At least Abingdon, just south of the university city of Oxford, was not so far from the Duke of Blackheath that she could not send to His Grace for help, if they needed it.
Not that Gareth ever would. At her questioning, he’d confessed—somewhat reluctantly and in no great detail—where he’d spent the remainder of their wedding night. Just the thought of him sleeping in the cold, wet mews made her want to strangle him. His pride was going to be the downfall of them all if she didn’t keep a check on it. It was what had kept him shivering in the mews when he could have joined her at de Montforte House. It was what prevented him from bringing them all back to Blackheath Castle and the duke’s more-than-competent care. But he had decided to accept Snelling’s offer, and, as an impoverished aristocrat, that had to be plenty galling in itself.
Why had he done so?
She gazed at his peaceful face, framed by hair that had come loose from his queue and now tumbled haphazardly over his brow. He had no trouble setting aside his pride to work for a man who ranked far below him in status and breeding—yet the world might end before he would seek Lucien’s help. Was that pride, then, all tied up with his relationship with his autocratic older brother? The inevitable, annoying—and hurtful—comparisons to Charles? Whatever it was, it was obvious he wanted to prove himself, if not to her, then to Lucien, and Juliet found herself desperately hoping that he would succeed.
They stopped to change horses at a coaching inn. Several passengers alighted from the roof, and three more got on. On the seat opposite, Lord Gareth stretched his long legs, yawned, and leaned the side of his head against the squab, giving her a sleepy, confident smile before drifting off once more. His knees were crammed against hers, and only the fact that there were other passengers inside the coach kept her from putting her hand on that hard thigh of his and leaning over to kiss his parted lips. How boyish and charming he looked, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. She shook her head with a little smile. In all likelihood, he didn’t.
Of all the nonsense Lady Brookhampton had gone on about, one thing was certain: He and Charles were chalk and cheese. She could not quite see Charles bringing them all on some half-baked adventure and then dozing off with total confidence that everything would turn out just fine. She could not quite see Charles drawing his rapier and displaying his fighting skills for money.
She could not quite see Charles, period.
Her brow furrowed in bewilderment. She had not looked upon Charles’s face for over a twelve-month, and it came as something of a shock to realize that his features had now grown fuzzy and distant in her memory. When she tried to envision Charles’s serious mouth, all she saw was Gareth’s slow, teasing grin. When she tried to recall the timbre of Charles’s voice, all she heard was Gareth’s careless laughter. When she tried to remember what it had been like to make love to Charles, all she could evoke was that steamy, intense night at Mrs. Bottomley’s, when her virile husband had brought her to heights that had robbed her of air and made her feel dizzy and faint and gloriously alive.
Inadvertently, her gaze went to those long-fingered, aristocratic hands lying loosely in his lap, and as she recalled what he had done with them—and with that mouth that looked so lazy and relaxed at the moment—she squirmed, her body aching with sudden longing. Her breasts tingled and her heart gave an erratic flutter. And then she remembered, almost guiltily, the man who lay dead and buried three thousand miles away. The man who had fathered her little daughter.
“Charles,” she whispered, trying to call his memory back. She quietly reached for the miniature that hung from around her neck, letting it rest upon her palm as she looked down at it. It had been painted in Boston two months before Charles’s death, the artist’s tiny, exquisite brush strokes perfectly capturing his likeness. She gazed at it for a long time. Gazed at the pale hair that he had powdered for the portrait, the firm, soldierly mouth, the ambition in those deceptively lazy blue eyes.
And felt only a strange nothingness.
Carefully, Juliet tucked the miniature back beneath her bodice so that it rested once more against her heart. Then, cuddling her daughter, she looked out the window, thinking about her growing feelings for Gareth—and her dwindling ones for Charles.
She never noticed that on the seat opposite her, Gareth had woken, and was quietly watching her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Swanthorpe Manor was the most beautiful house that Juliet had ever seen. Nestled on the fertile banks of the River Thames and surrounded by manicured lawns, meadows, and acres of young wheat, it was built of lovely pink brick, with quoined stone and spectacular views over the river and distant green hills to the south. As the carriage they’d hired at Abingdon’s Lamb Inn brought them down a drive bordered by budding roses, carefully clipped yew hedge, and damson, peach and cherry trees in full blossom, Juliet could see the spire of St. Helen’s, one of the town’s two ancient churches, thrusting above the trees a mile away. A cuckoo called from a nearby sycamore, and beyond, sunlight dappled the water where swans, mallards, and coots paddled lazily in the current.
“What a lovely home,” she murmured as the carriage came to a stop just outside the front steps.
Gareth smiled a bit ruefully. “Yes. Too bad my fool grandfather lost it over a game of cards.” His gaze met hers, and in it she saw something like regret before he looked out the window once more. “They say I’m just like him, you know. Looking at what he had—and what he so carelessly threw away—I begin to understand what a life of debauchery can cost.”
“Oh, Gareth … surely you’re not as debauched as you think you are.”
“Put it this way. Not as debauched as I would have become, had I not met you.” He gave her a teasing wink. “And, of course, Charlotte.”
“You mean to say we’ve had an influence on you already?”
“My dear lady, you had an influence on me from the moment I saw you bravely facing that highwayman’s pistol.”
The door to the manor was opening, and in the shadows beyond it, Juliet could just see an elegant chandelier and a graceful wooden balustrade leading upstairs. Then a footman was opening the carriage’s door, and Snelling himself was coming down the steps toward them, his smile as false and overly-wide as it had been when Juliet had seen him last.
“Ah, Lord Gareth, Lady Gareth! You’ve had a pleasant journey, I trust? You’ll be happy here, I know you will. We’ve prepared the dower house just for you. Come, come. I’m eager to show it to you!”
Gareth inclined his head in what might have been a nod and got out of the carriage. He stood just outside, the sun lighting up his hair as he, ever the perfect gentleman, assisted Juliet and Charlotte out. His intense dislike of Snelling was almost palpable. Juliet could only wonder how humiliating it must be for him, a duke’s son, to be relegated to the dower house of this magnificent home that had once belonged to his family while its new owner, a self-made man of the lower orders, slept in the master’s bedroom. As much as she’d loved Charles, she couldn’t imagine him tolerating such a humiliating arrangement.
She certainly couldn’t imagine Lucien or Andrew tolerating it, either.
A wave of respect and admiration for her husband came flooding over her, overwhelming her with its intensity and bringing a sudden lump to her throat. And as they crossed the lawn—Snelling carrying on a one-sided conversation about the grounds, the estate, and the weather—Juliet tucked her hand in the crook of her husband’s elbow and gazed up at him with warm, glowing eyes. Her heart thrilled to his nearness. It was a wonderful feeling, one that put a bounce in her step and a flush on her cheeks and made her feel like a young girl all over again.
My goodness, what am I feeling?
But she knew. For the first time since she’d met him, she was allowing herself to recognize and examine her desire for this man she had married, without letting guilt—or her so-called better judgment—move in to steal it away, and it felt good. Liberating. Wonderful.
“And this is the d
ower house,” Snelling was saying, fitting a key in the lock and triumphantly pushing the door wide. “What do you think, my lord?”
Juliet flinched. Addressed as it was to a down-on-his heels aristocrat accustomed to living in one of the most magnificent homes in England, the question in itself was an insult—and something in Snelling’s wide smile and watchful eyes told her he knew it, as well.
Was he deliberately provoking her husband?
But Gareth didn’t move, didn’t step over the threshold, didn’t deliver a swift reply of cutting rudeness. He merely stood outside for a moment, his hands on his hips as he tilted his head back to look up at the house with lazy, unhurried detachment.
“It will do,” he finally said. “You may leave us.”
Snelling had been grinning; now, his mouth opened and closed like a landed fish in response to this abrupt and autocratic dismissal in his own home. For a moment he sputtered helplessly, before retrieving his too-wide smile and gushing flattery and laying a hand across Gareth’s shoulders in a false gesture of friendship—a gesture that caused Gareth’s pale eyes to glitter with warning beneath their lazy sweep of lashes. “Of course, my lord, of course! You’ve had a long journey, you’re tired, it is perfectly understandable that you both wish to rest. Good day, then, Lord Gareth, and I shall see you at seven o’clock tomorrow morning, in the barn just beyond the stables.”
“You shall see me at nine o’clock,” Gareth countered easily, still coolly assessing the house, “for I do not keep such early hours.”
“Lord Gareth—” Snelling no longer looked amused—“you work for me now. You shall do as I say.”
“I shall do as I please”—Gareth smiled benignly—“or you may find someone else to fight for you. Do you understand me, sir?”
“I—” Snelling’s face went a dark, ugly red, and his mouth thinned as he bit back an irate retort. Then he managed to recover his false smile, though Juliet noted he had his fists clenched at his sides. “I understand perfectly,” he said with sudden, fawning brightness. “Nine o’clock. Till then.”
He bowed to Juliet, then strode off, anger radiating from him like stench from a skunk.
As soon as he was out of sight, Gareth threw back his head and let out an amused guffaw. “What a buffoon!”
“If you keep irritating him so, you’ll be out of a job before you even start.”
“If he keeps irritating me, he’ll be out of a fighter before I even throw the first punch.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He grinned and took her arm. “Just an expression, my sweet. Come, let us have a look round the grounds, shall we?”
She eyed him narrowly, but he merely gave her his innocent dimpled smile and, plucking Charlotte from her arms and ruffling her blond curls, led her back down the steps.
Viewed from the grounds, the dower house mirrored the manor house, with the same pink brick, graceful stone quoining, and lovely views over fields of young wheat, barley and rye. A small plot for gardening was to one side, and to the rear of the house a border of brambles, bulrushes, and trees choked with bright green ivy stood between the lawn and the Mill Stream, which branched off from the River Thames and paralleled it all the way into the town proper. Sunlight filtered through the trees, creating a sleepy, peaceful effect, and birdsong filled the air.
It was too good to be true.
Juliet gazed at the moving shadows the trees threw across the dower house’s roof. “Gareth,” she said slowly, “as pretty as this place is, I have a bad feeling about all this.”
He swung Charlotte up in his arms and laughed. “There you go, worrying again!”
“No, really, I don’t trust—or like—that man.”
“Well, neither do I, but so far he’s done nothing wrong except subtly needle me. He’s offered me work, Juliet. Easy work. What is the problem? If we’re not happy here, we shall simply leave.” Grinning, he bent down and kissed her full on the lips, laughing at her sudden flush. “Come, let’s go inside.”
But as they stepped over the threshold, disappointment greeted them. The place smelled of damp stone and smoke from fires long since dead. The curtains needed washing, the floors wanted sweeping, and the place had a general unkempt look about it. Snelling had told them the dower house had been made ready for them—but obviously it had not been.
“Ah, well,” Gareth said at last, shrugging and mustering a cavalier smile, “better than Mrs. Bottomley’s, eh, Juliet?”
“It’s not so bad,” she returned, trying, like him, to pretend that the place was nicer than it really was.
“A bit of cleaning, a spot of paint, some new rugs on these floors, and we’ll have a nice, happy home.”
“Yes I’m certainly not afraid of a little hard work.”
“Neither am I—however I shamefully confess the very idea is alien to me. I’ll give it a go, though. You just tell me what to do, Juliet, and I swear I’ll do it.”
They stood together, gazing at the few pieces of furniture that had been left in the house, the rising damp on the walls, the grimy windowpanes. At last, Juliet gave a heavy sigh. She was not very good at keeping up pretenses.
“I am sorry, Gareth. You shouldn’t have to live like this.”
“What are you talking about? This is a fine little house.”
She shook her head. “It’s not the house. It’s Snelling. Swanthorpe. You. You’re trying so hard to make this work, to care for Charlotte and me, but all I can think of is Blackheath Castle and what you had there; all I can think of is what you were born to, what you’re accustomed to.” She shook her head. “And here you are, reduced to living in the dower house of an estate that once belonged to your family I cannot imagine how humiliating it must be.”
He was leaning down, examining the soot-stained fireplace, holding Charlotte protectively as he did so. “Not as humiliating as crawling back to Lucien with my tail between my legs—which, I am afraid, is the only alternative.” He straightened up and looked directly at her, and in his eyes she saw a fierce determination to succeed, a vow to show the world that he was not the useless creature that everyone thought him to be. “I will do whatever I must to avoid that.”
Her heart went out to him, standing there holding the baby. She pulled Charlotte from his arms and set her, still swaddled in her blanket, down in the nearest chair. Then, stepping close to her husband, she put her hand in his, looked up into his face, and said quietly, “I believe in you, Gareth.”
He gave a pained smile and bent his head so that his forehead just rested against hers. “Believing in me could be dangerous.”
“Believing in you is all that Charlotte and I have.”
“And you and Charlotte are all that I have.”
She smiled.
He grinned.
“I guess we’re in this together, then,” she said.
“Yes. And do you know something, Juliet? There is no one else I would rather have at my side.”
They moved closer, their clothes just touching, their body heat mingling.
“You’ll prove Lucien wrong, I know you will, Gareth. You’ll prove all of them wrong.”
“I do not know if I’m worthy of such blind faith.”
“I think you are.”
“Do you?” His brow was touching hers, and he was beaming now, obviously pleased and flattered.
“I do.” She looked up at him through her lashes, enjoying this light, challenging banter even as a blush crept over her cheeks. “If I thought otherwise, I would have left you and gone back to America.”
“Juliet!” He drew back, pretending to look genuinely horrified. “What if I fail you both?”
“Whether you fail or succeed doesn’t matter. It’s the effort that counts—and as long as you make it, I shall always stand by you.” On impulse, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Gareth. Thank you for—well, for being a hero all over again.”
The delight and gratitude on his face made her ashamed to think that th
ere had ever been a time—albeit brief—when she had not believed in him. And then he took her hand and lifted it to his lips, gazing at her from over the top of her knuckles. “And thank you, Juliet. I must admit that I am not accustomed to having anyone place such confidence in me.”
And therein lies the root of your problem.
His gaze was darkening now with something deep and gentle, and Juliet knew, as women throughout time have always known, that he was in love with her. The knowledge both thrilled and scared her. Thrilled her because her body had come alive at the brush of his lips across the back of her hand. Scared her because she knew that he, if anyone, could make her forget Charles, was already making her forget Charles and for Charles’s sake, as well as his daughter’s, she did not want to forget Charles.
Passion and guilt warred.
And now his lips were grazing the crest of one knuckle while his eyes watched her from beneath their veil of lowered lashes. She felt each hot little puff of breath against her skin. Felt his mouth moving over the next knuckle and down into the hollow between her fingers. Faint tremors pulsed through her, but she did not pull away.
Could not pull away, for she was transfixed by the invitation in those lazy blue eyes.
Still watching her, he nuzzled aside the lace sleeve of her chemise where it fell across the back of her hand and brushed his lips over her inner wrist the base of her thumb the warm cup of her palm, where he planted a deep and penetrating kiss with the hard point of his tongue.
Juliet blushed. “Gareth!”
But he merely smiled, holding her gaze with his own as he made little circles in her palm with his tongue. Juliet’s body caught fire. Squirming, she clamped her legs together against the gush of desire that suddenly flared between them.
“G-gareth, I think we’d better—”
“Go upstairs?” he prompted in an inviting drawl. “What a fine idea. I think I would like to ravish you.”
“Oh!”
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