With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “I thought you were going to teach fencing, do an occasional swordplay exhibit at a country fair or something”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But when I came here last week to arrange things with Snelling, he asked me if I’d like to do some boxing instead, since I was so handy against Lumford back at the brothel.” He shrugged. “I was desperate, Juliet. We were hard up, had no place to go, and it seemed like the only thing to do.” He squeezed her unresponsive hand and pressed her palm to his cheek, his eyes imploring as he gazed up at her. “Please forgive me, Juliet. I only wanted to take care of you and Charlotte. That’s all I want.”

  She shook her head, sadly, and smoothed the tumbled-down hair off his brow. “How are you going to care for us, Gareth, if you get hurt? Killed?”

  “I could get hurt or killed falling off my horse.”

  “You no longer have a horse to fall off of.”

  “Juliet, please. I need your support, your encouragement—not your condemnation. Don’t you understand how important this is to me?” He held her knuckles against his mouth and gently kissed each finger. “For the first time in my life, I’ve actually earned money instead of having it handed to me. I earned it, Juliet—with my own two hands. Me: lazy, useless, good-for-nothing Gareth, actually earning money—”

  “Stop it!” she cried angrily, her eyes suddenly wet with unshed tears. “You’re not useless, were never useless.”

  “Yes, I was, but I shan’t be any longer.” Still kneeling beside her, he eagerly fished in his pocket, found the money pouch, and placed it triumphantly in her palm. “Here, open it up. Have a look. Wait until you see how much Snelling paid me just for tonight’s scuffle.”

  She shook her head and handed it back without even opening it. “Oh, Gareth.”

  “Oh, Juliet,” he mimicked, making a face at her.

  She looked away, in no mood for his attempt at humor.

  He bowed his head, feeling suddenly deflated and confused. Hurt.

  The silence was nearly unbearable.

  “You’re not useless.” she finally said, reaching down to tousle his hair. Then, with a forced little smile, she added, “But I still want to strangle you.”

  “I know.”

  “You ever keep anything from me again, Gareth, and I just might.”

  “I’ll not keep anything from you ever again. I swear it.”

  Another long moment of silence passed, heavy and awkward.

  Finally she spoke. “Are you hurt?” she asked in a small voice.

  “No.”

  Her eyes told him she didn’t believe him. “Good at ducking punches, then, I suppose?”

  “My dear Juliet, any fellow who ducks or shifts to avoid an honest punch is cowardly and unmanly. I never duck.”

  “So what do you do then?”

  “Why, block them with my arm.” He made a fist and raised his arm to demonstrate. “Like this.”

  “I see.” She paused. “Does your arm hurt, then?”

  He laughed, relief breaking over him at her unspoken—and, he thought ruefully, undeserved—forgiveness. “Oh, it hurts. But here—” he stretched his arm out toward her—“if you kiss it, I’m sure it will feel immediately better.”

  She gave a watery smile and touched her lips to his forearm. Then she turned slightly in her chair and, watching him in the meager light, laid the flat of her hand against his cheekbones, his jaw, his temples. He knew she was feeling for swelling, looking for injury, and he saw her shoulders settle with relief when her search turned up nothing out of the ordinary.

  She was quiet for a moment. “Gareth when I got home this evening, I was very upset. I have something to confess to you, as well. Something I know you’re not going to like.”

  “And what is that, my love?”

  She faced him squarely. “I sent a message to Lucien.”

  He caught her hand, which rested against his temple. “You what?”

  “I sent a message to Lucien, asking him to come here immediately.”

  For a moment he stared at her, unable to believe what he was hearing, what she had done.

  “Juliet—how could you?”

  “I’m sorry, Gareth. I was sick with worry about you, and I acted rashly. I regret it now.”

  He swore beneath his breath and lunged to his feet, driving his fist against his brow as he stalked across the room. “I suppose you thought Lucien could just ride in here, make everything better, and then take us home?”

  She gave an embarrassed little shrug. “Something like that.”

  “I’m not going back. You go, take Charlotte if you wish, but, by God and the devil, I am not going!”

  They faced each other from across the room, his eyes blazing with hurt, hers silently apologetic, neither moving. Then, with a sigh, she rose from the chair, her skirts rustling as she crossed the floor to where he stood, sidling close to him and laying her cheek against his heart. “Then I’m not going back either, Gareth.” She put her arms around him and stared at the flickering candle. “If you want to stay here and prove something to yourself, to the world, I’ll stand by you. If you want to fight for Snelling, I’ll bite my tongue and pick up the pieces when you get hurt. I don’t like what you’re doing, I’m going to worry myself sick over it—but if this is what you must do, I won’t leave you.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “Just … don’t get yourself killed.”

  “Or you’ll never forgive me.”

  “Or I’ll never forgive you.”

  His anger faded as quickly as it come. He pulled her slight body against him and rested his cheek on the crown of her head, grateful for her reluctant support, yet already anticipating the repercussions of her actions. Lucien. Bloody hell. That was all he needed. But he really couldn’t blame her for what she had done, couldn’t be angry with her—especially after she’d not only forgiven him for misleading her about the fighting, but had just pledged to tough it out with him when she could so easily go back to Blackheath and Lucien’s more-than-capable protection.

  “Juliet?”

  “Gareth?” she mimicked, in a hopeful little voice.

  They stared at each other, their lips twitching.

  “Ah, the devil,” he muttered, laughing, and, bending his head, claimed the parted lips turned so eagerly up to his own.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dawn.

  Juliet was snuggled cozily against her husband’s chest, her head pillowed in the cup of his shoulder, his arm cradling her body close to his, when something penetrated her slumber and nudged her awake. Blearily, she opened her eyes. In the early-morning stillness she could hear a commotion off in the direction of the manor house.

  She didn’t need to be a fortune teller to know what it was all about.

  Lucien had arrived.

  She lifted her head. Gareth, on his back, was sound asleep and snoring lightly, his eyelids dancing slightly in a dream. He felt warm and sleepy and delicious, and Juliet hated to wake him.

  But the commotion was coming closer. She could hear a servant’s voice raised in protest, Snelling’s wheedling attempts to placate—

  And the duke.

  “Get in my way, Snelling, and I promise you my horse will take great pleasure in walking over you. Now, stand aside.”

  “Really, Your Grace, don’t you think it’s just a little bit early to go disturbing the lad, especially after he fought so well last night?”

  “Your sniveling protests are beginning to irritate me beyond the restraints of my patience. I shall see my brother, and I shall see him now.”

  “But Y-Your Grace, he’s working for me.”

  “Not any more, he’s not!”

  They were just outside the dower house now. On the steps. In the next second, the Duke of Blackheath would be pounding the door down.

  “Gareth!” Juliet shook his shoulder, the powerful muscles wonderfully sculpted by the soft, buttery light of morning. “Gareth, wake up—Lucien’s here.”

  “Hmmm?” He opened his eyes,
staring blankly at the ceiling for a moment. Then the pounding downstairs started, and he flung a hand across his brow, wincing with each loud bang. “Oh bloody hell, my aching head.”

  “Gareth, you’ve got to see him. He’ll break the door down if you don’t.”

  But the duke was not so barbaric as all that. As Gareth crawled wearily from the bed, scowling and rubbing his bloodshot eyes, they both heard Lucien’s terse orders.

  “Bring me the key, Snelling.”

  “’Sdeath,” Gareth swore and pulled on his breeches. He went to the window and flung it wide. “For God’s sake, Lucien, do you know what time it is?” he shouted.

  “Get down here now, Gareth!”

  “Sod off—I’m going back to sleep.”

  And with that, Gareth yanked the window shut and sank down on the bed, elbows on his knees as he rubbed his aching temples.

  Juliet sat beside him, curved an arm around his shoulders, and pulled him unresistingly close. She kissed his ear, the side of his head, the silky, sleep-mussed hair that hung over his brow. “Go; get it over with,” she said quietly, sliding a hand across his chest and reveling in its breadth and strength as she rubbed it lightly. “You’ll feel better afterward.”

  “Mmmmm.” He was kissing her back, now, his lips making trails of fire all down the side of her neck. “You think so, do you?”

  “I do.” She smiled and laid her cheek against his. “Besides, you know he’s not going to go away. He’s not going to leave you alone until he’s satisfied that you’re all right. So go down there, confront him, prove to him he has no reason to fear for you. He’s your brother, Gareth. He’s here because he loves you—not because he wants to make your life miserable.”

  “He’s here because he’s a right controlling bastard, Juliet. Nothing more.”

  “No, Gareth. He’s here because he’s your brother and he loves you.”

  He sat there beside her for a long moment, a hundred emotions playing over his face. Then, with a heavy sigh, he slid his palms up over his cheeks, blinked, and got to his feet. His shirt was draped across the back of a chair. When he picked it up and began to put it on, the big purple bruise visible beneath his right arm caused Juliet to wince as though it were her own. But he paid it no heed. He merely tucked the shirt into his breeches, raked a hand through his hair, and leaned down to kiss her. “Keep my side warm, all right?”

  “Of course,” she said softly.

  And then, still in his bare feet, he opened the bedroom door and walked out.

  He’s here because he loves you.

  Her words rang in Gareth’s head with every step he took down the stairs, across the foyer, and to the front door. He paused for a moment before it, taking a deep, bracing breath. And then he unlocked it and pulled it open.

  There was Lucien.

  His brother stood on the lawn holding Armageddon’s reins, his back toward the door. Snelling and the servant were halfway back to the manor house, gone, no doubt, to fetch the key. And then Lucien turned, and for the briefest of moments, Gareth saw the tiny worry-lines that bracketed the duke’s eyes, the tension around his mouth—until his brother’s face hardened and those black eyes began to glitter with fury.

  He’s here because he loves you.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear boy—”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Gareth snapped. “I know why you’re here. I know what you want from me, what you want to say to me. Well, I’m not leaving, Lucien. I’m not leaving, and neither is Juliet, and if you want me to go back to the castle, you’re going to have to drag me off by the ear.”

  Lucien’s brows rose. “What is this?”

  “You heard me. For the first time in my life I am actually supporting myself, instead of living off your charity and holdings, and it feels good. Damned good. I won’t have you take that away from me, Lucien.”

  “My dear boy. There is no need to be so defensive. I have no intention of taking anything away from you but really, there are other ways to make money besides fighting.”

  “I have to start somewhere, don’t I?”

  Lucien cast a quick glance at Snelling’s retreating back and led Armageddon over to the stairs atop which Gareth so defiantly stood. He stared harshly up at his younger brother and in an angry whisper, snapped, “You are a fool, Gareth. Do you know what sort of man you’re dealing with?”

  “I have a damned good idea.”

  “You have a damned good idea,” the duke muttered in disgust. “Now, you listen to me and listen well. Snelling is dangerous. He’s an opportunist and a cheat who will go to any lengths to make money, and he doesn’t give a damn whom he crushes along the way. Do you understand me, Gareth?”

  Gareth made a noise of scoffing dismissal. “My, my, for a man who associates with kings, princes, statesmen and other assorted bluebloods, you certainly do know a lot about the lowly Jonathan Snelling,” he mocked.

  “I only know what Fox told me last night. And he, as a barrister, is certainly in a position to know.”

  Gareth shifted uncomfortably and looked away.

  “Three years ago, Snelling was accused of fixing horse races,” the duke continued heatedly. “The only thing that saved him was his acquaintance with an influential member of the Jockey Club whom, it is widely believed, Snelling bribed to keep quiet. The year before that he was caught cheating at cards at his club in London. Sir Maudsley, who lost four thousand pounds to him that night, saw him do it and called him out on the spot. But the duel was never fought. And do you know why it wasn’t fought, Gareth? Because Snelling never showed up for his dawn appointment. He quit the country and went to the Continent, hiding out there until Maudsley conveniently died!”

  “So he’s a coward with a tainted past,” Gareth said, shrugging. He folded his arms and, curling his toes around the edge of the top step, leaned negligently against the doorframe. “Who cares? He’s paying me good money.”

  “I’ll pay you five times what he’s giving you if you’ll just come home where you belong.”

  Gareth gave a bitter laugh. “Why should I do that? Why should I—after all your taunts about how worthless I am, how I’m a good-for-nothing wastrel, how you’re sick to death of having to rescue me from one scrape or another—why should I come back with you, only to suffer more of the same abuse?”

  “Because,” Lucien said gruffly, “I think you are in danger here, that’s why.”

  “You’re treating me like a child again, Lucien. I dislike it.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am but God help me, you were a damn sight easier to handle when you were acting like one.”

  Gareth raised his brows and stared at his brother. Lucien unflinchingly held his gaze then looked out over the river, his jaw hard. An awkward silence hung between them. Finally, Gareth sighed and sat down on the top step, raking both hands through his hair. “I daresay that’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve yet to hear from you.”

  “Yes, well, keep at it the way you’re going, and you just might get an apology out of me as well.”

  “That’ll be the bloody day.”

  Lucien, still holding Armageddon’s reins, mounted the steps. He, too, sat down, the tails of his black frock just inches from his younger brother. The two sat together in silence for a long moment.

  “I treated you abominably,” Lucien finally said.

  “Yeah, you were a right bastard.”

  “So will you come back to Blackheath?”

  Gareth shook his head. “I cannot.”

  “Care to tell me why?”

  “I’m determined to make a new life for myself. I know Juliet summoned you, and that she regrets the rashness of doing so; I know you came here thinking you had to rescue me from yet another scrape. But those days are behind me, Lucien. I have a wife and baby to look after now. They have faith in me, believe in me when no one else thinks I’m worth the polish on my boots. I won’t let them down.”

  “I see,” the duke murmured, slowly. And then: “Would you like
any assistance? I can send a servant to help—”

  “No. I want to do this by myself. Have to do this by myself. I don’t need my big brother to help me.”

  “You sound very determined.”

  “I am.”

  “Well, then.” The duke rose to his feet, unsmiling. “I guess there is no need for me to remain here.” He walked down the steps, turned, and stood there for a moment looking up at Gareth. An odd look touched his stark features. Not quite admiration, not quite pensiveness, not quite worry—but maybe a combination of all three. “Just promise me one thing.”

  Gareth raised a brow in question.

  “That if you get in over your head, you’ll contact me.” His black eyes stared levelly into Gareth’s, and Gareth realized that, for the first time, his brother was treating him as an equal. “Sometimes it takes more courage for a man to put aside his pride and admit he needs help than to try to manage on his own.”

  “I shall remember that.”

  “You do that,” Lucien said. Then, without a backward glance, he swung up on Armageddon, touched his heels to the stallion’s sides, and rode off.

  Chapter Thirty

  By the time Gareth showed up at the barn to begin his morning’s training, his head had long since ceased to ache.

  This morning, his sparring partner was Dickie Noring, a likeable, up-and-coming young lad whom Snelling had recruited during a trip to Bristol. Dickie had worked in and around ships for most of his eighteen years and was more of a brawler than a boxer. But he was strong, keeping Gareth on his toes as the two circled each other and traded punches. Gareth was enjoying himself, taking pleasure in his own fitness and strength. But try as he might, he could not keep his mind on what he was doing. Lucien’s dawn visit kept replaying itself through his mind:

  You’re treating me like a child again, Lucien. I dislike it.