Lord Heartless (2 page)

***

The whisper of her slippers echoed along the bare hallway. The ancient tapestries that hung against the walls, keeping the drafts from stealing the warmth, had long since disappeared. If truth be told, most of the heirlooms had been sold, one by one, to pay the debts her father accumulated. Juliet swallowed and touched her forehead as dark thoughts rose to the surface. How she wished her father had not developed such a passion for fine spirits and cards. Now, the last blow, the very house she’d been born to was gone. All of it lost to one of London’s most despised rakes by a twist of fate and a hand of cards.

Lord Landon Montague. The very name made her both shiver with delight and fear the consequences. The images in the paper, drawn with pen and ink, did not do his brooding looks justice. Three years ago, and yet she remembered it as yesterday. Those deep blue eyes. That thick curl of dark hair that not even his valet could tame drew every female eye at Lady Richards’s garden party. How broad his shoulders had appeared beneath the forest green of his coat. Their eyes had met. He stood at the foot of the stairs. She had been above, looking down. For a moment, time had seemed to stop. His grin widened as if the thought of her enchantment amused him. He turned, lifted a gloved hand to his brow, and gave a mock bow. Heat had immediately flooded her cheeks.

“I must not think of this. It is nothing more than a childish infatuation.” Juliet grasped the handles of dining-room doors. “What’s done is done, I will begin anew, do the things I wish.” She took a deep breath and pushed the doors wide and entered. Yet, she knew the words held no more hope than a pig sprouting wings.

Light flooded the interior and Juliet entered. In her youth, the room had been embossed with beautiful Wedgewood blue, picked out by her mother. Neglect caused the once-elegant paper to peel, becoming a ghost of its former self. Had there been time, she might have charmed someone into sending new covering in order to improve the look. Time, it seemed, was as fleeting as the sands that flowed through an hourglass.

With a sigh, she moved to the windows and pushed back the heavy draperies to allow the stark sunlight to drive back the shadows. She stepped to the table and grabbed the edge of the rough muslin, tossed it over the edge, and pulled the cloth toward her, revealing the highly polished mahogany surface below.

What would Lord Montague think
? Holding the cloth close to her body, she added aloud, “No doubt he’d look down that long aristocratic nose and think, my how the mighty have fallen.” Odd, how her own words pricked at her heart.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, your ladyship. Cook sent me up to start a fresh fire.”

Juliet startled and crushed the cloth to her chest. “Mr. Nichols, I did not hear you come in.”

“Aye, miss, you were right busy. Let me take that for you. I’ll put it in the master’s study until you are done.”

“Thank you.” She handed him the material and waited while he left the room, then returned with a metal bucket filled with wood for the fire.

He paused at the door and looked down at the floor. “Suppose I should have kept it. Wouldn’t want the dirt from my boots to soil your rug, miss.”

Juliet smiled. “Not mine any longer. The house, its contents, belongs to Lord Montague.”

“Aye,” the gardener snarled. “The black-hearted elf of Satan.”

“Mr. Nichols, not you, too.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss. It just doesn’t seem right, your father doing this to you.”

She watched him kneel and push aside the blackened embers from a long-ago fire. “Father was not in his right mind.”

“You can say that again.”

Juliet brought her hands together in front of her and gave them a twist. “Please, don’t put all the blame on him. You and I both know father had long since given up his hold on reality.”

“And pray tell, where will you go, miss?” he asked, looking up.

His question reminded her of the uncertainty she faced. With a weak smile, she said, “That has not been decided.” She turned away, uncomfortable under his ever-sharpening gaze. Despite her diligent efforts and those of Reverend Phelps, the letters sent to inquire about a position, possibly as a governess, had yet to bear fruit. None her correspondence had been returned and even a visit to nearby Edgewood Manor resulted in her being shown the door. Four months since her father’s untimely death, and the stigma of his suicide left her out of the fold.

Holding her head high, she turned to face the gardener. “I am not worried. Reverend Phelps has assured me my prayers will be answered. He has a higher calling and perhaps the Almighty has told him more than he has said to me.”

The gardener’s face twisted. “I see.”

She stared down at the empty hearth. Her words sounded as hollow to her ears as they did spoken aloud. “The Lord will protect me. I have done what I can to secure places for each of you.”

“Aye, miss, and for that we’re grateful.” He took a match from his pocket and pulled the end along his thick leather belt. Cupping the flame that erupted, he leaned in and placed the match beneath the kindling. “Won’t be long now.” He stood. “We’ll pull these doors closed and t’won’t take long for the heat to build.”

“Thank you again,” Juliet replied and walked with him to the door. “For everything.” She took his meaty hand and shook it. “I know I will leave Holly Grove in good hands. If you will excuse me, I must finish my packing.”

“Of course, miss.”

She turned away and started up the stairs.

Being a large man and used to speaking in the fields, his voice carried behind her. “Aye.” He swore. “The poor house is paved with souls praying for miracles. And a miracle is what we need.” Juliet’s eyes grew damp as the door closed, for no matter how she wanted to deny it, he was right.

***

As first impressions went, Holly Grove had its merits. A long, winding drive was flanked on either side by the trees that lent the manor its name. London pursed his lips and stared out the window.

“Like what you see?”

His gaze was drawn across the carriage to Amos Black who sat opposite him, his eyes closed as if in sleep. “The lawns could use some work.”

“An easy fix,” Amos replied.

Landon let out a deep breath and swallowed the sarcastic retort that sprang to mind. He should not take his bad temper out on the man working to help him reclaim his good name. He would admit, he’d used his reputation to his advantage. It was a grand way of avoiding the parade of young women the Ton would delight to cast upon his door. He might have succeeded, continued the ruse without a raised brow, foreclosed on Gilbert’s property, and returned to his rakish ways, had it not been for her.

“The girl’s name, Amos?”

“Juliet, Lord Montague.”

Landon stared at the man accompanying him to Holly Grove. “Surely you jest.”

Amos’s eyes filled with mirth. “I am afraid not. Juliet Eleanor Davenport Gilbert to be exact.”

Landon took yet another deep breath and muttered, “Poets will have a field day.”

“I dare say, gossip rags will enjoy the sensation,” Amos agreed.

Complication upon complication seemed to yoke him at each turn. He could only wish this day was at an end. For the hundredth time, he fished his watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. The second hand seemed to move with agonizing slowness as it counted off the minutes.

“Marking your last hours of freedom?”

Landon’s eyes narrowed. “Leave it.”

The sound of Amos’s laughter filled the coach.

“You laugh,” Landon mocked. “But, why would a man hide his daughter from society unless there was something amiss?”

“Amiss?” Amos opened his eyes, clearly interested in the hypothesis he planned to deliver.

“Yes, amiss, man,” Landon snapped. “Has she pockmarks? A laugh that sounds like a boar’s snort? Perhaps, she has a long face that reminds others of a mule.”

“Going or coming?” Amos blinked.

Landon arched his eyebrow at Amos as the comment cut to the quick. “Trying your hand at humor? I hear they are looking for a fool to play Touchstone at the New Chelsea off Lower George Street.”

Amos ignored the jab. “Oh, let us not leave out the fact she may be as tall as she is round.”

“Do not mock me.”

Amos lifted his hands in surrender. “Fear not, Lord Montague, I can see how much of a strain it would be for London’s most handsome rake to be saddled with something other than flawlessness.”

Landon shifted in the seat. “You make me sound callous.”

“Do I?”

Across the cab, Amos’s eyebrows arch in mock innocence.

“I am only stating the obvious. The ladies of London will ridicule her if she has but one imperfection.”

“Ah, the ladies.” Silence filled the interior. The image of the refined faces of the women who made the rounds in London’s finest salons entered his mind. Their mocking laughter and twitter behind their fans, as they ripped peers whose circles did not include their own. “Vicious vipers. It’s bad enough this will be a pity match. Society will demand that I bring her to London. I can only imagine how those…ladies will react.” Landon paused as if a taste soured his mouth.

“A woman with no record of a season, green as grass, set loose among the Ton. She will be fair game for the gossipmongers,” Amos agreed.

“No record of a season? Are you now playing detective?”

Amos shrugged. “One must check these things in order to take care of your future.”

“My future,” Landon bemoaned. “I suppose I should say thank you.”

“Then I must reciprocate and say you are welcome. But take heart, Lord Montague. If things are as bad as you imagine, there is always the option of separate households. You need only make a few journeys each year to perform your conjugal duties, for the sake of your reputation. We both know you already have an heir, even if conceived without proper timing.”

Landon’s sins seemed to mount. A deep throb began behind his eyes and he pinched the bridge of his nose to alleviate the pain. “Born without the benefit of marriage, I wondered if you were going to ignore that?”

“Still, you were able to convince your mother to step forward. The dowager has recognized the child and consented to provide Alexander a home as well as education befitting your station.”

“Which she reminds me, daily.” The words spewed from his lips. They sounded as bitter as they tasted. “Let us not talk on this. My head aches.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Amos fell silent. The carriage crested a small rise and bore left. Over the tops of the trees, Landon caught a glimpse of light against a window a second later, and the edges of the brick chimneys set on an angle above a rather well-kept slate roof. His hopes rose. It seemed the mansion was in better shape than he could have imagined. A surprise, considering the state of Gilbert’s finances. The coach lurched again as it made a right and pulled to the front of the manor.

“Make yourself presentable,” Landon grunted and brushed his coat, “for my hour of deliverance is at hand.”

The door opened.

“Go first,” Landon said.

Amos rose and stepped into the sunshine as a minister came into view. As Landon watched, the portly minister grasped his hand, shaking it with such vigor one would have thought he was trying to bring up water from an outside well.

“Lord Montague, welcome to Holly Grove. I am Reverend Phelps.”

“Reverend,” Amos began and turned to glower into the carriage.

The wicked grin for which he was known toyed with Landon’s lips.
Oh, I shall pay for this, but one must have some fun before the yoke of matrimony is lowered
. He slipped his mask of indifference on, gathered himself, and moved to the edge of the seat.

“Allow me to present Lord Landon Montague, Earl of Broadmoor.”

Stepping from the carriage, Landon blinked at the bright light as the minister grasped his hand between his sweaty palms and again pumped.

“Lord Montague, we meet at last.” The minister exchanged a nervous glance with Amos, who stood stoically by his side.

“Yes.” Landon managed to pull his hand from between the reverend’s and produced a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his palm. “We meet at last,” he said with a droll voice, then glanced across the drive to the small crowd gathered to meet him. “If you would be so kind to introduce me.”

“Of course.”

***

He was moving toward them. Juliet tried to steady the moment of terror that raced through her blood.
Run! Flee before there is no chance!
  A hand fell upon her arm and gave a gentle squeeze. She glanced to her right and caught the look of concern that crossed Mrs. Phelps’s eyes.

“Fear not, my lamb. We will not let you down.” The plump hand slipped from her arm and Juliet took a deep, steadying breath as the footsteps came to a halt.

“Lord Montague, may I present my wife, Anna, and Lady Juliet Gilbert.”

The pounding of her heart blocked the rest of his words from her ears. Her head rose and she brought her gaze to meet the man whose hand destroyed her world. His wild ways had not diminished his stature. Tall, broad-shouldered, he showed off the cut of his fawn-colored jacket to the utmost advantage. Dark curls swept back to brush the collar of his jacket while one randy lock dropped toward his right brow. Her gaze traveled lower only to find itself ensnared in the devilish light that danced in the indigo orbs. He was quite the mature man and a far different one than she had glimpsed three years ago at Spring Hill Manor when her father had relinquished to her demands and taken her along as he attended the summer party.

“Lady Gilbert.” His deep, rich voice filled the space between them. He extended a hand.

Spellbound, she placed hers against his palm and immediately the warmth sent a sensual ripple up her arm, intensifying the lump that had settled in the pit of her belly. This was everything she’d heard whispered about, right down to the depth of his mysterious eyes. The very threshold rumored to have laid waste to even the most respectable of reputations, and which now held her fate. Remembering her tongue, she spoke. “Lord Montague.” Then gave a slight bend of her knees to acknowledge the superiority of his station.