The Wild One

by Danelle Harmon

  ~~~~

  The mighty hero slept straight through breakfast. By then, the flowers, tributes, notes and poems of praise had already begun to arrive as news of the robbery, and Gareth's part in thwarting it, spread through Ravenscombe and into the surrounding countryside.

  The Wild One had always been popular with the ladies, but never so much as he was this fine, late-April morning. His actions of the previous night — and the fact that he'd suffered a "grievous, life-threatening wound" — seemed to have driven every female in Berkshire into a frenzy. A group of blushing, giggling maids from the village brought him a bouquet of bright purple lilacs. A half-dozen red roses arrived from Lady Jayne Snow, only to be outdone by a full dozen from her sister Lady Anne. A box of sweet, juicy oranges were sent by Miss Amy Woodside, letters and notes poured in by the dozens, and a poem of ardent admiration came from the gushing pen of Miss Sally Chilcot, who was as brainless and silly as her fool of a brother, Neil.

  Or so proclaimed an increasingly annoyed Lucien, as a footman entered the dining hall where they were all having breakfast, with the missive on a silver platter.

  "For heaven's sake," he muttered, plucking the perfumed vellum and slamming it down into the growing pile before Gareth's empty chair.

  He picked up his coffee and went back to reading The Gentleman's Magazine.

  "Oh, do open it, Luce," drawled Andrew, buttering a piece of bread and craning his neck to read the flowery writing that covered the folded vellum. "Let's see ... Ah! A Poem: To the Brave and Dashing Lord Gareth de Montforte." He made a noise of amused contempt. "Whatever she wrote ought to be priceless as far as breakfast time amusement goes."

  "Whatever she wrote is for Gareth's eyes only," snapped Nerissa, who was bouncing Charlotte on her lap. "You're just miffed that Gareth is getting so much attention, and you're not."

  "On the contrary, my dear sister. I have better things to do than fend off the attentions of pestilent females."

  "Perhaps that's because there are no pestilent females giving you attention to fend off," Nerissa shot back.

  "Children," murmured the duke, without looking up from his paper.

  Feeling uncomfortable and more than a little out of place, Juliet silently stirred sugar into her tea. She was still smarting over the way the duke had treated her during the previous night's interview, and even now she didn't know whether he intended to take her in and make Charlotte his ward — or not. He hadn't said a word about the subject, and until Nerissa had brought her down here to breakfast, Juliet had not seen him so that she could ask. She wanted to speak to him alone. Here at the table, with two bickering siblings listening in, did not seem the appropriate time or place in which to do so.

  Perhaps she could request a moment of his time after breakfast....

  "Don't look so troubled, Miss Paige," Andrew said amiably, mistaking the reason for Juliet's preoccupied frown. "My sister and I fight like cats and dogs. 'Tis quite normal in this household, I'm afraid. In time you'll get used to us."

  Juliet glanced at the duke, wondering whether or not he intended to give her that time, but he made no comment, only continued reading.

  "And Andrew would have pestilent females chasing after him if only he'd get his nose out of those science books and venture out into the real world once in a while," his sister added. "Tell her about the invention you're working on, Andrew."

  "It's nothing."

  Juliet noted the sudden tinge of color along Andrew's cheekbones. "Invention?"

  He shrugged and bent his head, making a big project out of buttering another piece of bread. "I'm trying to build a flying machine."

  "A flying machine!" Juliet nearly dropped the cup of tea she was just bringing to her lips.

  "Yes." He didn't look up, but kept smearing butter on his bread, the color spreading out along his cheekbones. "I know it sounds daft, but if birds can fly, and kites, and even leaves on the wind, I don't see any reason why it can't be done."

  "Impossible," the duke muttered, still reading.

  "I don't think so," said Andrew.

  The duke turned a page. "If God wanted us to fly, He would've given us wings."

  "Yes, and if He'd wanted us to ply the seas, He would've given us fins," countered Nerissa, as Andrew, red-faced, set down his knife. "But He didn't, so we had to invent ships. Why should flying be any different? I think Andrew's idea is worthy and fine."

  "And I think it's damned ridiculous," the duke snapped, not bothering to look up. "Of all the men who've gone through Oxford in the last twenty years, Andrew was probably one of only a handful who didn't waste his time drinking, whoring, and carousing, but actually got down to the business of serious study. And for what? A flying machine. What a waste of a fine education. What a waste of a damned fine brain."

  Andrew flushed hotly, his eyes sparking with sudden anger.

  "Lucien, that was cruel and unfair!" cried Nerissa.

  "It is the truth."

  "If people like Andrew didn't invent things that others thought impossible, nothing new would ever be made!"

  "Flying machines are impossible. He'll never do it."

  Andrew slammed his chair back and stormed from the room, nearly knocking over a footman who was just entering. The servant never batted an eye as Nerissa also jumped up and went hurrying past him after her angry brother. The duke, meanwhile, calmly went on reading his paper as though the exchange had never happened. He didn't even acknowledge the footman — bearing yet another note on the silver plate he held in one gloved hand — when the servant lowered it before his face.

  "For Lord Gareth, Your Grace."

  Wordlessly, the duke took the note and tossed it into the growing pile as the footman glided soundlessly from the room.

  Then he looked up and saw Juliet still sitting there, her face tight with disapproval. "Ah —" he gave a rueful, bland little smile — "I see that you, too, think I'm cruel and heartless. But Andrew cannot focus his mind, and attentions, on a single project. He has an annoying and unproductive habit of hitting upon an idea, then failing to follow it through." He took a sip of his coffee and smiled benignly at Juliet. "If I do not mock and challenge him, he will never design his flying machine."

  "You're a very manipulative man, Your Grace. Do you always employ such methods to get others to behave as you would wish?"

  Again, that derisive little smile. "Only when it is necessary, Miss Paige. Now, be a good girl and take those letters up to Gareth, would you? I find that the scent of them is giving me a headache."