Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (8 page)

Emmaline and Drake exchanged a look.

“I may have suggested you were a one-time friend of Miss Marshville.”

“You may have suggested? Or you suggested? Because those are two very entirely different things, Sinclair,” Emmaline said on a frown.

“The former.” He softened the truth with his most roguish grin.

“I already ordered you to stop flirting with my wife, Sin,” Drake snapped.

Filled with a restive energy, Jonathan shoved himself to his feet and wandered over to the pianoforte. He depressed a single, discordant key that resonated through the room and his mind.

I’m proficient upon the pianoforte.

Jonathan imagined those long, delicate fingers moving over the keys.

“And how am I supposed to know this Miss Marshville?” Emmaline called, jerking him from his reverie.

He yanked his hand back from the instrument, and returned his attention to Emmaline.

“Furthermore, I know nothing of her. Why, she could be utterly horrid,” she said, repeating Penelope’s very same concerns.

“She most certainly is not horrid,” he interrupted. He hurried on, as Emmaline and Drake shared some indecipherable look between them. “Miss Marshville strikes me as just the kind you’d get on with.”

“Oh?” Emmaline quirked an eyebrow.

He waved a hand. “Honorable.” She’d perform honest work all to acquire the property lost by her brother. “Courageous.” After all, he couldn’t identify a single young lady who’d brave St. Giles, and wrestle herself free of a lecherous gentleman with such skill and calm. “And exceedingly beautiful,” he murmured more to himself.

For an infinitesimal moment, he detected a slight tug at Drake’s lips, but then he coughed into his hand, and when he dropped his fingers back to his side, his serious, guarded expression was firmly in place.

“Honorable and courageous,” Emmaline repeated, tapping a finger against her chin. “Very well, I’ll trust your judgment on this matter. But,” she held that same finger up. “If she’s in anyway horrid to your sisters…”

“They’ll deserve it entirely,” he said.

“Then you are to release her from her obligations immediately.”

He held a hand to his chest and bowed his head. “Certainly.” He might be a rogue bent on fulfilling own selfish pleasures, but he’d not tolerate cruelty toward his sisters. Which is probably why they’d grown into these unruly hoydens. Jonathan bowed. “Thank you, now if you’ll excuse me?”

“You’re leaving already?” Drake called after him.

He paused a moment and spun back. “I have to fetch my current governess.” His toes fair twitched with the desire to take flight and gather the tart-mouthed miss.

“You’re seeing to it yourself, Sinclair?” Heavy skepticism underscored Emmaline’s question.

Jonathan bristled and tugged at his lapels. “I’ve always taken a particular interest in my sisters’ rearing.” He frowned when Drake snorted. “I have,” he said defensively. Granted, he’d not seen to the hiring of a single governess or nursemaid prior to this, but well, his mother had charged him with this particular responsibility and he’d see it carried out correctly.

It had only the very slightest smidgeon to do with an eagerness to again see his Miss Marshville whose Christian name he still did not know.

Drake waved a hand. “Are you all right?”

Jonathan started. “Fine,” he said indignantly.

“Because you appear to be wool-gathering.”

Emmaline nodded. “Yes, you do appear to be wool-gathering.”

“I do not wool-gather. Why, I’m the Earl of Sinclair, and…” he gave his head a shake, resisting the urge to make a crude gesture for his far-too amused friend. “Good day,” he said on a final bow.

Drake’s laughter carried through the door and down the long corridor as Jonathan made his way out of the house.

Now, to the pleasurable business of collecting his Miss Marshville.

Chapter 6

Juliet glanced across the room at the clock atop the fireplace mantle. The Earl of Sinclair’s carriage should arrive any moment. Last evening, before he’d returned her home, he’d been very specific in his plans for her.

She stared down at her simple, black valise. The midnight coloring put her in mind of the devilish lord whose carriage she now awaited. Nervous trepidation warred with the oddest, most inexplicable longing to once again see the grinning rogue. Which made little sense. She should want to send him to the devil for his having laid claim to her precious cottage and yet, there was more of this desire to see him.

Her maid, Lillian, buried her face into her hands and let out a particularly loud sob pulling Juliet back to the moment. Lillian wept bitterly sad, little tears. “A governess,” she wailed. “A governess,” she repeated for surely the hundredth time since Juliet had returned from her late night meeting with the earl and shared her intentions with the girl who’d become more friend than maid to her over the years.

Juliet patted Lillian on the back. “It is fine,” she assured the young woman. “More than fine,” she hurried to add. Serving as governess to the Earl of Sinclair’s sisters was not ideal, but it was preferable to the sad, sorry state she’d dwelt in since Papa’s death more than a year ago.

Lillian blew her nose rather noisily into a kerchief. “Sir Albert is correct on this score, Miss Juliet. And Sir Albert is not correct on so very many scores,” she said.

Yes, that was true. Albert was more often incorrect than correct. “Then perhaps this time he is wrong as well, Lillian,” she said gently.

“He’s going to be livid after you leave, Miss Juliet, and he’ll certainly take it out on the staff.”

That gave Juliet pause.

Her brother had alternated between spitting fury, and volatile rage when she’d arrived early that morning to find him waiting in the foyer for her to reappear. The rage first directed at her having clouted Lord Williams and leaving the vile reprobate locked in the parlor like a common thief had been miniscule compared to the palpable rage when she’d informed him of her intentions to take on the post of governess. Which had rather surprised her as she’d always thought he’d prefer to have her out of his sight.

She flinched, remembering the poor, porcelain shepherdess and her whole flock of porcelain sheep that had been shattered in his boy-like outburst. “If he harms any of the staff, Lillian, you are to send word.”

Lillian blew her nose once again. “And what will you do, Miss Juliet? There will be nothing you can do.”

Guilt twisted in her stomach, for Lillian spoke correctly on this matter. Juliet had managed to temper her brother’s childlike outbursts through the years, having learned long ago to diffuse his shows of temper. Who would help them now?

Lillian must have seen guilt stamped on her face, for she stuffed her soiled kerchief into her apron front. “Oh, miss, don’t look like that.”

“Like what?”

“All guilty like.” She brushed back the tears on her cheeks. “Why, you’re indeed correct. This is surely the best thing to happen to you.”

Well, Juliet hadn’t said that exactly. Fine, was a good deal different than the best thing to ever happen. She chose not to point out that very detail to the suddenly brightening maid.

The butler, Peter, appeared in the doorway, sadness etched in his heavily wrinkled face. “A servant has arrived from the Earl of Sinclair’s home, Miss Juliet.”

Lillian launched into another round of blubbering. She threw her arms unceremoniously around Juliet’s neck and squeezed hard.

“Oh, Lillian,” she murmured, and smoothed her hands reassuringly over the sobbing girls’ back.

A sheen of crystal drops glazed Peter’s warm brown eyes.

Oh, no, not Peter too. The stoic, somber servant who’d been with the family since she’d been a mere girl had never been given to shows of emotion.

He cleared his throat, and hurried to pick up Juliet’s valise.

Before Juliet’s courage deserted her, she gave Lillian a final, gentle squeeze, stepped away, and began the short walk to the front door and her new life and role as governess. She made it no further than the foyer where the earl’s servant stood patiently waiting near the door.

Albert stepped directly into her path. A mere inch or so taller than herself, he’d never intimidated her with his height but more the cold, malevolent glitter in his unfeeling eyes.

She tipped her chin and boldly met his gaze. “Albert,” she greeted, and made to step around him.

He shifted his bulky frame and effectively blocked her escape. “You’ve become Sinclair’s whore,” he hissed.

Heat flooded her cheeks, and she glanced pointedly at the servants. “Have a care, Albert,” she demanded with quiet firmness. Regardless of their faithfulness through the years, Juliet had long ago learned that servants had loose lips. “I’d become his governess, because work as a governess would be preferable to the offer presented by your friend, Lord Williams,” she spat. Her gaze caught the Earl of Sinclair’s footman. The handsome, liveried servant averted his eyes. She shifted her attention back to Albert, studying him, as she tried to sort it all out. Why, why would her fool brother have such a volatile reaction to her leaving? He’d always treated her as nothing more than a nuisance. He had little intention of giving her a London Season having blamed it on the expenses.

Albert lowered his head. His lips pulled back in a snarl. “You’d reject Lord Williams’ offer and become a maid.”

“His was not a respectable…” Her words died on her lips. She had assumed her brother believed Lord Williams intended to make her an honest offer of marriage, and it occurred to her in that moment. “You knew?” she breathed.

Albert rocked back on his heels, but did not deny the charge she’d leveled at him.

Her brother had known of Lord Williams’ offer and had left her alone with the fiend, and…then all the pieces of the confounded puzzle slipped into their respective places. “You owe him money, don’t you?” she whispered.

Color suffused his cheeks. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

Of course, Albert owed Lord Williams money, surely for lost wagers, and he’d offered her as his whore. Her skin crawled like so many spiders had found a home upon her skin, and she rubbed her arms to drive back the chill inside her. “You wastrel. You are an odious, horrible—” she gasped as he shot his hand out and wrapped his fingers tight around her wrist. He squeezed hard enough to rob her of breath.

The earl’s servant took a deliberate step forward, and her brother released her with sudden alacrity. He eyed the footman a moment, and then lowered his head close to hers. “You’ll become nothing but Sinclair’s whore.”

And because she knew it would enrage him, she smiled and said, “Perhaps, but at least it would be my choice.”

He raised his forearm, and the footman took another step forward. Albert’s hand fell back to his side, and with a final glare for Juliet spun on his heel and left.

She looked after him a long moment, a familiar sadness filling her at this apathy her brother carried for her. Then, Peter handed her valise over to the waiting footman, and she promptly shoved thoughts of Albert to the furthest recess of her mind.

Peter proceeded to wring his gnarled hands together. Juliet walked over to the old servant took his hands in hers, staying the movement. She leaned up and placed a kiss on his wizened cheek. “I shall miss you, Peter.”

He cleared his throat. “And I you,” he said gruffly.

Lillian resumed weeping her noisy little tears. Juliet turned her attention to the young maid who’d been a friend to her these years now. Peter handed a crisp, white kerchief to the maid who took it, and dusted it over her cheeks. “F-forgive m-me, miss. It’s j-just that I’ll m-miss you so. You’ll be be-better there, I know that.”

That was good, since Juliet herself didn’t trust that. She’d never say, as much to the kind girl or the maid would surely dissolve into a fat puddle of tears on the foyer floor. She offered a gentle smile for her maid, and claimed her hands. “Promise you’ll send word to me,” she said quietly.

Lillian nodded. “Absolutely, miss.”

Juliet swallowed. She’d not miss Albert. Nor even the London townhouse so loved by her brother or the fine items filling this empty home. Everything that mattered had already been lost; her Papa, Rosecliff Cottage, and now, this, the servants who’d become almost a defacto family to her over the years.

Filled with a sudden, unexpected reluctance, Juliet turned to the waiting footman.

Peter pulled the door open, and bright sunlight flooded through the entranceway. She held her hand up to her eyes to shield them from the blinding rays that streamed onto the white marble floor.

And with just ten steps, she walked out of her old life, and into the new life that waited her. Granted, with the arduous role of governess to three young ladies, but the prospect of it filled her with an unexpected excitement. A sense of purposefulness when she’d grown accustomed to living the life as a kind of invisible sister to Sir Albert Marshville. There would have never been a Season, and most likely never a husband or family of her own, but now she would have this.

The driver hopped down from his perch atop the black, lacquer carriage that surely cost more than all the items in her former chambers combined. He pulled the door open and held out a hand.

She murmured her thanks and placed her fingertip in his, allowing him to hand her inside. Momentarily blinded by the afternoon sun, her eyes struggled to adjust to the dark confines of the carriage. Juliet blinked several times and shrieked.

The Earl of Sinclair’s hard, sculpted lips turned up in a slow, inviting smile. “Hello, Miss Marshville. We meet again.”