by Erin Rye
The day flew. Juliet finished a riding jacket for Catherine, stopping only to enjoy a quick snack of toast slathered with fresh butter and topped with marmalade.
At last, the sun set, and she returned to her room to ready herself for an evening of cards. She often played cards with Carrick in bed, although they rarely finished a game, and while she’d discovered him to be a card cheat in his own right, she still held the edge.
She picked up her white Venetian mask and turned it over in her hands before tying it to the bedpost, imagining the enjoyment it would provide later. Juliet perused the selection of gowns in the armoire, skipping over those with the provocative bodices that Carrick preferred, and selected a peach taffeta with white satin rosettes adorning the scooped neckline. Finally, she paused before the mirror, gave her ringlets one last pat, then headed for the door.
By the time she reached the study, a group of gentlemen lounged about the card table. The gentlemen rose immediately and Carrick invited her to join them.
"Gentlemen, may I introduce Juliet Thatcher,” Carrick said, then turning to the two silver-haired gentlemen, continued, “Lord Haynes and Mr. Lamont.” Lastly, he nodded at the portly young man who was clearly awestruck by her breasts. “And Mr. Thaddeus Turnby.”
Juliet dipped a polite curtsey and took her seat. The men followed suit.
“I shall deal,” Carrick announced.
While the gentlemen murmured agreement, she smiled and prepared for an enjoyable evening. As they played, she watched her opponents, observing and cataloging their expressions and ticks as the rounds played out.
By the third game, she’d determined that only the elderly Mr. Lamont possessed any sort of skill. She eyed Carrick as he dealt another hand, puzzled as to why he’d asked her to join their card game.
As they picked up their cards, Juliet glanced down at hers. Queens. All four. She blinked in surprise and glanced up into Carrick’s amused face. Clearly, he’d dealt her a winning hand. She frowned, wondering why, as the men looked at their cards and placed their chips.
As Mr. Lamont raised a hand to knock on the table, Carrick lifted a finger.
“Wait,” he said. “I’d like to add this.”
They watched as he drew a parchment torn in half from his breast pocket and laid it down over the bets.
“I say, what’s this?” the portly Lord Haynes asked.
“Wait.” Carrick locked gazes with Juliet, then withdrew something from his front pocket and dropped it on top of the paper.
Juliet froze.
The hereditary Hamilton engagement ring glinted in the chandelier light. Her eyes snagged on the heading of the paper and she recognized her contract…torn in half. Her heart pounded. Surely, he wasn’t foolish enough to propose to her? This was no ordinary card game. Her throat tightened.
She looked up at him.
He leaned back and rested an elbow on one of the armrests, then lifted a brow as if daring her to decline the offer.
“What have we here?” The old gentleman raised his hand to give the table a rap.
Juliet shoved to her feet. “I withdraw from the round.”
Carrick slowly arose.
“By Jove, lass,” Mr. Lamont chuckled. “That’s not how commerce is played.”
“Then his grace is fortunate,” she said.
“Hardly,” Carrick murmured.
Juliet whirled and raced from the room.
“Wait!” he called.
She ran. He caught up with her at the stairs, reaching for her, but she evaded his grasp and ran up them as fast she could.
“Juliet, why? You owe me an answer,” he shouted.
He was right. Juliet stopped on the landing and backed toward the wall. He stopped two stairs beneath her and stared straight into her eyes.
“You know quite well I can never accept that ring,” she said in a shaky voice.
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped. “I’m no lady. I possess no title or money. How can I marry you? The difference in our social standing is far too great.” She clenched her hands and fought tears. “I am your mistress, Carrick. A gentleman does not marry his mistress.”
He started to reply.
Juliet shook her head. “Please, no more.”
She gathered her skirts and fled to her room. After locking the door, she threw herself headlong onto her bed and wailed.
He knocked on her door. Several times. She begged him to leave. He left with the promise that they would speak in the morning.
An hour later, Juliet took a deep breath and sat up, looking down at the cards crumpled in her hand. She knew now what she had to do, before the situation grew worse for the both of them. What made her think she could succeed as a mistress?
She penned a letter, begging him to forget her. Of course, society would never let her marry him, regardless of how he might feel. But now, she knew she couldn’t survive him marrying someone else. The thought of him making love to another woman would break her heart. She held nothing back, ending with a last line that conveyed the truth she’d been hiding all along: I can never share you with another woman, and thus, I can no longer be your mistress.
With that, she packed a canvas bag with her belongings, including the crumpled cards from the game. After the castle occupants retired, she slipped into the dark hall. She’d purchase fare at the village coaching inn and be gone before anyone thought to look for her.
* * *
Seven days later, Juliet exited the mail coach and trudged up the cobblestone street toward Lady Aphrodite’s House of Pleasure. She’d taken the fastest coach to London she could find, but they’d met with more than one setback along the way, which delayed the coach’s arrival until after dark on the seventh day. It didn’t matter. Her mother didn’t expect her. There had been no point in writing a letter that would have arrived at the same day and time she did.
She’d thought of Carrick the entire journey. Her heart twisted, knowing he could never truly be hers. Finally, she turned at the wrought iron fence. Lady Aphrodite’s house stood before her, but instead of lights twinkling cheerfully in the windows, all but one stood dark. Where strains of music had floated through the front rooms, silence reigned.
Juliet ran to the door and twisted the brass knob. “Ma? Ma?” She darted inside.
A single taper in a pewter holder rested on the floor, illuminating an empty room—save a single chair upon which her mother sat, chin on her chest.
Her mother jerked awake and jumped to her feet. “There you are, at last, child.” She smiled widely and held out her arms.
Juliet frowned. “What happened?” She glanced around the empty room. “Where are the girls? The furnishings? Is there trouble with the law?”
Her mother enveloped her in a hug and chuckled. “The girls have gone and married, and the same for me, as well, love. The duke and I thought it wiser if I left without a fuss.” She pinched Juliet’s cheeks. “You shouldn’t be here. Not after how hard we’ve worked to whitewash your past. Why, I only came back here tonight because he fetched me. He’s distraught, the poor boy. You’re lucky you came when you did. Come morning, and I would’ve sailed with the tide to France.”
“France?” Juliet repeated in utter disbelief. “Whatever are you speaking of?”
“Lawks, child, I’m a proper wife now, wed in a church. Sir Stirling and your duke found me a husband. We thought I should stay there for a week. You know, until things are settled and everyone thinks I’ve always lived in France.” She winked.
Juliet frowned, more confused than ever.
“And not only me, the girls as well, every one of them wed with a proper dowry.” Her mother waved her hands to indicate the empty room. “All for you, Juliet. When I return from France, no one will think to connect me with this place. They’ve made us respectable. There’s naught to fear.” She pulled a folded paper from her bodice and rolled her eyes. “Have I taught you nothing, girl? Gone and torn your contract? Real
ly, now, though it’s hard to be angry with you.” She clucked her tongue.
Juliet stumbled to the chair and sat down, her mother’s words starting to sink in. Whitewash her past? Thousands of pounds in dowries? Her gaze fell on the torn contract in her mother’s hands.
“Where did you get that?” The last time she’d seen it, it lay atop a mound of chips on a card table.
“Where else?” Her mother snorted.
“Carrick?” Juliet swallowed. “Here?” Of course, her mother had said that, hadn’t she?
“Rode his horse straight here after fetching me to help find you,” her mother said. “The boy hasn’t slept in days. I put him up in the Swan Room. It’s the only one left with a bed—”
Juliet stopped listening.
She raced up the stairs and down the hall to the third door on the right. The door stood open enough to reveal a guttering candle and the shape of a man lying on his back with his arm flung over his face, a booted foot hanging off the bed.
Carrick.
She halted in the doorway and stared at him for a long moment, then turned on her heel and fled back down the stairs to where she’d dropped her canvas bag on the floor.
“Juliet, wait.” Her mother grabbed her hand and tilted her face up to meet her eyes. “The man loves you, child. Don’t be a fool and throw it away. He’s fixed it all so you can marry him. Put good hard coin where his mouth is.”
It was the highest compliment her mother could pay.
Juliet took a deep breath, her heart growing lighter by the moment. “I know, Ma.” She rummaged through her bag until she finally found what she sought.
“Then you’ll marry him?” her mother demanded. “My daughter…a lady—a duchess?”
The pride in her mother’s voice was hard to miss. “Not because he’s a duke, Ma.” No. It had nothing to do with a title. It never had. She couldn’t live without him, just as he obviously couldn’t live without her. She’d be a fool to throw it away—especially when she felt the same.
“Well, you can love him if you want,” her mother called as she ran back up the stairs. “As long as the outcome is the same.”
Juliet hurried back up the stairs and down the hallway. She slipped back into the bedroom, softly closing the door behind her.
He still lay asleep on the bed.
Slowly, she unbuttoned his shirt and breeches, keeping an eye on his slow, steady breathing. In the dim light, she could see exhaustion on his face. He’d clearly ridden hard, but then, perhaps the exhaustion on his face had more to do with dealing with her mother. She quickly unpinned her hair, shook it over her shoulders, and then pushed her gown from her shoulders. The fabric pooled to the floor. Slowly, she climbed onto the bed and straddled him.
He awoke with a start and started to straighten, but Juliet pushed him back down.
“Juliet.” His gaze dropped to her breasts, the apex at her legs, then lifted back to her face. “Marry me, lass. I beg you.”
His manhood stirred and began to harden beneath her sex. With a smile, she guided his shaft into her wet entrance, sinking down on him fully as she revealed the crumpled cards that she’d retrieved from her canvas bag. Queen by queen, she dropped them onto his chest, ending last with the queen of hearts.
“My beautiful duchess.” He gave her a tender smile—then flipped her onto her back. She squeaked, then gasped when he drove into her.
She wrapped her legs around his hips and clung to him with all her might.
“You are mine,” he growled, and thrust deep.
Yes. She was his.
###
We hope you liked the second book in the Rules of Refinement theme of The Marriage Maker. Here’s a peek of the next book, Redemption of a Marquess.
Redemption of a Marquess
The Marriage Maker
Rules of Refinement
Book Three
Tarah Scott
She insisted on saving him… He let her.
Valan Grey, the 6th Earl of Edmonds, the Marquess of Northington, has no wish to sire an heir. His three-year-old nephew will carry on the title. His fertile sister has already borne her husband another son and a daughter for good luck. The title is safe. So why marry?
Miss Jeanine Matheson has graduated from Lady Peddington’s School for Young Ladies. Only, Jeanine isn’t interested in finding a husband—at least, not a young healthy husband. She aspires to become a businesswoman like Lady Peddington. All she needs is a very rich, very elderly gentleman to marry her and then, well…pass on to his reward.
Chapter One
Valan Grey, the 6th Earl of Edmonds, the Marquess of Northington, sipped wine and watched the brown-haired beauty waltz with Mr. Evans, a peacock amid a glittering barnyard of hens. Evans had twice stepped on her toes, yet her smile hadn’t faltered. Valan slowed his stroll and spared a glance for the other wolf, almost a pup, that prowled near the open balcony doors. A breeze ruffled the young man’s styled blond locks. The youth of today relied far too much on well-made coats and coiffured hair in an effort to catch a lady’s attention. Any man of worth understood that what lay beneath the coat mattered far more to a lady of taste. He returned his attention to the beauty. Her partner turned to the music. Valan winced. Evans’ step was off by half a beat.
Between pale satin dresses, the swirl of the beauty’s emerald velvet skirt molded around her firm buttocks before she was lost from view in the sea of dancers. Had Lady Peddington suggested the dress? The beauty certainly stood out amongst the demure pastels that flared on the dance floor. She was older than the others who attended the Midnight Ball. Perfect. Tomorrow, he would send a letter of thanks to Honoria for her invitation to the soiree. She had a knack for knowing just the right lady for a gentleman.
Above the music and murmur of guests, a female gasp was followed by a man’s curse. Valan glanced left, toward the small commotion, but a half-closed curtain hid the man and woman in the alcove. He shifted his gaze back to the dance floor. A blur in the corner of his eye registered an instant too late, and a woman collided with him. Wine sloshed over the rim of his glass and onto his crisply pressed, ivory silk waistcoat. He seized the lady’s wrist to stop her fall.
Valan glanced down at the now ruined waistcoat, then met the young woman’s wide-eyed gaze. “I assume you learned enough etiquette at Lady Peddington’s to know that it’s bad manners to collide with guests. Or is this your way of gaining an introduction?”
Her brown eyes flicked to the wine-stained waistcoat then back to his face. The fear in her gaze flashed into annoyance. “I do not want an introduction.”
“Where is that bitch?” A large man lunged past the alcove curtain, half limping.
Valan deftly sidestepped him, pulling the young woman with him. Viscount Hesston stumbled two paces, narrowly missing two ladies. They cast him frowns and hurried past as he whirled.
He came up short when his gaze met Valan’s. “What the devil are you doing here, Northington? Didn’t think this sort of place was one of your usual haunts.” The music ended and the last words were overloud in the absence of the orchestra. The viscount’s eyes narrowed on the young woman. “Looking for another victim, little pigeon?” He grabbed for her.
Valan tugged her out of her assailant’s reach. “This ‘little pigeon’ is otherwise engaged.”
The man’s face contorted in rage. “She is mine. I’ve spent the evening with her. She owes me.”
Valan glanced where he’d last seen the beauty on the dance floor. Gone. No doubt, claimed by the young wolf. With a sigh, he returned his attention to Hesston. “Ownership is a matter of perspective. As she has ruined a very expensive waistcoat, I believe she owes me.”
She tugged in an effort to break free. Valan held tight and nodded at a passing waiter.
“My claim supersedes yours,” Hesston said as the waiter stopped beside them.
Valan set his wine glass on the waiter’s tray.
“I d-do no’ belong to either of y-you,” the girl said.<
br />
The waiter frowned. Valan ignored him and turned curious eyes on her. “Where are you from, child?”
“That is none of your c-concern,” she said.
“Perhaps not,” he replied, “but indulge me.”
She shook her head.
“Would you rather go with this man?” He nodded at Hesston, whose face reddened.
“She is mine,” the viscount growled.
“Patience,” Valan said. “She may choose to go with you, in which case I will not interfere.”
“You have no right to interfere, at all,” Hesston snapped.
Valan turned cold eyes on him. “Even you can wait sixty seconds.” He looked at the girl and lifted a brow in question.
She glanced at Hesston, then looked back at him and shook her head. “N-nae.”
“There you have it,” he said. “Even at Lady Peddington’s Midnight Ball, a lady is free to choose her companions.”
Hesston cast a disgruntled look at her. “Dumb bitch,” he muttered.
She lifted her chin. “I would rather be dumb than cruel.”
The remark earned her a disdainful look from a woman strolling by on the arm of a man.
Hesston again lunged for her. Valan stepped between them. “You’re drunk, Hesston. Go home before you irritate the wrong person.”
“Like you?” he sneered.
Valan shrugged. “I am not the best shot in Edinburgh.”
“Damn right, you’re not,” he growled.
“I am more likely to set a runner on you,” he said.
Hesston’s eyes widened. “They hunt criminals. I have never committed a crime in my life.”
“That is a matter of perspective.”
A vicious glint lit Hesston’s eyes. “If that is so, then one might contend that you stepped outside the law on at least one occasion. Last I heard, marriage to an underage woman is against the law,” Hesston said.
Ah, the viscount had heard that Valan’s old nemesis had returned to Edinburgh just today. Gossip traveled fast when Society smelled blood.