Mr. Conrad offered a shy smile to Miss Heaton before holding out his arm. “Shall we see what Lady Constance’s piano bench holds?”
Gareth wasn’t sure whose blush was deeper, Miss Heaton’s or Mr. Conrad’s. But the couple took their place at the pianoforte, and after a brief discussion, the music began.
Cheswick came to stand beside Gareth. “I’ve seen happier faces at wakes,” he murmured.
“Careful, someone will hear you and your persona will be ruined,” Gareth warned softly. “Who’s the boy?”
“I suppose you should call him my protégé,” Cheswick said under Miss Heaton’s soaring soprano. “His father lost most of his money through bad investments and the shock killed him. James was at Christ College and old Master Larson nearly had an apoplexy at the thought of his best oarsman leaving, so I paid for the rest of James’ studies.”
“Ever the faithful Oxford old boy,” Gareth said dryly, trying to keep his eyes on Miss Heaton instead of her sister. Twin patches of color on Julia’s cheeks gave evidence of his failure.
“Enjoying the music or the view?”
“You were saying about Mr. Conrad?” Gareth returned.
Cheswick shrugged. “I’ve put in a word for him at the Foreign Office. I was thinking of trying to get him a position there, but I have a feeling that Cupid is about to interfere. Look at them, sitting there together. They make a nice looking couple, don’t you think?”
“Since when are you in the business of matchmaking?” Gareth growled. “I’d warn him to stay away from Miss Lucy Heaton. If he’s penniless, her father will never permit his suit. It will spare him for being played for a fool.”
Cheswick’s gaze returned to regard Julia. “She’s become a very beautiful woman,” he observed. “Much lovelier than when she was as a girl.”
“I suppose.” Gareth brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from his jacket. “I don’t really remember.”
“Liar,” Cheswick accused even more softly. “You’re still in love with her.”
If the first part of Cheswick’s statement had not been followed by the second, honor would demand a challenge and a decision to a choice of weapons. But shooting a close friend was certainly not on Gareth’s schedule of things to accomplish.
And truth was truth, so Gareth must devise a new strategy to finally extricate Julia Fleming from his life, if not his soul. The last twenty-four hours’ victory may belong to her, but by damn now he was prepared. Surely a man with Gareth’s battlefield experience could lay such a strategy?
The music ended to the guests’ enthusiastic applause, and Mr. Conrad led Miss Heaton back to her sister. The young woman sat, and Mr. Conrad remained to converse with them.
“You’ll have to take her in, you know,” Cheswick said under the chatter of the guests’ conversation.
“What?” His statement pulled Gareth out of planning his strategy.
“William always takes Constance in when Samuel isn’t here,” Cheswick explained. “Orders of a loving but slightly jealous husband. So as a Duke, you must escort Lady Fleming to the dining room. Everyone else here is only a mister or a knight and as such hasn’t sufficient rank.” He winked and adopted his affected tone. “After all, I’m just an Earl. Or do you want me to do it?”
“No.”
The vehemence in Gareth’s single word answer brought a smile to the earl’s face. “I thought not,” he chuckled.
The door opened and Marley announced luncheon was ready. Biting back his scowl, Gareth strode forward to where Julia and Miss Heaton conversed with Mr. Conrad. The youth stepped back as Gareth halted before them. “Lady Fleming,” he managed without gritting his teeth, “May I have the honor of taking you in?”
For a moment, she veiled her eyes under the long lashes he remembered so well. Then she looked at him and waves of unwanted desire hammered down his spine.
“Of course,” she said at last. “Mr. Conrad, why don’t you take in Lucy?”
Mr. Conrad’s smile could have lit up a cloudy winter night. “Thank you, Lady Fleming,” he said. “Miss Heaton, if you will do me the honor?”
Her smile rivaling his, Miss Heaton rose from beside her sister and placed her hand around his arm. “Over lunch you must tell me where you learned to play so well, Mr. Conrad.”
“Lady Fleming?” Gareth said.
She rose and curled her fingers around his extended arm. A faint floral scent besieged Gareth’s senses like no gunfire ever had and he moved them forward to follow Constance and William out into the hall and into the dining room.
Chapter Seven
“And now, I should like to show you my gardens,” Constance announced rising from the dining room table. “It is too splendid a day to not enjoy the sunshine, do you not think so, Lord Cheswick?”
“My dearest Lady Pettigrew, I am yours to command,” Cheswick replied. “But only after I’ve indulged in a quick smoke. Will the gentleman join me? I have some prime tobacco with me.”
“Tarry not too long,” Constance matched his wit. “Ladies?”
The back garden boasted an Eden of flowers. Butterflies glided over the climbing roses, and remaining blossoms. Chairs and tables were arranged under a giant elm. Between two others, a hammock hung, tempting the guests to try its comfort.
“You have a green thumb, Lady Pettigrew,” one of her guests praised.
“Rather my gardener does,” she replied. “The poor man won’t even let me hand him the shears. I nearly killed the peonies last year.”
The women laughed but Julia found the myriad scents overwhelming. Approaching Constance, she whispered, “Might I have some lavender from the hothouse? I feel a headache coming on and I have none at home.”
“Of course,” Constance said. “Take as much as you like.”
Grateful for a few moments alone, Julia took refuge in the glass-sided building. Sitting across from Gareth at lunch had been an agony, summoning up a host of memories that made her temples throb.
She had met Gareth and Cheswick eight years ago after the latter’s father had purchased the country estate next to her father’s. The two young men had come down for a summer holiday from Oxford. It had been love at first sight for Julia and Gareth, and Cheswick was soon deep in their plans for elopement. After Gareth’s betrayal and her marriage to Charles, she heard that Cheswick was somewhere on the Continent. During the wars, he infrequently returned to London and his stays were too short to renew their friendship. Rumor abounded that he worked for the Foreign Office and was high on Bonaparte’s most-wanted list. He had returned to England shortly after Waterloo, but since then spent most of his time in the country with his parents and sisters. She did not recall him being so frivolous.
Rows of orange trees and giant fichus filled the hothouse. Enormous ferns hung from the ceiling in baskets, their lacy fronds billowing over the sides. Warming sunlight streamed through the panes, turning the building into an enclosed tropical forest. Worktables piled with gardening tools formed a long line at the back of the hothouse before another long line of fichus. Where was the lavender?
She found the herb in a large earthenware pot nestled among baskets of basil and lemon balm on a low table. She broke off a stem and inhaled it, the scent bringing a moment’s calm. What was it Shakespeare had said? “Here’s lavender for remembrance?” No, that was rosemary. Taking a small pair of scissors from the table, she snipped several more pieces and put them in her pocket. She laid down the scissors and turned her attention to the other pots. Surely Constance’s description of having a black thumb was exaggerated. These plants looked perfectly healthy and—
“Julia?”
Gareth. Mouth dry, Julia turned and her hands gripped the table behind her. “Your Grace?”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Fleming,” he said stiffly. “I had no idea you were here. Dash—Lord Cheswick that is—asked me to collect some parsley for his cook. Constance told me to help myself.”
Julia frowned. “Lord Cheswick couldn’t collect it hi
mself?”
He stared at some point over her head. “He’s in the middle of boasting about the matching roans he recently bought at Tattersalls. Dash is keen on horses, if you will recall.”
“I see.”
“And you are here away from the guests because…” His words trailed away, but the question remained in his cautious glance.
“I came to collect some lavender,” she said, taking it from her pocket and holding it up in evidence. Why is breathing suddenly so difficult?
“Ah,” he said. Silence hung between them, the air close and warm. After all this time, they were truly alone. In the sunlight, Gareth’s jade eyes glittered, his face void of expression, but she would not be intimidated.
Gathering her courage, Julia said, “Yes, and at least this affords me the opportunity to speak to you privately.”
His gaze returned to meet hers and he raised one dark eyebrow. “What did you want to say to me?”
“First, I wanted to thank you for the flowers,” she began.
He grimaced. “Why not simply have your sister announce it to the rest of the guests?”
“Lucy meant no harm,” Julia defended. “She’s such a romantic.”
“A lover of novels and poetry, no doubt,” he said scornfully.
“I seem to remember you enjoyed poetry,” she accused. “Why did you send me flowers?”
“I thought you got my note,” he said, his stare nearly turning her knees to jelly. “I was ill mannered last night. No matter what passed between us, you did not deserve that. Was there anything else you wished to say to me?”
Her command to her heart to stop its wild thundering did no good, but Julia summoned her courage and plunged on. “Yes. Constance told me what you did for me last night. I owe you thanks for that as well.”
He frowned. “You’ve acquired a rather annoying habit of speaking in riddles. What is it I did for you last night?”
“She said you defended my honor. That you very nearly killed the Earl of Ramsfield.”
He actually rolled his eyes. “Why must women always exaggerate everything? I merely helped him to remember you are a lady and that he should always speak of you as such.”
“And disembowel him,” she said, a giggle escaping her before she could stop it.
“I didn’t realize you witnessed the scene,” he accused. “Were you hiding in the bushes?”
She pressed her lips together to stop another giggle. “No, but William gave a detailed account to Constance who told me this morning before you arrived. Why did you do it?”
“Why did I do what?”
“Don’t be perverse,” she scolded. “Defend my honor with such—” She struggled to find the right word. “Vigor.”
His expression hardened. “A gentleman always does so for a lady of his acquaintance. Or so you reminded me last night.”
“Does he?”
“You sound surprised.”
Slowly he advanced, closing the space between them. There was no place to go but backward, forcing her to sit on the table. Considering how her legs trembled, she doubted she could have remained standing much longer.
He continued his approach until he stood directly before her. “Do you think so little of me? Or perhaps you do not think me a gentleman?”
“I hardly ever think of you,” she retorted.
“Really?”
He towered over her, making escape impossible. His hand found her waist and lifted her off the table. Her traitorous arms slid around his neck while his hands continued their movements down the small of her back to cup her bottom and pull her against him so she could feel his arousal, long and hard and strong. He lowered his mouth to hers and began its exploration in a slow, exquisitely delicious torture. A throbbing began between her legs and her heart thudded against her ribs in a wild, erratic rhythm. A moan broke from her throat. “Gareth,” she gasped. “Gareth.”
His devoured her mouth. Like a starving man at a banquet, he feasted on her lips, her eyes, the throbbing pulse at the base of her neck, igniting her flesh with a raw, white heat. Dear God, after all this time, she still wanted him.
He raised her dress and slipped his hand beneath her skirts to fondle her leg. His fingers walked up to the top of her stocking and traced the lacy edge, his mouth still on hers, his tongue flickering around her lips, as if being offered something incredibly delicious.
Her kiss answered his passion, and a feral noise issued from him as she drove her tongue deeper into his mouth to entwine with his. She stroked the back of his neck, the dark tendrils of his silken long hair laced between her fingers and she breathed in the scent of soap and patchouli. The taste of the white wine from lunch lingered on his lips but she could have drunk a case of it just to have him go on kissing her, touching her. It was madness. It was dangerous. And it was what she wanted.
“Julia,” he whispered, breaking the kiss to stare down at her, his eyes heavy lidded with desire. “Julia.”
He slid his hand between her thighs to rest against her mound while the other moved to the front of her dress, his fingers nimbly undoing the buttons of the bodice to the waist, giving him just enough room to slip his hand inside and cup her breast. Her nipple puckered beneath her shift and another moan escaped her throat. His fingertips gently traced around the hardened points—
“Julia?” Lucy’s voice called from behind the line of trees. “Are you still here?”
Chapter Eight
Gareth watched Julia stumble away to join her sister, her hands doing up her buttons, and a heaviness settled in his chest where his heart used to be. From the ache in his groin and its outline against his breeches, it would take several minutes before he could rejoin the others. A quick exploration of the greenhouse led him to a basin of clean water and a stack of hand towels, but its coolness barely tamed the heat still raging over his skin.
He needed to find a mistress and quickly.
He found Julia seated with the others under the trees. Only the faintest of blushes staining her cheeks suggested that anything was amiss. Finding an empty seat on the edge of the group, he lowered himself into it and listened to Cheswick describe a recent meeting with the Prince Regent.
“‘Lud, sir! says I.” Cheswick struck a pose. “Being a committed bachelor, I’m the last man in London to give advice on marriage! But if the Princess Charlotte favors the fella, then I say let her have him and be done with it! Can’t have our future Queen marrying just any old chap.”
“You advised His Royal Highness on whom the Princess Charlotte should marry?” Lady Strickland wagged a finger at Cheswick. “Did he ask for your advice?”
“Indeed, yes, ma’am. Otherwise I never would have presumed to give it.” Hand over his heart, Cheswick bowed in her direction. “I advised him to let Her Royal Highness marry the man she loves, Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. The gel is mad for him. She swears she will have no other and—merciful heavens! Whatever is wrong with your butler, Lady Pettigrew?”
The guests turned in their seats to get a better look as a pale and huffing Marley crossed through the garden with rapidity that belied his age and nearly skidded to a stop before them. Gareth stood, as did William and Constance.
“My lady,” Marley gasped. “I’m sorry to interrupt but this has just arrived for His Grace and the man refuses to leave until he has an answer.”
He handed Gareth a note, and William asked, “What man, Marley?”
“I’m not sure who he is, sir, but I wish you’d teach him manners,” Marley huffed again. “I don’t care if the carriage does have a coat of arms on the side, that doesn’t give a pup in a livery the right to push his way into the house or demand to speak with His Grace without an invitation.”
“Coat of arms?” Constance repeated. “Did you recognize it, Marley?”
The old butler blushed. “No, my lady, I did not. I’m sorry.”
“It’s from Edward Stevenson, Earl of Ramsfield.” Gareth looked up from his perusal of the missive.
“The Marquess of Gladwell’s heir?” Constance asked. “What could he want with you?”
“It seems,” Gareth said folding up the paper, “that he has challenged me to a duel.”
Cries of outrage and astonishment followed his words. Cheswick took out his quizzing glass and peered at Gareth. “By Gad, this is some kind of record. Back in London only twenty-four hours and already challenged to a duel. We need to get it on the books at White’s without delay, William.”
“Ten to one, Gareth wins,” William predicted.
“What kinds of odds are those?” Cheswick challenged. “Twenty to one.”
“Oh, for mercy’s sake, both of you do be quiet!” Constance commanded. “Gareth, why would Ramsfield challenge you to a duel?”
“Because he made the mistake of insulting Lady Fleming and another lady at your party last night,” Gareth said. “I suggested it might be in his health’s best interest to leave London. It seems he has not followed my advice and instead has issued this challenge.”
“So what are you going to do?” Lady Stirling asked breathlessly.
“Do?” Gareth snorted. “I’m going to answer him, of course. Did you see anyone in the coach, Marley?”
Marley’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Yes, Your Grace. Some overdressed young popinjay and a friend. I can only presume it to be Ramsfield. Do you have an answer for the young fool? Do I need to fetch pen and paper?”
“No need for that, Marley. Bring Ramsfield’s man here.”
Something in Gareth’s tone chased the scowl from Marley’s face. “Going to teach him a lesson, are you, Your Grace?” he chortled. “That’s good, sir. Very good, indeed.”
He hobbled back toward the house and minutes later returned, followed by a young man in puce-colored livery. The man stopped before Gareth, bowed, and in a tone far too haughty for a servant asked, “You have a message for the Earl, Your Grace?”
“Yes.” Slowly and deliberately, Gareth tore Ramsfield’s challenge in half, fourths, and then eighths before sprinkling the bits of paper over the far shorter man’s head. “You may tell your master I don’t duel children, and when he is old enough to shave or wear long pants, I might consider him equal enough to accept his challenge. Until then, the answer is no, and you should take him back to his wet nurse. Can you remember all of that?”
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