“I wouldn’t know.” She smiled and moved forward to gently pull the sheet up over his chest. He looked up at her through his lashes and gave her a slow, sleepy smile, content to let her fuss over him, grateful for the attention, a man completely at ease in the company of a woman.
“Thank you,” he murmured, smiling as he let his eyes drift shut. “I think I shall enjoy my dreams.”
She blushed wildly at the unspoken implication of what they might contain; then she touched his arm and crept silently away.
“One last thing, Miss Paige.”
She turned and gazed fondly at him, at his eyes, drooping now, that he was trying so hard to keep open. “Yes?”
“This is a rather oppressive house. I know better than anyone what Lucien is like, and I know how homesick you must be, far away from everyone and everything you know and love. But you just remember this. Any time you start feeling out of place here or unwanted or just need to get away from it all, you know where to find me.”
His words hit something deep inside of her, making her realize she’d found her first real friend in this strange and lonely place. A little lump rose in her throat. “Thank you, Lord Gareth.”
“Mmm the pleasure is mine, madam.”
Gareth slept well past supper, not only because his body needed the healing rest, but because large quantities of Irish whiskey were enough to lay even the most debauched of English gentlemen low.
When he opened his eyes late that evening, the shadows were gathering, the room was still, and a figure sat in silhouette by the dying light of the far window.
“Ah. So the gallant hero awakes.”
Gareth swore and rubbed his eyes. “Lucien.”
“Feeling better, I hope?”
“I feel fine.” He yawned, stretched with lazy, all-the-time-in-the world abandon, and suddenly snapped to attention as he remembered. “Where is she?”
Lucien swept his arm to indicate the many bouquets that seemed to grow from every flat surface in the room. “Where is whom?”
“Don’t play games with me, you know damned well whom I’m talking about.”
“Ah, you must mean Miss Paige. Why, she’s downstairs in the Gold Parlour with Nerissa and Andrew, playing with Charlotte. Tsk, tsk, Gareth. Did you think I had sent her away?”
“And why wouldn’t I think it? You will.”
A smooth, benign grin. “Perhaps.”
“Oh, and what is your twisted, self-serving game this time, eh?” Gareth muttered, sitting up and pressing the heel of his hand to his pounding head. “To see how quickly you can intimidate her into leaving? Frighten her into turning tail and fleeing back to Boston? Or perhaps it’s something worse.”
The duke raised his brows, all feigned innocence and surprise. “Why, Gareth. You wound me with your distrust and lack of faith in me. I am not such a monster as all that. In fact, I even brought you tea.”
“You play with people’s minds, Lucien. I’ll not have you doing so with hers.”
“My dear boy, I plan nothing of the sort.” He flicked a bit of dust off his sleeve of black velvet. “Besides, the girl is not so easily frightened. You know that yourself.”
“You can’t send her away.”
“I will if I have to.”
“I won’t allow it.”
“You’ll have no choice. I am not blind, Gareth. I see how quickly you defend her, and I suspect you half-fancy her already—as you do anything with two legs and a skirt. Now, don’t get me wrong. I quite like the chit. Miss Paige is a fine woman, blessed with both beauty and courage, but she is a base-born rustic, and you are the heir-presumptive to a dukedom—much as I rue that unhappy fact every day of my waking life.” He gave a dramatic, exaggerated sigh. “Oh, how I wish Andrew was in line to inherit, instead of you.”
“Don’t lecture me, Lucien. I’m not in the mood to hear it.”
“Of course you’re not. You never are, are you? But here’s something for you to think about whilst you’re lying in bed, playing up your little scratch and enjoying the undeserved fruits of hero worship.” He ignored Gareth’s curses. “Whether or not I send Miss Paige away, my dear boy, depends on you.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
Lucien’s voice lost its mocking tone and hardened. “You know how I felt about Charles’s wish to marry someone so far beneath him, and you can guess how I feel about any possible romantic attraction you might have for the girl, as well. I will allow her and the babe to remain at Blackheath. But should I see you staring after her when she leaves a room, or nipping at her heels like a lovesick puppy, I will send her away.” Again, that infuriatingly benign smile. “For your own good, of course.”
“Damn you, Lucien, you’ve no business telling me what I can or cannot do, I’m three and twenty, not fifteen!”
“Which brings me to the second half of my conditions.”
“As if this isn’t enough!”
“It isn’t.” The duke rose to his feet, cool, composed, infuriatingly unruffled. Gareth saw that he was holding a vase of flowers, which he had apparently brought upstairs with him. “As you’ve just said yourself, my dear boy, you are three and twenty now. Not fifteen. It’s time your behavior reflected the age of your body, not your brain.”
Gareth swore once more. Not this discussion again.
“I will see behavior from you befitting an educated young nobleman in line for a dukedom,” Lucien continued, smoothly. “No more stupid stunts, immature pranks, drunken loutishness, or other nonsense. Put one foot wrong, Gareth, and I warn you: The girl goes. Do you understand me?”
Lucien’s black gaze bored through the darkness into Gareth’s.
“Go to hell,” Gareth muttered sullenly, looking away.
“Good. I see that you do understand. Good night, then. And here”—he plunked down the vase he still held in one hand—“have some flowers.”
Chapter Eight
As the week unfurled, Juliet found herself growing lonelier and lonelier at the big castle. The meals she took with the family were always silent and tense; Andrew was usually in his laboratory “experimenting;” Nerissa rose late and made frequent social calls on the neighboring gentry; and the Duke of Blackheath, never pleasant, often aloof, and always more than capable of making Juliet feel as though she was a burden on his time and attention, continued to evade her question about making Charlotte his ward—I have not made up my mind yet, Miss Paige, do not continue to harass me about it. It was little wonder, then, that Juliet found herself spending more and more time at Gareth’s bedside, laughing at the amusing things he would say, blushing at his flirtatious remarks, sitting in a chair watching him play with Charlotte. Her new friend was a warm blanket in a glacier of cold English formality, a welcome relief from the oppressive austerity of the duke—which seemed to permeate the very walls of the castle itself.
Despite herself, she told herself that she was not attracted to him. Gareth—light-hearted, carefree, and not always grounded in maturity—was not, after all, the sort of man who would suit her. It was not practical, nor wise, to let herself think of him in any terms other than what he was.
A friend.
Juliet, of course, was not the only one to benefit from this growing friendship; Gareth, too, found his convalescence much easier to bear with a beautiful young woman tending to him, bringing him his meals, his niece, and—if truth be told—a good excuse to needle Lucien. He knew his brother was aware of Juliet’s visits and was not altogether pleased about them. Still, Lucien said nothing about the subject, though Gareth presumed the servants reported every visit Juliet Paige made to his room back to his omniscient brother.
A week and a half after the robbery, Gareth—restless from being stuck indoors, his muscles cramped from too much bed rest, his stitches newly removed—decided he’d had enough. He was going for a walk. He did, of course, possess the strength to undertake such a venture by himself; however, his “lingering weakness” was a perfect excuse to ask Juliet to a
ccompany him, just in case he suddenly grew light-headed and needed her assistance. When she brought their lunches up to him that afternoon, they ate together—and then he asked her to walk with him to the top of Sparsholt Down.
He thought she would protest; instead, she surprised him by saying the fresh air would probably do him good. And so it was that an hour later the two of them, Charlotte safe in the care of Nerissa, set off across the front lawn, heads together and laughing.
As they passed the library, the drapes at the window moved slightly—but neither noticed. The Duke of Blackheath watched them go, his expression unreadable. He was, of course, very much aware of Juliet’s frequent sojourns to his brother’s room. He was also very much aware of the attraction between the two, a fact that did not annoy him half as much as he wanted Gareth to believe; in fact, it was quite the opposite.
Quite the opposite indeed.
The faintest of smiles crossed his face, and he let the drape fall shut.
Gareth was purposely defying him.
Things were going precisely according to plan.
And when, a few hours later, he saw them racing a spring thunderstorm home, the two of them laughing like children—he was smiling even more.
By week’s end, however, Gareth needed more than bucolic walks around the Lambourn Downs. He missed his friends. He missed doing things with those friends. By the time Saturday night came around—and with it, Perry and the other Den of Debauchery members—the Wild One was ripe for trouble.
“You’re looking fit as a fox,” Perry drawled, flicking open his snuff box and taking a pinch. “Never thought you’d want to go out and raise hell again so soon.”
“I am hardly an old woman,” Gareth returned, standing in front of the looking glass and carefully tying his cravat. He wore a tailored coat of plum silk, cream breeches, and a waistcoat embroidered with gold thread. His hair was tied back and lightly powdered, his sword already at his hip. Unlike his friends, Gareth had spent most of the last two weeks cooped up and bored, and he was not about to pass another day, let alone this night, in similar fashion. “Besides,” he added derisively, “it was little more than a flesh wound—a scratch, as Lucien called it. Now.” His gaze met theirs in the mirror. “Where to tonight?”
“Whist at Cokeham’s?” suggested Sir Hugh Rochester hopefully.
“Boring,” said Gareth.
Neil Chilcot pulled out a half-shilling and began flipping it in the air. “I hear Broughton’s having a cockfight in his barn.”
“I hate cockfights,” Gareth declared.
“Lord Pemberley’s mistress is rumored to be doing her famous ‘forbidden fruit’ act tonight. I say we attend that,” murmured Tom Audlett, grinning and elbowing Hugh.
“No, no, none of that,” Gareth muttered impatiently, still standing before the looking glass and pulling at the frothy lace until it lay just-so against his shirt and waistcoat. He turned, perfectly handsome, perfectly tailored, and perfectly innocent.
Looks were deceiving. There was nothing innocent about Lord Gareth de Montforte at all.
“I am bored with endless rounds of drinking, whoring, and gaming,” he announced. “There must be something else, something more exciting we can get up to without taking ourselves all the way off to London.”
“Speaking of excitement, how’s that fine bit of muslin who saved your life, eh, Gareth?”
“Yes, have you made a suitable impression upon her yet?”
Gareth grinned. “I am working on it.”
“Ha! I can imagine what your despot of a brother thinks about that!”
“Who gives a damn what he thinks? Lucien may be Blackheath’s master, but he sure as hell isn’t mine. Now come, let’s go. The evening waits, and I simply cannot abide being in this place another minute.”
It didn’t take long for the notorious Den of Debauchery—which had managed, through every fault of its own, to become the bane of the Lambourn Downs—to get up to its usual devilment.
The Den members had gone to the cockfight after all; then to Pemberley’s, and finally, after three bottles of Chilcot’s Irish whiskey, to the Speckled Hen opposite the village green, which was where the trouble began. Jon Cokeham had started a fight with one of the locals. Tom Audlett had refused to pay for an ale whose taste he found inferior. And the rest of them had chatted up and then fondled Tess and Lorna, the two serving wenches. The girls were all too willing to drape themselves across the laps of these well-bred, badly-behaved lads in favor of doing the work for which they were paid; it was Fred Crawley, the landlord, who finally got fed up.
He threw out the lot of them, including the two women.
“Bloody ’ell, Gareth what’re we going to do now, eh?”
They stood in the road outside, grumbling and cursing, all so foxed that not a soul amongst them could walk a straight line. The two barmaids, giggling and flirting, were partaking quite freely of Chilcot’s Irish whiskey. One of them, already tipsy, sidled up to Gareth and put her hand on his bottom; the other ingratiated herself beneath his arm, slid her hand beneath his waistcoat, and began rubbing his chest.
“Yes, Lord Gareth—what are we going to do, hmmmm?”
He grinned down at them. Two weeks ago he would’ve taken the invitation and run with it; after all, spending an erotic night with two women at once was every man’s dream—and one he had frequently lived out in reality. Tonight, however, he just wanted to go home.
To Juliet Paige.
“I don’t know,” he said, slightly baffled by this rather strange reaction in himself.
Cokeham declared, “I have an idea how we can get back at that cheeky bastard for throwing us out. We can alter the scenery from his dining room window. You know, shock his guests so they go somewhere else.”
“Oh?”
Cokeham took a long swig of the whiskey; then he pointed the bottle toward the village green and leaned toward the girl beneath Gareth’s arm. “Tess? Got any idea where we can get some of that purple paint Crawley used on his front door?”
King Henry VIII on a rearing charger had been the focal point of the green—and the pride of the village—since Gareth’s great-great-grandfather, the first duke, had had the statue erected some time back in the previous century. Towering above Ravenscombe’s oft-used crossroads through which traffic to and from Newbury, Swindon, Wantage and Lambourn all passed, it was a fine work, commanding the eye as well as the attention. The magnificent stone horse, rearing back on its hind legs with its front hooves slashing the air, was noble and fiery; the monarch who rode it, fiercely imperious. But tonight, poor old Henry had to have been as miserable as any of his unfortunate wives ever were, for a group of his most high-born subjects was clustered around the statue’s base, and they were up to no good.
No good at all.
That is, all but one of them stood around the statue. Ten feet above their heads, their leader—who had agreed to do the deed only because everyone had bet money that he wouldn’t dare (an incentive to get Gareth to do just about anything)—was hanging from a rope slung around the steed’s neck, his feet braced against the statue’s pedestal, his hand thrust up beneath the stallion’s hind legs.
“Having a good feel up there, Gareth? Sure are taking a damned long time about it!”
“Can’t blame him. ’Tisn’t every day that a man gets to grope a stone horse!”
“Wish I was hung half so well!”
“You mean you aren’t, Chilcot?”
“Lord Gareth is!” cried Tess. “Why, ’e’s built foiner than any stallion Oi’ve ever seen, stone or not!”
Drunken laughter rang out, both male and female, and yet another bottle of Irish whiskey made its way among the shadowy figures who stood, or rather swayed, beneath poor Henry on his about-to-be-disgraced charger.
“Hey Gareth! Didn’t know yer pref’rences ran to—hic!—bestiality! What else haven’t you tol’ us about yershelf, eh?”
“Shut up down there, you bacon-brains,” Gareth said. “
D’you want to wake up the whole damned village?” But he was as foxed as the rest of them, and no one took him seriously.
“Hic!—c’mon, Gareth, it can’t take you more than five minutes to—hic!—paint its bollocks blue!”
“This is not blue, it’s purple. Royal purple. As befits its royal rider.”
Chilcot gave a credible imitation of a neighing stallion. Cokeham snorted, horse-like, and clutched his stomach as he tried to contain his laughter. But the Irish whiskey was too much for him, and, losing his balance, he fell face-first into the damp grass, still guffawing and holding his side. “Oh! Oh, I fear I shall cast up my accounts if this keeps up oh, dear God.”
Without missing a beat, Gareth dipped his brush in the paint and flicked it over the bewigged and powdered heads of his friends below.
Howls pierced the night as he calmly went back to his task.
“A plague on you, Gareth!—hic—you’ve jesht ruined my best wig!”
“To hell with your damned wig, Hugh, look what he just did to my coat!”
Chilcot gave another equine whicker, tucked his chin, and with his beautifully turned out leg began pawing the ground.
“Shhhh-h-h-h-h-h-h!”
“Oh oh, I do feel sick.”
“Keep it up, you pillocks, and I shall dump the entire bucket on your heads,” Gareth called down from above. Wrapping his hand around the rope, he pulled himself up a little higher to relieve the tension on his left arm and began smearing paint on the horse’s other testicle. “One done, one to go, just call me Gainsborough.”
A mouthful of whiskey shot out of Hugh’s mouth and he collapsed in a fit of laughter. Perry made choking noises, and guffaws echoed all around.
“Reynolds, Romney, Ho-garth, God help me, I’m going to barf,” cried Cokeham, still rolling on the ground and laughing. “Oh, that’s horrid, Gareth, positively horrid!”
Gareth grinned, quite amused with himself. “I’m no poet and well I know it. More paint, my dear fellows. And mind you don’t trip and spill it. We’re starting to run low.”
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