That softened her embarrassment. “Then you know Montfort.”
Lord Templemore shrugged. “A little. He spent one summer here when we were both fourteen and our fathers were friends. Is he still the soul of propriety in public and the soul of impropriety in private?”
“You’ve described his character exactly,” Griff said. “Though I’m surprised to hear you say it. Even men who know him are unaware of his…er…proclivities.”
“What proclivities do you mean?” Rosalind put in.
“Not the sort to speak of before young ladies,” Lord Templemore said firmly, with a glance at Juliet.
“This isn’t widely known, my darling,” Griff explained, “but although Montfort behaves like the quintessential gentlemen among his peers, he…Well, suffice it to say, Montfort may have every mama cooing over his charm and every little miss aching to steal his heart, but he isn’t what he seems.”
“If you knew this about him, why you didn’t keep him away from Juliet?” Rosalind asked, clearly intrigued.
“Now see here, I don’t need Griff to keep my suitors away,” Juliet protested.
They all ignored her. “I didn’t discover his true character until after she refused him,” Griff said. “That’s when Daniel informed me that he regularly visits…er…certain establishments.”
Rosalind looked appalled as her gaze swung to Juliet. “Did you know this?”
“I merely knew he disturbed me. I caught him lying once. On the way to a ball one night, I saw his carriage in a wicked part of town, and he later swore up and down that I’d been mistaken.” She shrugged. “But I’m not blind.”
Rosalind looked distressed. Apparently she’d pinned high hopes on Juliet’s marrying the duke. “They do say that reformed rakes make the best husbands—”
“The only people saying that,” Griff broke in, “are the rakes themselves, trying to seduce their latest victims. Any woman who believes it is already half in trouble.”
Lord Templemore nodded. “You might as well say that reformed thieves make the best bank clerks. The day the Bank of England starts hiring pickpockets is the day I’ll believe in the good character of reformed rakes.”
“Wait a minute here,” Rosalind protested, “my brother-in-law Daniel was something of a libertine before he married my sister, and you’d never find a more faithful husband. Love can make a man reform his habits.”
“Daniel’s an exception,” Juliet retorted. “But I wonder if Griff and his lordship aren’t right. Can a man who’s led a sordid life really change, even for love?” She cast Lord Templemore a taunting smile. “I promise you that if Morgan returned to England, swore he’d changed his ways, and then asked to marry me, I’d be highly suspicious.”
“I should hope so,” Griff ground out. “The bloody man kidnapped you.”
Lord Templemore looked less than pleased. “But what if you discovered he had a good reason for his actions?”
“Like what? I can’t imagine how he could excuse the suffering he heaped on my family, the injury he nearly leveled to my reputation or for that matter, the injuries he inflicted on your family name. What possible reason could he give?” She boldly met his gaze, daring him to answer, to even hint at the truth.
A muscle worked in his jaw. “I still say my brother isn’t a villain.”
Coward, she thought. “And I still say the proof is in his behavior.”
She was thoroughly enjoying his disgruntlement when a footman entered the room and approached Rosalind carrying a tray with a glass on it. “Mare’s milk for you, m’lady. Cook said to tell you she was able to get some after all.”
Rosalind blanched and shot a quick glance at her husband. Juliet followed her gaze to find Griff’s brow lowering into a deep scowl as he rose from the table.
Quickly, Rosalind reached for the glass, but Griff’s voice boomed out, “Don’t you dare!” When her hand hovered in midair, Griff ordered the footman, “Take that vile stuff away. And from now on, tell your cook to ignore any special requests from my wife.”
The footman glanced helplessly to his master, who gave a cursory nod. Juliet should have known that Lord Templemore would never come between a man and his wife. And what in creation was this all about?
Rosalind leaped to her feet and threw down her napkin. “You’ve gone too far this time, Griff Knighton! How dare you?”
He rose as well. “I won’t let you put that poison in your body!”
“Mr. Arbuthnot says—”
“That bloody quack! Him with his sheep’s urine and rabbit’s blood and mare’s milk…God knows what other rot is in his potion! I won’t stand for it, do you hear?”
“You’re such a beast! You have no right…” Rosalind trailed off into tears, then ran from the room.
Juliet stared after her in shock. Rosalind tended to be dramatic, but this went beyond drama. Rosalind never cried, not without great provocation. And to do so before a stranger…
Juliet’s accusing gaze swung to Griff. He looked grim and lost, standing there with one hand gripping the back of his chair and the other still braced on the table. He caught her stare, then seemed to realize what both she and Lord Templemore had witnessed.
He released a shuddering breath. “If…you will both excuse me, I must see to my wife.” Then he hurried from the room.
An oppressive silence loomed stark and sudden after such an emotional outburst. She had no idea what to say to his lordship or even how to explain the source of the argument. Mare’s milk? Why in creation would Rosalind want that? And rabbit’s blood and…
“I beg your pardon,” came Lord Templemore’s stiff voice, “but is your sister by some chance…that is…” He trailed off into an uneasy silence.
When she glanced at him, his expression showed all the discomfort of a man caught in the act of peering into another man’s closets. “What?” she prodded.
He wouldn’t look at her. “Mare’s milk, rabbit’s blood, and sheep’s urine are occasionally touted by quacks as having properties that will…er…enhance fertility in a woman.”
Juliet continued to stare at him blankly.
His gaze swung to her, softening. “Could your sister be trying to conceive?”
A blush crept up her cheeks at the same time that a thousand little details clamored for her attention. Rosalind’s strange reaction whenever the impending birth of Helena’s baby was discussed. Her preoccupation of late with apothecaries. The wistful look she got whenever she saw children.
“They’ve only been married two and a half years.” Yet patience was not one of Rosalind’s virtues. Two and a half years without conceiving would seem like a lifetime to her. Juliet winced, remembering the good-natured teasing the family had heaped on Rosalind when Helena had gotten pregnant first after marrying second. And the way Rosalind hadn’t laughed it off as she usually did when they poked fun.
Something else occurred to her. “How did you know about the mare’s milk?” she blurted out. When a faint tinge of color touched his cheeks, she groaned. She really had no business discussing such an indelicate matter with a man. Yet curiosity got the better of her. “It’s just that I’ve never heard of it. And since I tended Papa during his illness, I’m familiar with physic.”
He cleared his throat nervously. “It’s an ancient remedy. No sensible woman uses it now, but that doesn’t stop quacks and the occasional stupid midwife from touting it as an old-fashioned solution. Or women desperate to conceive from attempting it.”
“Yes, but how would you have heard of it?” she persisted.
He shrugged. “My mother tried it.”
That shocked her. “You know that for a fact?” And how did a young man find out such a thing about his mother?
Closing his hand around a napkin, he murmured, “My uncle told me. Evidently she tried a number of remedies in her quest to have a child.”
When his fingers squeezed the napkin convulsively, she felt a stab of pity. Why had his mother tried so hard to conceive, yet le
ft one of her children behind? No doubt he wondered the same thing. Yet his forbidding expression made it clear that any questions in that regard wouldn’t be welcome.
He caught her staring at him with concern, and his jaw tightened. He seemed to be weighing something, then said, “What actually worked for her was consulting the local wise woman.”
“Wise woman?”
He smiled faintly. “This may be Shropshire, Lady Juliet, but the blood of Wales runs through a goodly number of the county’s inhabitants, including my mother. In desperation, she spoke with my father’s tenant, Winifred, who reputedly could cure anything with her herbs. Whatever she gave Mother worked. Mother conceived twins.”
“Perhaps she was only lucky.”
“Perhaps. But Uncle Lew said she’d been trying for five years. And she conceived within three months of her first visit to Winnie.” He toyed with the napkin. “You know, Winnie still dispenses herbs and advice. Your sister might consider a visit to her as well. I’d be happy to take her.”
The offer surprised her, since it meant his involving himself in a most delicate family matter. “That’s very kind of you. Why would you do such a thing? Especially knowing that my brother-in-law might object.”
He shot her an enigmatic glance. “Your sister made a suggestion to me this morning that I begin to think has merit. I’d merely like to repay the favor. And I can promise that the wise woman won’t suggest anything harmful.”
That reassured her only a little. “I don’t know if I should interfere.” Not in this. How on earth could she tell Rosalind that she’d discussed this with Lord Templemore?
“Do as you think best, but if you change your mind, I usually rise early. If I’m not at breakfast, I’m in my study or my workshop. Tell your sister that, and we can arrange for a little visit that wouldn’t alarm your brother-in-law.”
“You mean, go behind his back.”
“If she wants.”
She sighed. “I’ll consider it.” In truth, she was sorely tempted to step in. It bothered her to see the couple argue, and of late there’d been tension between them. But she was always complaining about how they interfered in her life, so it was hardly fair of her to do the same. “In any case, thanks for the offer, Lord Templemore.”
“Please call me Sebastian,” he said softly. “At least while we’re in private.”
The intimacy in his tone banished all thoughts of her sister’s problems. He had a way of stripping her inner soul naked when he looked at her, as if he knew her better than she knew herself. It unnerved her. It thrilled her.
She should refuse to address him so…familiarly, yet she heard herself saying, “Very well, Sebastian.”
The name did suit him better than Lord Templemore or even Morgan. Templemore was the name of a lofty lord, and Morgan that of a reckless adventurer. Sebastian was a solid English name, perfect for a man who’d offer to help a stranger because someone else had done the same for his mother. That man she could understand and even like.
Now if only she could figure out which man was the real one.
With a pleased smile, he stood and held out his hand. “And now, my lady, it’s time.”
“For what?”
“Have you forgotten what you asked of me earlier?” His smile broadened. “It’s time for your first lesson in recognizing scoundrels.”
Chapter 7
Compliments cost nothing,
yet many pay dear for them.
Book of German sampler designs, worked by Juliet Laverick in penance after Helena caught her flirting with a smooth-tongued footman at fifteen
S ebastian led Juliet toward the drawing room, certain that he’d lost his blasted mind. What had possessed him to offer help to Lady Rosalind? Her jealous husband was already trawling for any excuse to throttle him—this would not improve matters.
And yet…Knighton’s protective interference and Lady Rosalind’s affectionate teasing at luncheon had affected him profoundly. Sebastian hadn’t seen such a well-suited couple since before his aunt’s death had left Uncle Lew bereft. Like a perfectly balanced pistol, Lady Rosalind’s enthusiasm compensated for Knighton’s cynicism, and his common sense compensated for her impulsiveness.
Until their argument. What man could ignore the hurt in Lady Rosalind’s eyes and the bleak despair in Knighton’s? Not being able to have a child could poison even a good marriage—Sebastian knew that well enough. He’d often wondered if his mother’s trouble with conceiving had initially caused his parents’ estrangement. Perhaps by the time his mother had found herself with child, it had been too late to save their marriage.
Perhaps not, but he hated to see another couple suffer through such a problem when they were so obviously devoted to each other.
As he and Juliet entered the drawing room, he glanced down at her sun-dappled hair. Then there was the practical reason for stepping in—like the possibility that it could gain him Juliet’s goodwill. God knew he could use help in that regard. The woman didn’t feel the least kindly toward him—or Morgan either—and she was clearly finicky about her suitors.
Not that he blamed her. But it didn’t make matters any easier.
After showing her to the settee, he started to sit in the adjoining chair. Then something bit him in the behind, making him leap up with a yelp. “What the devil—” Reaching back, he extracted a needle from his rear and dropped it onto the table, where it landed with a ping. “Remind me to be more careful where I sit in the future.”
“Dear me, I’m so sorry!” She rose to whisk a wooden contraption out of the chair, then set it on a side table. “It’s my embroidery. I must have left it here when we went in to luncheon. I-I’m usually more careful. Did it hurt you?”
“No more than the average needle piercing one’s bottom,” he grumbled.
With a murmur of distress, she quickly circled behind him and lifted his coat tail.
He turned abruptly to face her. “What the devil are you doing?”
“Trying to see if you’re bleeding or—”
“I’m fine.” The last thing he needed was Juliet examining his ass at close range. Still, he liked having her fuss over him. No woman had fussed over him in years. He rubbed the sore spot, then held out his fingers. “You see? No blood.”
“Thank goodness,” she said with great contrition. “Truly, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s not your fault. I should have looked first.” He flashed her a wry smile. “But I’m not used to having women—and all their contraptions—at Charnwood Hall.”
“I know.” She sidled around him to resume her seat on the settee.
He remained standing. No telling what else lurked in his chair upholstery. How many needles did a woman use at a time? One? Six? He had no idea. The sum total of his knowledge about needlework could be fit into the lock of a pistol.
Then he blinked. “What do you mean—you know? Am I that poor a host to my female guests? Or did you deduce it from my reaction to being attacked by a chair?”
A small smile graced her lips. “No. I deduced it from what your servants told Rosalind’s maid. They were overjoyed to have ladies here for the first time in years.”
“I see I’ll have to admonish my talkative servants.”
“Don’t you dare! They’re already afraid of you.”
That brought him up short. “Whyever for? I treat them well enough.”
“Yes, of course, when it comes to salaries and working conditions. And it’s only the females who complain.” When he bristled, she added hastily, “Don’t misunderstand me—they seem to respect you enormously. But they’re also terrified of you.”
“What rubbish! What have I done to terrify them?”
“It’s what you don’t do. You bark orders without stopping to chat or thank them. You treat them with stiff formality, and they see that as evidence of your disapproval.”
“It’s inappropriate to ‘chat’ with one’s servants.”
“You chat with your valet, don’t you
? And the butler? And your footmen? It’s only the women you’re curt with. When I said last night that you might not even like women, it wasn’t an idle supposition. Servants do talk, you know.”
Finally comprehending the source of the trouble, he sighed. He rounded the chair, then leaned forward to prop his folded arms gingerly on the back of it. “I should clarify—it’s inappropriate for a male master to chat with his female servants.”
“I can’t imagine why—” she began.
“Because it can be mistaken for something else. Especially when the previous baron was such a—” He couldn’t believe he was discussing this. But it wouldn’t do to have her thinking him overly officious with his servants. Not when she already thought him dull and pompous. “When I took over management of this estate, I had to deal with several female servants with whom my father tended to…‘chat’ overlong, if you take my meaning. Apparently, they recognized, and rightly so, that I would compensate them financially for the ruin they’d suffered at my father’s hand.”
Her eyes went round, and she blushed furiously. “Oh.”
“Most of them are gone now. I did my best to find them husbands. The new maids know little of that, which is how I want it.” He smiled ruefully. “As a child I wondered why Father’s maids acted as if I might pounce at any moment. They were always reminding me to keep my hands to myself. They wouldn’t even let me buss their cheeks. Once I learned why, I decided that my female employees would never have cause to complain about me on that score. But I may have…er…overdone it.”
“Perhaps a little,” she said gently. “Praising their efforts once in a while probably wouldn’t be amiss. As it is, they think you don’t like them.”
He stiffened. He wasn’t used to being lectured on how to treat his servants. “Better than having them think I like them too well.”
“Isn’t there some middle ground?”
The soft sympathy in her voice soothed his stung pride. “No doubt there is. Perhaps you could help me find it.”
That seemed to disturb her, for she dropped her head and began fidgeting with her gown, smoothing out unseen wrinkles, plucking off invisible lint. “It would not be my place to do such a thing.”
After the Abduction Page 10