Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (16 page)

“That makes perfect sense,” he said somberly. Though it made absolutely no sense to him, whatsoever. They continued to study one another. “Miss Marsh?”

She jumped. “Yes, my lord?”

“Do you intend to sit there all afternoon?”

Juliet eyed the ground for a long moment, as though seriously considering the possibility.

He held out a hand, and she shoved herself up from her crouched position, and placed her trembling fingers into his. As he helped Juliet to her feet, he leaned close, closer than Society would find proper, close enough to surely earn remarks upon the scandal rags. Polite Society and the scandal columns could all go hang. “You, Juliet, have left me with many questions this day.”

She paled, and the dusting of freckles over her cheeks stood out stark in contrast. “I don’t know what you mean, Jonathan.”

“That,” he whispered softly. “Is my point exactly. They stood so close, he detected the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the pulse pounding wildly at her neck.
Oh, God, I want to kiss her. Here. Now.
What manner of spell had she weaved over him?

Juliet reeled backward and reached for Poppy’s hand.

He considered that protective movement, and took a step toward her ready to demand answers to the questions she’d left him this day.

“You should return to your party, my lord. Poppy and I intend to sketch. Isn’t that right, Poppy?”

His unfaithful sister folded her arms and gave a short nod. “We do.”

Humph, and just like that all the years of ribbons and ribbing and various other indulgences and he was dismissed by his easiest-mannered sister with a simple ‘we do’.

Juliet dipped a curtsy; not a very familiar curtsy but rather the deep, formal ones bestowed upon one of a lofty position, and started off in the opposite direction.

His jaw tightened, and he ignored the lords and ladies passing by with their murmured greetings and curious stares. Of course, as the title Earl of Sinclair dated somewhere around the 1300s, most would consider the title Sinclair to be one of those lofty positions.

But bloody hell, this was Juliet and when he was with her, he’d never been the Earl of Sinclair, he’d simply been Jonathan. With the title-grasping mamas and eager widows, he’d not simply been Jonathan in more years than he could remember.

Sin. Sinclair. The earl. The Earl of Sinclair. Never, just Jonathan.

Until the governess with her fiery and emotion-laden eyes.

And she’d dipped that goddamn, deep curtsy and hurried after her charge like she was nothing more than a…a…His brow wrinkled. Well, hell, she was a governess.

Not,
just
a governess. He’d never dare disparage her with such a snobbish judgment. He could not. She’d evinced more strength and honor than most women of his acquaintance. A lady who’d readily give up her comforts as a young lady and take upon the working role of governess all to see the rightful restoration of her cherished property…well such a woman could never be ‘just-a-anything’.

He forgot all his greatest intentions of returning to his sisters, trusting they were in good care with Westfield and Lady Beatrice. Instead, Jonathan trailed a short distance behind Juliet and Poppy. He noted her faint limp as she moved, a limp he’d only first noted in passing, and wondered what had happened to her. Only, his curiosity was stifled by the way in which she continued to steal glances over her shoulder. He glowered at her at her fast-retreating form. Her swift, jerky movements spoke to the concerted effort she made to avoid him. His gaze narrowed. Juliet’s eyes flitted about the crowded park, all the while Poppy prattled on at her side.

Juliet would avoid him like he was a thief in the Dials? Fury quickened his steps. A trio stepped into his path. Jonathan cursed.

“Do you go about damning your friends now, in the presence of ladies and children, no less,” a sardonic voice mused aloud.

Jonathan, who’d been driven by a single-minded determination to go after Juliet and Poppy, blinked several times. He managed a sheepish grin for his friend Lord Drake who held a babe of nearly two years in his arms, and his brown-haired wife, Lady Emmaline. Jonathan sketched a short bow. “Lady Emmaline, it is ever a pleasure.”

Emmaline returned his smile. “Sinclair, a pleasure as usual.”

And he’d agree under most circumstances it was a pleasure to see the young lady who he’d schemed with to force Drake, who she’d been betrothed to since the age of five, to the altar. This, however, was not one of those times. Of a nearly like height, Jonathan peered over Drake’s shoulder. He caught sight of Juliet and Poppy upon a patch of grass at the edge of the river.

“Have you lost something?” Drake asked with a heavy dose of humor to his question.

Yes, my good-sense, my mental faculties.

Drake, more intelligent than most English noblemen combined and returned war-hero, unfortunately would not miss the glances Jonathan could not keep from stealing over his shoulder. He followed his gaze to where Juliet sat beside Poppy in the distance.

Jonathan tugged at his cravat as a dull wave of heat climbed up his neck. As the refined Earl of Sinclair he didn’t stare. And he most assuredly did not stare at young ladies he’d hired as his sisters’ governess. Even if said young lady with her sunset kissed curls had haunted his dreams since their meeting several days past.

Drake folded his arms across his chest. “Are you off to see your sister?”

Emmaline’s eyes lit. “Oh, is one of your sisters present?”

Only one he cared to visit at the moment, the rest he’d abandoned to poor Westfield.

“I should so like to—”

Whatever Emmaline had been about to say ended on a squeak as he jerked his chin forward. “Come along. Poppy would be bereft if she didn’t see you.” He didn’t pause to see if they followed but strode onward toward Juliet.

“Perhaps you might slow your step a bit for the lady,” Drake drawled.

“Hmm? Er, uh, yes, my pardon.” Jonathan adjusted his stride. “I also thought it might be a good idea to have you meet Miss Marsh, my sisters’ newest governess.” He cleared his throat. “After all, if you’re to know the young lady.”

Emmaline nodded in agreement, a sudden interest in her warm brown eyes.

Juliet glanced up as he descended upon her and Poppy. A frown marred her freckled cheeks. He bristled, not liking in the least that he should be so eager to see her when she should appear so indifferent, even bothered by his appearance.

Poppy jumped up. “Drake!” she cried.

Drake executed an elegant bow, even with his daughter, Regan, in his arms. “It is ever a pleasure, my lady.”

Poppy giggled and pointed her gaze to the sky. “You’re such a rogue.” She looked to Emmaline with an unfiltered smile. “He is a rogue, you do know that, my lady?”

Emmaline nodded solemnly. “It appears, my efforts to reform him appear wholly unsuccessful.” Then her gaze slid over to where Juliet stood stock-still and silent. “Hullo, I gather you are…”

“Ju…er Miss Marsh,” Jonathan cut in. “Miss Marsh, my dear friends Lady Emmaline, the Marchioness of Drake and her bounder of a husband, Ashton, the Marquess of Drake.”

Drake offered a lazy smile. “You mustn’t go bandying my Christian name about the ton. It’s a rather—”

“Horrid?” Poppy supplied.

He winked at her. “Horrid, indeed. It’s a rather horrid name.”

Juliet dropped a curtsy. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my lord,” she said with a smile. “It is a pleasure,, my lady,” she said to Emmaline.

Emmaline looked down to where the sketchpads sat open upon the ground and started. Almost reflexively she stooped down to retrieve a book. She glanced up. “Have you done this?” she marveled.

Poppy nodded excitedly and plopped down beside Emmaline. She jabbed a finger at the remarkable likeness of a goose with a small fish clenched between its teeth. “She did.” The girl flipped the page to a modest home with brick front, a stone walk, and rose bushes lining the path.

He started, transfixed by the image.

“And she did this one,” Poppy was saying, her words coming as if from a distance.

Jonathan could not take his eyes from the country home. His breath lodged in his chest, and he looked to Juliet.

Rosecliff Cottage.

As an artist, she’d managed to capture the modest size of her home, but also the almost fairytale like quality of the dwelling which seemed better suited to fey creatures and fairies and not mere noblemen bored with London Society. It was her home. And he’d taken it. Well, won it. But such a thought didn’t do anything to assuage the guilt stabbing at his chest.

“Are you all right?” Drake said quietly beside him, as Juliet, Emmaline, and Poppy all continued to discuss her work.

He managed a tight nod, but in truth he wasn’t all right. He was humbled and shamed and furious with himself for being the bloody bastard who’d won her precious home. “Fine,” he said curtly. Only, on the heel of his furious musings was a sudden thought. What if Sir Albert Marshville had sat down to a different game of whist, with a different gentleman? What if someone, other than Jonathan, on a mere slip of chance, had won Rosecliff Cottage, and through their win—the right to know Juliet Marshville?

Because his brave, spirited Juliet would have surely sought out that nameless bounder. He balled his hands into fists at his side, knowing it preposterous to feel this unholy rage for some fictitious gentleman in some imagined scenario.

But it could have been another.

And as Juliet continued to charm his friends and sister, he realized just how much the very idea of it ravaged him.

Chapter 12

Juliet sat upon a leather sofa in the Earl of Sinclair’s impressive library. Full, floor-length shelving lined with leather-bound volumes filled the expansive space. Gold sconces lined the opposite wall, throwing eerie shadows upon the pale yellow, Aubusson carpet.

Her charges had been abed nearly four hours now, and Juliet, though exhausted, had been unable to find solace in a peaceful slumber. As she’d lain in bed, staring wide-eyed up at the ceiling overhead, she’d alternated between a heart-pounding horror at the remembrance of seeing Lord Williams earlier that day, and an aching sadness with thoughts of Jonathan and Lady Beatrice Dennington. Abandoning all hope of sleep, she’d slipped on her robe and tiptoed through the empty corridors, into Jonathan’s library.

Her gaze wandered back over to the clock. He’d been gone more than four hours now. She hated that she knew the exact amount of time to have passed since Jonathan had swept out the front doors of the townhouse, trailing after his mother and sister, Patrina. His black cloak had snapped about his ankles, made foreboding by the lingering fog that swirled around the London streets.

She hated even more that she’d pressed herself close to the wall and peeked down through the curtains, eyeing him like such a love-struck, simpering debutante as he’d leapt into the carriage. She’d stared after the departing carriage which had carried him to his evening’s soirees, until the fog had swallowed the last remnants of the conveyance.

With a sigh she glanced down at the sketchpad opened on her lap. Chiseled cheeks, an unyielding square jaw, and determined eyes stared back up at her. She trailed her fingers over the likeness of Jonathan, finding fault with the image which could never fully capture his masculine beauty. The half-grin, not entirely crooked enough, the unfashionably long waves of black hair, captured by the charcoal not even near the midnight hue. “You are a fool, Juliet,” she muttered to the grinning rogue upon the page.

“Tsk, tsk, I’d say clever, quick-witted, a tad feisty, but never a fool.”

Juliet shrieked and scrambled to her feet. The sketchpad tumbled to the floor and landed with a soft thump. She pressed a hand to her hard-pounding heart, and a vise-like pressure tightened about her lungs making it difficult to draw breath. “Jonathan,” she whispered. “Whatever are you doing here?” The rogue she’d read of in the scandal sheets would have invites to the most sought out events, and then carry on well into the evening at his private clubs or gaming hells.

He shoved away from the wall and paused to close the door behind him. The lock turning resonated like a shot off the high plaster walls of the enormous space.

She followed his deliberate movements, and her mouth went dry. She should scold him for enclosing them in this space, alone. She should stride over to the door, unlock it, and storm from the room as any respectable, English young lady would do. It wasn’t proper or decent being alone with him. Only, suddenly…Juliet didn’t want to be proper or decent. Not with him.

Jonathan’s long, legged stride stripped away the distance, until he came to a stop in front of her. His gaze dropped to her face, lower. He paused at the slight gaping fabric of her modest ivory, lace rimmed wrap.

She tugged the material closed.

“Don’t,” he ordered hoarsely.

When he uttered it in that harsh, desirous command she wanted to do something foolish like lay herself at his feet and beg him to make her his in every sense of the word—in name, in body, in soul. Fool, fool, fool. But she released the material, and the cotton shift fell back open.

Her fingers trembled too and to give the quaking digits something to do, she folded her hands in front of her, and stood eying him. This gentleman who winked with one breath, and the next studied her through thick, hooded black-lashes as though he was hungry with thirst, and she was the sole drop of water left in the world.

They stood there. Unmoving. Silent.

Then Jonathan’s gaze moved ever lower, lower… And he stilled.

She swallowed hard, following the path his eyes had traveled. Her stomach dipped. She leapt forward but posed little match for a man of Jonathan’s stealth and speed.

He immediately bent and rescued her forgotten sketchpad.

Juliet wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole as Jonathan scrutinized the sketchpad opened to the likeness of him. She bit the inside of her cheek, her bare toes curling into the rich, Aubusson carpet. If the Lord would do her just this one favor, she’d be forever grateful. She’d not miss services or curse. Well, mayhap curse, but only if the situation merited it. It seemed a rather small miracle to ask of a God who’d managed to create all the earth in a mere six days…