With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Chilcot lowered his gaze, but not before Juliet saw the sidelong glance he threw Audlett, the sly look Audlett gave Cokeham, the quick visual exchange between Perry and Sir Hugh. She knew Gareth’s friends were discreetly studying her, measuring her worth against that of their leader. And why shouldn’t they? She was just a colonial bumpkin who spoke differently, dressed differently, and thought differently than they did. No doubt they found her lacking.

  “Forgive me, Miss Paige,” Chilcot said, with exaggerated remorse. “I am indeed a bacon-brained idiot sometimes.”

  “You’re a bacon-brained idiot all the time,” Gareth muttered. He wiped the saddle dry with his coat sleeve, gave the big horse a pat on the shoulder, and then, before Juliet knew what he was about, he spanned her waist with his hands and lifted both her and Charlotte up onto the horse in one easy motion.

  A moment later he’d swung up behind her, his chest against her back, his arms framing her body as he gathered up the reins.

  “You still going to go through with it, then?” Perry asked, nonchalantly.

  Gareth shot his friend a hard look. “Of course I am. If that cunning rascal thinks to play his little games with me, he’s got another thing coming. It’s time the mighty Duke of Blackheath got his comeuppance.” He gave a smile of pure malice. “Lucien forbade me to have anything to do with Miss Paige. Therefore, I can think of nothing that will infuriate him more than if I marry her. Now, come on, let’s go. Time’s wasting.”

  Sometime during the next hour Juliet dozed off, lulled to sleep by the enveloping warmth of Lord Gareth’s arms, the gentle gait of the horse beneath her, and exhaustion. When she blearily opened her eyes, the clouds were moving off to the southwest, and dawn rimmed the horizon in distant bands of pink and gold. Her head was resting against a hard, masculine arm. With a start she jerked up, blushing and uncomfortable at such intimacy. Her sudden movement startled Charlotte, who began to whimper for her breakfast.

  “Good morning,” came Gareth’s cheerful voice from behind and above her head. “I trust you slept, even if just a little?”

  Juliet, blinking, looked about her. Buildings, still dark in the pre-dawn light, had taken the place of enclosed fields and roadside hedgerows. Coal smoke lay heavily on the air. “Probably more than you, my lord. Are we in London?”

  “Yes, though we’ll have to cross the bulk of it to get to Spitalfields.”

  Charlotte’s cries strengthened, becoming lusty wails.

  “What’s the matter with her?” he asked, worriedly.

  “She’s hungry.”

  He stiffened. “Oh.”

  Perry, riding just ahead, turned and lifted an amused brow. Sir Hugh grinned.

  Charlotte’s wails grew piercing.

  Lord Gareth cleared his throat. “I, uh suppose you’d better attend to things, then. We can stop here, and maybe you can take her off behind a tree or something”

  Sir Hugh was downright snickering now.

  “I think I can manage right here, Lord Gareth,” said Juliet.

  “Here?”

  “Why, yes.” She pulled the loose folds of her cloak up and around Charlotte, tugged down her bodice, and, behind the discreet veil, put the baby to her breast. Immediately, Charlotte quieted. No one could see, but nevertheless the Den of Debauchery members urged their horses into a trot and all but fled ahead.

  “I er don’t know about this,” Lord Gareth mumbled, deeply embarrassed.

  “You’ll have to get used to it if you wish to be a father, my lord.”

  “Yes, but I mean—that is.”

  “She can’t just sit down to a pork pie and a mug of ale,” Juliet chided gently. She twisted around to look up at him. His handsome face was as pink as the dawn, and it went downright crimson as Charlotte began making very loud sucking noises.

  “God help me,” Lord Gareth muttered, looking away.

  God help me, too, Juliet thought, amused, for against her bottom she could feel him getting hard, stimulated, no doubt, by the mental pictures that Charlotte’s loud suckling evoked. Her lips twitched helplessly at his unfortunate predicament—until that part of him twitched, and a swift blast of answering desire roared through her own blood.

  Her own face flamed red, and she stiffened, shocked and alarmed. Suddenly it wasn’t so amusing anymore.

  And what will you do tonight, Juliet, when you have to share a bed with him? Hmmmmm?

  Oh, God. She could not allow herself to think about that—not now, not yet!

  Tension crackled between them. Unspoken words. They were both exceedingly aware of his excited state, he too polite and she feeling too awkward to call attention to it. But it was there, growing harder, growing larger. Juliet’s heartbeat thumped in her ears. Her breathing grew strained and ragged. Then, mercifully, Charlotte finished, and Lord Gareth was urging the big hunter into a trot, eager to rejoin the safety of his friends.

  Perry turned as they approached. He, like the others, was grinning wickedly. “Fatherhood will agree with you, old boy,” he drawled, ducking as Gareth’s hand lashed out and knocked his hat awry.

  “Yes, you were made for it, Gareth. The picture of domesticity, you are!”

  “Shut up.”

  More guffaws, all around. But they were all exhausted from so many hours on the road, and eventually everyone—and everything—calmed down, the Den members slumping in their saddles as the horses carried them ever closer to their destination. Shod hooves clattered against the cobbles, echoing against the still-dark houses that pressed close on either side of the road. The light grew stronger, the streets wider, grimy, soot-stained buildings of brick and stone beginning to rise around them. Beyond their rooftops, dawn’s high, feathery clouds were mauve against the brilliant orange sunrise. And down every silent, narrow side street were long rows of houses, all boasting doors and windows alike in every way, and chimney pots that stood like blunt teeth against the pinking sky.

  Juliet gazed about in wonder. So this was London. The great city whose government ruled—and had ruined—her distant homeland. It was from here that the Townshend, Stamp, and Intolerable Acts had come, inciting and fanning the seeds of rebellion that had torn Boston apart. Hard to believe that she, little Juliet Paige from Maine, was actually here in this immense, sprawling city from whence came the laws that had culminated in bloodshed three thousand miles away.

  Belatedly, she realized that Gareth was pointing out landmarks, naming each street. They were on Piccadilly turning right onto St. James Street right along Pall Mall, passing St. James’s Square, and there, off over his shoulder, he was drawing her attention to a park, where the quacking of ducks on a glittering canal broke the early-morning stillness.

  “Let’s hope Cokeham’s cousin is an early riser,” muttered Perry, yawning as he brought his mount up alongside Crusader. “God knows I’m not.”

  Indeed, his eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, and just ahead, Hugh’s head kept drooping, only to snap up again as the baronet jerked himself awake.

  “What time is it?” Gareth asked.

  “Not quite four.” Perry stifled another yawn with one elegant hand. “Tell me, Miss Paige, what do you think of our illustrious London?”

  “It certainly rises early,” she noted, looking about, “as does your English sun.” The sky was fiery beyond the rows of buildings, the sunlight just starting to glow pink and gold on their grimy windows, but even at this early hour the place breathed life. A lamplighter was up on his ladder, yawning as he trimmed and ordered a streetlight and, upon noting their fine horses and expensive clothes, nodding deferentially to the Den of Debauchery members as they passed. And there, a woman was standing just outside her open door, flicking water from her mop, a pair of wooden pattens protecting her shoes from the wet pavement she had just cleaned. A watchman ambled past, lamp, watch, and rattle in hand, whistling as he turned down a side street. They rode up the Strand, Fleet Street, and toward the imposing dome of St. Paul’s, a sight so beautiful in the early pink and gol
d light that Juliet twisted around to stare up at it in awe long after they’d passed it. Cheapside, now, and the heart of London; the Royal Exchange, Leadenhall Street, and East India House, all of which Gareth and Perry took turns pointing out to a wide-eyed and wondrous Juliet. She saw prostitutes lying drunk in gutters and doorways, rag-tag gangs of child pickpockets, a few fancy carriages on their way home from somewhere. Down side streets as narrow as a needle she saw glimpses of the silvery River Thames, where the masts of great sea-going ships caught the first light of dawn. Milkmaids, fishmongers, and bakers began crying their wares. The sky grew brighter. The smells of the great city were many and varied, and over that of fish and slops and horse dung hung the pungent scent of coal smoke.

  They turned away from the river, heading northeast up Whitechapel until Cokeham, leading the way, turned left onto Brick Lane. The beery scent of a brewery hung heavily in the air here, and Juliet could see that this area was not as affluent as some of those through which they had come. As she wondered about the long skylights built into the roofs of the humble dwellings here, Lord Gareth explained that Spitalfields was a velvet and silk weaving center, and the design and placement of the skylights made best use of the daylight that managed to get through the coal smoke, thus aiding the weavers at their looms.

  Juliet shuddered. Charlotte and I could have ended up here, she thought, greatly humbled. If Lord Gareth hadn’t come along to rescue us, if we’d continued on our way to London uninterrupted, we might well have found ourselves in one of these sad little houses after my money ran out. Thank you, dear God, for sending Lord Gareth to us. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing by marrying him, but, oh, please let me at least be grateful to him for saving us from such a fate as this.

  And then Cokeham pulled up his horse before a neat brick house and a stone church with a tall, graceful spire. Juliet felt her forced gratitude fading as stark reality took over—and the first wave of dread clawed at the shore of her resolve.

  She was getting married. Here. Now.

  To a man who was as far from her ideal as London was from Boston.

  “Here we are,” Cokeham announced, cheerfully. “Let’s go, you two!”

  The others were already dismounting, joking with one another, making the sort of loud comments that equated marriage to prison, marriage to death, marriage to being devoured by lions or suffocated by petticoats. The sort of comments that men always made, Juliet thought, distractedly.

  Lord Gareth leaned close to her ear. “Nervous, Miss Paige?” he teased.

  She willed her pounding heart to be calm, fought the feeling of foreboding that was squeezing her chest, wished she had a weapon with which to brain Chilcot, who was hopping around on one foot, miming shackles and giggling like the idiot he was. “In truth, my lord, yes. But I’m sure we’ll both be happier after the deed is done.”

  “You sound as though the idea does not appeal to you.”

  She watched Cokeham open the iron gate and swagger up to the vicarage, banging the knocker sharply and turning to laugh at Chilcot’s foolishness. “I’m sorry. It’s just that.”

  That you’re nothing like Charles, and he’s the sort of man I should be marrying, not you.

  “That what, Miss Paige? Do you find me wanting in some way, shape, or form?”

  “No, Lord Gareth. It’s nothing. Just bridal jitters, that is all.”

  And then the door was swinging wide, and Cokeham was hurriedly beckoning them all in.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Carrying a candle and still in his nightshirt and cap, the Reverend Harold Paine swept into the room in a high dudgeon. A special license? An immediate marriage? Could this not wait until a decent hour? Could they not wait for the banns to be posted? He went on sputtering until Gareth calmly reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. The vicar stared, then went still. His eyes grew round, his lips parted in a perfect O, and he hurriedly sent the poor, yawning housekeeper off to bring his guests tea, bread, and butter.

  “Sit down, sit down!” he cried, suddenly all smiles.

  Gareth seated Juliet, then took a chair beside her. By the light of a candle, and with the Den of Debauchery members hovering over their shoulders, he began counting out money. It took a third of what he had to convince the clergyman to perform the ceremony—and another quarter of what was left to bring the man back on course when he balked upon learning that the bridegroom’s brother was none other than the mighty Duke of Blackheath—who, Paine protested nervously, was sure to oppose this “hasty and clandestine union to a ‘colonial nobody’.” But Gareth, not so unlike his older brother, was in total command of the situation.

  “Then I suppose I must go elsewhere, my dear fellow,” he said with cheerful nonchalance. “There are plenty of vicars in and around London who will marry us if you will not.”

  Paine hesitated, torn between greed and fear of the notoriously dangerous Duke of Blackheath. Gareth shrugged and began to take the money back. His bluff worked. Moments later a messenger was dispatched. By the time the sun was high and the traffic heavy in the street outside, the servant had returned with a special license from the archbishop.

  Immediately, they all filed into the church.

  It was cold and still inside. The scent of old, musty tapestries, of damp stone and candles long since burned, filled the huge nave. The vastness of the chamber echoed their every footstep, their every cough, their every nervous whisper. As the others moved down the flagstoned aisle toward the chancel, Gareth paused to take off his surtout, gently placing it around Juliet’s shoulders. Hugging the baby to her, she flashed him a smile of gratitude and looked away, but not before he saw the anguish in her eyes, the tightness around her mouth and the tiny lines that pleated her forehead. He raised his eyebrows, surprised.

  “Such a woeful face!” he teased, adjusting the overcoat. “Cheer up, lest they all think you do not want me!”

  “It’s not that, Lord Gareth.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Come, let’s just get on with it.”

  Let’s just get on with it. Her air of resigned defeat alarmed and hurt him. What was wrong? Did she find him wanting? Was she angry with him, thinking he was marrying her only to get back at Lucien? Or was she—please God, no—comparing him to Charles and finding him lacking?

  After all, that’s what everyone else had always done.

  As he offered his elbow, she stayed him with gentle pressure on his arm. “But then again, maybe the reverend’s right, Lord Gareth,” she said slowly, for his ears alone. “I’m just a colonial nobody, and you can do much better than me.”

  “I’m not even going to honor that remark with an answer,” he said with false brightness. Bloody hell. Is it Charles? “And furthermore, I think it’s time we dispense with the ‘Lord Gareth’ and ‘Miss Paige’ bit, don’t you? After all, we shall soon be married.”

  “Marriage is not a union in which to enter lightly—”

  “I can assure you, my sweet, we are not entering it lightly. You need a husband. Charlotte needs a father. And I—” he grinned and dramatically clapped a hand to his chest before executing a little bow—“am in a position to help you both. One cannot get any more serious than that, eh?”

  “This isn’t funny, Lord Gareth.”

  “It’s not so very terrible, either.”

  “I don’t think this is quite what Charles had in mind when he bade me to come to England—”

  “Look Juliet, Charles is dead. Whatever he had in mind no longer matters. You and I are alive, and we must seek the best solution to your—and Charlotte’s—predicament.” He lifted her chin with his finger and smiled down into her troubled eyes. “Now, let’s see some joy on that pretty face of yours. I don’t want my friends to think you’re miserable about marrying me.”

  Juliet swallowed. A few locks of tawny hair had escaped his queue and now framed his face. He looked divinely handsome, his chin set off by the flawless knot of lace at his th
roat, and that slow, teasing smile of his warmer than an August sun. Oh, no, Juliet thought, she could never be miserable about marrying him. It wasn’t that at all.

  It wasn’t that they barely knew, let alone loved each other. It wasn’t that she had no idea what sort of a husband or father he would make, or that she didn’t even know where they’d sleep tonight, or that he had carelessly frittered away so much money—money that could have been spent on food and shelter and other necessities that were far more important than a bribe for a marriage license.

  She looked desperately toward the altar where the others already waited, looked even more desperately toward the door, while inside of her everything began screaming in protest, the warning voices—this is wrong, wrong, wrong!—growing louder and louder until she wanted to clap her hands to her ears to block them all out.

  God help her, it was because of—

  “Ready now, Juliet?”

  She closed her eyes as a deep shudder went through her. Dampness broke out all down her spine, and a sudden, sick feeling lodged in the pit of her stomach. “Yes, Lord Ga—”

  “Ah!” He raised his forefinger and both brows.

  Her shoulders slumped. “I mean, Gareth.”

  “That’s better. Now you’re ready, I think.” Again that light, teasing grin that brought out his dimple and made his lazy blue eyes sparkle like the sea. “Shall we?”

  He walked her up the aisle between the pews, his stride easy, confident, and assured. Their shoes echoed over tombstones laid flat in the floor, and flagstones worn smooth by the passage of years of feet. Charlotte clung tightly to Juliet, staring about her with wide, curious eyes.

  Juliet’s heart beat louder. Faster. She felt sick.

  “If you’ll both just stand up here, please,” Paine instructed, directing them to a spot just before the altar. “Bride to the left of the groom, please. Who shall give her away?”

  “No one,” Juliet said.

  Paine frowned. “Right, then. Whom do you want as witnesses?”