The Wild One (11 page)

"Yes, yes, of course," she said, impatient
with herself for not anticipating this simple need and seeing to it
before he could try to do so himself. She grabbed both the bottle
and glass, filling the latter to the brim as though to make up for
her failings and handing it to him. Their fingers accidentally
touched. He smiled at this simple contact and Juliet shivered,
involuntarily, her fingers tingling as she watched him down the
strong spirits with one practiced flick of his wrist.

Finishing, he handed the glass back to her,
his skin a little flushed. "Ah. That is better. Thank you."

She refilled it for him. "Would you like me
to fluff up your pillows, as well?"

"Oh, I daresay I would like that very much
indeed."

They shared a shy smile. Then Juliet
gathered the rest of the pillows up from the rug and dumped them
near Lord Gareth's left arm. He was keen to help her, leaning
forward so that she could pile two or three pillows up behind him.
As she plumped and fluffed them, she could not help but look at
that stunningly beautiful masculine back so close to her hand,
tautly curved, sculpted with muscle and blessed with breadth across
the shoulders. She snatched her hand away as he began to lean back,
both tempted by, and wary of touching, that bare, warm skin for
fear of the purely carnal reaction she knew it would ignite in
her.

He lay back, sighing with pleasure as he
sank deeply into the pillows. From beneath half-closed lids he
watched her refilling his glass yet again. As she handed it to him,
he looked up at her, his eyes warm with gratitude — and something
else. Juliet blushed. Without the life-and-death urgency of last
night, without talk of Charles to get the focus off themselves,
there was an awkward uncertainty between them, the sort felt by two
people who are attracted to each other but don't know each other
well enough to admit it, or feel comfortable in displaying it.

Or at least, that was the way
she
felt.

She wasn't so sure about Gareth, who seemed
completely at ease around her, with or without the assistance of so
much whiskey.

"I uh ... think I'd better go," Juliet
said.

"A pity, that." He lifted the glass to his
lips, his eyes watching her from above its rim. "I cannot talk you
into staying, then?"

"No. But I'll come back later if you like.
Maybe I can bring your supper up to you or something...."

"Would you? I would like that. In fact, I
would like that very much indeed. Otherwise boredom will force me
to read those silly letters, and I confess, Miss Paige, that I
would much rather spend the time with you." He grinned. "And
Charlotte, if you will bring her."

"I will bring her."

"Good. I am looking forward to getting to
know both my niece
and
her lovely mama. When you return, I
want to hear all about America, your sea-crossing, everything. And
I want a full report on how — Oh, dear —" He suddenly started and
blinked several times in rapid succession, as though the whiskey
had just caught him very much by surprise (which in itself was no
surprise, Juliet thought, given the amount he had downed and the
speed with which he had consumed it). He shook his head, slowly,
and tipped it back against the pillows with an apologetic little
smile. "That is to say, I want a full report on how Lucien is
treating you."

"You shall have it then, Lord Gareth." She
plucked the empty glass from his hand and placed it back on the
table. "But for now, I think you had better rest."

"Yes ... I fear I have no choice about
that
, given the way those spirits have just hit me! I am
sorry, Miss Paige; I have no wish to be rude, it usually takes much
more than three glasses to get me to this state ... but oh, isn't
it strange, how the loss of a little blood seems to carry a man's
vitality off with it, as well...."

"I wouldn't know." She smiled and moved
forward to gently pull the sheet up over his chest. He looked up at
her through his lashes and gave her a slow, sleepy smile, content
to let her fuss over him, grateful for the attention, a man
completely at ease in the company of a woman.

"Thank you," he murmured, smiling as he let
his eyes drift shut. "I think I shall enjoy ... my dreams."

She blushed wildly at the unspoken
implication of what they might contain; then she touched his arm
and crept silently away.

"One last thing, Miss Paige."

She turned and gazed fondly at him, at his
eyes, drooping now, that he was trying so hard to keep open.
"Yes?"

"This is a ... rather oppressive house. I
know better than anyone what Lucien is like, and I know how
homesick you must be, far away from everyone and everything you
know and love. But you just remember this.... Any time you start
feeling out of place here or unwanted or just need to get away from
it all, you know where to find me."

His words hit something deep inside of her,
making her realize she'd found her first real friend in this
strange and lonely place. A little lump rose in her throat. "Thank
you, Lord Gareth."

"Mmm ... the pleasure is mine, madam."

~~~~

Gareth slept well past supper, not only
because his body needed the healing rest, but because large
quantities of Irish whiskey were enough to lay even the most
debauched of English gentlemen low.

When he opened his eyes late that evening,
the shadows were gathering, the room was still, and a figure sat in
silhouette by the dying light of the far window.

"Ah. So the gallant hero awakes."

Gareth swore and rubbed his eyes.
"Lucien."

"Feeling better, I hope?"

"I feel fine." He yawned, stretched with
lazy, all-the-time-in-the world abandon, and suddenly snapped to
attention as he remembered. "Where is she?"

Lucien swept his arm to indicate the many
bouquets that seemed to grow from every flat surface in the room.
"Where is whom?"

"Don't play games with me, you know damned
well whom I'm talking about."

"Ah, you must mean Miss Paige. Why, she's
downstairs in the Gold Parlour with Nerissa and Andrew, playing
with Charlotte. Tsk, tsk, Gareth. Did you think I had sent her
away?"

"And why wouldn't I think it? You will."

A smooth, benign grin. "Perhaps."

"Oh, and what is your twisted, self-serving
game this time, eh?" Gareth muttered, sitting up and pressing the
heel of his hand to his pounding head. "To see how quickly you can
intimidate her into leaving? Frighten her into turning tail and
fleeing back to Boston? Or perhaps it's something worse."

The duke raised his brows, all feigned
innocence and surprise. "Why, Gareth. You wound me with your
distrust and lack of faith in me. I am not such a monster as all
that. In fact, I even brought you tea."

"You play with people's minds, Lucien. I'll
not have you doing so with hers."

"My dear boy, I plan nothing of the sort."
He flicked a bit of dust off his sleeve of black velvet. "Besides,
the girl is not so easily frightened. You know that yourself."

"You can't send her away."

"I will if I have to."

"I won't allow it."

"You'll have no choice. I am not blind,
Gareth. I see how quickly you defend her, and I suspect you
half-fancy her already — as you do anything with two legs and a
skirt. Now, don't get me wrong. I quite like the chit. Miss Paige
is a fine woman, blessed with both beauty and courage, but she is a
base-born rustic, and you are the heir-presumptive to a dukedom —
much as I rue that unhappy fact every day of my waking life." He
gave a dramatic, exaggerated sigh. "Oh, how I wish Andrew was in
line to inherit, instead of you...."

"Don't lecture me, Lucien. I'm not in the
mood to hear it."

"Of course you're not. You never are, are
you? But here's something for you to think about whilst you're
lying in bed, playing up your little scratch and enjoying the
undeserved fruits of hero worship." He ignored Gareth's curses.
"Whether or not I send Miss Paige away, my dear boy, depends on
you."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

Lucien's voice lost its mocking tone and
hardened. "You know how I felt about Charles's wish to marry
someone so far beneath him, and you can guess how I feel about any
possible romantic attraction you might have for the girl, as well.
I will allow her and the babe to remain at Blackheath. But should I
see you staring after her when she leaves a room, or nipping at her
heels like a lovesick puppy, I will send her away." Again, that
infuriatingly benign smile. "For your own good, of course."

"Damn you, Lucien, you've no business
telling me what I can or cannot do, I'm three and twenty, not
fifteen!"

"Which brings me to the second half of my
conditions."

"As if this isn't enough!"

"It isn't." The duke rose to his feet, cool,
composed, infuriatingly unruffled. Gareth saw that he was holding a
vase of flowers, which he had apparently brought upstairs with him.
"As you've just said yourself, my dear boy, you are three and
twenty now. Not fifteen. It's time your behavior reflected the age
of your body, not your brain."

Gareth swore once more. Not this discussion
again
.

"I will see behavior from you befitting an
educated young nobleman in line for a dukedom," Lucien continued,
smoothly. "No more stupid stunts, immature pranks, drunken
loutishness, or other nonsense. Put one foot wrong, Gareth, and I
warn you: The girl goes. Do you understand me?"

Lucien's black gaze bored through the
darkness into Gareth's.

"Go to hell," Gareth muttered sullenly,
looking away.

"Good. I see that you do understand. Good
night, then. And here" — he plunked down the vase he still held in
one hand — "have some flowers."

Chapter 8

As the week unfurled, Juliet found herself
growing lonelier and lonelier at the big castle. The meals she took
with the family were always silent and tense; Andrew was usually in
his laboratory "experimenting;" Nerissa rose late and made frequent
social calls on the neighboring gentry; and the Duke of Blackheath,
never pleasant, often aloof, and always more than capable of making
Juliet feel as though she was a burden on his time and attention,
continued to evade her question about making Charlotte his ward —
I have not made up my mind yet, Miss Paige, do not continue to
harass me about it
. It was little wonder, then, that Juliet
found herself spending more and more time at Gareth's bedside,
laughing at the amusing things he would say, blushing at his
flirtatious remarks, sitting in a chair watching him play with
Charlotte. Her new friend was a warm blanket in a glacier of cold
English formality, a welcome relief from the oppressive austerity
of the duke — which seemed to permeate the very walls of the castle
itself.

Despite herself, she told herself that she
was not attracted to him. Gareth — light-hearted, carefree, and not
always grounded in maturity — was not, after all, the sort of man
who would suit her. It was not practical, nor wise, to let herself
think of him in any terms other than what he was.

A friend.

Juliet, of course, was not the only one to
benefit from this growing friendship; Gareth, too, found his
convalescence much easier to bear with a beautiful young woman
tending to him, bringing him his meals, his niece, and — if truth
be told — a good excuse to needle Lucien. He knew his brother was
aware of Juliet's visits and was not altogether pleased about them.
Still, Lucien said nothing about the subject, though Gareth
presumed the servants reported every visit Juliet Paige made to his
room back to his omniscient brother.

A week and a half after the robbery, Gareth
— restless from being stuck indoors, his muscles cramped from too
much bedrest, his stitches newly removed — decided he'd had enough.
He was going for a walk. He did, of course, possess the strength to
undertake such a venture by himself; however, his "lingering
weakness" was a perfect excuse to ask Juliet to accompany him, just
in case he suddenly grew light-headed and needed her assistance.
When she brought their lunches up to him that afternoon, they ate
together — and then he asked her to walk with him to the top of
Sparsholt Down.

He thought she would protest; instead, she
surprised him by saying the fresh air would probably do him good.
And so it was that an hour later the two of them, Charlotte safe in
the care of Nerissa, set off across the front lawn, heads together
and laughing.

As they passed the library, the drapes at
the window moved slightly — but neither noticed. The Duke of
Blackheath watched them go, his expression unreadable. He was, of
course, very much aware of Juliet's frequent sojourns to his
brother's room. He was also very much aware of the attraction
between the two, a fact that did not annoy him half as much as he
wanted Gareth to believe; in fact, it was quite the opposite.

Quite the opposite indeed.

The faintest of smiles crossed his face, and
he let the drape fall shut.

Gareth was purposely defying him.

Things were going precisely according to
plan.

And when, a few hours later, he saw them
racing a spring thunderstorm home, the two of them laughing like
children — he was smiling even more.

~~~~

By week's end, however, Gareth needed more
than bucolic walks around the Lambourn Downs. He missed his
friends. He missed doing things with those friends. By the time
Saturday night came around — and with it, Perry and the other Den
of Debauchery members — the Wild One was ripe for trouble.

"You're looking fit as a fox," Perry
drawled, flicking open his snuff box and taking a pinch. "Never
thought you'd want to go out and raise hell again so soon."