by Anna Bennett
She bristled with indignation on his behalf. “Then you must convince them to listen. You underestimate yourself, Uncle. You have plenty of illuminating ideas to share. We simply need to organize your findings so that you’ll be able to provide the necessary evidence to support your conclusions.”
“Your confidence in me is heartening,” he said, “but misplaced.”
Julie dropped to her knees before him and clasped his hands. “No, it’s not. What if I said this was important to me?”
“It is? Whatever for?”
She swallowed. Because the world needs more good and brilliant minds like yours. Because you deserve to be respected instead of ridiculed. Because I fear that you’re slowly slipping away from me. “It would give me something to do while Meg and Beth are out of town … and it would make me exceedingly happy to see you reaping the fruits of your labors.”
“I don’t know, Juliette. An undertaking such as this would require months—quite possibly years—to complete.”
“And I’ll be by your side the entire time. Will you do it?” she pleaded.
He lifted his eyes to Aunt Elspeth’s portrait and gazed at it for several seconds, as though seeking guidance. When at last he returned his gaze to Julie, his wizened face was soft with emotion. “You know very well that I cannot deny you. And I’ll admit that while the prospect of sharing my findings is frightening, it is also rather exhilarating.”
Julie’s heart skipped a beat. “Then it’s a yes?”
“Yes. But I wish to ask one thing of you in return.”
She squeezed his hand. “Of course, Uncle. Anything.”
“You must immediately devote yourself to finding a husband.”
Oh dear. With a nervous laugh, she stood and shook out her skirts. “But why? I’m happy here with you. Are you so anxious to be rid of me?” she teased.
“Nay, I am eager to see you happy and settled, as your sisters are. It’s what your parents would have wanted—God rest their souls—and it would bring me great comfort as well. Young people often fail to inebriate what a precious commodity time is.” He paused thoughtfully. “But when you reach my advanced years, you tend to regret every squandered minute.”
Julie sighed. “You are a wise man, and I do not doubt the truth of your words. However, finding a husband isn’t as easy as selecting a bonnet.”
“Nonsense. For someone with your beauty, wit, and charm, finding a suitable mate should be the simplest matter in the world. You have not fully dedicated yourself to the task.”
Julie scoffed. “Why do you say that? Because I don’t bat my lashes at every man I encounter … or giggle at hopelessly insipid jokes … or pretend to be in raptures over something as shallow as a pretty pair of slippers?”
He raised a thick brow, skeptical. “I have witnessed your obsession with slippers firsthand.”
True enough—blast it all. With a toss of her head, she said, “That is beside the point. I shall marry. When I find the right gentleman.”
But it was rather more complicated than that, due to a minor indiscretion on the terrace at her brother-in-law’s masquerade ball. That single foolish, passionate kiss might well haunt her forever—and in more ways than one.
“You are capable of accomplishing anything you put your mind to,” Uncle Alistair said firmly. “And seeing you happily wed would bring me great comfort in my old age.”
“I promise to do my best to join the ranks of my blissfully married sisters,” she said, “in my own time, and on my own terms.”
His eyes twinkled at that. “I would expect nothing less, my dear. I, in turn, will give serious thought as to an area of research on which to focus. But to do so properly, I shall require a nap.”
Julie released the breath she’d been holding. “Thank you, Uncle. You won’t regret it. I’ve always known you were the wisest, most intelligent man on earth, and the rest of London shall soon know it too.”
He chuckled and patted her shoulder affectionately as he made his way to the door. “We shall see about that. For now, I am more than content. Everything I need—my beloved niece, my life’s work, and memories of my Elspeth—are all here in this house.”
Julie sighed happily as he left, her fingers already itching to tidy the mess. Out of deference to her uncle, she waited until she heard the stairs creak beneath his weight before she attacked the disorderly bookshelf. She’d only just begun when a pounding on the front door made her drop the ledger she’d been holding—directly onto her foot.
Stifling a curse, she grasped the toe of her slipper and squeezed.
Good heavens. It still sounded as though Vikings were attacking with a battering ram. Her uncle needed his rest, and the incessant banging would surely disturb him. What sort of heathen could not wait a short period of time for the butler to make his way to the door before relentlessly beating it like a drum?
Fuming, she released her throbbing toe and limped toward the front hall. “I’ll answer the door, Mr. Finch,” she called to the butler, who, at the age of seventy, was still surprisingly spry but rather hard of hearing. Besides, given his kind and gentle nature, he would have treated the visitor far too cordially.
Julie, on the other hand, had no intention of coddling the scoundrel.
One hand on her hip, she yanked open the door and opened her mouth, planning to launch into a lecture regarding the proper way to pay a call … but the words died on her lips.
The imposing man who stood on her doorstep looked very much like the Marquess of Currington. So much so, that she instantly recalled the scene on the Duke of Blackshire’s terrace and blushed, all the way to the roots of her hair. But the man before her wasn’t the marquess.
He may have possessed the same breathtaking height, broad shoulders, and soulless blue eyes, but Nigel would never have appeared in public without a cravat and a clean shave. No, this man, with his tanned skin and mussed hair was infinitely more dangerous than Nigel—and that was truly saying something.
“Who are you?” he demanded rudely.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Julie countered. “But all things considered”—she raised her chin, letting her gaze linger on the exposed skin above his collar and his wrinkled jacket—“I must conclude that you’re searching for your long-lost valet and have reached our doorstep in error. Good day, sir.” She swung the door to shut it, but he stopped it with the toe of his boot.
He leaned back in order to stare at the brass numbers nailed above the front door and shook his head. “No. This is the house.” With that, he angled his way past her and into the tiny front hall.
Gasping, she took two steps backward. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
He arched a dark brow as he slammed the door and waltzed into the cozy, cluttered parlor. “I’m reclaiming this house,” he announced coldly. “On behalf of my family.”
“Wh-what?” she sputtered. “Are you mad?”
“No, merely suffering from the king of all hangovers.” He lowered himself onto the faded settee as if it were an ornate throne. “Which is why I’d rather not engage in a prolonged debate. I regret to inform you that you—and any other occupants of this charming residence—must vacate it. At once.”
Chapter THREE
Sam did his best not to stare at the young woman pacing the parlor, tried not to focus on the perfect curl dangling from her nape or the thick lashes framing her eyes. Pretty or no, he had to evict her, and it was best done quickly. It would have been nice if Nigel had warned him that a slender, brown-eyed beauty occupied the house. But her presence was no doubt part of the test.
And Sam wouldn’t fail his brother this time. He couldn’t—and not just because he’d been tossed out on his ear. It was high time he began to pull his own weight. Who knew? If he managed to reclaim this property for Nigel, maybe he’d start to earn back his brother’s trust and heal old wounds. It’s what their father would have wished … and Sam had to try.
Which meant he needed to deal wi
th the delicate miss who lived here—in a kind but pragmatic, detached manner.
Her cheeks pink with rage, she spun on him, jabbing a finger toward his chest. “Remove yourself from my settee immediately, you … you … beast.”
“Beast?” He stretched his arms over the back of the sofa to show he had no intention of moving. “That’s rather harsh, I think.”
She stared, incredulous. “Truly? Because I was being generous. I could have called you scoundrel, tyrant, reprobate—”
“Perhaps we should begin with introductions,” he interrupted. “So we can address one another more civilly.”
“I have no wish to address you at all. In fact, if you do not leave at once, I shall scream and alert the staff.”
“Create a scene if you’d like—it couldn’t possibly compare to my exploits from last night.” He winced at the memory, then shook his head to erase it. “I am Lord Samuel Travis, and my brother is the rightful owner of this house.”
“Miss Lacey?” An elderly servant appeared in the doorway and eyed Sam suspiciously. “I didn’t realize you had a guest. Shall I send for tea?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Finch. Lord Travis will be leaving soon.”
“Very good. I shall be just outside the parlor if you should require anything.” The butler bowed and glared at Sam before taking his leave.
“So you are one of the infamous Lacey sisters,” he drawled. Dubbed the Wilting Wallflowers during their first disastrous season, the three sisters were widely known for their sharp tongues, their odd uncle, and their unwavering loyalty to each other. They’d once been ridiculed for their unfashionable gowns and their uncle’s odd behavior, but the eldest sister had married a wealthy earl and the middle sister had landed herself a duke.
Miss Lacey may have been the only remaining wallflower, but he’d be damned if she looked like one. With elegant blue silk skimming her curves and lustrous pearls gracing her neck, she might as well have stepped out of the latest issue of a lady’s magazine. Or, even better, his wildest fantasies.
“I am Miss Juliette Lacey,” she said proudly. “And you are clearly mistaken. About your brother owning this house, that is. My uncle, Lord Wiltmore, has lived here for decades. He is upstairs resting at this very moment, and I am exceedingly grateful that he did not hear your outrageous claim, as the mere suggestion that this house is not his would have left him quite distraught. Fortunately, however, no harm has been done. If you leave now, I shall be willing to forget that you ever darkened our doorstep.”
Ouch. Sam leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “I’m afraid you will not rid yourself of me so easily. You see, my father was the rightful owner of this residence and, out of the goodness of his heart, allowed your uncle to live here. But my brother recently inherited the estate—and he has other plans for this property.”
* * *
Julie’s reasons for gripping the back of a chair were twofold. First, she wished to keep herself from throttling Lord Travis. And second, she needed to steady her wobbly knees in order to keep herself from swooning.
Surely, he was spouting lies. The marquess had sent him to frighten her. This highly improper visit by a cravatless rogue was merely a bullying tactic, an attempt to manipulate her. Nothing more.
“How dare you barge into our home, threatening us? You say you are suffering from the effects of last night’s overindulgence, but I think that you must still be under the influence of very strong spirits indeed if you imagine you can waltz into my parlor and order me and my uncle about.”
He dropped his head into his hands—very large, tanned hands—and groaned. When he looked up at her, a hint of compassion shone in his eyes. And it frightened her more than the coldness that had been there before.
“I should have realized that this news would be quite a shock to you,” he said softly. “I’ve been away from London for several months and I fear I have forgotten my manners.”
“Manners?” She scoffed, with significantly more daring than she felt. “If the sordid tales about you are true, I cannot think you ever possessed them.”
“The tales are mostly correct,” he admitted. “Perhaps ninety percent factual. But even I am not normally in the business of ousting young ladies from their homes.”
“Then why are you here now?” she demanded. She had her suspicions, and her traitorous heart skipped a beat. Perhaps the marquess hadn’t given up on her after all.
“It’s complicated. But I assure you that I’m not a complete monster.”
“No?” she said, not bothering to hide her skepticism. “Am I to suppose then, you are only ninety percent monster?”
He grinned, and the flash of white teeth and the crinkles around his eyes made her breath catch in her throat. Vexing, that. She crossed her arms over her chest in order to resist the urge to fan herself.
“I truly regret,” he said sincerely, “that I must be the bearer of this unpleasant news, but—”
“Unpleasant?” she repeated. “Unpleasant is a chilly rain during one’s morning walk or an irksome pebble in the toe of one’s slipper. This news of yours is beyond unpleasant, sir. It’s … it’s … perfectly … horrid.”
“Come now.” His cajoling tone—the sort men routinely reserved for calming hysterical females—set her teeth on edge. “It’s not as though you’ll be reduced to living in the streets. I am certain one of your sisters could be persuaded to take in you and your uncle. Besides, for you, the change in living arrangements will only be a temporary situation.”
She shot him a fake, toothy smile. “And why is that, my lord?”
Scoundrel that he was, he had the good grace to look mildly contrite. Rising to his considerable height, he raked a hand through his thick sandy brown hair. “I only meant … that is … I assume you will soon marry and have your own household to run.”
“My, my,” she said, walking closer. “You seem to have figured all of this out, haven’t you? When I choose to marry—if I choose to marry at all—is none of your concern. And it is entirely beside the point. Did you honestly think my uncle and I would willingly abandon our home—the same loving home he opened to me and my sisters after my parents suddenly died—for your convenience?”
“It’s not as though I’m asking you to abandon a palace.” He flicked a glance at the spot beside the window where the wallpaper had begun to peel and at the huge ink stain on the worn wooden floor that the settee couldn’t quite conceal.
Julie felt heat creep up her neck. Perhaps it wasn’t the grandest of houses or furnished in the latest style. Rather, it was adorned in warm memories and love. Aunt Elspeth’s portrait, the mounds of papers, and creak of the stairs were all part of the charm of the place. All part of what made it a home. Uncle Alistair would have preferred to keep the house the way it had always been, but Julie and her sisters had insisted on making a few improvements. “We plan to undertake renovations as soon as my sister and her husband return from their honeymoon.”
“Not a moment too soon,” he said dryly.
Why on earth was she attempting to defend their home to the likes of him? “You have no right to stroll into this house and judge it.”
Dragging a hand down his chiseled cheek, he sighed. “Actually, I do.”
She snorted indelicately. “Forgive me if I seem unwilling to take the word of a man who could not be bothered to don a cravat before venturing out of doors this morning.”
“Miss Lacey,” he said smoothly, “I will not pretend that your poor opinion of me is unwarranted. It does not change the fact, however, that this house belongs to neither you nor your uncle. You will vacate these premises, and that may happen in one of two ways.”
She batted her lashes mockingly. “Is that so? Please enlighten me.”
“Gladly.” He moved within a foot of her, so close that she could see the sprinkling of dark hair above the gaping collar of his shirt. “Either you tell the staff to begin packing your things immediately and inform your uncle of the impending move, o
r…”
“Or what, my lord?”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Or I will do it for you.”
Her heart pounded wildly in her chest and her mouth went dry. He wouldn’t be so callous … would he?
Feigning nonchalance, she shrugged. “My staff would not take orders from you, nor would my uncle. I am the mistress of this house, and I have no intention of leaving it.” She strode past him, ignoring the sudden frisson of attraction she felt as her shoulder brushed against his arm, and deposited herself on the worn seat cushion of the chair. “If you wish for me to go, you shall have to remove me by force.”
Chapter FOUR
Sam cursed under his breath. The gossip rags may have pronounced him London’s greatest rogue, but he wasn’t so depraved that he’d physically remove a lady from her home.
He may have briefly considered tossing Miss Lacey over his shoulder and wrapping his arms around her lithe legs … or scooping her out of the chair and cradling her round bottom against his torso … but that would never do.
He shook his head to clear the wayward thoughts. What was required here was finesse. He was capable of unleashing devastating charm—when it suited his needs. And while the current conditions were hardly optimal for flirtation, he would have to make do.
The coach had barely slowed to a stop this morning before the three henchmen shoved him out, leaving him sprawled on the pavement outside the house with nothing but the wrinkled clothes he’d been wearing the night before. He had no money, no valet, no shave … not even a bloody neckcloth.
A week ago, he might have crawled back home begging for mercy and promising to turn over a new leaf.
But he’d pushed his brother too far this time. Even someone as honorable and dutiful as Nigel had his limits, and Sam had crossed them. He couldn’t return home to Nigel—or go any other damned place, for that matter—until he’d completed the simple task he’d been given.