Chapter 5
"Really, Your Grace, I should like to change my clothes before we have this — this discussion."
He was striding several paces in front of her now, broad-shouldered and tall, carrying himself like a general. Sconces lit the long, narrow corridors, and as he passed each one, they flickered and bowed as though in homage to him, their dim light gleaming in his hair.
"That will not be necessary," he said without so much as looking over his shoulder.
Juliet hurried to keep pace with him. "I am not presentable!"
"You are presentable enough for me. Come. I haven't all night."
"But —"
"There is an alcove just ahead, with a bowl and pitcher. Wash if you so desire, but be quick about it. This night shall be long enough without having to wait for you to indulge in the sort of silly nonsense in which females must engage before they dare show their faces to anyone beyond their pet lapdogs. I am not a patient man, Miss Paige."
He indicated the alcove, shielded by a rich drape of dark red velvet, and, without slowing his stride, pushed open a set of heavy doors several paces beyond. "The library. I shall expect you within five minutes. Do not keep me waiting."
The heavy doors shut behind him.
Dear God above. What arrogance! What rudeness! If the Duke of Blackheath was your average English aristocrat, it was no wonder America had risen up against the motherland! Bristling, Juliet yanked aside the curtain, splashed some water in the bowl, and scrubbed poor Lord Gareth's blood from her hands, her fingernails, the little creases in her knuckles while Charlotte watched her from the chair set in the corner.
And what of Lord Gareth? The duke had not volunteered so much as a word about how he was faring!
Without further deliberation, she picked Charlotte up and, pulling down her bodice and chemise, put her to breast. The baby suckled greedily. Juliet cupped the downy gold head in her hand and eyed the curtain behind her. Lord only knew when she would have gotten the chance to feed her, given the Duke's intolerance for the "silly nonsense" of females!
She emerged some ten minutes later. By then her anger had cooled, and apprehension was quickly filling its place. She forced her chin up, straightened her back, and, feigning a courage she didn't feel, pushed open the doors to the library.
There he was, leaning with casual insolence against a magnificent mantle of carved Italian marble, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingertips. He was a dark angel, some brooding god of judgment, and as he turned his black, smoldering gaze upon her, Juliet felt her courage falter.
"Sit down."
"I ... don't wish to soil the furniture."
"The furniture is replaceable."
Expensive, too, Juliet thought. Arranged on a priceless Oriental rug were several chairs upholstered in rich plum velvet, a claw-footed sofa stuffed with horsehair and finished in an elegant brocade, a French loveseat on spindly legs, and, nearest the fire, a very large, very masculine chair of carved oak with a seat and back of leather.
His throne, obviously.
Juliet headed for it. Not because she wished to be difficult, not because she wished to challenge his rank, but because leather was easily cleaned, and her sense of Yankee frugality could not let her destroy one of the other expensive pieces by sitting on it with her bloodstained skirts. Replaceable or not, she was not one for waste.
"Do you mind?" she asked, with civil politeness.
He shrugged and waved his glass, never leaving his place at the mantle. "Suit yourself."
With Charlotte in her arms, Juliet sank into the deep, butter-soft leather, painfully conscious of her appearance. How carefully she had chosen her clothes that morning, hoping to make the right impression on this man whose help and charity she had crossed an ocean to seek. Now, her apple-green skirts, parted to reveal a petticoat lovingly embroidered with little roses, were dark with blood. Chalky mud caked her boots, her stomacher was soaked, and blood smeared the front of the smart, pine-green jacket she had chosen to match the ivy that twined itself along the gown's hem. She looked a mess.
But the duke, true to his word, did not seem to care. He wasted no time in getting the discussion underway, sparing no thought for Juliet's feelings, her pride, or the fact that she was a guest in his house and deserved more kindness than he seemed capable of giving. She had no sooner sat down than he asked her, bluntly, how she'd met Charles. She told him the truth. His scowl, and the impatient look in his eyes as she related the tale, made her want to squirm with discomfort. This was not going well. Not going well at all.
"So. You first saw Charles whilst he was drilling his troops on Boston Common. Love at first sight, you say." He gave a bitter little laugh. "You'll understand if I find the notion rather difficult to swallow."
"Charles was a very handsome man."
"Charles was from one of England's oldest, most aristocratic families and would not have married beneath him. As a second son, he could not afford to. What is it about you, then, that commended you to him?"
"I find your question insulting, Your Grace," she said quietly.
"Nevertheless, I'll have an answer from you."
"I don't know what it was about me that he loved."
"You have a passably decent figure, a pretty face, and a fine dark eye. I suspect little else was needed to bring a man to his knees — and into your bed."
"You dishonor your brother with such talk, Your Grace. Charles was a fine man."
"Yes, well, far away from home and thrown into a nest of rebel vipers and their conniving females, the devil only knows what goes through a man's head. Any warm body will do, I expect."
"Charles and I loved each other. He wanted to marry me."
"Before or after he found out you were breeding?"
She blushed. "After."
"Did it ever occur to you that he was merely being honorable and that his heart might have lain elsewhere?"
"Indeed, it did not."
"Did it ever occur to you that it might have been arranged at his birth that he marry a woman of his own station, whose money would have allowed him to live a lifestyle to which he was accustomed?"
"He made no mention of such a woman, Your Grace, and Charles was not one to worship the god of money."
"Did it ever occur to you that his family might not approve of his union with you?"
She looked him straight in the eye and said quietly, "Yes."
"And yet you came here anyhow."
"I had no choice."
"You had no choice."
Juliet clenched her fist beneath a fold of Charlotte's blanket, trying to keep a check on her rising temper. Her face felt hot, and she knew her color betrayed her, but she vowed he would not get the better of her, no matter how hard he tried. If by forcing her to remain here in her disheveled clothes, attacking her with his insolent questions, and implying things that were not true he sought to put her off balance, he had another thing coming. She was made of stronger stuff than that.
Politely, she said, "I fear, Your Grace, that you suspect me of being some sort of fortune hunter. That I lured your brother to me so I could claw my way up the social ladder by use of his name and rank. But I'll have you know that that wasn't the case. Charles was one of the king's officers. I was a maiden of Boston, and maidens of Boston did not consort with the king's officers — no matter how well-born they might be — if they wished to maintain their standing in a community that had grown to despise the Regulars' very presence."
He merely sipped his brandy and watched her, giving no hint of what was going on behind those enigmatic black eyes.
"I was well-respected by those who knew me," she continued, bravely. "I may not have your noble blood, nor possess your limitless wealth, but my stepfather was one of Boston's leading citizens and we lived well enough by pursuing hard work and good causes. I have nothing to blush for."
"Your stepfather was a Loyalist."
"My stepfather was a spy for the rebels."
"That is not what Charles t
old us."
"Appearances are deceiving. What is the use of being a spy if everyone knows who you are?"
"Indeed. And did you learn all you could from my brother only to pass the information on to your stepfather?"
"I did not."
"Rebel, Loyalist ... and where do your sympathies lay, Miss Paige?"
She looked him straight in the eye. "With my daughter."
He arched a brow.
"I don't want to be here," she said, firmly. "I don't know a soul in England, my heart aches for home, and it is obvious that my presence at Blackheath is most unwelcome — as I feared it would be. I would like nothing more than to go back to America and pick up the remains of my life, but I made a promise to Charles, and I don't break promises."
"And what promise was that?"
"To seek you out in England if anything should happen to him."
"And just what did Charles think I could do for you?"
"He told me that you would take us in and make our baby your ward. He said that you would give her your name. I didn't want to come here, but things turned bad in Boston and I had little choice. My daughter's welfare comes first."
"Charles died a year ago. Correct me if I'm wrong," he murmured, with faint sarcasm, "but doesn't the crossing from America take but a month?"
"Yes, but —"
"Why, then, did it take you a year?"
"I had no wish to travel in my condition, Your Grace. I was very ill."
"And after the babe was born?"
"I would not have subjected her to the rigors of a sea voyage at such a tender age. Besides, my stepfather needed me to help run the store and tavern, so I felt beholden to stay."
"Yes, do describe just what it was you did there at this store and tavern, Miss Paige. I assume it was along the order of serving ale and playfully fending off unwelcome advances so you could save yourself for one of the king's officers?"
Blood rushed to her cheeks and her heart pounded with outrage. "Indeed not, Your Grace," she said levelly, refusing to be baited. "My stepfather valued me for my frugality and head for figures. He would not have put a tray in my hands and bid me to spend my time running from cellar to table. No, I kept the books for both store and tavern. I opened in the mornings and closed at night. I paid the help, purchased the merchandise for the store, haggled with tradesmen for fair prices, settled disputes between cook and chambermaid." She looked at him without shame. "I am not afraid of hard work, Your Grace."
"So I see." Something indiscernible flickered in his eyes. "And what does your esteemed stepfather think of your coming to England?"
"He fell sick and died in January. I doubt he thinks at all."
"And what did he say about your little thing with Charles?"
"It was not a 'little thing,' Your Grace. We loved each other deeply and were engaged to be married —"
"Answer the question, please."
"I beg your pardon, but must you be so rude?"
"Yes. Now answer the question."
She made a fist, savagely driving her fingernails into her palm in an effort to control her angry tongue. "Charles and I had to keep our feelings for each other clandestine, lest our safety be compromised. The army's presence was detested in Boston."
"Yes, I know. You Americans certainly made that obvious."
"I am not all Americans," Juliet said firmly. "And I would give the world to have my Charles back. Please stop goading me!"
He raised his brows and stared at her down the length of his aristocratic nose. She, wet and uncomfortable in his brother's blood, stared bravely back. The fire snapped in the grate. Voices sounded from somewhere outside in the corridor. And then the duke allowed the faintest of smiles, as though rewarding her for her courage in standing up to him ... or contemplating the pleasure he would receive in throwing her out on her ear.
Straightening, he moved to where a crystal decanter stood atop a desk of carved mahogany. He took his time refilling his glass, not saying a word as the spirits splashed into the vessel and burbled up toward the rim. His severe profile gave away nothing. And then he turned to face her, leaning against the edge of his desk with ankles crossed and eyes thoughtfully narrowed. He took a sip of his brandy, watching her. Just watching her. Judging her, assessing her, studying her like a scholar might examine a singularly interesting biological specimen. Dear God, this is awful.
She stood up. "Are we through here? I wish to go"
"Go where?"
"Anywhere. Away. Back to America, if need be. It's obvious that Charles's faith and trust in his family's desire to care for his baby daughter were unfounded. Neither she nor I are wanted here."
"Don't be absurd."
She reached for Charlotte's blanket. "I am being practical."
"Practicality is not a quality I associate with most females of my acquaintance."
"With all due respect to the females of your acquaintance, Your Grace, I was born and raised in the wilderness of Maine. Those who were not practical, resourceful, and hardy did not survive."
"Maine? How is it, then, that you ended up in Boston?"
"My father died when I was sixteen, mauled by a black bear defending her cub. He had a cousin in Boston, who'd always fancied my mother from afar. After Papa died, he came for Mama and me, married her, and took us both back to Boston. Mama died in '74. You know about my stepfather." She picked up her cloak, preparing to leave this house and never look back. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Your Grace, I think I've answered enough of your questions and had best be gone. Good night to you."
He never moved as she breezed past his desk, Charlotte in her arms. "Don't you wish to know how Lord Gareth fares?" he asked mildly, in an abrupt change of subject.
"Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but you gave me no chance to ask."
"I should think he'd like to thank you for saving his life."
She paused halfway across the room, silently cursing him between her teeth. What tarnal game was he playing now? Without turning, she ground out, "He saved my life, not the other way around."
"Not according to Lord Brookhampton."
"I know no Lord Brookhampton."
"Perry," he amended, with infuriating smoothness. "He told me everything."
"Look, I —"
At that moment, the door burst open without warning, sounding like a thunderclap in the vastness of the room.
"Go away, Andrew, Nerissa."
"We've just spoken to Gareth. He told us who she is. Who the baby is. He said —"
"I said, go away."
Juliet could only stare as the pair crossed the room. They were two more de Montforte siblings. They had to be. She saw Charles in the lines of their faces, in the arch of their brows and in the romantic shape of their long-lashed eyes. The mouths were the same. The planes of the cheeks were the same. The noses, the jaws, even the hair — wavy like Charles's had been but, in the case of Lord Andrew, a dark auburn — were the same. Ignoring the duke, Andrew came right up to Juliet, took her hand, and bent over it in a sweeping, courtly bow.
"You must be Juliet," he said warmly, looking up at her through thick brown lashes. He was young and handsome, with a look of sharp intelligence about him and eyes that, though smiling and lazy in the de Montforte way, didn't miss a trick. "I am Andrew, Charles's brother, and this is our sister, Nerissa. Welcome to England, and to Blackheath Castle."
But Nerissa was staring at Charlotte, sleeping in Juliet's arms. Her hands flew to her mouth, and sudden tears filled her pretty blue eyes. She took a hesitant step forward, biting her lip and raising her pleading gaze to Juliet's. "May I?" she whispered, stretching out her arms.
With a resigned smile, Juliet passed the infant to her aunt. So much for leaving — and escaping the odious presence of the duke. But her peevishness melted away as Nerissa, her head bent over the little bundle, carried the baby into the shadows. The girl's shoulders were shaking, and it was obvious she was weeping.
"That's Lord Andrew and Lady Nerissa,"
the duke corrected, irritably. "If you insist on introducing yourselves, at least do it properly."
Andrew waved a hand in dismissal and moved toward the decanter. "Oh hang it, Luce, she's from the colonies. She's not bothered by all that."
"I told you to leave us, Andrew. Do so immediately, before I get angry."
"That's Lord Andrew, if you don't mind."
The duke's glass slammed down on the table, his face no longer wearing its veneer of tolerance. A frigid chill settled over the room. Juliet held her breath, all too aware of the enmity between these two brothers — one so dark and formidable, the other fiery, brazen, and openly insolent. For one terrible moment she thought the two of them were going to come to blows; but no. The duke had his temper on a tight rein. He would not stoop to fisticuffs, not in front of a stranger and certainly not with his own brother.
She was correct. He inclined his head, conceding this small victory to Andrew if only to avoid what would otherwise be a scene. "Sit down, then," he said, darkly. "Both of you."
Nerissa, still holding Charlotte, complied, but Andrew obviously felt that this order had to be challenged, as well. Taking all the time in the world, he poured himself a drink, then tossed himself into one of the chairs, one long leg thrown over his knee and bobbing lazily. He raised his glass to Juliet and took a long sip as he studied her. "Ah, yes. You look just like Charles said you did. I can understand why he was so captivated by you, Miss Paige."
"Not just Charles," Nerissa chimed in. "Gareth's up there singing your praises as well, and he and his friends are all drinking bumpers to you. Gareth said you took control, calmed everyone down, and saved his life with your quick thinking. I think he's completely charmed!"
"I'm afraid Lord Gareth gives me far more credit than I deserve," Juliet said, head bent as she discreetly tried to cover her bloodied skirts with her arms. "He was the real hero of the hour, not me."
"On the contrary," said Andrew, waving his glass. "Gareth may be a rake, a wastrel and a scourer, but he doesn't make things up."
"Most assuredly not," his sister added.
Juliet glanced at the duke. The dark gaze was still on her. Still watching her. Still studying her.
Worse, that faint little smile still played around his lips. It was unnerving.
"And how is Lord Gareth?" Juliet asked, directing her attention to this cheerful pair in an attempt to ignore that enigmatic stare.
"Oh, a bit faint from loss of blood and Irish whiskey, but otherwise quite well. But then, that's Gareth for you." Andrew downed the rest of his brandy with a practiced flick of his wrist. "The villagers call him 'the Wild One,' you know. Why, just last week he had the Den of Debauchery members make a pyramid of themselves down on the village green, took bets from all those who'd gathered to watch, and jumped Crusader over the lot of them. Won himself a fortune that day. The week before that —"
"That's enough, Andrew," the duke interrupted, straightening up.
"Come now, Luce, even you have to admit that his getting Mrs. Dorking's pig foxed was hilariously funny."
"It was not hilariously funny, it was uncommonly stupid. Especially in light of all the damage the animal went on to cause."
Nerissa, examining each of Charlotte's tiny fingers, had her head bent and was trying not to laugh.
Andrew was undeterred. "Still, what he did tonight tops 'em all. Whoever would've thought Gareth would go and make a hero of himself, eh, Luce?"
"Indeed, whoever would have thought Gareth would go and make anything of himself," the duke murmured cryptically as he drained the rest of his glass. "And now, if you'll all excuse me, I must go into Ravenscombe to see to the unfortunate passengers of the coach, as well as the highwayman your brother should have taken care of but didn't. Pity. I expect there shall be a hanging. Are your traveling trunks still strapped to the coach, Miss Paige?
"Yes, but I think I should leave."
"And I think you are distressed and need to rest before making such a hasty decision," he countered, with infuriating benignity. "Surely, meeting Charles's younger brother so unexpectedly, and under such traumatic circumstances, has not helped matters any." He was smiling, but there was something she couldn't identify beneath that smile, and his dark eyes were watching her closely. Too closely. "Lord Gareth bears a certain resemblance to Charles, don't you think?"
"Your Grace, I don't want to argue with you, but I would be more comfortable staying someplace in the village —"
"What?!" cried Andrew and Nerissa in chorus.
"Are your trunks still outside on the coach, Miss Paige?" the duke persisted.
"Well, of course, but —"
"Are they emblazoned with your name or initials?"
"Yes, but —"
"Puddyford!"
The door opened obediently, and a liveried servant appeared, his face expressionless, his body erect and at attention.
"Puddyford, I have business to attend to in the village. Have Miss Paige's trunks brought inside and up to her rooms. Nerissa, you will see that our guest is made comfortable, and someone is sent to attend to her needs." He let his gaze sweep assessingly over Juliet. "You will be happy in the Blue Room, I think."
"Your Grace, I have no wish to impose upon your hospitality —"
"Nonsense, my dear girl. You have conducted yourself admirably, and your answers have satisfied me. Don't look so put out. Don't you realize I was only testing you with my studied rudeness?"
Testing me for what? she all but cried, not knowing whether to be outraged or humiliated. But he was already bowing, and without another word, was gone.
Andrew and Nerissa rushed to placate her as she remained staring at the door through which Lucien had passed. She could not know that he was a master manipulator. She could not know that he had plans for her. And she could not know that as the Duke of Blackheath strode out into the Grand Hall and called for his hat, his gloves, and his horse, his eyes were gleaming with cunning delight.
The Wild One Page 13