A Second Chance for Love: A Bachelors of Bond Street Novella

by Minerva Spencer

  He heard movement followed by a silence that seemed to pulse, and then lifted the covers and climbed into the warm, fragrant spot where she’d been lying.

  Juss lay on his back, the blankets pulled up to his chin, as he tried to ignore the insistent erection that would not let him sleep, even if he had been tired.

  ∞∞∞

  Oona was experiencing difficulty controlling her breathing, which was coming in rapid, shallow bursts. The truth was, she already regretted her impulsive offer. Not that she believed he would do anything untoward, but her body was reacting to his—even though it was motionless—in a most disturbing way.

  “Regretting being a Good Samaritan?” His voice was rich with amusement.

  “No, of course not.”

  He chuckled. “Will you be able to sleep?”

  Oona smiled in the darkness; it was an amusing situation. “Oh, eventually. I think. I don’t normally go to bed so early.” That was the truth, but not the whole truth.

  “No, I can’t recall a time when I’ve been tucked in by eight o’clock, either.”

  Oona felt the bed shift and he must have turned on his side because the next time he spoke, his voice was much louder, even though he was speaking softly. “Are you tired, Oona?”

  Her brain seemed to melt a little at the low, sensual heat in his voice. “Uh.”

  “You’re uh?”

  “I’m not tired,” she managed in a hoarse voice.

  “I have a question for you.”

  Oh God. She knew what—

  “You mentioned that you were a fallen woman. What did you mean? Did the men you mentioned—your employer and his son—impose upon—”

  “No, it wasn’t that,” she said hastily. “It was another man—I believed him when he said he would marry me.” Saying the words was like pouring salt over a wound she’d believed scabbed over a long, long time ago. “But it turned out that all he wanted—” Oona bit her lip.

  “Shhh,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open old wounds.”

  “No, it’s all right,” she said. Oddly, that was the truth. It was cathartic to speak about it after all this time.

  “Did you love him?”

  It was not a question she thought a man like him would ask—he did not seem the sort who even believed in love—and it surprised her. She turned onto her side; this conversation was too interesting to not be face-to-face, even if they could not see one another very well in the near darkness. “I thought I did.”

  “But you were wrong?”

  Again he surprised her. Who would have thought he would ask such a thing? And why did he even care?

  “I loved like a younger person loves, with emotion rather than one’s brain.”

  “That is an interesting distinction. I would have thought love was always emotional.”

  “You’ve never—” she stopped aware of the delicate direction in which she was headed. The last thing he would want is somebody—a virtual stranger—probing the subject of his dead wife.

  “Been in love?” He didn’t sound angry or sad, just contemplative. “No, I don’t believe so. I can sense that you are surprised,” he said, and Oona didn’t deny it. “My marriage was one of necessity rather than love. Although of course I cared for my wife.” He paused and then asked, “Tell me, if you could do it all over again—change the decisions you’ve made—would you do it?”

  It would have been easy to say yes—and that was certainly her first thought. But then she saw Katie’s precious face. “No.”

  “Really? You wouldn’t go back and make a different choice? One that didn’t cause you pain?”

  “That seems like an easy question to answer, but one small change would mean an entirely different life—wouldn’t it?” And it would certainly mean no Katie.

  He chuckled.

  “What?” she asked.

  “We have become philosophical.”

  Oona smiled. “Would you go back and change your decision?”

  “No,” he answered without hesitation. “I agree with you—one different fork in the road would have led to a different destination.”

  “And you like your life.” I

  “And I like my life,” he agreed. “Tell me,” he said, “You said you had plans this week. What were you going to do if you weren’t here? Or is that too personal a question?”

  “I was going to visit friends.” It wasn’t entirely a lie.

  “Ah.”

  Oona had no idea what that meant. As much as she knew about Justin Taylor’s past, she still had no idea of what he thought. She rolled onto her back and stared into the blackness overhead. What a strange journey this was turning out to be.

  Eleven

  Oona woke with a start, her eyes darting around the dimly lighted room, struggling to recall where she was.

  In bed at a farmhouse. With Juss.

  Her head whipped to the right, but the bed was empty.

  She pushed back the covers and put on her dressing gown, a garment Juss had chosen, its creamy lace and silk making her blush just looking at it.

  Oona scoffed at her foolishness. She’d slept with the man and he’d clearly been able to resist her, silky lacy garment or not.

  She pushed aside the heavy drape and sucked in a breath. It was a magical wonderland, the pale lemon sunrise causing everything in sight to sparkle as if diamonds, rather than snow, had fallen—continued to fall. Something moved in her peripheral vision and she turned to see Juss and his barrel-shaped coachman slogging through the snow from the big white barn.

  Naturally, Juss glanced up and caught her, his mouth curving into a grin. Oona dropped the curtain, and immediately felt foolish. He’d seen her in her dressing gown last night, why was she behaving like a schoolroom miss?

  You spent the night in bed with him and you are disappointed he made no move to touch you.

  Oona growled at her stupidity and found her watch: it was a little after seven.

  After washing with the still warm basin of water Juss must have brought, Oona headed down to the kitchen, feeling more than a little foolish in her second travelling costume, which was even fancier than the first. But it was all she had that was clean.

  The first person she saw upon entering the cozy, delicious smelling kitchen was Mrs. Cantrell.

  “Good morning dear.” She squinted at Oona. “My, that’s a lovely outfit.”

  Oona flushed. “I’m afraid all my other clothing is in the other carriage.”

  “Aye, your husband told us.”

  Oona glanced at the bubbling pots on the stove and Mrs. Cantrell’s floury hands. “What smells so delicious?”

  “Steak and kidney pie, a few loaves of bread, and some tarts. But you don’t need to stand in the kitchen, Mrs. Taylor. Mr. Cantrell has warmed up the parlor and I can bring you tea and breakfast.”

  “Please call me Oona. And I’d prefer to eat in the kitchen, if you don’t mind having me.”

  “Oona—that’s a beautiful name. Well, you can call me Mary. Would you like ham and eggs, dear?”

  “Just tea and some toast, I think.”

  “You’re like me,” Mary said, putting the kettle on the stove. “I can’t eat a heavy meal in the morning or I’ll sleep all day.”

  Oona gestured to the big bucket of potatoes. “I can peel those for you.”

  “Oh no, you’ll get your pretty clothing dirty.”

  “I see a second apron over there—is that your daughter’s?”

  “Aye.” She looked doubtful, her cloudy eyes sweeping over Oona’s person.

  “Please? I’d like to help.”

  It took a bit more cajoling, but Oona was rolling out pastry when Juss came in from the cold an hour later.

  “Well, look who’s up,” Juss teased, so vital and masculine and gorgeous with his rosy cheeks it was almost painful to look at him.

  “I’ve been up and laboring for hours, I’ll have you know.”

  “Have you now?” Juss stripped off his gloves
and tossed them into his hat, his startling blue eyes on her the entire time. “Where is Mrs. Cantrell?”

  “I persuaded her to take a nap—after fifteen minutes of arguing—convincing her I had things well in hand.”

  “What are you making there?”

  “Pastry for more pies.”

  “Mmm, I like the sound of that.” He unwound his scarf and then removed his coat, which was glistening with rapidly melting snow. “Well,” he said, once he was down to his clawhammer and buckskins and looking better than a man had a right to do. “I’m afraid the men who were supposed to help Jonathan with the animals didn’t show up, but the three of us were able to get them all fed.”

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Shall I make some for Mr. Cantrell, is he coming along soon?”

  “Jonathan is in the land of Nod.”

  “In the barn?”

  Juss dropped into a chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “He’s got a smithy out there—that’s what they do here. Or what his son-in-law does. Mr. Cantrell has a comfortable chair not far from the forge where I suspect he spends a good deal of time napping. The farm is not their true means of support, just to earn a bit extra. Which is a damned good thing because tracking down and feeding thirty sheep was plenty.”

  Oona smiled as she rolled out the dough with the huge maple wood rolling pin.

  “You look at home in a kitchen,” he said.

  “Well, I’ve never had servants, so I should.”

  “Until now,” he corrected.

  Oona frowned and then said with exaggerated comprehension, “Ah, that’s right. I meant I didn’t have servants until we married.”

  He grinned. “So, what kind of pie are you making, Mrs. Taylor?”

  “Steak and kidney.”

  “My favorite.” He glanced at the eight pies and multiple loaves of bread that were already on the baker’s rack. “Who the devil is she making all this food for?”

  “Apparently there was to be a dinner and dance at their church this evening.”

  “Ah, well, I don’t see that happening.”

  Oona paused in the act of crimping the crust. “So you think we will be here for a while?”

  “I should think so. Even if it stopped snowing right this minute the roads would likely be impassible at least for another day.”

  “You shall miss your house party.”

  His expression, which had been easy and smiling, tightened. “I shall be there for at least a day, which is really all I need.”

  “You would drive the rest of the way only for a day?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “Why is your destination a secret?” she asked, an unpleasant sensation unfurling in her stomach at his intent, almost avid, look.

  “It’s a surprise.” He suddenly stood. “I’ve changed my mind about the tea,” he said as he strode toward the door, catching up his coat and hat. “I’m going to go and explore a bit.”

  Oona stared as he stepped out into the snow—which was now coming down diagonally.

  What had that been all about?

  Twelve

  Between meals shared with the Cantrells and helping the older couple with their chores—Juss outside and Oona in the kitchen—he wasn’t alone with Oona until after supper, which they ate at the uncivilized hour of five.

  It was clear that last night had been unusual for the Cantrells and that their usual bedtime was closer to six-thirty than eight.

  Juss realized the older couple wouldn’t go to bed until he and Oona excused themselves, which is how they found themselves closeted together in the small bedroom at five minutes to seven.

  “Do you want to use the changing room first?” Oona asked.

  “I’ll never be able to sleep if I go to bed this early.”

  “Me either.” She sighed and sat down on the bed, her nightclothes in her arms. Juss lowered himself onto the only chair and stared at her profile, sharp and delicate and remote.

  “Why are you angry with me?”

  The words were so low he almost didn’t hear them.

  He opened his mouth to deny it, but then closed it, too disheartened to lie. All day long he’d wrestled with this problem as he’d wandered around in a blizzard. He’d created this trouble for himself and could only come up with one solution—and it was not one that would be comfortable.

  The truth was that Juss liked this woman and he was about to drag her into a situation that would be unpleasant. What did it matter if she’d told on him a decade ago? Her actions might have gotten him discharged, but Clara had been pregnant and would have been fired regardless of what Oona said. So, really, it didn’t matter.

  “I know it was you who told Venable.”

  She squinted. “I beg your pardon?”

  Justin made a noise of irritation and stood. “I’m sorry I even brought it up. It hardly matters after all these years.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Juss scowled; he’d not expected such deception from her—he’d believed she was more honest than that. “I know you saw me fucking Clara.”

  She flinched at the vulgar word and then shot to her feet. “I can’t—I don’t—”

  “I know it was you. Are you trying to tell me that you didn’t understand the consequences of your actions?”

  “What actions?”

  “Dammit, Oona! You told Venable that you’d seen us that day.”

  There was a long silence. “You think I told the viscount about that?” Her voice sounded strange—almost trancelike.

  “Didn’t you?”

  “How could you think that?” Before he could answer she made a sound like a feral cat and then threw her wadded up garments at his head.

  Juss caught them easily. “What? Why are you playing the victim?”

  She marched toward him—which only took a few steps in the tiny room—not stopping until he could smell the distracting scent of strawberries. And then she hauled her arm back and slapped his face. Hard.

  Her action seemed to surprise her more than it did him and she took a step back, both hands covering her mouth, her eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered through her fingers. “I don’t know what—”

  Justin moved his jaw from side to side and rubbed his cheek. “You pack a good wallop.”

  “I’m so—”

  He held up his hand. “Yes, you’re sorry—I understand that. But I take it from your reaction that you weren’t the one who told Venable.”

  She dropped her hands and shook her head.

  If it wasn’t her, then who the hell—

  “I’m guessing it was Lucy who told the viscount about you and Clara.”

  “Who the devil is Lucy?”

  “She was one of the parlor maids. A tall, thin—”

  Juss snapped his fingers. “A dark-haired girl with a face like a rat.”

  She winced. “That is unkind.”

  “But true.”

  She sighed. “She did look a bit like a rodent. Normally I wouldn’t give voice to such an unkind thought but she had an unpleasant personality.”

  “Why do you think it was her?”

  “It was she who came to me that day and told me to look in the linen cupboard. I had no idea what she meant but I assumed it was one of the children up to something again.” She shrugged. “So I opened the door and—” Her mouth opened and closed several times. “How did you see me? You were—” her cheeks flared red and she couldn’t finish the thought.

  “Why would she have told you to do that?”

  The look she gave him was one of mute misery and it was Juss’s turn to gape.

  “I can see you understand,” she snapped, even though he had no intention of pursuing the subject.

  “Er—”

  She held up a hand. “Don’t bother. Every woman in that house—from fifteen to fifty—was mad for you. Why should I have been any different?”

&n
bsp; Juss didn’t think she really wanted an answer to that question and wisely kept his mouth shut.

  “How did you know it was me?” she asked.

  “Clara saw you.”

  “Which meant she must have seen Lucy, too,” Oona pointed out quite logically. “So why did she only tell you about me?” Her expression was bitter and confused. “Why would she have done that? Mention me but not Lucy?”

  Juss met her furious gaze; well, she’d told him a mortifying truth . . .

  “Because she knew I fancied you.”

  Juss had to smile at her stunned expression; did the woman not possess a looking glass? Why was she so bloody surprised that he’d liked her?

  “Oh.”

  “Clara must have thought she’d put paid to any positive thoughts I might have harbored for you—not that it made any sense since I’d never see you again,” he muttered, so angry at himself he could hardly speak. Christ! What a bloody fool he was. Ten years angry at a woman who had nothing to do with it. And even if she had—what kind of idiot harbored such a grudge?

  “If you were angry with me, then why am I here? Why did you give me this job? Why are you paying me so much?”

  Juss wasn’t accustomed to being so wrong, or looking so much like a fool. But he owed her the truth.

  “Because the house party is at Compton Abbey.”

  He’d read about all the color draining out of somebody’s face, but never actually seen it. He rushed forward when she staggered backward, but she pushed him away.

  “Don’t touch me.” Her expression of revulsion was far more painful than the slap had been. “What were you going to do when you got me there?”

  “I remember the way Venable ate you up with his eyes,” Juss said. “I wanted to show him that not only did I survive, but I had somebody he’d wanted.”

  “As your whore.”

  “Yes,” he admitted, his head so hot he was sweating. “As my whore.”

  Her magnificent green eyes sparked. “Did you arrange to have me discharged from my job?”

  “What?” he demanded. “No! Of course I didn’t. How could you think such a thing?”

  She gave an ugly laugh and Juss flushed even hotter. “Fine, point taken,” he admitted. “I haven’t exactly behaved in a forthright, gentlemanly manner. But I would never stoop to having you fired.”