The Rogue Is Back in Town

by Anna Bennett

  Gads. The coach Nigel was sending for her would arrive in a half hour. “I must go and dress,” she said regretfully. But it was no doubt for the best.

  A roguish Sam was hard enough to resist.

  But this tender, genuine version of him? Nigh impossible.

  Chapter TWENTY-THREE

  Julie took extra care in dressing for the dinner party. Her blue satin gown was fashionable, but not ostentatious. The lustrous pearls at her throat were elegant, but not garish. The loose curls around her face were pretty, but not overdone.

  No one—not even Nigel, the noble Marquess of Currington—could find fault with her appearance.

  And if she didn’t turn as many heads as she had in the daring red silk a couple of days ago, she didn’t mind.

  No one would mistake her for a wallflower tonight.

  Uncle Alistair had kissed her cheek in the parlor before she left and reminded her of her promise to find a husband.

  Sam was conspicuously absent.

  She told herself she wasn’t disappointed, that she only wanted to wish him a good night after their heartfelt conversation that afternoon.

  But it was just as well that he didn’t show, because she tended to lose her head around him, and tonight of all nights, she needed to keep her wits about her.

  Now, she sank against the plush velvet squabs of Nigel’s coach, admiring the gleaming woodwork of the cab and fine curtains adorning the windows. Never had she ridden in such a luxurious conveyance, and she felt rather like a princess being whisked away to a royal ball.

  She wished she knew who the other guests would be and hoped Charlotte might attend so that there would be at least one friendly face at the table. But the truth was, she wasn’t attending Nigel’s dinner party to mingle with important people or exchange the latest on-dit.

  Her primary goal of the evening was to speak to Nigel about her uncle’s house—and convince the marquess to allow her uncle to stay there. Julie was not above begging, although she’d prefer it if Nigel were to meet her half way.

  And she saw no reason why he shouldn’t.

  Which reminded her of her secondary goal of the evening—to determine the nature of their relationship, once and for all.

  First, at the masquerade ball, he’d kissed her, then failed to call in the days and weeks that followed.

  He’d sent his brother to evict her and her uncle, and then sought her out at the Breckinridge Ball, insulted her family, and promised to see what he could do about her uncle’s house—whatever that meant.

  And now, he’d invited her to a dinner party, which certainly reflected some level of interest … and perhaps an inclination to make their association public or even woo her.

  But she couldn’t be sure.

  More important, she wasn’t entirely certain she wanted Nigel to court her. After their kiss, she’d been desperate to see him, or at least receive some small token of his affection—a poem, flowers, a note.

  But that was before Sam had shown up on her doorstep, confusing her with his heat-filled glances and knee-weakening kisses. Everything about him was dangerous. Deliciously so.

  What sort of woman was she, to kiss two brothers? Meg and Beth would be appalled at her wantonness. Gads, she was appalled herself.

  But the tentative kiss she’d shared with Nigel was nothing compared to her all-body-consuming kiss with Sam. It was like comparing burlap to silk. Water to champagne.

  Not that the kiss with Nigel had been bad, precisely.

  But it had not set her blood on fire or made her hunger for something she couldn’t even name.

  To be fair, Nigel had no doubt restrained himself during their kiss. Out of respect for her. He’d probably flogged himself mercilessly for taking the liberty of chastely touching his lips to hers.

  And in spite of that minor transgression, he was ten times the gentleman Sam was. If she truly had a choice between the two brothers, it should be no contest. Nigel was handsome, wealthy, titled, respected.

  But Julie didn’t burn for him the way she did for Sam.

  As the coach rolled to a stop in front of Nigel’s stately townhouse, her belly twisted in knots.

  Tonight was important. She must behave properly throughout the evening and make polite conversation with the esteemed guests. Her manners must be flawless.

  She alighted from the coach, and glided up the walkway just as she and her sister had practiced as girls, balancing a book on their heads—but without fail, Julie’s book had ended up bruising someone’s toe.

  The marquess’s butler admitted her, quickly ushering her into the foyer, as if he’d been expecting her. “Welcome, Miss Lacey,” he said stiffly. “I’ll see you to the drawing room.”

  “Am I late?” Julie asked.

  He remained stony-faced. “Not that I am aware, miss.”

  Why, then, was the house so still? She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and strained her ears, listening for the buzz of guests greeting one another, enjoying pre-dinner drinks. But the only sound she heard was the click of her heels on the polished marble floors.

  The house was cool, sober, and refined—not unlike Nigel.

  She followed the servant down a corridor, past muted landscapes and genteel portraits. At last, the butler swung open a door and waved her through. “Lord Currington awaits you inside.”

  Julie frowned. “And the other guests?” she asked—but the stodgy butler had already turned and left.

  So, she took a deep breath and walked into the marquess’s drawing room, her head held high.

  He stood alone, his back to her, staring out a window at the moonless sky. The resemblance to Sam was so striking that, for a moment, she felt her heart flutter.

  “Good evening, Miss Lacey.” Nigel faced her, his cool gaze flitting over her appreciatively.

  She waited till he approached, and curtsied. “Lord Currington.”

  He bowed over the hand she offered in a perfectly gentlemanly fashion. “It is good to see you, Juliette.”

  She arched a brow. “Where are the rest of your guests?”

  He had the good grace to look chagrined. “Forgive my bit of subterfuge. There are no other guests.”

  A chill slithered down her spine. “You deceived me.”

  “Not exactly. This is a dinner party.” He paused. “For two.”

  Rage bubbled and seethed beneath her skin. His good looks, title, and wealth did not give him the right to manipulate her. “I must go.” She headed toward the door as fast as she dared, invisible books be damned.

  “I had thought tonight would be an opportune time to discuss your uncle’s house,” he said casually, as if he were commenting on the lack of rain.

  She froze, her slippers glued to the floor.

  “You are certainly welcome to leave if you wish,” he continued smoothly. “My coach and driver are at your disposal. But I was under the impression that you wanted to talk about your uncle’s situation. A subject that is best addressed privately.”

  Steaming, she spun to face him. “Do not pretend that you arranged this evening out of consideration for me. You lured me here under false pretenses. It is beneath you.”

  He dropped his chin, contrite. “Perhaps I am not the saint everyone imagines me to be. I am only a man, Juliette. And if I’ve erred in bringing you here tonight, I beg your forgiveness … but I do hope you’ll stay.”

  She hesitated. “I want to see the deed to the house. In the unlikely event that my uncle cannot locate his bill of sale or lease, I wish to know your selling price.”

  He shot her an amused, superior smile—the sort her palm itched to slap off his face. “We may discuss all of those details … in due time. But dinner is already served, and I think we shall both need sustenance before we launch into such matters. Will you do me the honor of accompanying me to the dining room?”

  Meg and Beth would tell her she was a fool to even consider dining alone with the marquess. But she was already in his home, and she despe
rately needed answers. Besides, she knew he would never physically hurt her. Whatever his faults, he’d never threatened her in that manner. “I will dine with you,” she said slowly. “But you must understand this. I will not tolerate any more lies, any more deception. If you fail to be truthful with me, I’ll walk out your door and never speak to you again.”

  “That would wound me greatly,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. Julie searched his face but couldn’t detect a trace of sarcasm.

  “Then I suggest you do not test me,” she said.

  “Fair enough.” He offered his arm, and she allowed him to escort her through to the most elegantly set table she’d ever seen. Three softly glowing candelabra lined the center of the long table, casting light that danced off every crystal glass, every porcelain plate. The silver cutlery sparkled and the soft green wallpaper shimmered. Two rows of gold-framed landscapes surrounded them like windows to luxurious, exotic worlds.

  Julie refrained from gaping as she sank onto her silk-covered chair seat and spread her crisp napkin across her lap. It was a far cry from their cozy dining room at home. Uncle Alistair’s table invited shared confidences and genuine laughter. The marquess’s table, by contrast, invited careful conversation and controlled smiles.

  Though Julie preferred the former, it was impossible not to be impressed with the opulence that surrounded her. And for the briefest of moments, she recalled what it had felt like to be a wallflower. Plain and unfashionable in the midst of a sea of beauty and grace; small and powerless in an ocean of wealth and aristocracy.

  She didn’t ever want to feel that way again.

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  During the first several courses, Nigel watched Julie out of the corner of his eye, studying her like she was one of Uncle Alistair’s rare specimens. From time to time, he inquired politely about her sisters and solicitously asked whether the meal was to her liking.

  Of course it was—every dish was a delicacy, from the poached salmon to the sliced ham to the glazed carrots—but Julie tasted little of it, for she was too nervous to eat more than a few bites of anything.

  As she nibbled on her strawberry trifle, she wondered why someone with such extravagant tastes would want to own her uncle’s ramshackle townhouse. And since the marquess did not seem inclined to broach the topic, she did.

  “Why do you want my uncle’s house”—she spread her hands in front of her—“when you have all of this?”

  Nigel set his napkin on the table and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t mean to be impertinent, but it is my house. Your uncle merely occupies it.”

  “So do I,” she reminded him.

  “Let us repair to the garden,” he suggested.

  Alarms sounded in her head. “I would prefer the drawing room.”

  “Very well,” he said in a placating tone.

  This time, she didn’t take the arm he offered. She had tried to be civil, truly she had. But her patience had been stretched to the thinnest of threads. She marched ahead of him into the drawing room and paced before the dormant fireplace.

  He regarded her thoughtfully, his forehead creased. “You are very agitated. I shall pour you a glass of claret.”

  “I do not care for anything to drink. What I would like is for you to answer one simple question.”

  “I shall try.” He stepped closer, all attentiveness and concern.

  “If the house does indeed belong to you, at what price would you be willing to sell it?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck as though pained. “That question is more difficult to answer than you think.”

  “I don’t see why. You needn’t tell me down to the sixpence, after all—I only want to know approximately how many thousands of pounds you believe the house and property are worth.”

  “They are worth a great deal to me, Juliette.”

  Her knees trembled slightly, but she kept the quaver out of her voice. She had very little money of her own, and Nigel surely knew it. “How much?”

  “I am not certain I can name my price in pounds.” His gaze swept over her face, her breasts, and her hips—so briefly she might have imagined it. “There is something I value more.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Although she had an inkling—enough to make her dig her nails into her palms.

  He cupped her elbows lightly. “Above all else, I value … our friendship.”

  “Our friendship,” she repeated, incredulous.

  “Yes, I’ve missed you. Your sparkling wit and your zeal for life.” He blinked, the picture of innocence. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “It is. If you valued our friendship so greatly you would have called on me after the masquerade ball.”

  “I wanted to,” he said earnestly. “I started to visit you half a dozen times … but I didn’t want to mislead you.”

  She recalled his stinging words on the last occasion they’d spoken. “Because you could never court someone like me.”

  “You are not naïve, Juliette. It’s one of a great many things I admire about you. I thought you would appreciate my honesty.” He squeezed her elbows affectionately, coaxingly. “I have worked hard to establish myself as a gentleman of the highest honor and cannot simply walk away from that. I’m afraid my good reputation is a cross that I must bear.”

  She sniffed. “My brothers-in-law—an earl and a duke—were not above linking themselves to my family. But perhaps they are more courageous than you.”

  “Perhaps. But allow me to remind you that neither of their reputations was pristine to begin with—far from it. I cannot afford to thumb my nose at society’s rules. Not if I wish to succeed in becoming one of the most powerful lords in England. And I do.”

  A chill stole over her skin. “You say you value my friendship, but that duty prevents you from associating with me. I see no way to reconcile those two things.”

  “We can maintain our bond and, indeed, nurture it further … but we must do so privately.”

  A potent mixture of disbelief and anger pulsed through her, and she pulled away. “I thought you were honorable, but I was terribly wrong. A true gentleman wouldn’t suggest something so untoward.”

  “I am not asking you to do anything that makes you uneasy or that you deem improper. I will savor your friendship—no matter what form it takes.”

  She arched a brow, highly skeptical. “Even if it is entirely platonic?”

  Nigel rubbed his chin, a gesture that instantly reminded her of Sam. “I will not insult your intelligence by pretending I would not wish for more. I would wish for as much of you as you are willing to give. I want to take care of you—and your uncle. I want to spend time with you and grow closer to you.” He raked a hand through his hair—perhaps the first time she’d ever seen his control slip. “But I will not pressure you to give more than you wish.”

  “If you sincerely meant that, you would not try to force my uncle and me out of our house.”

  “Please, Juliette. Don’t try to paint me as some sort of demon. The only thing I ask of you is your friendship … and time.”

  Gooseflesh covered her arms. “Time?”

  “Time to be with you,” he clarified. “Like we are tonight.”

  “You mean privately.”

  He frowned, his face full of regret. “That is of necessity. I wish it were not so. But please do not doubt the depth of my feelings for you. I know that I have yet to earn your trust. Tell me you’ll give me a chance.”

  It seemed to her that the air had been sucked from the room. She could hear the ticking of the clock on the mantel and feel the weight of his gaze on her.

  “I shall require time to think about your offer,” she managed.

  “I understand.” But his jaw twitched, belying his patience. He was a man used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. “But I implore you to have mercy. Do not deprive me of the pleasure of your company for too long.”

  Though he didn’t explicitly state what the consequences might
be if she were to delay longer than he deemed appropriate, the threat was there, hanging over her—a tangible, horrible thing.

  He not only had the power to evict her and her uncle … he had the power to ruin her. To leave her reputation in tatters and destroy any chance she might have of making a good match.

  “I need to go,” she said. “But I must ask you something first.”

  “Of course.” His pale blue eyes softened. “Anything.”

  “Why did you send your brother to our house? Why would you involve him at all?”

  “I hoped it would keep him out of trouble for a while. Besides,” he continued, “it was time for Samuel to do something useful. I’m sure you’re anxious to be rid of him, and the sooner we reach an agreement, the sooner he will be out from under your feet.”

  “And in the meantime, I assume he keeps you apprised of my comings and goings?”

  Nigel shrugged. “He’s been surprisingly helpful.”

  Julie’s heart sank. She’d thought something real was growing between her and Sam, but perhaps he was little more than a spy for his brother.

  And a source of blackmail. Nigel was well aware of Sam’s roguish reputation, and she’d been a shockingly easy conquest.

  “I will give you an answer within the week,” she said. That should give her sufficient time to search Uncle Alistair’s house for a lease or bill of sale. And in the event she couldn’t find one, she’d have time to make a decision.

  His eyes narrowed as though he’d object, but then he nodded. “No longer, Juliette. I must have your answer then.” She inclined her head, and he offered her his arm. “I’ll see you out.”

  When they reached the elegant foyer, she turned to him. “Good evening, Nigel.”

  He bowed over her hand and brushed the lightest of kisses across the back of it. “Sleep well, dear Juliette. And know that I shall be haunted by dreams of you.”

  She walked down his pavement to his carriage on wobbly knees and climbed inside, relieved when the door shut behind her. As the coach slowly rolled away, she took a deep breath and sank into the soft velvet—and felt something on the seat beside her.