Doctor, servants, and friends all rushed to his assistance.
The duke never looked back.
Juliet, still alone in the great hall, gazed about her in disbelief and wonder. She—raised in the woods of Maine, grown to maturity in Boston’s comparative rusticity—had never seen, nor been able to imagine, anything quite like this room in her life. Stone staircases spiraled off to her right and left, presumably leading up to the massive turrets she’d seen from outside. An ancient tapestry depicting a hunting scene covered an entire wall. Huge mullioned windows rose from floor to ceiling, black against the night and reflecting the twinkling flames of a chandelier suspended above her head and containing what had to be at least a hundred candles. Such grandeur. Such waste! She made a half-turn. Notches in the stone wall held suits of medieval armor, the slitted visors ominous, the space between each suit hung with heraldic shields, battle axes, and other primitive weapons of war.
To think that Charles had grown up here had touched these same stones and strode beneath these very windows, had stood, perhaps hundreds of times, in this exact spot.
A feeling of awe gripped her, building and building until everything she’d experienced these past twelve months—indeed, these past few hours—was swallowed up by the sudden, giddy relief that she and Charlotte were finally here, safe at last, in this home that had been Charles’s. Here, in this strange castle, in this strange land, Juliet had found familiarity. A little bit of Charles. She could almost picture his spirit looking down on them from somewhere above, smiling and finally at peace, content that his new family would never again want for anything. The image alone pulled at her heartstrings, made her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. Not since his death had Charles felt so very close.
Her lower lip was threatening to tremble again. Catching it between her teeth, Juliet peeled back Charlotte’s blankets and lifted the baby high above her head so that she could see this magnificent home in which her father had been born, in which he had lived.
“Look, Charlotte!” Juliet held the baby close and pointed at one of the suits of armor. “I’ll bet your papa played with that thing when he was just a little boy!”
Charlotte, however, was more fascinated by the glittering chandelier above her head. Juliet, half-laughing, half-weeping, touched her nose to her daughter’s and swung her high. Charlotte squealed with delight, kicking both legs now and punching at the air. Oh, Charles are you here? Are you here with me and your daughter?
Caught up as she was in a giddy sense of closeness to her beloved, of relief at finally reaching her destination, Juliet didn’t hear the distant footfalls. The steady, relentless beat of shoes against stone.
Suddenly a door opened and she froze, the laughter dying in her throat, the baby still high over her head.
Slowly, she lowered her daughter and held her protectively close to her breast.
Thirty feet away he stood, tall and elegant in a frock of black velvet, a ruby winking from the folds of his lacy cravat, his breeches molded to long, muscled thighs that tapered to silk-clad calves and shoes from which diamonds winked in each polished silver buckle. His eyes were dark and smoldering. His hair was as black as the night outside. His nose was narrow, his jaw set, his cheekbones planed, stark, severe. His was a hard face. An uncompromising face. He looked at Juliet with that ruthless black stare, looked at her muddy, blood-drenched skirts, and without batting an eye, gave a bow, coming up with an elegant sweep of his arm that made the lace at his wrist dance in the resultant breeze.
“I am Lucien, Duke of Blackheath. Gareth tells me you knew Charles.” The obsidian gaze flickered briefly to the baby. “Intimately.”
Juliet, taken aback, dipped in what curtsy she could manage with Charlotte in her arms. Then she raised her chin and, with more courage than she felt, met that chilling black gaze. “Yes. We were supposed to have married.”
He indicated the door through which he had come. “Then won’t you join me in the library? I am sure we have much to discuss.”
His voice was smooth, rich, cultured. The words gave away no emotion, no hint whatsoever of his temper, thoughts, or feelings. They were also, Juliet realized, not a question but an order.
Warning bells went off inside her head.
“Yes, of course,” she murmured, and, painfully aware of her shocking, disheveled state, walked with as much dignity as she could muster toward the door.
And as she moved through the great corridors, liveried servants standing stiffly at attention with eyes staring straight ahead as though bloodstained young women were quite an ordinary sight at Blackheath Castle, a single, urgent phrase kept repeating itself over and over in her mind:
Don’t die, Lord Gareth. Please don’t die. I think I’m going to need you.
Chapter Five
“Really, Your Grace, I should like to change my clothes before we have this—this discussion.”
He was striding several paces in front of her now, broad-shouldered and tall, carrying himself like a general. Sconces lit the long, narrow corridors, and as he passed each one, they flickered and bowed as though in homage to him, their dim light gleaming in his hair.
“That will not be necessary,” he said without so much as looking over his shoulder.
Juliet hurried to keep pace with him. “I am not presentable!”
“You are presentable enough for me. Come. I haven’t all night.”
“But—”
“There is an alcove just ahead, with a bowl and pitcher. Wash if you so desire, but be quick about it. This night shall be long enough without having to wait for you to indulge in the sort of silly nonsense in which females must engage before they dare show their faces to anyone beyond their pet lapdogs. I am not a patient man, Miss Paige.”
He indicated the alcove, shielded by a rich drape of dark red velvet, and, without slowing his stride, pushed open a set of heavy doors several paces beyond. “The library. I shall expect you within five minutes. Do not keep me waiting.”
The heavy doors shut behind him.
Dear God above. What arrogance! What rudeness! If the Duke of Blackheath was your average English aristocrat, it was no wonder America had risen up against the motherland! Bristling, Juliet yanked aside the curtain, splashed some water in the bowl, and scrubbed poor Lord Gareth’s blood from her hands, her fingernails, the little creases in her knuckles while Charlotte watched her from the chair set in the corner.
And what of Lord Gareth? The duke had not volunteered so much as a word about how he was faring!
Without further deliberation, she picked Charlotte up and, pulling down her bodice and chemise, put her to breast. The baby suckled greedily. Juliet cupped the downy gold head in her hand and eyed the curtain behind her. Lord only knew when she would have gotten the chance to feed her, given the Duke’s intolerance for the “silly nonsense” of females!
She emerged some ten minutes later. By then her anger had cooled, and apprehension was quickly filling its place. She forced her chin up, straightened her back, and, feigning a courage she didn’t feel, pushed open the doors to the library.
There he was, leaning with casual insolence against a magnificent mantle of carved Italian marble, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingertips. He was a dark angel, some brooding god of judgment, and as he turned his black, smoldering gaze upon her, Juliet felt her courage falter.
“Sit down.”
“I don’t wish to soil the furniture.”
“The furniture is replaceable.”
Expensive, too, Juliet thought. Arranged on a priceless Oriental rug were several chairs upholstered in rich plum velvet, a claw-footed sofa stuffed with horsehair and finished in an elegant brocade, a French loveseat on spindly legs, and, nearest the fire, a very large, very masculine chair of carved oak with a seat and back of leather.
His throne, obviously.
Juliet headed for it. Not because she wished to be difficult, not because she wished to challenge his rank, but because leather was easily cleaned
, and her sense of Yankee frugality could not let her destroy one of the other expensive pieces by sitting on it with her bloodstained skirts. Replaceable or not, she was not one for waste.
“Do you mind?” she asked, with civil politeness.
He shrugged and waved his glass, never leaving his place at the mantle. “Suit yourself.”
With Charlotte in her arms, Juliet sank into the deep, butter-soft leather, painfully conscious of her appearance. How carefully she had chosen her clothes that morning, hoping to make the right impression on this man whose help and charity she had crossed an ocean to seek. Now, her apple-green skirts, parted to reveal a petticoat lovingly embroidered with little roses, were dark with blood. Chalky mud caked her boots, her stomacher was soaked, and blood smeared the front of the smart, pine-green jacket she had chosen to match the ivy that twined itself along the gown’s hem. She looked a mess.
But the duke, true to his word, did not seem to care. He wasted no time in getting the discussion underway, sparing no thought for Juliet’s feelings, her pride, or the fact that she was a guest in his house and deserved more kindness than he seemed capable of giving. She had no sooner sat down than he asked her, bluntly, how she’d met Charles. She told him the truth. His scowl, and the impatient look in his eyes as she related the tale, made her want to squirm with discomfort. This was not going well. Not going well at all.
“So. You first saw Charles whilst he was drilling his troops on Boston Common. Love at first sight, you say.” He gave a bitter little laugh. “You’ll understand if I find the notion rather difficult to swallow.”
“Charles was a very handsome man.”
“Charles was from one of England’s oldest, most aristocratic families and would not have married beneath him. As a second son, he could not afford to. What is it about you, then, that commended you to him?”
“I find your question insulting, Your Grace,” she said quietly.
“Nevertheless, I’ll have an answer from you.”
“I don’t know what it was about me that he loved.”
“You have a passably decent figure, a pretty face, and a fine dark eye. I suspect little else was needed to bring a man to his knees—and into your bed.”
“You dishonor your brother with such talk, Your Grace. Charles was a fine man.”
“Yes, well, far away from home and thrown into a nest of rebel vipers and their conniving females, the devil only knows what goes through a man’s head. Any warm body will do, I expect.”
“Charles and I loved each other. He wanted to marry me.”
“Before or after he found out you were breeding?”
She blushed. “After.”
“Did it ever occur to you that he was merely being honorable and that his heart might have lain elsewhere?”
“Indeed, it did not.”
“Did it ever occur to you that it might have been arranged at his birth that he marry a woman of his own station, whose money would have allowed him to live a lifestyle to which he was accustomed?”
“He made no mention of such a woman, Your Grace, and Charles was not one to worship the god of money.”
“Did it ever occur to you that his family might not approve of his union with you?”
She looked him straight in the eye and said quietly, “Yes.”
“And yet you came here anyhow.”
“I had no choice.”
“You had no choice.”
Juliet clenched her fist beneath a fold of Charlotte’s blanket, trying to keep a check on her rising temper. Her face felt hot, and she knew her color betrayed her, but she vowed he would not get the better of her, no matter how hard he tried. If by forcing her to remain here in her disheveled clothes, attacking her with his insolent questions, and implying things that were not true he sought to put her off balance, he had another thing coming. She was made of stronger stuff than that.
Politely, she said, “I fear, Your Grace, that you suspect me of being some sort of fortune hunter. That I lured your brother to me so I could claw my way up the social ladder by use of his name and rank. But I’ll have you know that that wasn’t the case. Charles was one of the king’s officers. I was a maiden of Boston, and maidens of Boston did not consort with the king’s officers—no matter how well-born they might be—if they wished to maintain their standing in a community that had grown to despise the Regulars’ very presence.”
He merely sipped his brandy and watched her, giving no hint of what was going on behind those enigmatic black eyes.
“I was well-respected by those who knew me,” she continued, bravely. “I may not have your noble blood, nor possess your limitless wealth, but my stepfather was one of Boston’s leading citizens and we lived well enough by pursuing hard work and good causes. I have nothing to blush for.”
“Your stepfather was a Loyalist.”
“My stepfather was a spy for the rebels.”
“That is not what Charles told us.”
“Appearances are deceiving. What is the use of being a spy if everyone knows who you are?”
“Indeed. And did you learn all you could from my brother only to pass the information on to your stepfather?”
“I did not.”
“Rebel, Loyalist and where do your sympathies lie, Miss Paige?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “With my daughter.”
He arched a brow.
“I don’t want to be here,” she said, firmly. “I don’t know a soul in England, my heart aches for home, and it is obvious that my presence at Blackheath is most unwelcome—as I feared it would be. I would like nothing more than to go back to America and pick up the remains of my life, but I made a promise to Charles, and I don’t break promises.”
“And what promise was that?”
“To seek you out in England if anything should happen to him.”
“And just what did Charles think I could do for you?”
“He told me that you would take us in and make our baby your ward. He said that you would give her your name. I didn’t want to come here, but things turned bad in Boston and I had little choice. My daughter’s welfare comes first.”
“Charles died a year ago. Correct me if I’m wrong,” he murmured, with faint sarcasm, “but doesn’t the crossing from America take but a month?”
“Yes, but—”
“Why, then, did it take you a year?”
“I had no wish to travel in my condition, Your Grace. I was very ill.”
“And after the babe was born?”
“I would not have subjected her to the rigors of a sea voyage at such a tender age. Besides, my stepfather needed me to help run the store and tavern, so I felt beholden to stay.”
“Yes, do describe just what it was you did there at this store and tavern, Miss Paige. I assume it was along the order of serving ale and playfully fending off unwelcome advances so you could save yourself for one of the king’s officers?”
Blood rushed to her cheeks and her heart pounded with outrage. “Indeed not, Your Grace,” she said levelly, refusing to be baited. “My stepfather valued me for my frugality and head for figures. He would not have put a tray in my hands and bid me to spend my time running from cellar to table. No, I kept the books for both store and tavern. I opened in the mornings and closed at night. I paid the help, purchased the merchandise for the store, haggled with tradesmen for fair prices, settled disputes between cook and chambermaid.” She looked at him without shame. “I am not afraid of hard work, Your Grace.”
“So I see.” Something indiscernible flickered in his eyes. “And what does your esteemed stepfather think of your coming to England?”
“He fell sick and died in January. I doubt he thinks at all.”
“And what did he say about your little thing with Charles?”
“It was not a ‘little thing,’ Your Grace. We loved each other deeply and were engaged to be married—”
“Answer the question, please.”
“I beg your pardon, but mus
t you be so rude?”
“Yes. Now answer the question.”
She made a fist, savagely driving her fingernails into her palm in an effort to control her angry tongue. “Charles and I had to keep our feelings for each other clandestine, lest our safety be compromised. The army’s presence was detested in Boston.”
“Yes, I know. You Americans certainly made that obvious.”
“I am not all Americans,” Juliet said firmly. “And I would give the world to have my Charles back. Please stop goading me!”
He raised his brows and stared at her down the length of his aristocratic nose. She, wet and uncomfortable in his brother’s blood, stared bravely back. The fire snapped in the grate. Voices sounded from somewhere outside in the corridor. And then the duke allowed the faintest of smiles, as though rewarding her for her courage in standing up to him or contemplating the pleasure he would receive in throwing her out on her ear.
Straightening, he moved to where a crystal decanter stood atop a desk of carved mahogany. He took his time refilling his glass, not saying a word as the spirits splashed into the vessel and burbled up toward the rim. His severe profile gave away nothing. And then he turned to face her, leaning against the edge of his desk with ankles crossed and eyes thoughtfully narrowed. He took a sip of his brandy, watching her. Just watching her. Judging her, assessing her, studying her like a scholar might examine a singularly interesting biological specimen. Dear God, this is awful.
She stood up. “Are we through here? I wish to go.”
“Go where?”
“Anywhere. Away. Back to America, if need be. It’s obvious that Charles’s faith and trust in his family’s desire to care for his baby daughter were unfounded. Neither she nor I are wanted here.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
She reached for Charlotte’s blanket. “I am being practical.”
“Practicality is not a quality I associate with most females of my acquaintance.”
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 147