“I was just making myself comfortable.”
“Too comfortable by the look of it.” Too attractive for her comfort.
She turned to the right as he rolled his muscular frame from the bed, uncrossing his arms with agile grace. She glanced up and glimpsed his face in the mirror. She could not miss the unguarded look of raw longing that darkened his features.
A shock of surprise, of fierce pleasure, shot through her, electrified every nerve ending. She turned back slowly toward him, her gaze questioning. His face was so devoid of expression that she wondered if she were imagining things. Seeing only a reflection of her own hidden desire.
“I aim to examine that sketch of me before you unleash it on the world,” he said in a disgruntled voice.
She laughed as he walked past her to the window. “Your body and my art shall belong to posterity, I’m afraid.”
He pushed aside the curtains. “Now that’s a frightening thought.”
Her laughter died away as she came up beside him and gazed down into the dark shadows of the garden. He seemed too serious. He had something else on his mind beside the sketch. “You still haven’t found anything out there, have you?”
“No. The pathways were awash in mud this morning.”
“Perhaps there really wasn’t anyone there last night.”
“I don’t know.” He let the curtain fall back into place. “There’s no point in taking any chances.” He turned, started to move past her, then stopped. Julia felt her heart race at his scrutiny. Clearly there was something troubling him. “What is it?” she asked, her gaze holding his.
He gave her a rueful smile. “Do you know,” he said, “I thought for years that if I ever kissed you again, I would be cured?”
“Cured?”
“Of my desire for you. I believe that I shall always regret we were not lovers. Well, call it a young man’s folly, wanting what he could not have.”
She glanced away, an unwilling smile settling on her lips. “Lovers?” She pretended to look surprised, as if she had not considered this countless times herself. But hearing him admit that he felt the same way—she did not know what to think. It was a dangerous door to reopen; she stood on the threshold of temptation. “You sound ever so tragic,” she said gently.
“Don’t I though?”
“I don’t believe it for a moment. It sounds exactly what a rogue would say to lure a woman to his bed.”
“It was worth a try.”
“You are shameless,” she exclaimed. “I think you’re worse than when I met you.”
“It’s quite possible. I’ve had several years of practice.”
“Well, so have I,” she retorted. Not that it appeared to have done her much good. She wanted him now with a woman’s desire, not a young girl’s impulse. If they’d been lovers, would they still be together now? The thought taunted her. He had gone off to war.
He smiled at her, then walked back to the door. She watched him go, aware of an ache deep inside her. Regret, he’d said. Was that what this bittersweet pain was called? “Don’t let any other rogues into your room tonight, Julia,” he said over his shoulder.
“I don’t think there’s any chance of that.”
His eyes met hers, sternly reprimanding, and the ache settled deeper inside her. What had she lost? “Lock the door anyway.”
Chapter 11
Three uneventful days passed. There were no intruders in Julia’s garden. No more reasons to suspect she was in any immediate danger. Little opportunity for Heath to act as hero unless one counted a small drama at the end of that week when she and Lady Dalrymple became involved in a minor street riot. It had started innocently enough.
Heath had agreed with reluctance to escort the two women early in the evening to a lecture in the East End on the plight of homeless soldiers. He knew he should have refused.
His coachman had instructions to return in three hours to collect them. Heath should have obeyed his instincts and insisted they stay home.
A scuffle broke out at the back of the lecture hall as the talk came to a premature and an emotional end, a veritable shouting match over soldiers being denied pensions that quickly escalated into a pushing war. A disgruntled youth set off a firecracker and tossed it into the air. The audience gave way to panic, dispersing in all directions.
“Head right for the carriage,” Hermia shouted above the confusion of shoving bodies and shrill voices. “Heath, do not let Julia out of your sight. These crowds can turn vicious.”
Julia’s voice floated out of the chaos. “I’m fine. Each man to himself.”
Heath caught a glimpse of her face, looking calm if understandably aggravated by the jostling of elbows and shoulders around her. As long as he could keep her in his view he would not be overly concerned. How had they gotten into this situation? He supported social reform but through Parliament, not public debate.
Suddenly the double doors at the back of the hall banged open, and a horde of ragged street ruffians appeared. Heath recognized danger when he saw it. A rush of cool evening air reached the wall sconces, extinguishing the candles that cast wavering light upon the scene of panic. He gazed across the swarm of fleeing attendees, searching for Julia’s face in the chaos.
He could not find her. His heart began to hammer.
“Julia,” he shouted, vaguely aware of how silly he sounded, how the elderly couple beside him started in alarm.
“Over here!” Her white-gloved hand waved valiantly above the sea of bobbing heads. “We seem to be moving as one to the back door. . . . Take care of Hermia—”
He shook his head in frustration. “Hermia is right—” He glanced around, realizing that the older woman had also vanished from his sight. An unfamiliar bespectacled man stood in the space she had occupied only moments earlier. “Where did she go? Hermia, where the blazes are you?”
“Down here.”
He followed the muffled reply to his feet. “Good God. What happened?” he demanded, reaching down to help her. “Were you pushed?”
“I dropped my hat, Boscastle. No need to panic.”
“Panic?” he muttered, pulling her to her feet. “Tell that to the hundred or so people charging like a herd of elephants. Why did I let myself be talked into this?”
She straightened, her cheeks brightly flushed, her hat clutched in her hand. “Where is Julia?”
“Gone out the back way, if she had any sense.” He took firm hold of her arm. “Let’s join her, shall we?”
“Excuse me,” Julia said as a Hessian boot trod down hard on her big toe. She had been swept into a dusty, stygian back passage with a small group of frightened lecture attendees. “Would you mind not stepping on my feet?”
“Sorry, madam,” the disembodied voice replied. “I cannot see where I’m going.”
“There’s a door leading out into the alley,” a woman called back from the front of the crowd. “Three steps going up.”
“I can’t seem to breathe,” an unseen man said in a frantic voice. “I’ve always hated the dark.”
“There’s another way out,” a refined male voice whispered in Julia’s ear. “Take my hand, and I’ll help you.”
She hesitated. She’d completely lost sight of Hermia, but she knew that her aunt was with Heath, and that she could trust him to take care of her. The owner of the polite voice sounded young and gentlemanly, and Julia could not discern any ulterior motives for rescuing her other than simple kindness.
“I can’t see a thing,” she whispered back.
He grasped her wrist in his leather-gloved hand. “Don’t worry. I can find the way.”
She glanced into the void of utter darkness. “How? It’s as black as a grave.”
“I used to explore caves as a child. I was never afraid of the dark. My name is Raphael, by the way. Baron Brentford.”
Heath had one arm hooked around Hermia’s thickset waist, the other raised to protect them against the barrage of rotten eggs and stones that the rioters in the street h
urled in abandon. These weren’t sincere protesters, merely thugs who reveled in wanton violence and the chance to steal a purse or two.
“Soldiers’ pensions?” a man jeered, launching a moldy cabbage at Heath’s head. “I’ll give you a pension!”
He ducked, shielding Hermia from the missile with his body. “Where the devil is the carriage?” he muttered as he herded her away from the agitated crowd. “And where the hell is Julia?”
Hermia straightened her russet velvet pelisse and peered over his shoulder. “Do you think she might have found the carriage before us?”
He glanced down the gaslit street, his mouth tightening. Where could she have gone? Why hadn’t he asked his coachman to stay? Genuine social protestors had begun to intermingle with pickpockets and ruffians from the rookeries. No one had been seriously hurt so far, but he was uneasy not knowing where she was. The mood of the crowd was turning uglier by the moment. Armed with rotten food and clubs, a mob of male troublemakers had banded together to overturn an empty carriage.
The coachman of the abused vehicle cringed behind a lamppost, emerging moments later as a Bow Street van veered around the corner. The ruffians broke formation to scatter into lanes and alleyways as several patrolmen wielding staffs came running down the street.
“Get in quickly!” a familiar voice shouted above the chaos.
Heath turned in time to see a trim black carriage draw to a stop alongside them.
“It’s Odham,” Hermia said. She gave Heath a tug in the direction of the street. “My ancient enemy is finally making himself of use. Do you think he might have rescued Julia?”
“I doubt it,” he said, glancing behind them in concern. “She could have escaped through the back of the hall. Or perhaps my driver returned early and found her.”
“I hope so.” Hermia shuddered and glanced back at the unruly crowd.
An egg sailed over their heads and splattered on the pavement. “Heavens!” Odham exclaimed from his carriage. “This place has become a battlefield. Do get inside.”
The carriage door swung open. Odham’s liveried footman hurried forward to help Hermia ascend the folding steps. Heath stared into the carriage’s interior, his face darkening with worry. He was going back to find her, and if anything had happened to her, he could blame only himself.
“You haven’t seen Julia anywhere, have you, Odham?”
The earl sat forward with a frown. “Not a sign of her. Don’t tell me you’ve left her alone in that brawl.”
Heath drew back outside, his voice brusque. “Take Hermia home.”
“We are not going anywhere,” Hermia said stoutly. “Not until Julia is found.”
“Move along here.” A craggy-faced constable in a woolen overcoat strode up behind them. “What the blazes—that isn’t you, Lord Boscastle?”
Heath gave the Bow Street patrolman a grim smile. The man was one of Heath’s informants and a good soul. “Yes, it is, and don’t ask me why I am here. Just help me find—” He pushed around the constable in relief. “There she is.” Thank God. He exhaled slowly. He felt his entire body relax. Only to tense again with an altogether different concern.
His eyes narrowed in speculation as he noticed a slender young man in black beside her, his arm placed protectively around her shoulders, his body both a shield and a weapon against the boisterous mob. Julia looked neither frightened nor overly distressed by the experience.
“Is she all right?” Hermia demanded impatiently from the carriage.
Heath shook off the disturbing sensation that seemed to squeeze his heart. What was it? Fear for her? Some arrogant sense of damaged pride that he’d failed as her protector? Was it jealousy? Sheer jealousy to see another man holding her? That would be ridiculous considering that she would marry his friend a few weeks from now. The emotion raged inside him nonetheless.
“Julia appears to be fine,” he heard himself saying. “There is a man with her.”
“A man? A stranger? Well, for the love of heaven,” Hermia said, “stop scowling like that and rescue her.”
He forced a smile. “I’m not all that sure she wants to be rescued.” But she would be, whether she appreciated it or not. She had not just put him through hell while another man stepped forward to do his duty.
Julia wriggled away from her rescuer, discreetly shrugging off his arm. He was a sweet young man, if rather overbearing and full of himself, but he seemed to believe she was as fragile as a glass figurine. Which was a precious if erroneous sentiment. Julia had realized long ago that there wasn’t a trace of crystalline delicacy in her character. She was composed of more durable stuff, basic English chalkstone with a sturdy vein of granite. Not that she could not break, but it took a strong blow. She suspected she’d suffered quite a few good cracks deep inside where they didn’t show. She could not take many more, however. Even chalkstone crumbled over time.
She sighed in relief as she spotted Heath standing on the pavement. Amazing that the man could threaten and make her feel safe at the same time. How awful to realize that she had already come to anticipate his presence. That the lack of it affected her.
She disengaged herself once again from her rescuer’s arm, which had somehow slipped back around her shoulder while she was searching for Heath and Hermia.
“I have to go now.” She turned briefly to look up into the man’s brown eyes. He had the tousled black curls and spoiled, sensual mouth of a romantic, this gallant baron who had come to her aide and attached himself to her like a limpet. “Thank you ever so much for acting as my guardian angel.”
He glanced past her to the street. Heath had just dodged a carriage, his stride purposeful and swift. “Your husband?” he asked with the deep sigh of a man accustomed to losing at love.
Heath. Her husband. Her gaze drifted back to the broad-shouldered figure hurrying across the street. The mere suggestion of belonging to him swamped her with a wave of guilty pleasure. What a pair they would make. Was it possible they might have married if the war had not taken him away? What was she thinking? He’d said he regretted that they had never been lovers. Not anything more.
“Heavens, no. Not my husband.”
“Your fiancé?”
She laughed a little uneasily, edging away. People were rushing about them in all directions. Another police van had pulled up at the pavement.
“No. He’s not my fiancé. Look, we’re going to get arrested in a minute. You really have to escape.”
His heavily lashed brown eyes widened in understanding. “Your protector? Ah.”
Julia’s lips tightened, and she found herself quite at a loss for words. How was she supposed to explain her complicated association with Heath to a virtual stranger? She did not quite understand it herself, and Heath probably didn’t, either. “Well, you might call him my protector.”
He nodded, studying her with renewed, mildly insulting interest. “It’s all right. You needn’t be embarrassed. I am a man of the world.”
Julia choked back an indignant denial. Now he thought her a ladybird, a woman of loose morals. That was exactly what she needed. “I’m quite sure you are, my lord, but that does not make me your equivalent.”
“Please call me Raphael.”
“Fine.” She was growing nervous, more concerned with their present situation than anything. Two policemen were heading toward them with heavy clubs. Even more menacing was the disapproval that darkened Heath’s face as he advanced on the baron. It gave her pause. He was famous for hiding his feelings.
His anger was certainly evident now, bare and elemental.
Her rescuer must have noticed it, too. The baron dropped her arm and attempted to melt back into the dwindling crowd. Suddenly she felt him freeze, and his gaze met hers in dread. “Boscastle,” he said, sounding none too pleased at the realization. “You’re under Boscastle’s protection?”
“In a manner of . . .” She glanced around, dimly aware that Brentford had made good his escape. A moment later she felt herself jostled up aga
inst a taller, harder male body, familiar and yet not. Heath’s arm encircled her waist. A sultry warmth flooded her as their eyes met. In the back of her mind she wondered why she responded to him like this. Did Russell have the same effect on her? Of course not. The Boscastle charm was legendary.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he said in a steel-edged voice.
The concern in his piercing blue eyes warred with the anger of his tone. She had not meant to worry him. Heaven above, she had not planned the riot. “I came out the back door with a man.”
“So I noticed,” he said coldly. “Did he introduce himself?”
“Baron Something or Other.” She was fully aware he had not removed his hand from her waist. The closeness felt possessive, personal, a little sinful, and far too pleasant. Heath’s eyes narrowed in realization. “Baron Brentford,” he said in contempt. “I knew I’d seen him before. He was staring at you at the breakfast party. He’s a known rake, Julia.”
“I gathered that. I take it you don’t like him?”
“Like him?” He stared over her shoulder into the street. “The rotten little bastard kissed my sister Chloe behind a carriage in the park. In front of witnesses.”
“My goodness. How criminal of them.”
“Chloe was exiled for her part. Brentford narrowly escaped with his life. My brother Grayson wanted his head.”
“It’s still there. His head, I mean.”
“Move along please, my lord.” One of the policeman, apparently recognizing Heath, gave him a friendly warning. “It’s about to turn nasty, I’m afraid. We don’t want the young lady to witness any acts of violence.”
“Thank you,” Heath said, drawing Julia past the police van. “I’ll deal with Brentford later.”
“He didn’t do anything except to help me outside.”
“His arm was around your shoulder.”
Some devilish impulse got the better of her as they made a dash for the earl’s carriage. “Your arm is around my waist.”
The Wedding Night of an English Rogue Page 12