With This Kiss, page 160
Finally, her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Gareth.”
He shrugged, but didn’t turn around. “Yes. I am, too. You deserve better than this. Both of you do.”
“I suppose we’ll just have to make the best of it.”
He nodded, his gaze still on the candle as its light danced and flickered across his face, the wall behind him.
“I didn’t mean to be cruel,” she explained, her words sounding lame even to her own ears. She came tentatively up behind him, rested a hand on his arm. “It’s just that I’m tired and—well, scared. You, on the other hand, don’t seem worried in the least, and your total indifference about our predicament rather got to me, that’s all.” She gave an apologetic little smile. “I guess I just want you to be as worried about things as I am.”
He turned then, taking her hand within his. “Ah, Juliet. Of course I’m worried,” he admitted. “But I’m not going to dwell on it. I mean, how will it help us if I worry? It won’t find us a place to stay tomorrow, put food in our bellies, or keep us free from want.”
“No, I suppose it won’t.”
They were silent for a moment, heads bent, bodies close, hearts reaching to comfort and console one another. Her hand was still within his, and as his thumb tentatively stroked her knuckles, warm shivers hurried through her.
Shivers she was determined to ignore.
His mouth curved in the beginning of a sudden smile. “Know something, Juliet?”
“What?”
“I was terribly angry with you, but now that I think about it, it’s all rather funny.”
“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’ 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 Eighteen
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.
“No, I’m not joking!” he protested, laughing and waving a bit of cheese as he related a tale about Perry’s mother. “The busks in her corsets really did snap after she gorged herself at her daughter’s wedding feast, and everyone at the table heard them go!”
“Oh, Gareth—you cannot be serious!”
“Oh, but I am. You see, I charmed her maid into bringing me the corset beforehand.”
Juliet clapped a hand to her mouth to hold back her sudden laughter. “You mean you sabotaged it?!”
“But of course. It was great fun, I can assure you. You should’ve heard the things go. Crack! Good thing she was swathed in so much fabric, or they might’ve shot right out of her garments like arrows and hit someone in the eye.”
“Oh, Gareth, that is quite impossible!” she gasped, holding her side with the force of her mirth.
“Ha! But I got you laughing!” He took a swallow of wine. “Another time, Perry’s mother had a ball, and the Den members and I sneaked in beforehand, scooped out the inside of the cake, and stuck a dead salmon inside. Perry had caught it two days before, and it was the height of summer, so you can imagine how the thing stank. You should’ve seen everyone’s faces when they started slicing the cake and the fumes burst forth; it was so bad that Hugh’s mother passed out and fell face first right into the icing!”
Juliet was laughing so hard, the tears were rolling down her cheeks. “I think I understand why Perry’s mother won’t let you stay at her house!”
“Perry’s mother? Ha! None of my friends’ mothers will so much as allow me beyond their gates, never mind over their thresholds! Bunch of sour old gits; you’d think they could forgive me for things that happened four, five years ago.” He grinned, all deceptive innocence. “Why, I’d never do such things now!”
She laughed. “Unless you’re foxed.”
“Unless I’m foxed.”
“Perhaps you should stop drinking, then.”
“And perhaps you should start eating, my dear wife. I’ve seen sparrows with bigger appetites. Here, try some of this Cheshire. It is splendid.”
He plucked a small bit of cheese from the dish and, leaning across the table, held the morsel to her lips. Juliet hesitated—the gesture seemed uncomfortably intimate—but the wine had relaxed her, taking the edge off her inevitable wedding-night jitters, and she suddenly felt ridiculous for being so skittish. Especially when she looked into those romantic blue eyes across from her and saw shadows of Charles in that familiar de Montforte face, in that lazy de Montforte smile. Currents fluttered out along her nerve endings. Warmth settled in the pit of her belly. Slowly, she opened her mouth and accepted the cheese, trembling at the warm brush of his fingers against her lips.
She chewed and swallowed, her gaze still trapped by his, until she finally blushed and looked away, her face rosy and hot, her hands gripped tightly beneath the tablecloth. When she finally dared to look back up at him, he was gazing at her with an amused little half-smile.
