Juliet’s cheeks went feverishly warm. She jerked her gaze away, feeling she was intruding upon something personal. Something private. A man’s bedroom, for goodness sake! She would just drop the letters on the highboy between the windows and beat a hasty exit.
She was partway across the room before she realized Gareth would have to get out of bed to retrieve the letters, and injured as he was, he was likely to be very sore.
Oh, she could just strangle the Duke of Blackheath for putting her in this position!
There was nothing for it, then. She would have to put the letters on the table beside his bed and hope he didn’t wake.
She steeled herself. Then, shielding her eyes as though from the sun, head down and watching the progress of her shoes—anything to keep from looking at that bed as she approached and at Gareth, who was probably still naked, who might even be half-exposed by the looseness of the sheet, for all she knew—she moved swiftly across the rug, her heart beating triple-time.
The edge of the bed came into view. She tried to keep her gaze downcast, but like Pandora with her box, it lifted, nervously strayed, crept up to stare at that which she had no business observing. She saw the curve of that bare, muscled shoulder, close enough to touch; the clean white bandage around an equally bare torso; and there, beneath the soft, draped sheet, the outline of hips, legs, ankles, feet Oh, my! And then he sighed and turned over, and Juliet froze, praying that he wouldn’t wake and find her here, wide-eyed and uninvited, a silent voyeur staring at him as though she had never seen anyone asleep before.
And stare she did. He lay not quite on his side, not quite on his back, but halfway between the two, beautifully chiseled lips slightly parted, one arm bent at the elbow and thrown over his head, the palm of his hand showing beneath loosely curled fingers. He had a broad, sculpted chest. Powerful arms. She watched the sheet rising and falling in time with his breathing, noting the way the light and shadows came in from the windows and dappled his relaxed face, the strong column of his neck where it flowed into wide, capable shoulders, the loosely draped hips, thighs, and legs. Oh, dear, she thought, laying a hand to her burning cheek. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
Juliet swallowed—hard. Then she tiptoed up to the bed and placed the stack of letters on the small marble-topped table. Her anxiety and attempt to be quick were her undoing. Her sleeve caught the edge of the stack as she withdrew, and the letters made a whispery little sound as they tumbled to the floor.
The man in the bed opened his eyes.
Juliet gasped.
And Lord Gareth merely grinned, instantly seeing her plight and giving her time to compose herself by emitting a very exaggerated, vocal yawn. “Mmmmm,” he murmured, his eyes sleepy, heavy-lidded, hopelessly seductive. “You are still here. Good.”
“G-good?” She backed up and looked away, painfully embarrassed, her face so hot that she feared it might melt.
“Yes, good. You see, I had some strange dreams last night.” He knuckled his eyes and then, letting his arm fall back, rested his loose fist across the pillow beside his ear. “I dreamed that my brother had fathered a darling little girl and lived on through her. I dreamed that a beautiful woman was in my room watching over me whilst I slept. And I dreamed that Lucien did not send her away.” He smiled up at her, his eyes warm upon her face. “I see that perhaps I have not been dreaming.”
“I, uh—” Juliet suddenly couldn’t find her tongue, or the means to make it work. “I—I was just leaving.”
“Leaving? Come now, I just woke up. If you go so soon, I may be offended.” Sitting up, he flexed his arms, scrunched up his face, and emitted a yawn of such pure, robust pleasure that it sounded almost leonine; then he struck out sideways in a leisurely stretch, his fist hitting a pillow and sending it tumbling off the bed to join the others on the floor. “So—” he lay back and crossed his arms behind his head, treating Juliet to a view of hairy male underarms and strikingly defined muscle—“how are you getting on with Lucien, anyhow?”
Juliet’s face flamed at the unconsciously seductive sight he made. She looked away. “Well, all right, I guess. But he is rather—”
“Difficult?”
She smiled and gave a little shrug, not wanting to say anything bad about his brother.
“Domineering?”
Her smile became a downright grin.
“Rude, oppressive, bad-tempered, and unpleasant?”
She saw the twinkle in his eyes. “Well, I didn’t want to say it myself.”
“Why not? It is, after all, the truth.” He immediately sobered, his expression becoming more focused, sharper. “What did he say about Charlotte? He is going to make her his ward, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. He’s given me no indication what his plans are.”
Lord Gareth swore beneath his breath.
“He didn’t say a word all through breakfast, except to antagonize Lord Andrew—and ask that I bring these letters up to you. I tried to be quiet so as not to wake you, but.” She gave a little shake of her head. “Oh, I am so embarrassed!”
“Why?”
“I don’t usually make it a habit of prowling around a man’s bedroom, especially when he’s in it, asleep!”
“Well, I do not mind.” Arms still crossed behind his head, he gave her a look of twinkling amusement. “That is, if you don’t.”
“I think I had better leave.”
“Oh, please don’t, Miss Paige. I am enjoying your company.”
“This is unseemly!”
“Says who? I am bored. Restless. And I have no one else to talk to.”
“You shouldn’t be talking to me. Not when you’re lying there naked beneath those sheets, and”
His brows rose. “How do you know I am naked, Miss Paige?”
“I didn’t look, if that is what you’re implying!”
“Oh. But you did—” his lips were twitching—“in my dream, that is.”
“Lord Gareth!”
He laughed, his eyes warm, teasing, and as blue as the sky outside. Confused and flustered by the warm interest she saw there, Juliet looked away, awash in a wave of prickly, pleasurable heat. She could feel his gaze upon her. Could feel her own response to it, to him. And then, despite herself, she began to smile. She liked Gareth. He liked her. And truth be told, his playful yet ardent attention felt rather nice.
“So, what do you do?” she asked, trying to change the subject to something safe.
“Do?”
“Yes. I mean, Charles was an army officer, Andrew aspires to be an inventor, Lucien is a duke—what about you?”
“Oh. Uh, me.”
“You.”
He looked temporarily lost. She could not know what he was thinking: I am a hopeless wastrel. The black sheep. The family embarrassment. What do I do? Nothing.
“I have fun,” he said, and then looked innocently up at her through his lashes, bestowing upon her such a charmingly dimpled grin that she could only laugh.
“That’s all you do?”
“For now. Though I must confess, I expect life will be rather boring whilst I am stranded here convalescing. Therefore, you simply must come and visit me every day, Miss Paige—I could never be bored if I have you here to amuse me.”
She laughed, picked up the pile of letters and rapped them lightly across his shamelessly naked chest. “Here. If you’re so bored, I expect these will make your convalescence all the more bearable.”
“But I am not in the mood for reading, Miss Paige. Besides, I’d wager they all say much the same thing. Read one, you’ve read them all.”
“And have you read one?”
“Actually, I have not. I can do many things in my sleep, but reading is not one of them.”
He gazed up at her, arms still crossed behind his head, a playful little smile on his face.
She took a deep breath and looked away—and all she saw were flowers. On the chest of drawers, on the windowsill, on the writing desk. Looking at them—and the pile of letters whose
scent remained on her palm—Juliet felt a restless, twisting pang of something she would’ve identified as jealousy had there been any reason to feel such a thing. But of course she wasn’t jealous. She barely knew Lord Gareth. Just because she’d had a claim on his brother didn’t give her one on him.
“Pretty flowers,” she said, inanely. She wiped her palm on her skirts, unconsciously trying to rid it of another woman’s scent. “You seem to be quite popular with the ladies, Lord Gareth.”
“You think so?”
“Don’t you?”
He gave a little shrug, a modest acknowledgement that yes, he supposed he was, but did not at the moment find it particularly important. Or, relevant.
She asked, “Was your brother popular with the ladies, too?”
“Who? Charles?”
“Why, yes.”
His gaze warmed yet further as it played over her face. “It would appear he was quite popular with at least one lady.”
Her cheeks went pink and she looked down, hiding a little smile. “Besides me.”
“Oh, Charles had his admirers. But he was an ambitious man, given to his studies and later his military career, and didn’t have time to chase skirts. Or so he said. The truth was, our parents—and Lucien—had his life perfectly arranged, and Charles was not the sort to rebel simply for the sake of rebelling.”
“I see. The duke did imply that Charles was promised to someone else.”
“He was promised to someone else before he was even born. That certainly did not mean he had any feelings for the girl.”
“And what about you? As the new heir-presumptive, are you promised to another?”
He grinned. “My dear Miss Paige. I am the sort to rebel, simply for the sake of rebelling. When and if I ever marry, it will be to someone of my own choosing, not Lucien’s.”
“Yes somehow, I cannot see you following a course laid out for you by him or anyone else.”
“Ha! But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t try to force one upon me.” He was still gazing fondly up at her; but as he studied her face, his grin faded somewhat, only to be replaced by an expression of sympathy and understanding. “You still miss him, don’t you?”
Her smile dwindled, too. She stared wistfully out the window and across the green, green downs. “I think I’ll always miss him, Lord Gareth.” She was still for a moment, her gaze cresting the brow of the downs to the milky-blue horizon, as though she could see all the way back to Boston and that terrible day last April. “I can still remember it so well, that last night I saw him alive. I’d just told him I was going to have his child. Oh, you should’ve seen his face so full of joy, then sober duty as he got down on one knee before me and asked me to marry him. And that is my last memory of him: Charles on his knee, his head bent, the candlelight flickering in that bright, gold hair of his.”
“As last memories go, that is not such a bad one, Miss Paige.”
“Yes—I know. Sometimes I’m thankful for the fact that I never did see his body, for that very same reason. It’s much nicer to remember a person alive, don’t you think? Still, in some ways, it makes it harder I never had the chance to weep over him, never had the chance to tell him good bye. And that’s the part that still hurts. It’s horrible to lose someone you love; it’s even more horrible when that person is snatched from you with no warning whatsoever, and you never get the chance to say good bye.”
“Yes I know exactly what you mean.” He was silent for a moment, sad, and she knew he was reliving his own memories, quietly relating to her words in a way that no one on the other side of the Atlantic had ever been able, or inclined, to do.
It made her feel suddenly close to him. Kindred.
“You still miss him, too.”
“All the time.”
“Your sister put me in his old room last night. I know this is going to sound silly, but I’d thought—hoped—I’d feel him there somehow.”
“And did you?”
She hugged herself and, gazing somewhat wistfully at the floor, shook her head. “No.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then: “I don’t know if it’s of any comfort, but I’ve never felt him in there, either.”
“You, too, have gone in there, hoping to feel his presence?”
He gave a gentle smile. “Many times.”
A still moment hung between them as she fussed with the lace at her sleeve. She could feel his gaze upon her. “Are my feelings for Charles so very obvious, Lord Gareth?”
He smiled, kindly. “Yes—but they are not offensive. In fact, I must confess that I am happy for my brother, having loved someone who, even a year after his death, remains so loyal to him.” His eyes grew a little sad. “Happy for Charles, perhaps—but not for the woman he left behind. You must get on with your life, Miss Paige. He would have wanted you to, you know.”
“Yes I know. I was doing fine until I met you,” she admitted. “Seeing you, your close resemblance to him, brought everything back.”
“Ah, but physical appearance is the only resemblance Charles and I shared,” he said, with another of those warm, dimpled grins that made her insides do somersaults. “Get to know me well enough, Miss Paige, and you’ll see that I am a very different man, indeed.”
He pulled the sheet up to better preserve his modesty—or perhaps hers—and, leaning sideways, tried to reach the glass and bottle of spirits that stood beside the letters on the marble-topped table. As he did so, he winced, his hand still four or five inches from the glass, and settled slowly back against the pillows, empty-handed, his face suddenly quite pale.
“Please, let me help you!” Juliet gasped, rushing forward.
“I am fine, just a bit of pain in my side, that is all.” He grinned up at her as she hovered above him. “I daresay the Irish whiskey has worn off. Everything is beginning to hurt.”
She picked up one of the pillows that lay on the floor. Then another. “You passed a bad night, didn’t you?”
“I have had worse. And woken in a great deal more pain than I am feeling now. Miss Paige—I am sorry to impose, but will you pour me a measure of that whiskey, there? I must stretch to reach it, and.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, impatient with herself for not anticipating this simple need and seeing to it before he could try to do so himself. She grabbed both the bottle and glass, filling the latter to the brim as though to make up for her failings and handing it to him. Their fingers accidentally touched. He smiled at this simple contact and Juliet shivered, involuntarily, her fingers tingling as she watched him down the strong spirits with one practiced flick of his wrist.
Finishing, he handed the glass back to her, his skin a little flushed. “Ah. That is better. Thank you.”
She refilled it for him. “Would you like me to fluff up your pillows, as well?”
“Oh, I daresay I would like that very much indeed.”
They shared a shy smile. Then Juliet gathered the rest of the pillows up from the rug and dumped them near Lord Gareth’s left arm. He was keen to help her, leaning forward so that she could pile two or three pillows up behind him. As she plumped and fluffed them, she could not help but look at that stunningly beautiful masculine back so close to her hand, tautly curved, sculpted with muscle and blessed with breadth across the shoulders. She snatched her hand away as he began to lean back, both tempted by, and wary of touching, that bare, warm skin for fear of the purely carnal reaction she knew it would ignite in her.
He lay back, sighing with pleasure as he sank deeply into the pillows. From beneath half-closed lids he watched her refilling his glass yet again. As she handed it to him, he looked up at her, his eyes warm with gratitude—and something else. Juliet blushed. Without the life-and-death urgency of last night, without talk of Charles to get the focus off themselves, there was an awkward uncertainty between them, the sort felt by two people who are attracted to each other but don’t know each other well enough to admit it, or feel comfortable in displaying it.
Or at least, that
was the way she felt.
She wasn’t so sure about Gareth, who seemed completely at ease around her, with or without the assistance of so much whiskey.
“I uh think I’d better go,” Juliet said.
“A pity, that.” He lifted the glass to his lips, his eyes watching her from above its rim. “I cannot talk you into staying, then?”
“No. But I’ll come back later if you like. Maybe I can bring your supper up to you or something.”
“Would you? I would like that. In fact, I would like that very much indeed. Otherwise boredom will force me to read those silly letters, and I confess, Miss Paige, that I would much rather spend the time with you.” He grinned. “And Charlotte, if you will bring her.”
“I will bring her.”
“Good. I am looking forward to getting to know both my niece and her lovely mama. When you return, I want to hear all about America, your sea-crossing, everything. And I want a full report on how—Oh, dear—” He suddenly started and blinked several times in rapid succession, as though the whiskey had just caught him very much by surprise (which in itself was no surprise, Juliet thought, given the amount he had downed and the speed with which he had consumed it). He shook his head, slowly, and tipped it back against the pillows with an apologetic little smile. “That is to say, I want a full report on how Lucien is treating you.”
“You shall have it then, Lord Gareth.” She plucked the empty glass from his hand and placed it back on the table. “But for now, I think you had better rest.”
“Yes I fear I have no choice about that, given the way those spirits have just hit me! I am sorry, Miss Paige; I have no wish to be rude, it usually takes much more than three glasses to get me to this state but oh, isn’t it strange, how the loss of a little blood seems to carry a man’s vitality off with it, as well.”
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