Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (21 page)

It didn’t matter now. He sat up straighter in his chair. Why couldn’t he court Juliet? She made him happier than he’d ever been in his life. And more than that, she made him want to be a man worthy of a woman such as her—a woman undaunted by any challenge, resolute in her convictions, passionate in her beliefs.

“I think that is my answer,” Emmaline said softly when he failed to respond. She picked up her own glass and studied him over the rim. “The scandal sheets say you are courting Lady Beatrice,” she said for his ears alone.

He tightened his fingers on the long stem of his glass. “You should know not to believe everything in the scandal sheets, Em.” He forced himself to lighten his grip, lest he snap the fragile crystal in half.

“I’d have you wed for love, Sinclair. I want you to be happy.”

He winked at her. “Well, that certainly makes two of us, then. I also wish to be happy.”

Emmaline pointed her fork at him in a menacing fashion. “Do not try to charm me and make light of this conversation.”

Jonathan took another sip, and then set his glass down. “Not necessarily the best place for a serious conversation.” He should have recalled her dogged tenacity back from when he’d helped her force her betrothed’s hand. It now seemed as though she intended to match make for him.

Why didn’t the idea of that rouse the proper level of horror?

“No one is paying us any attention,” she assured him. “What of your Miss Marsh? She seems to make you happy, and not any of that false blitheness you’re known for,” she said from the corner of her mouth.

Jonathan started, and his elbow knocked into the partially drunk wine. He ignored the footman that rushed over to clean his place setting; his mind spinning. He’d convinced himself the world remained unaware of his singular fascination with Juliet Marshville. If Emmaline knew, then his mother either knew, or would inevitably find out, and she’d then insist on turning Juliet out. His palms grew sweaty at the mere prospect of it.

Emmaline’s eyes widened. “Ah,” was all she said. Then, “She seems like a wonderful…governess.”

Juliet was so much more than a governess. She was good-hearted, valiant, bold. The footman poured him a new glass of wine and he studied the crimson alcohol as it filled the crystal. Would he ever see a shade of red again without comparing it to Juliet’s luxuriant curls, like some lovesick poet? He picked up his drink and swirled the contents. Finally, he said, “She is.” He took a sip. “A wonderful governess,” he added more as an afterthought. Jonathan frowned as Emmaline went unusually silent. He followed her stare to the front of the room. A single, familiar black curl peeked out from behind the door. He glanced around discreetly in attempt to see if anyone noted the twelve-year old interloper. The guests, however carried on with their inane topics of discussion.

Poppy leaned her head into the room ever so slightly. Drake followed Jonathan’s eyes to the front of the room. His friend winked at Poppy. Poppy returned his wink and then darted off.

“My lord?” Lady Beatrice murmured at Jonathan’s opposite shoulder.

Jonathan shoved aside thoughts of Juliet and gave his attention to Lady Beatrice, all the while wishing he was free to return above stairs with Poppy.

Juliet sat in the black Bergerè chair at the edge of the hearth in her chambers. A light fire crackled, and warmed Juliet on the chilled night. Her sketchpad sat uselessly on the rose-inlaid side table beside her seat. She pulled her legs under her and shifted sideways, resting her arms on the arm of the chair.

She’d not seen Jonathan in more than three nights now. Not since she’d so scandalously panted and moaned for him like a common Covent Garden doxy. She cringed, curling her toes into the soles of her feet as she relived her wanton actions in his dark, quiet library.

She groaned, and shook her head furiously willing the memories away.

There could be no hope of anything more with him, a rogue that all mothers warned their daughters away from. Only, Juliet’s mother had been gone for most of her life, having died when she was just a girl of five. Still, Juliet knew to avoid wicked men like the Earl of Sinclair.

And yet, she hadn’t.

She’d wrapped her legs about him and begged him to pleasure her. If he’d so wanted, he could have lain her down and taken her virginity, and she would have given it to him with glad relief, as weak as she’d been that night for him. He’d proven honorable, and she, well, she’d demonstrated the wicked streak that ran through her.

I don’t believe we’ve spoken of marriage
, he’d said. The coldness of his tone had chilled her more than those seven curtly spoken words ever could.

Sadness pulled at her heart. Why would Jonathan Tidemore, the Earl of Sinclair, have spoken of marriage? Gentlemen like him did not wed women like her. They married their perfect, proper English misses with golden ringlets and pale blue eyes. Ones that even blushed in a manner befitting a lady.

Women like Juliet were nothing more than mere diversions; a warm and eager body to carry out all the forbidden things a true lady would never permit them to do. And she hated herself for wanting him, in spite of it all. Just as much as she hated him for making her want him.

God forgive her, she’d come to love him, hopelessly, helplessly beyond all reason and logic. Now, she must be content with that stolen interlude in the library. The memory of that night, of the rapid beat of her heart, and the warm heat as it had coursed through her body would have to sustain her through the years when she lived alone in her Rosecliff Cottage, and he lived with his refined, prim wife.

An image of him, with Lady Beatrice Dennington on his arm, filled her mind. She curled her hands into tight balls, hard enough that her nails threatened to draw blood on her palm.

Oh, God. Juliet groaned. She could not bear the idea of him belonging to another. It had been so much easier when he’d been nothing more than a rogue, but she knew that was no longer the truth.

In the time she’d come to really know Jonathan, he’d revealed himself to be a man who cared deeply for his sisters, a man of principle, and she wanted him all to herself. She wanted him for more than a lover. She wanted him as the one person who would be there to love and protect her, when she’d never, ever before wanted to depend on another. Juliet folded her arms about her stomach and held herself tight.

A knock sounded at the door, and she leapt to her feet. “Enter,” she called out, a faint tremble to her voice. The door opened, and a familiar head crowned with black curls peeked inside. “Lady Penelope,” Juliet greeted. “Come in, come in,” she motioned her inside, grateful for the diversion. “Is everything all right?”

The girl nodded from behind the door. She peered about the room, as though fearing Juliet had stored away a secret dragon to breathe fire upon her usually mischievous charges.

“You surely know by now, I do not bite. Even if I may some days want to.”

Penelope smiled and slipped inside. She kicked the door behind her with the heel of her foot, then wandered into the room, arms clasped behind her back.

“You should be abed. Are you unable to…?”

Penelope pressed a sketchpad into Juliet’s hands.

Juliet eyed it a moment.

“Pru mocks my sketches. She says they’re silly, and that I’m rubbish at sketching.” She sank into the upholstered seat Juliet had vacated moments ago.

Juliet looked from the closed book in her hands to Penelope perched on the chair. The tension in her slender shoulders and the grip she had upon the edge of her seat indicated the girl’s anxiety. “May I?” she murmured.

“They are awful.” Penelope shrugged. “I know that, however, Pru really needn’t say so.”

Juliet opened the book, and stilled. She trailed her fingers just above the surface of the pad so as to not disturb the recently created sketch of an empty gravel, walking trail. She’d managed to capture the gravel-lined path, the expertly pruned bushes alongside the path. She glanced up. “You did this?” she said softly.

“It’s horrid, isn’t it?” Penelope groused.

If Juliet could strike one of the words uttered by her charges it wouldn’t be bloody, or hell, or damnation, though those might be good places in which to start—rather, she would begin with the word horrid, which they seemed to use with a disturbing frequency. “It’s not, Penelope. You’ve done a marvelous job in capturing the very slightest detail from the texture of the earth to the kestrel in the distance.”

Penelope scrambled closer to the edge of her seat. “Do you truly think so?” She chewed her lower lip. “Pru said you’d say as much merely because you’re my governess.”

Juliet snorted. “I don’t say anything because I have to. You should know that by now.”

The young lady smiled.

Juliet continued turning the pages, marveling at each simplistic image so beautifully captured. When she’d reached the final sketch, she closed the book and handed it back to Penelope. “Do you enjoy sketching various landscapes?”

Her charge colored and said slowly. “Mother said ladies paint landscapes.”

If Juliet were a proper governess she would surely nod and concur with the young lady’s mother. Instead, she said, “I imagine it is rather more meaningful to capture images that speak to your soul.” She leaned over and touched her fingertips to the book in Penelope’s hands. “Do you enjoy sketching landscapes?” she asked again.

Penelope hesitated, and then gave a curt nod.

“So what would you draw then?”

“My mother—”

“If your mother and Polite Society did not have their stringent expectations,” she interrupted.

The girl responded instantaneously. “People. Your sketches, they show emotion and feeling and mine—”

“Are beautiful.”

Penelope hopped to her feet and swung the book in her hands. “Perhaps, but they do not show anything that truly matters. Does that make sense?”

Juliet nodded. “Absolutely.” She placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Penelope?”

“Yes, Miss Marsh?”

“Then, sketch people. They are your images to either share or not share. Sketch what is in your heart.”

Her smile returned, richer and fuller with its sincerity. “Do you know, Miss Marsh, I rather like you.”

Warmth filled Juliet’s heart. She tweaked the girl’s nose. “That is fortunate, as I rather like you and your sisters.”

Penelope furrowed her brow. “Even Prudence?” Incredulity underscored her question.

“Even Prudence,” Juliet said with a smile.

“Do you know, Miss Marsh, I wish Sin would make you his wife.”

Juliet stared unblinkingly at Penelope. Words eluded her.

“I do,” Penelope insisted. “You’re ever so lovely and kind and talented.” She beat her sketchpad against her thigh. “Mother will have him wed one of those landscape sketching misses, I’m sure of it.”

Even at the tender age of thirteen the clever girl had already realized the truth of their world. Earls wed genteel young ladies, not those women who encouraged free thought in young girls. “Penelope, you shouldn’t say such things,” she murmured.

Penelope slashed her sketchpad through the air. “Bah, why? I imagine you care for him.”

Her cheeks blazed.

“And do you know how many times he’s visited us in our studies prior to you, Miss Marsh?” She didn’t wait for Juliet’s response. “Not once. Now he’s taking us shopping for ribbons.” She caught Juliet’s gaze. “Ribbons! And he detests shopping. Yet, he eagerly joined us because of you, I’m sure of it.”

“Penelope,” she chided. Jonathan wasn’t the sort of gentleman to join his sisters on a shopping expedition solely for the purpose of Juliet Marshville’s company. “Your brother is merely being attentive.”

Penelope snorted “Attentive to you, perhaps.” She planed her arms akimbo. “Do you care for him?” she asked baldly.

Juliet choked. “Penelope!”

“You do!” The girl’s eyes widened. “I was certain of it.”

She could not afford to have the girl’s scandalous charge reach the Countess of Sinclair. “No,” Juliet said hurriedly, because it would be tantamount to disaster if the sisters took it upon their head to play matchmaker between their roguish nobleman of a brother, and her, their governess. Information in these girls’ hands, even if well intentioned by one or two of them would be ruinous. “You are wrong.”

Penelope studied her for a moment. She lowered her eyebrows. “You do not care for him, then?”

I love him.
Juliet shook her head. “He is my employer, Penelope,” she said with a gentle firmness. She was saved from saying anything further on the dangerous subject, for the door flew open so fast it bounced off the wall and nearly hit Poppy in the face. She kicked the door closed behind her.

I really must begin instructing the girls on the proper way to enter and exit a room.

“Poppy, you mustn’t just barge into a person’s chambers,” Penelope scolded, sounding more a young governess than young girl.

“Stuff it, Penny,” her sister muttered. She began to pace a frantic path at the entrance of the room.

Juliet bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at the ever-dramatic Poppy. She’d come to learn the girl would reveal her thoughts all in due time, no prodding necessary.