With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Gareth knew them both well.

  Too well.

  Heat burned through his blood as their sultry gazes caressed his body, and he remembered certain unique pleasures each was capable of bringing. One with her mouth, the other with her toes.

  God help him.

  “Ah, you’ve made it,” the abbess purred, all smiles, all charming hospitality. She touched Gareth’s arm, then turned her smile on Juliet. “Come, now, follow me. I’ll have Melita bring up supper, as well as soap, a razor, and some clean sheets to tear up for baby napkins. You’ll be quite comfortable, I can assure you.”

  “And a cradle?” Juliet asked.

  “I do believe it’s already there.”

  Juliet nodded. “I guess that’s all we need, then.” She glanced uncertainly at her husband. “Right, Gareth?”

  “Right,” he muttered and, taking her arm, wordlessly led her upstairs.

  London was growing dark.

  To the west, fiery bands of salmon and gold streaked the fading sky, silhouetting hundreds of chimney pots and glinting like fire against windowpanes caked with grime. In the streets and outside the fine houses, oil lamps were lit, and traffic was heavy as people hurried to get home. It was not safe for decent folk to be out after dark, for with darkness came the city’s desperate and hardened criminals like a wave of scavenging rats: hundreds of thieves, housebreakers, purse-snatchers, grave-robbers, prostitutes, beggars, and other riff-raff best left unencountered.

  The alleys were already dark, already dangerous, and it was up the narrow passageway between Mrs. Bottomley’s and a neighboring pawn shop that a shadowy figure moved, as silent and sinister as a phantom.

  He reached into his pocket, his eyes gleaming as he fingered the money with which he’d bribe Mario. If the money didn’t work, the sword at his thigh would. Mario did not frighten him. London after dark did not frighten him. Nothing frightened him as much as the man who had paid him to follow Lord Gareth, and he had no wish to rouse that devil’s ire.

  He gave the door three sharp raps with his knuckles. He flashed the money, asked his questions, and got the answers he sought.

  Yes, they were here. All three of them.

  Satisfied, the figure melted back out into the darkness, the oil lamp in its decorative iron bracket above the brothel’s front door trying, unsuccessfully, to find his face and form. He stood for a moment, the cobbles hard beneath his fine shoes, well pleased with himself. And then he tilted his head back to regard the high, second floor window, where a slit of light showed between heavy drapes.

  Lord Gareth and his little family would not be going anywhere tonight.

  A thin smile stole across his face, and he turned and melted back into the shadows from which he had come.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Juliet, standing at the washstand and scrubbing the dust from her face, was so tired that she wanted to collapse. As she picked up a towel and patted her cheeks dry, she silently watched her husband, removing his sword and placing it atop the mantle. Behind him, the rich crimson velvet with which the walls were hung made a perfect backdrop for his natural, aristocratic elegance.

  He was not himself. His shoulders were set, his expression as severe as she’d ever seen the duke’s. He was not only unhappy, he was downright furious—though for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why. Obviously, his being an aristocrat meant he did not understand, had never needed to understand, did not want to understand, the meaning of frugality. Perhaps he resented having it forced upon him. Perhaps he resented the fact that if he hadn’t had her and Charlotte to look after, he would still have the rich lifestyle to which he was accustomed. Or perhaps he really did resent the fact that she’d been the one to take charge and accept the abbess’s offer, after all.

  But she’d had no choice but to take charge. Earlier, while standing outside the church, Juliet had realized with a sinking sense of resignation that responsibility for not only herself and Charlotte but also her aristocratic husband was going to fall on her shoulders. Now, however, that realization was teamed with fatigue and, in conjunction with the way her husband was acting, making her feel annoyed. Burdened. Angry.

  The warnings had all been there, and she had ignored them. There were his family’s cryptic comments, for a start. From Andrew—Gareth may be a rake, a wastrel, and a scourer The villagers call him ‘the Wild One’—and from the duke—Indeed, whoever would have thought Gareth would go and make anything of himself. An impulsive marriage proposition, an attitude toward money she found both frightening and immature, and, of course, this morning’s spending spree at the vicar’s, when he’d thrown away so much her head had spun. Juliet put her fingertips to her suddenly throbbing brow. It was obvious that she’d have to be the one to control the money—and where it was spent. She was going to have to be the one to make major decisions, locate a place for them to live, and, in all likelihood, find work so that they could survive. She could not see Lord Gareth de Montforte, with his elegant hands and even more elegant blood, lowering himself to something so base as work. Charming and pampered he might be, but he was as naive and directionless as a five-year-old.

  Stupid woman, she rebuked herself. She had allowed her desperate situation, his handsome face—and the fact that he was Charles’s brother—to annihilate her good sense. Had she been thinking correctly, she would never have married a man who proposed marriage from a tree branch. Had she been thinking correctly, she wouldn’t have let his charm override her judgment. It was her own damned fault.

  Disgusted with herself, she yanked the pins from Charlotte’s napkin and tossed them into a nearby bowl. You have no one to blame for this but yourself. He cannot help the way he’s made, the fact he’s nothing like Charles. You married him, and now you’ll just have to make the best of things.

  Make the best of things.

  She had weathered many storms in her life; she would weather this one, too. If she had to go out and work as a seamstress in one of those squalid places in Spitalfields, then so be it. If she had to be a wet nurse for some rich woman’s babe, then so be that, too. She had a good brain and two capable hands, and she would do what she had to do for their survival.

  She picked up Charlotte, who was fussing and kicking, and set her down on the bed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Gareth hefting her trunk onto a chair. He popped the lid and rummaged about, pulling out a square of clean linen. Then he looked up and met her gaze.

  He smiled, tentatively, trying to ease the tension between them.

  Juliet ignored him and returned her attention to Charlotte. She removed the infant’s wet, dirty napkin and tossed it into the chamber pot for washing later. Though soiled, the baby was still forgiving, managing to bestow a smile as sweet as heaven’s sunshine upon her mother. Juliet felt a sudden stab of guilt. Of shame. Not only had she betrayed Charles by marrying this less-than-capable brother of his, but her poor little baby, as well. Her poor little baby who should’ve been changed hours ago.

  Angry tears stung her eyes. Tension built and boiled inside her. Her cheeks grew hot with suppressed anger, her movements became jerky and abrupt. She shoved an errant strand of hair out of her face, stormed to the washstand—

  And collided with her husband.

  He had been coming toward her with a piece of wet linen and a bowl half-filled with water. As he and Juliet bounced off each other, some of the water spilled onto the carpet, the rest down the front of his waistcoat. Ignoring it, Gareth held out the damp rag like a truce offering. “Here.”

  “What’s that for?”

  “She needs washing, doesn’t she?”

  “What do you know about babies?”

  “Come now, Juliet. I am not entirely lacking in common sense.”

  “I wonder,” she muttered, spitefully.

  He summoned a polite though confused smile—and that only stoked Juliet’s temper all the more. She did not want him to be such a gentleman, damn it! She wanted a good, out-and-out row with him. She wan
ted to tell him just what she thought of him, of his reckless spending, of his carefree attitude toward serious matters. Oh, why hadn’t she married someone like Charles—someone capable, competent, and mature?

  “What is wrong, Juliet?”

  “Everything!” she fumed. She plunged the linen in the bowl of water and began swabbing Charlotte’s bottom. “I think Perry was right. We should go straight back to your brother, the duke.”

  “You should not listen to Perry.”

  “Why not? He’s got more sense than you and the rest of your friends combined. We haven’t even been married a day, and already it’s obvious that you’re hopelessly out of your element. You have no idea what to do with a wife and daughter. You have no idea where to go, how to support us—nothing. Yet you had to come charging after us, the noble rescuer who just had to save the day. I’ll bet you didn’t give any thought at all to what to do with us afterward, did you? Oh! Do you always act before thinking? Do you?”

  He looked at her for a moment, brows raised, stunned by the force of her attack. Then he said dryly, “My dear, if you’ll recall, that particular character defect saved your life. Not to mention the lives of the other people on that stagecoach.”

  “So it did, but it’s not going to feed us or find us a place to live!” She lifted Charlotte’s bottom, pinned a clean napkin around the baby’s hips, and soaped and rinsed her hands. “I still cannot believe how much money you tossed away on a marriage license, no, a bribe, this morning, nor how annoyed you still seem to be that we didn’t waste God-knows-how-much on a hotel tonight. You seem to have no concept of money’s value, and at the rate you’re going, we’re going to have to throw ourselves on the mercy of the local parish or go begging in the street just to put food in our bellies!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. That would never happen.”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “Juliet, my brother is the Duke of Blackheath. My family is one of the oldest and richest in all of England. We are not going to starve, I can assure you.”

  “What do you plan to do, then, work for a living? Get those pampered, lily-white hands of yours dirty and calloused?”

  “Juliet, please. You try my temper.”

  “Well, what use is a rich and powerful brother if you won’t go to him for help? This is not a game! This is a serious matter! I’m a young mother with a baby to consider, and I must know how you plan to support us!”

  “I don’t know yet. But I shall think of something.” He turned away. “Have a little faith in me, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I’m trying to, but it’s just that oh, this has turned out to be the worst day of my entire life, and I don’t see it getting any better.” Tears gathered in her eyes and she shoved the heel of her hand against her temple, her bottom lip quivering.

  He was there, immediately. “Ah, Juliet.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I cannot stand to see you suffering so.”

  “Then go away. Please.”

  He shrugged out of his frock, tossed it over the chair back, and tried to gather her close. “Is it so bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Worse than the day you left Boston to come here?”

  She waved him off, turning away to hide her sudden, angry tears.

  “Worse than the day you got held up by the highwaymen?”

  She took a steadying breath and bit savagely down into her tremulous bottom lip.

  “Worse,” he murmured, gently, “than the day Charles died?”

  She choked back a sob and pushed her fist against her mouth, trying to shove the tears back, to keep the great, gulping sobs at bay. “Nothing could be worse than when Charles died,” she whispered, meeting his sympathetic blue gaze. She turned her back on him and walked a little distance away. “Nothing.”

  He came silently up behind her, too near, too close, and she felt the tender brush of his hand against her cheek as he caught the stray tendril of hair and tucked it back behind her ear. “Then I guess this isn’t quite the worst day of your life, is it?” he asked, softly.

  Tremors rippled through her body. Her nose burned and her throat ached and she balled her fists at her sides, but she would not cry in front of him. And she would not lean back against that strong, solid chest and let him shoulder her burden of pain, fear, and worry. At the thought, a bitter laugh nearly escaped her lips. He, who was incapable of figuring out where to bring them, what to do with them, how to support them! She jerked away, putting a safe distance between them once again and, sweeping up the baby, pressed her close to her chest. “You’ve made your point, Gareth,” she said sharply. “Now, please leave me alone.”

  He looked suddenly weary. “And you, madam, have made yours. In future, I shall be more careful about where I spend our money.”

  His tone was one of polite and formal stiffness. Her cheek resting against Charlotte’s downy head, she watched him move across the room to light another candle against the gathering gloom. They stood there in silence, she holding the baby, he staring at the candle. From downstairs came the distant sound of laughter.

  Finally, her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Gareth.”

  He shrugged, but didn’t turn around. “Yes. I am, too. You deserve better than this. Both of you do.”

  “I suppose we’ll just have to make the best of it.”

  He nodded, his gaze still on the candle as its light danced and flickered across his face, the wall behind him.

  “I didn’t mean to be cruel,” she explained, her words sounding lame even to her own ears. She came tentatively up behind him, rested a hand on his arm. “It’s just that I’m tired and—well, scared. You, on the other hand, don’t seem worried in the least, and your total indifference about our predicament rather got to me, that’s all.” She gave an apologetic little smile. “I guess I just want you to be as worried about things as I am.”

  He turned then, taking her hand within his. “Ah, Juliet. Of course I’m worried,” he admitted. “But I’m not going to dwell on it. I mean, how will it help us if I worry? It won’t find us a place to stay tomorrow, put food in our bellies, or keep us free from want.”

  “No, I suppose it won’t.”

  They were silent for a moment, heads bent, bodies close, hearts reaching to comfort and console one another. Her hand was still within his, and as his thumb tentatively stroked her knuckles, warm shivers hurried through her.

  Shivers she was determined to ignore.

  His mouth curved in the beginning of a sudden smile. “Know something, Juliet?”

  “What?”

  “I was terribly angry with you, but now that I think about it, it’s all rather funny.”

  “Funny?”

  “Yes; I mean, here we are, married and having our first row about money. My brother probably has half of England out looking for us. I’ll wager he’s gone to de Montforte House, Burleigh Place, and all of the Den members’ homes in search of us, and where are we? Holed up in the most exclusive bawdy house in London!” His eyes crinkled with sudden amusement. “Oh, what an adventure we’re having!”

  She shook her head, pitying him for not seeing the seriousness of a situation she saw as grave. “I still don’t think it’s funny, Gareth.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Well—” he folded his arms, jauntily, defiantly—“I do.”

  The teasing light was back in his eyes, his chin dimpling beneath its haze of golden-brown stubble, and despite herself, Juliet couldn’t help her own reluctant little smile.

  Just as she couldn’t help the way she was noticing certain things about him how his sleeveless waistcoat, fitting so snugly over the linen shirt just beneath, emphasized the span of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the lean tautness of his fighting-trim waist. How the snowy lace that spilled from his throat and over his wrists emphasized his chin and the natural grace of his hands. How his buff breeches seemed to be painted on to his hips and long, muscular thighs; how v
ery tall he was, and how powerful he looked. Sudden heat washed through her. He had a splendid form. He had a splendid face. He was splendid, period, a de Montforte through and through—and Juliet’s sudden shock about the direction of her thoughts far surpassed her fears about how this charming wastrel was going to support them.

  I am not supposed to feel this way. This is Charles’s brother—not Charles!

  Her husband misinterpreted the reason for her silence.

  “Well then, Juliet, since you can’t find anything funny about our predicament, let’s see what Charlotte can do,” he announced with a flippant, offhand charm. And then, before she could protest, he plucked the baby from her arms, laid her on the bed, and tickled her until she batted at his hands and began shrieking with delight. “See? Charlotte thinks it’s funny, don’t you, Charlie-girl?”

  The baby, who obviously adored him, gurgled and squealed, and Juliet found herself staring at the tender picture the two of them made; he, so tall and strong and masculine, her daughter, so tiny and helpless. She swallowed, hard. There was something deep and moving in this powerful image of Lord Gareth de Montforte as a father—a role that seemed to come as easily to him as flight to a bird.

  Her heart beat faster as she finally acknowledged what she’d been afraid to admit all along.

  She desired him.

  Desired him so badly it scared her.

  He glanced over at her, grinning. She shook her head and folded her arms, feigning annoyance but unable to prevent the growing amusement from sparking her eyes. Then he bent over Charlotte, his nose nearly touching hers, a few locks of hair tumbling over his brow and brushing the baby’s forehead. He put his fingers into the corners of his mouth and pulled his cheeks wide, all the while making an absurd gurgling noise and glancing playfully at Juliet out of the corner of his eye to ensure that she was watching, too. He looked completely ridiculous. Worse, he knew he looked completely ridiculous and reveled in it. Unbidden, a burst of laughter escaped Juliet, mingling with Charlotte’s happy shrieks. Letting go of his cheeks, Gareth laughed right along with them, a big, happy sound that brightened the room as the candles never could have done. It was warm laughter, family laughter, the kind of laughter that Juliet had never expected to share in ever again.