“Ah, good. I hope these men won’t mind if I borrow you for a discussion?” The duke glanced the direction of the men at the table.
“No, your lordship.” Crawford tipped his head.
“Scarborough?” the duke asked, raising his brow.
“None.”
“Lord Montague.” The duke gestured to the other room.
Landon gave Scarborough one last dark glance before moving away.
“Oh, Scarborough, you might want to check on your wife. I hear she has just lost quite a lot of money in the cribbage room,” said the duke.
***
Landon stood at the door and waited for the duke.
“Walk with me, Lord Montague,” the duke said and motioned for him to follow. They made their way past the rowdy guests enjoying drink and cards until they came to stout doors off the main room. The duke pulled the door open and ushered him inside.
“I wish to thank you for your intervention,” Landon began.
“Scarborough is a pox on London,” the duke grumbled. “His time is coming.” He tugged on his vest. “Please, Landon, sit. I did not call you in to talk to you about that problem.”
Hesitantly, Landon moved to one of the leather chairs before the fireplace. Lowering his body, he stretched his arms along the length of the sides and gripped the edges, wondering what was to come.
“A glass of port?”
Landon glanced to his right. “Yes, thank you.”
The glass clinked as the duke poured a measure of the fine liquor into two small stemmed glasses.
“Nothing like a good port in the evening,” the duke remarked as he handed one of the glasses to him.
Landon gave a quick smile and waited while he took his seat.
“I must say, I was surprised to hear of your marriage.”
Landon stared at his glass. “It was….” He searched for the words. “Rather a surprise on my end as well.”
“You didn’t know Gilbert had a daughter?”
“No.” Landon took a sip of the drink and found it unsatisfying. Leaning forward, he placed it on the table between them. “Not until my solicitor began his investigation. Barely over twenty, I-I could not turn her out.”
“So you married her.”
Landon nodded.
“Quite noble of you,” the duke said.
He hung his head and let out a soft breath. “It seemed best.”
The duke’s lips twitched. “I knew your father, you know.”
“Yes.”
“Had I been quicker, your mother’s hand in marriage would have gone to me. I never understood how Augustus could leave her so often. But we can’t change time can we?” the duke said.
He shook his head.
“That name of yours is quite regretful, Lord Heartless. The scandal sheets have no mercy when it comes to the Ton, I fear. Yet, I find you are putting forth an effort to change that. This marriage has gone a long way. Allow me to play the part of a father. How do you feel about this girl?”
“Feel? She vexes me.”
The duke smiled. “Women do. I think it is part of their charm.”
Landon needed to move. He rose from the chair and stepped to the mantel. Even though there were no flames in the hearth he stared at the dark ash as he spoke. “She locked me out of our bedchambers.”
“Did she now? And did she give reason?”
“I—I neglected to tell her of my son,” Landon admitted.
“Ah, well then there is the problem.” The duke sighed.
“The problem.” Landon gave a gruff laugh. “The problem is I find myself fascinated by her. The way she turns her head. How the light catches her hair turning into a halo. The laughter that seems to brighten the room, and the shade of pink that darkens her cheek when I catch her staring in my direction. The way she responds to my teasing with her own keen wit.” He turned and faced the duke. “Tell me, sir, is there truly such a thing as love at first sight?”
***
Last night she’d successfully avoided her husband despite his skill and determination. Victory remained hers for although he knocked and called to her with the voice of an angel, she slept alone and her dignity remained intact. Lifting the brush, she brought it through the curls flattened by her nightcap. Tangles tamed, they bounced back to life unrestricted just as Lord Montague’s ardor had yet to be quenched. Her shoulders drew up as she took a deep breath. Casting a glance at the rumpled bedsheets, the thought struck her, she needed to do something to quell the rumors.
Opening the drawer on her right, she pulled out the tin of cheek rouge and untwisted the cap. The small dram of wine Helen left on her dresser would at come in handy. Using her finger, she mixed a pinch of the pot rouge into the wine and watched the liquid take on a bloody glow. She grasped the glass and moved to the bed. Hands trembling, she poured a small amount onto the sheet, then dumped the rest into the chamber pot. Crude, but the stain would cover the injustice done to his reputation. She placed the glass onto the nightstand and walked back toward the dresser. Theirs would be a delicate dance until she understood his true intentions; however she would not shame him in his own home.
A light wrap came to the door that led into the shared common sitting room. Juliet’s heart skipped a beat.
“Milady? Milady?”
Air tumbled from Juliet’s lips as she recognized the voice of her maid. “Has he gone, milady? May I enter?”
“One moment.” Walking to the door, Juliet turned the key and made sure it was only Helen. “Come in.”
“I thought I might get here early, milady. You must be sore from last night. A nice warm bath might ease the pain of your husband’s visit.”
Juliet watched as her eyes darted to the telltale sign on the bed. Helen’s eyes widened for a brief second, then disappeared behind the curtain of duty.
If only she knew. “A bath would be nice,” Juliet said, knowing that as soon as she was to the backstairs, the rest of the staff would be notified that she had been deflowered and her husband’s reputation safe.
“Good, I will see to it that the water his heated and brought up. There is much to do. The countess has plans for you. You are to wear your best silk.”
“I have no silk. What I have is in the trunk. Unpack it while I bathe and see what is suitable.”
“Aye, milady. Let me get the maids to bring the water up.” Helen walked over to the bed and began to bundle up the sheets. “I’ll take these down for the laundry.”
Juliet watched her go. Thank God, she’s had the presence of mind to make her mark. Walking to the window, she pulled the curtains and let the light enter the room. The tall four-poster bed, dressing table, and a wing chair took up most of the space. Perhaps Landon would afford her a small writing desk although she did not know whom she’d write to. “Surely, the longer I stay in London, the more I shall meet.”
Trying not to think, she flipped the latch and pushed open the glass. The sounds of wagons creaking, and the laughter of the servants in the courtyard behind the house floated upward. She leaned against the sill expecting a scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. To her surprise, that harsh odor of coal smoke from the briers of nearby houses overpowered her nostrils. Juliet backed away.
“Your water, milady.”
She turned to find a young woman in the muted shades of the kitchen staff standing at the doorway holding a bucket of steaming water. “Oh.” She hurried toward a small room off to the side. Helen had explained last night that each bedroom held its own bathing chamber. Opening the door, she found a tiled room with a huge brass tub sitting across from the entrance.
“Thank you, milady. There will be others to follow me. If you’d just keep the this open, we’ll hurry and not bother you.”
“Of course.” She smiled. “And your name?”
The girl lifted the bucket and poured the water in. “I’m Emma and the other who follows is Polly. Just ask for us should you need anything. Here, let me close that window. London air is not for the weak
of heart.”
“No, perhaps not.”
The sound of the pane finding the windowsill followed. “There. It’s awfully good to have a new face, milady. Welcome to Broadmoor.”
“Thank you, Emma.”
By the time Helen returned, the tub had been filled. “Her ladyship sent a bar of her personal soap.” Helen held out the oval cake. “I swear it smells of lilac.”
Juliet pulled it to her nose and closed her eyes inhaling the soft scent. “Yes, you are right. At Holly Grove, we used honey and oatmeal.”
“Then this shall be a treat.” Helen grinned. “Off with you; they’ll be serving breakfast in an hour.”
Juliet scrubbed until her skin was pink from the heat of the water and her efforts to remove the disappointment of the night. Today will be a new day, she chided herself. She’d put her best foot forward and show the Montague’s she was worthy of all the money they were pouring into her home. Emerging from the bath, she found Helen had laid out her best chemise, corset, pantaloons, and petticoats.
“I think this might be best.” Helen held up a dress made of pale salmon-colored polished cotton. “It is not silk but the sheen will more than make up for the fabric and I should think the color will flatter your hair.”
“Whatever is best,” Juliet agreed.
Once dressed, Helen pointed her toward the low seat. “Come, we must fix your hair with a bit more style. You are no longer a country mouse, but a London lady and the Countess of Broadmoor’s daughter-in-law.”
At her words, an immense wave of longing engulfed Juliet. How she wished to be home at Holly Grove, taking her coffee on the portico looking out along the grounds, waiting for a glimpse of a buck or a doe and its fawn grazing in the lush grass and surrounded by those she loved and who had for so long protected her. Despite her best attempts, a tear oozed from the corner of her eye. She brushed it away hoping Helen had not glimpsed her weakness. The brush paused.
“Have no fear, milady, you are among friends.”
Juliet could only wish the young woman’s words were true. Things were by far more intense than she had expected. Yet, she’d lived through her father’s lies and kept the secrets to herself. She would do the same for Lord Montague to keep Holly Grove alive.
***
Something moved him close to consciousness. He lay quiet. Air rushed in and out from his lungs, his body trying to ascertain if it were still among the living. With the greatest of difficulty, one eye raised its shutter. The room stood in muted shades of gray against the red-flocked paper on the walls. He waited. The thud of footsteps falling on the carpet outside his doorway came to a stop. He heard the door to the sitting room open. His muscles tensed in apprehension his chamber being breached. Yet, to his surprise, no one came.
He pulled his left hand to the mattress edge. With a groan, he pushed his body over and stared at the ceiling trying to get his swollen tongue to cooperate and swallow. How much did I drink? His movements clumsy, Landon sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The clink of bottles clashing against one another were equal to the worst rattle of Thor’s hammer. Hands flew to the sides of his head to keep it from shattering and tried in desperation to cover his ears thereby quelling the racket.
“Bloody hell,” he cursed as the room took that moment to revolve. His skin grew clammy as he leaned onto the bedpost for support. Sure he would die, Landon waited for the herald of angels to sing him home. Instead, a hand began to flay against the door. “Stop that infernal racket.”
The knocking paused and a voice inquired, “Sir?”
“Simmons?”
The door opened and his butler stood before him. His eyes rolled over his figure, crouched on the edge of the bed like some misshapen gargoyle. Landon could see the droll curl to his lips. “Don’t just stand there. I need a hand and bath.”
“Aye, milord, indeed you do.”
An hour later, with the benefit of several strong cups of black coffee, Landon managed to navigate the stairs. He stood before the doors to the dining room and listened. Snippets of sound drifted through the keyhole winding its way to his ears. The soft timbre of two women talking brushed like a gentle wind against his skin. Closing his eyes, he pictured that angelic face standing across from him in the small chapel. He wondered if she was prepared to keep the knowledge of his unfulfilled visit to herself. “I shall never know standing here.” With a deep breath, he smoothed the front of his vest and reached for the handle of the doors. Plastering a mask of pleasantry to belie his ill humor, Landon entered.
“Good morning,” he called and paused to take in each face, hoping to read their thoughts and see whether the gods of fate swayed the balance in his favor. His mother stilled. Her brow arched as her hand paused halfway between saucer and cup. Across from her, his bride laid down her knife and fork. A flicker of surprise flashed through her eyes as she placed her linen beside her plate and rose to meet him.
“Lord Montague, how good of you to join us this morning.”
He clinched his jaw together as the legs of her chair screeched across the floor. The usual whisper of silk echoed like the thundering bellows of the blacksmith’s shop. Landon reached out and grasped the back of the nearest chair to steady himself and not drop to the floor curling in a fetal position begging for someone to put him out of his misery. His reward materialized in the form of Juliet’s cool palm upon his cheek and the soft brush of her lips upon the edge of his mouth. Landon sighed and let his free hand encircle her waist to draw her against him. Over her shoulder, he saw his mother’s slant of her lips over the display of affection. She was watching their greeting with all the interest of a hawk before relieving a field mouse of its life. Well, she’d have to get over it; for once he was going to bask in her attention. Yet, all too soon, she drew back.
“I did not expect you so early, milord.” Her eyes darted to his mother then back to him. “I explained to the countess that our conversation lasted well into the evening.”
Landon stilled. Had he heard correctly? His hand relinquished its hold upon her chair. Was she trying to save her face or his? Clearly this was not time to argue moot points. “I slept very well. Thank you for not waking me.”
Juliet dipped her head in response and stepped back, blushing. “You are welcome.”
At that moment Simmons appeared and poured coffee into his cup.
“Please, Lady Montague, sit.”
She lifted her lips as he led her toward her chair.
“I trust you slept well?”
She took her seat. “Well, a new place, a new life. There are eggs and toast. Cook has prepared a bit of thin beef, but I fear it might be too rare for your stomach at such an early hour.”
He looked across at the platter food. “I think just eggs and toast this morning.”
Simmons moved to fix his plate as he moved back to take his seat. “So, what are you ladies planning?” he asked as the butler place his plate before him. Landon paused as the poached eggs shimmered from side to side. His stomach rolled and he looked to the left. His mother’s glare was unmistakable. No amount of banter was masking the fact he had gotten himself roaring drunk. He bet she already knew the marriage had not been consummated. Landon swallowed hard.
“It appears for Alexander’s sake, I shall be going to the dressmaker’s,” Juliet replied.
His mother cleared her throat. “I’ve taken the liberty, this morning, to write to Lord Scarborough.”
Landon mouth twitched as he reached for his coffee. “Really?” He hoped to sound nonchalant.
“Yes, I’ve accepted his invitation for us to join him at the opera on the seventeenth.”
“The seventeenth, you say?” Landon picked up his knife and fork to slice through the white of his egg. “When did this invitation arrive? I thought Lord Scarborough was out of town, hunting.”
“He returned, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Landon repeated and gingerly placed the piece of egg white into his mouth.
; “I thought it would be a good place for Lady Montague to be introduced to London Society.”
“Hm. But won’t Scarborough bore my wife to tears?”
“And whom do you suggest as the person or persons to be seen with your new wife for her first London outing? Mr. Black?”
His fork hovered over his eggs. Landon was at a loss for words. He did not wish to be around Brandon Scarborough for a number of reasons. The first being Scarborough’s attempts to seduce most women, married or not. When he didn’t answer, his mother continued.
“Precisely.” She looked to Juliet. “We have much to do. I trust you can amuse yourself until later this afternoon while we lighten your pockets with our purchases?”
“Yes, Mother. I am capable of that.”
“Good.”
He glanced over at his wife. His intent stare resulted in the lowering of her eyes. He placed his fork on the table and his head cocked to one side. A hint of scarlet crept up her neck.
“Is something wrong, Lord Montague?” the dowager asked.
“No.” His brow furrowed. “Yes.” Eyes narrowing, he scrutinized Lady Juliet until red blossomed into her cheeks. Then his eyes widened in surprise and he sat back. “You’ve done something different.”
“Pardon?” she whispered.
“Your hair.”
“M-my hair?” Her hand made a tentative gesture toward the gentle sweep of her neck.
“You’ve arranged it differently.” His eyes roved over the wisps of curls that feathered her cheeks and the rest brought loose to the crown and looped about, its fullness gathered beneath a net of gold thread.
“Helen, milord. I can have her redo….”
“No, not at all, it becomes you.”
Her lips parted in surprise at his compliment. A feeling of contentment swept over him for he had discovered a way to lift his wife’s spirits. He made a mental note to deliver them daily to earn him that smile.
“I shall tell her you approve.”
“Do.”
The Dowager’s cup clattered against her saucer startling them both.
She glanced at Lady Juliet. “Are you ready?”
Lord Heartless Page 7