh, sorry.”
Benedict nodded and opened the door, ushering him out into the rain.
“Would you like to borrow an umbrella?” Georgie asked.
Wylde shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Until tomorrow, then?”
“Yes. And thank you for your help today.”