“Your exchange?” He scoffed. “He pushed you out of the way of a runaway carriage—”
“Horse,” she gritted out. A father who couldn’t even be bothered with the details of her near death. “It was a horse.” She’d not sully their last exchange in the park by sharing it with this man.
“It was more than that, Father,” Andrew added helpfully from beside him. “Very heroic stuff.”
“Bah, horse, carriage, it matters not.” No, because, ultimately, she’d never truly mattered. Ever. Not beyond the match he might make with her. She hated the stabbing pain that reminder still had the power to inflict. Her father raked a methodical stare over her. “I don’t owe Huntly a pence.” And the gentleman rose all the more in her estimation for it. “The man cannot do a thing to erase my debt to Tennyson.” Or any other man. The viscount mopped at his perspiring brow. “Either way,” he barked, “rogues like Huntly don’t wed chits like you. You want Huntly? Then make him your lover after you wed Tennyson.”
“Father,” Andrew said sharply over Justina’s gasp.
“Mind your business, boy,” their father snapped, earning a blush from his son. “Or I’ll use you to make a match,” he threatened. “Cut you off unless you find a lady with a fat dowry.”
All the color leeched from Andrew’s skin and his throat worked.
“That is better,” Father said with a grunt. He nudged his chin so quickly in Justina’s direction, his jowls jiggled. “I’ll not speak to you again about Tennyson. Are we clear?”
A breathtaking hatred stole through her, gripping into her like vicious talons at the unneeded reminder of their father’s ruthlessness. What manner of depraved father spoke so crudely to and about his own children? Mayhap five days ago, she would have given a weak nod. Mayhap looked to her brother for his intervention, once more. Looked to Edmund or her sister for help.
In a handful of days, however, it was as though she’d been set free from the gilded cage her father was so very determined to keep her trapped within. …Never make apologies for who you are or what you have done… She seethed. “I will never marry a gentleman because you order it and certainly not to aid you in any way.”
Andrew’s mouth fell open and he alternated his wide-eyed stare between father and daughter.
After years of being the proper, demure daughter, she’d at last found her courage. And even with her father’s vile words, a lightness filled her. It left her breathless with the power of her own strength.
The viscount sputtered, his fleshy lips flapping like he was a trout plucked from the river in search of water. “You’ll do as you’re told.”
Justina tipped her chin up at a mutinous angle. “I’ll not.” For after she rejected Tennyson, there would be a countless stream of others that her father would seek to erase his debt with, using her as the pawn. And if she acquiesced, where would she be? Miserable as her mother, with little joy in life.
“Does your mother’s happiness mean so little to you?”
And just like that, the argument was sucked from her, draining the air from her lungs. Her mother, another pawn in her father’s schemes of life. “You’d dare speak to me about her happiness?” That shocked inquiry ripped from her lips. “You, who has brought her nothing but sad—”
He shot a hand out and she gasped as he squeezed her wrist in a punishing grip. Tears dotted her vision and she blinked them back. She’d be damned if she allowed him the satisfaction of a single one of those crystalline drops. “You’ve gotten mouthy, gel.” he snapped. “Used to be biddable and obedient like your mother.”
Yes, she had. Nick had helped her use her voice. “I will write Edmund,” she lied, invoking the one name her father feared above all others. His son-in-law; the man who’d become protector and defender of the Barretts. He turned an ashen shade of gray and he released her suddenly. Justina rubbed the bruised flesh, reveling in her father’s weakness. It fueled her. “I daresay, Edmund will not take kindly to your ruthless attempts at marrying me off,” she continued warningly.
He scrunched his mouth up tight and then some of the tension left his broad shoulders. “Your sister nearly died giving Rutland a whelp.” Her heart clenched at the reminder of her sister’s near death. After a difficult childbirth that had nearly cost Phoebe her life and called their mother to her side, Justina could not be a burden to them. Not when there was her nephew, just born, still by her mother’s report, fighting for his life. “You’d be so selfish and expect him to leave your sister?”
Never. She’d just not believed her father saw the special bond that existed between her and Phoebe, to know he could use it against her.
Triumph filled his bulging eyes. “You’ll watch your sister this evening, Andrew. Make sure she’s a good girl.” While their miserable sire, no doubt, spent his night in the gaming room set up by their host.
Justina curled her fingers hard into the ripped edge of her seat. She’d come to at last accept the truth—nothing could be done to stop her father’s descent into ruin. With his every action, he dragged his wife and her into that dark abyss of uncertainty. And she’d tired of it. Tired of his influence in her life. Wanted some control so she could be free of him.
After a seemingly endless carriage ride, their aged black barouche rocked to a halt outside the Viscount Wessex’ townhouse; the white stucco awash in candlelight. As soon as the carriage door opened, she surged up from her seat, desperate to be out of the suffocating confines with her father.
She accepted the assistance of the liveried driver with a murmur of thanks. Squaring her shoulders, she marched quickly toward the fashionable entrance of the Mayfair residence.
“Justina,” her brother called, hurrying after her. His longer-legged strides easily ate away the distance between them. She shot him a look from the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, his face a mottled red. “I should not have let him say those things or put his hands on you.” He balled his gloved hands.
“It is fine,” she assured him, some of the tension leaving her. “Just as Edmund cannot stop him from drinking and wagering, neither can you make him be kind.”
His mouth tightened. “But you are my sister and I should have defended you.”
Yes, he should have. Phoebe had stood up to their father. Justina had begun to challenge the wastrel viscount. At what point would Andrew find his voice? Or mayhap he never would? Regret pulled at her heart. They reached the inside of the ballroom and stood in the receiving line. Andrew took her by the arm. Justina lifted her gaze questioningly up to his.
“I won’t let you marry Tennyson. No matter what Father wishes.” He dropped his voice to a hushed whisper and she was struck by a solemnity she’d never before seen or known in her brother. “I know what it is to love…” The woolgathering… Of course. “And be unable to…act on that love.” She’d been so consumed by her own dire circumstances she’d not allowed herself to truly think of Andrew.
“I’m sorry,” she began softly.
He flicked a hand in a patently false dismissive gesture, eyeing the crowd as they moved closer to the front of the line. “If you care for him, then nothing should come between that.”
A moment later, they were announced. From her vantage at the top of the floor, Justina skimmed her gaze over the crowd, searching for one gentleman.
“He’s in the corner,” Andrew said from the side of his mouth as they started down the stairs. “Staring at you.”
Her heart kicked up a beat and she found him with her gaze. Their stares collided over the guests’ heads, and all the world briefly melted away in a whir of distant music and the crowd’s laughter.
What was he thinking?
Having ascended to his title two years prior, Nick had found little pleasure in the mindlessness of ton functions. His presence at these same functions now served a purpose.
From where he stood on the edge of the ballroom, ladies from debutantes to dowagers to widows with wicked promises in their eyes stole glances in his dir
ection. At another time, those sultry invitations would have beckoned, a welcome diversion from the tedium of these infernal affairs. Alas, his purpose in being inside Lord and Lady Wessex’s ballroom was singular in nature and had everything to do with the lady surrounded by a crush of suitors.
The pale pink fabric of Justina’s satin gown would have made any other lady with such cream white skin sallow. Instead, the chandelier cast a soft, ethereal glow upon the shimmery fabric that clung to her ample hips and curved buttocks. She had a body made for loving. I want her.
He’d only seen her as a means to an end in his game of revenge. Now, he looked at the lady with lust blazing through him and an eagerness filled him to lay claim to her for reasons that moved beyond vengeance. Why don’t you court her? That tantalizing whisper slithered around his brain. He could simply twist his plans into something more honorable so that Justina never knew what he’d originally intended. Find another way to deal with Rutland. Then, he’d have both vengeance and also have Justina as his wife. The air lodged in his chest, staggering him with both the depth of his weakness and folly in his wanting to believe that both ends could be achieved.
“I expect if you intend to woo the lady, you would be better served by offering her a set.” Chilton’s voice laden with amusement sounded from over his shoulder and Nick snapped his attention sideways.
Entirely too smug, champagne flute in hand, Chilton positioned himself beside him. Nick quietly cursed. “Have a care,” he bit out. Gossips lurked everywhere, hungry for an on dit to bandy about.
Unfazed by that admonishment, Chilton whistled slowly through his teeth. “You did the lady a disservice. She is lovely.”
Such words did little justice to capture the effervescent beauty of the small, rounded-in-all-the-right-places siren. He’d sooner pledge allegiance to the Marquess of Rutland than openly admit he lusted after the lady who’d serve as just one pawn in his scheme. “It hardly matters what the lady looks like,” he reminded his friend in hushed tones. Unease simmered in his belly. Was the reminder for him or Chilton?
“I expect it matters to some.” Chilton tipped his chin toward the dance floor and Nick followed that movement.
He narrowed his eyes as one of Society’s notorious rogues, the Earl of Bradburn, escorted Justina onto the dance floor. Even with the length of the ballroom between them, he caught the hungry glint in the gentleman’s eyes. Another damned rogue.
Something dark and unpleasant slithered around his insides; something that felt remarkably like jealousy. As soon as the irrational idea slid in, he scoffed. His sole interest in the lady had to do with her name and nothing more. And yet…Lord Tennyson? Or Lord Bradburn? He expected the lady’s father to be lax, but what in blazes was the lady’s brother doing allowing either cad near her? Nick gritted his teeth as the haunting strains of a waltz filled the ballroom.
“Bradburn is known to be a rogue but a good deal better than that treacherous bastard Tennyson,” his friend added, sipping too casually from his glass.
Better than a treacherous bastard like myself. He tamped down that nagging guilt and fixed on Bradburn’s very precise, practiced movements as he guided Justina around the dance floor. The bloody bastard settled one hand low on her waist. Too low. A growl lodged in Nick’s throat. It didn’t matter the gentleman’s interest. Or that he dipped his lips close to her ear and said something that raised one of those beguiling blushes—
The stem of Nick’s champagne flute snapped under the weight of his hand and several liveried footmen rushed over to clean away the mess.
“Everything all right?” Chilton asked, furrowing his brow.
“Fine,” he bit out, the lie coming easily. All the while, an unholy desire filled him to stalk across the room and rip the cocksure earl’s wandering hands from her. By God, if the bastard moved his hands any lower…
“Tennyson has taken note,” his friend murmured. Nick followed his pointed stare over to the marquess who stared on at Justina, like a vulture prepared to pick off its prey. “They say Bradburn’s in need of a fortune and, as such, given the lady’s own miserable circumstances, the gentleman poses no risk to your plans.”
Nick blinked slowly. His plans? Of course. Wooing her and ruining her and then breaking her heart. Distaste filled his mouth as he was presented so coolly and more accurately with his intentions. Why should he feel this restlessness at discussing a scheme that had been so carefully crafted to make Rutland pay at last for his crimes?
“That gentleman, however,” his friend went on, “does present a threat.” Chilton gave another discreet wave toward the stone-faced Lord Tennyson on the fringe of the ballroom, deeply watching Justina’s every movement.
The lady’s story about that ruthless bastard surged to his memory. Yet, staring at Tennyson and the wholly removed way in which he studied her, there was something methodical and precise in how he sized her up. A frisson of unease dusted his spine. The orchestra concluded the set and he found Justina amongst the crowd. He dipped his eyebrows.
She moved quickly through the ballroom, skirting the edge of the dance floor. Periodically, she cast a look about. Where in blazes was she going? Then the ugly possibility slid forward like a venomous serpent poisoning his thoughts. Bradburn’s whisper. Justina’s crimson blush. Did the lady even now sneak off to meet the gentleman?
He growled. This rapidly spiraling rage only had to do with his plans for her. Nothing more. Not taking his gaze from the lady, Nick followed her movements as she weaved between guests and clung to the perimeter of the ballroom. Stealing one last look, Justina slipped out of the ballroom with a stealth a thief in the Dials would have been hard-pressed to find fault with.
“Most men would feel some compunction at how easy the lady is making this for you,” Chilton said, clucking his tongue.
“I’m not most men,” Nick reminded him. With that, he set chase. Quickening his steps, he kept his gaze trained forward, avoiding the lords and ladies seeking to capture his attention. They’d not bothered to so much as glance at an earl’s untitled grandson. Now, they’d all sell their souls for a word of approval from him.
Nick reached the back of the ballroom and glanced back and forth down the empty corridors. He silently cursed. Bloody hell, the lady was quick. He did a small circle and then froze mid-movement.
A small, golden-haired child stared back at him with unabashed curiosity. “Hullo,” she greeted.
Bloody hell. Discovered by a damned child. “Uh…” He glanced about.
“What is your name?”
His mind went blank at her inquiry. “Nick,” he settled for.
“I am Marcia,” she offered with no prompting. “My mama and papa are Lord and Lady Wessex.”
The girl snagged his full attention. Her father was Lord Wessex. The man who’d owned the Marquess of Atbrooke’s debt and run him out of England; an act that had earned this family a powerful enemy. The innocent child staring back through inquisitive brown eyes that made this family, who’d only been a name until now, real in ways he didn’t want them to be. Just as he didn’t wish for Justina Barrett to be anything more than Rutland’s clever-minded, bluestocking sister-in-law. For it made them human. People who lived and laughed and loved, and not simply the pieces upon a chessboard he’d maneuvered from afar.
“Are you looking for the pretty blonde lady?” Marcia asked curiously. The girl drifted over and Nick froze. She was near in age to Felicity, a child born to his sister from a hateful marriage. A marriage that had been a product of Rutland’s actions thirteen years earlier. His jaw clenched reflexively. “Are you angry?”
He flushed. How perceptive children were. They saw more than the adults of the world around them. “No,” he said gruffly, desperately eager to be free of the girl so he might locate Justina.
She scrunched her brow up and continued coming closer with a fearlessness that would one day lead to her ruin. “Yes, well, you seem angry,” she persisted. “You’re frowning. And your eyes have gone cold
.”
All of him had gone ice cold long ago.
“Is it because you’re looking for your lady?” she ventured, brightening. That innocent, whimsical supposition once again hinted at her dangerous innocence.
“I am,” he said, gentling his tones.
Marcia cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered loudly. “She went to the end of the hall to my mother’s gardens.” Then, touching her fingertip to her nose, the child winked and rushed down the opposite hall in a rustle of white skirts.
Nick stared after her a moment and then gave his head a shake. The gardens. Once again, the whispering of jealousy slithered around and he increased his stride. Of course, she didn’t go to secretly meet another. And yet…he sought her out. He’d be damned if Tennyson, Bradburn, or any other dared encroach on Justina Barrett.
Chapter 10
After fleeing Lady Wessex’s ballroom, Justina stole through the quiet corridors, desperate to be free of the oppressive suitors and drivel about the color of her eyes and hair—all of it. The allegations made by her father earlier in the carriage ride rang mockingly around the chambers of her mind, and she hated the vise that squeezed about her heart.
She reached the end of the hall and shoved the door open. A cold blast of night air sucked the breath from her lungs and she blinked, struggling to adjust her eyes to the unexpected garden sanctuary. Ignoring the bite of the late night chill, she stepped outside and closed the door quietly behind her. When presented with the demons in the ballroom or the cold of the night, she’d always seek the latter.
A night breeze tugged at the budding branches overhead and sent a handful of forgotten pink petals tumbling over the graveled path. Rubbing her hands back and forth over her arms, Justina willed warmth into her limbs. With each step that carried her deeper into the gardens, her slippers churned up bits of pebbles.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 125