The Wild One (23 page)

"
Funny?
"

"Yes; I mean, here we are, married and
having our first row about money. My brother probably has half of
England out looking for us. I'll wager he's gone to de Montforte
House, Burleigh Place, and all of the Den members's homes in search
of us, and where are we? Holed up in the most exclusive bawdy house
in London!" His eyes crinkled with sudden amusement. "Oh, what an
adventure we're having!"

She shook her head, pitying him for not
seeing the seriousness of a situation she saw as grave. "I still
don't think it's funny, Gareth."

"Don't you?"

"No."

"Well —" he folded his arms, jauntily,
defiantly — "
I
do."

The teasing light was back in his eyes, his
chin dimpling beneath its haze of golden-brown stubble, and despite
herself, Juliet couldn't help her own reluctant little smile.

Just as she couldn't help the way she was
noticing certain things about
him
... how his sleeveless
waistcoat, fitting so snugly over the linen shirt just beneath,
emphasized the span of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the
lean tautness of his fighting-trim waist. How the snowy lace that
spilled from his throat and over his wrists emphasized his chin and
the natural grace of his hands. How his buff breeches seemed to be
painted on to his hips and long, muscular thighs; how very tall he
was, and how powerful he looked. Sudden heat washed through her. He
had a splendid form. He had a splendid face. He was splendid,
period, a de Montforte through and through — and Juliet's sudden
shock about the direction of her thoughts far surpassed her fears
about how this charming wastrel was going to support them.

I am not supposed to feel this way. This is
Charles's brother — not Charles!

Her husband misinterpreted the reason for
her silence.

"Well then, Juliet, since
you
can't
find anything funny about our predicament, let's see what Charlotte
can do," he announced with a flippant, offhand charm. And then,
before she could protest, he plucked the baby from her arms, laid
her on the bed, and tickled her until she batted at his hands and
began shrieking with delight. "See? Charlotte thinks it's funny,
don't you, Charlie-girl?"

The baby, who obviously adored him, gurgled
and squealed, and Juliet found herself staring at the tender
picture the two of them made; he, so tall and strong and masculine,
her daughter, so tiny and helpless. She swallowed, hard. There was
something deep and moving in this powerful image of Lord Gareth de
Montforte as a father — a role that seemed to come as easily to him
as flight to a bird.

Her heart beat faster as she finally
acknowledged what she'd been afraid to admit all along.

She desired him.

Desired him so badly it scared her.

He glanced over at her, grinning. She shook
her head and folded her arms, feigning annoyance but unable to
prevent the growing amusement from sparking her eyes. Then he bent
over Charlotte, his nose nearly touching hers, a few locks of hair
tumbling over his brow and brushing the baby's forehead. He put his
fingers into the corners of his mouth and pulled his cheeks wide,
all the while making an absurd gurgling noise and glancing
playfully at Juliet out of the corner of his eye to ensure that she
was watching, too. He looked completely ridiculous. Worse, he
knew
he looked completely ridiculous and reveled in it.
Unbidden, a burst of laughter escaped Juliet, mingling with
Charlotte's happy shrieks. Letting go of his cheeks, Gareth laughed
right along with them, a big, happy sound that brightened the room
as the candles never could have done. It was warm laughter, family
laughter, the kind of laughter that Juliet had never expected to
share in ever again.

Something lurched painfully in her heart.
I never had this much fun with Charles. He could never have
found anything funny about spending the night in a brothel, would
not have been able to find anything to salvage in this situation.
He, far too serious by half, would have remained quietly furious
with me.

But not Gareth.

"See, Juliet? Your daughter thinks it's
funny. Now, Charlotte, if we can only get your mama to laugh, too.
I mean really
laugh
. She's so pretty when she smiles, don't
you think?"

Juliet blushed. "Oh, do stop trying to
flatter me, Gareth."

"Flatter you? I'm merely telling the
truth."

"And stop grinning at me like that."

"Why?"

"Because —" she hugged herself and looked
away — "it's making me all the more annoyed with you."

"You're not annoyed with me, Juliet." He
climbed onto the bed, tugged off his boots, and, still in his
stockings, lay back against the pillows, his long legs bent at the
knee. Throwing one knee over the other, he placed Charlotte on his
chest and grinned lazily up at Juliet. "At least, not anymore."

Her heart did a funny little flip, and
desire swam through her blood. She could feel a hot, familiar
dampness between her thighs. A sharp, tingling ache in her breasts.
Dear God, he was shamelessly tempting. And the picture he made,
lying back against the pillows like that, with his arms behind his
head and that seductive gleam in his blue eyes as though inviting
her to join him —

God help her.

"I'll make you happy, Juliet," he announced,
still lounging on the bed with one leg propped over his bent knee,
his stockinged foot bouncing playfully up and down. His eyes were
warm and laughing. "Providing you can be patient and understanding
with me whilst I fumble my way from wild young bachelor to tame and
loving husband." He grinned. "I'm impossibly hopeless, you
know."

"Yes. I know."

"Lucien says I need to grow up."

"You sound proud of the fact."

"Proud? No. Lucien, you see, never got the
chance to be a child, and sometimes I think he almost envies me my
total lack of inhibition. Poor devil. He was only a lad when he
inherited the dukedom, you know. It wasn't easy for him."

"No — it never is, losing a parent." She
knew well how
that
loss felt.

"Ah, but we did not lose just one parent,
you see. My mother had a terrible time giving birth to Nerissa. My
father couldn't bear to hear her screams of pain, so he tried
secluding himself in one of the towers during her ordeal. Still, it
was no use. He finally went rushing to her aid — only to fall
headlong down the stairs." His foot stopped swinging for a moment,
and his gaze was distant and sad. "It was Lucien who found
him."

"Oh, Gareth ..." Her eyes darkened with
sympathy. "Charles never told me."

"No, he wouldn't have. Charles was very
private about family, you know. But Luce, poor chap, he never got
over it — nor over Mama's death from childbed fever several days
later. Some men would drink themselves to death. Not Lucien. He
buries his grief and horror at what he saw beneath a heightened
sense of responsibility, not only for the dukedom but also for us.
He takes that responsibility seriously.
Too
seriously, I'm
afraid. Living under his roof has been about as happy as living at
Newgate, I should think." He gave a rueful smile. "Why do you think
Charles went into the army when he did? What do you think caused
the rift between Luce and the rest of us? He never learned how to
have fun. Never had the chance to pull a prank, play a joke, run
wild, live it up as all young blades should have the chance to do.
Everything is all seriousness to Lucien, but I could never live
like that. Life is just too short."

She moved closer, perching herself on the
very edge of the bed. "And so you amuse yourself by getting
people's pigs drunk, instead."

"You heard about that, then?"

"I did. At the breakfast table one
morning."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Well, I
only do those sort of things when I'm foxed. I won't even begin to
tell you what I've done whilst sober."

"I don't think I want to know."

"I confess, I don't think I
want
you
to know!"

She laughed, and so did he, and for a brief,
buoyant moment the troubles of their world went away, and there was
only the three of them, alone in this room, safe from worry and
want. But then Gareth's expression sobered. There was a message in
what he'd just told her, and suddenly he was no longer teasing.

"Don't end up like Lucien," he said softly,
reaching up to touch her cheek, that stubborn wisp of hair. "Don't
throw away your youth, your spirit, and your love on something that
is lost, Juliet. Something that can never be."

She looked down, the poignant — and
unexpected — wisdom of his words filling her with pain. He was
talking about Charles, of course. He, who'd said nothing about that
terrible moment in the church this morning; he, who'd forgiven her
for the cruel comparisons she had made between him and his brother;
he, who'd never commented on the miniature she wore prominently
displayed around her neck. He had noticed them all, these little
shrines to another man, but he had never said a word, had never
expressed resentment or anger or jealousy that he was not, and
might not ever be, the prince of her heart. A lump rose in Juliet's
throat. Not only was her husband noble and generous, he was far
more perceptive — and wise — than she had given him credit for.

Picking at a thread in the counterpane, she
said, "I cannot help it, Gareth. I still feel ... loyal to him,
even though he's dead, even though I'm now married to you. I know
it's silly, but ... well, I guess I just have too many
memories."

"Memories are all well and good, but they
will not warm your bed at night."

"He died in the prime of his life —"

"His life was completed, Juliet. And knowing
my brother as I did, he would not have wanted you to pine so over
him but to make the most of yours."

She stared morosely at the floor. He was
right, of course, but that didn't make things any easier. Cuddling
Charlotte, Juliet lay her cheek against the baby's soft curls and
blinked back the sudden tears his words had brought on. She could
feel her husband's gaze upon her — kind, gentle, understanding,
patient.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked,
miserably.

He smiled, his eyes warm and forgiving. "Not
anymore." And then: "Are you angry with me?"

"No." She shook her head and wiped away a
tear that had rolled free of her right eye. Sniffled. Wiped away
another. "I'm ... I'm so sorry about this morning ... in church,
with the rings —"

"It is forgotten."

"No, I feel horrible about it. There you
were with all your friends looking on, and I embarrassed you, hurt
you — "

He shook his head patiently and gave a
little smile. "Come here, Juliet."

"Oh, no, I can't, I — I'm not ready for —
that is, I —"

"Shhh. I know you're not ready. I just want
you to sit up here with me. That's all. You've been through enough
all by yourself without going through this alone, as well."

He sat up in bed, making a space for her
beside him.

She hesitated for a moment before joining
him. She could feel the warmth of his big body beside her, its
quiet, resting power. Immediately, her heart began pounding,
skipping beats, sending blood racing to her cheeks and tingling out
into her fingers and toes. She was helpless against his seductive
attraction. Helpless against her feelings for him, which she could
no longer pretend to ignore. Those heavy-lidded blue eyes, those
long, sweeping lashes, that insouciant, irresistible smile —

She might have kissed him. For a moment
their gazes met — his, warm and charming; hers, confused and scared
— but then he grinned, draped an arm around her shoulders to pull
her close, and the moment was lost. She lay stiffly against the
hollow of his shoulder, heart pounding, reluctant to put the weight
of her head against him and hardly daring to breathe — but very
aware of the hard body beneath his soft shirt, the faint hint of
his own unique, masculine scent.

True to his word, he did nothing but hold
her as he prompted her to talk about her fears, her dreams, and,
yes, even Charles. And sometime during that long hour that he held
her, Lord Gareth de Montforte ceased being the man she'd married
and became her best friend.

Chapter 18

Supper arrived. As Gareth set up their meal
on an elegant French table, Juliet retreated behind a corner screen
and fed Charlotte. When she emerged, putting the sleepy baby in the
cradle, the aroma of hot food assailed her senses. Her stomach
rumbled with need. How many hours had it been since they'd eaten a
decent meal?

Gareth was standing attentively by her
chair, waiting to seat her. Smiling, Juliet sat down, her gaze
following her handsome husband as he walked back around the table
and took his own chair across from her. Ever the perfect gentleman,
he lifted the lids from the covered dishes and tureens, allowing
Juliet to inspect each one before serving up her portions
himself.

It was a veritable feast. Beneath the glow
of the small candelabra there was hare simmered in port wine and
stuffed with herbs and cinnamon. Veal pie with plums and sugar. A
fluffy white cake filled with butter, sugar, and raspberry jam, an
assortment of truffles and sugared pastries, and spicy, moist
gingerbread, still hot from the oven. Bottles of sweet, fruity
wine, biscuits, and a selection of cheeses — Stilton, Cheshire, and
cheddar — completed the meal. As they ate, washing the food down
with the wine served in sparkling crystal glasses, they continued
the conversation they'd started on the bed. The more they talked,
the more they relaxed. And the more Gareth drank, the more amusing
he became.

Two glasses of wine and he was making her
giggle with his word caricatures of Lord North and the other
ministers whose doings had helped plunge America into revolution;
three and he was telling her about the wicked scandals, affairs,
and personal quirks of politicians whose names she had never heard,
and aristocrats she hoped never to meet, until their own troubles
seemed far away and she was laughing right along with him.