Only Marriage Will Do (4 page)

“Roberts, we have had a change in course. We will go north to Lord Dalbury’s estate in Cumberland but I need to make you and George privy to my plans. Can we head outside the city and stop at an inn to talk, do you think?” She wouldn’t feel safe from Philippe until she’d left London behind her. They could sort out their travel problems then.

“Aye, my lady.” Roberts bobbed his head. “I knows just the place, The Blue Bull right outside the city. Will that suit, milady?”

“Yes, thank you, Roberts.” Juliet leaned back and closed her eyes, at last ready to make plans.

Resisting the urge to turn and stare after Lady Juliet’s retreating carriage, Amiable entered Morehouse. The woman would be fine. He handed his sword to the butler, Mortimer, and continued on to the small parlor he preferred to use for business. The morning’s post included an invitation to dine with his sister Verity, Lady Ayrdmore, and another to an end of season house party at Braetons’ country estate in Kent. He would send regrets to both. He should see Vee, but he didn’t feel up to it. The Braetons would understand he still mourned his brother, even if he didn’t wear the black armband. Of course, the death had occurred almost six months before. Poor Pax.

Amiable sat heavily on the Queen Anne chaise, the focal point of the room. The blue and cream appointments reminded him keenly of his mother, receiving visitors, sipping tea, always gracious. All the rooms, in fact, spoke of his mother’s impeccable taste that had drawn beauty from simple things. Her death six years ago was another hurt scarcely bandaged. The most recent blow to his heart, however, took precedence today.

He’d been in love with Katarina Fitzwilliam for several years, despite her youth. He had fenced with her, ridden with her, squired her to the local entertainments in Williamsburg’s provincial society during her last year in Virginia, and had finally asked her to marry him after her father’s death. Her stricken eyes and sudden tension had smote him even before her verbal refusal assailed his ear. He didn’t care that she did not love him. That might have grown in time from the regard and respect she admitted for him. Her refusal left no doubt. If he knew anything of Kat, it was of her honesty and forthrightness; had there been any hope, she would not have refused him outright.

After she and Jack had set sail for London, he had tried to put the whole affair behind him. Then, in early May her letter had arrived, taking him by surprise and giving him a wild hope. If only it had not arrived with along with the news of his brother’s death.

He stood, determined once more to forget her. She had married, and a marquess no less. Apparently, the troubles she had hinted at in her letter had been overcome in the most splendid of ways. He must wish her happy with the path she had chosen.

Amiable started for the staircase, but stopped, unable to let the puzzle of Katarina’s actions go. If her life had been so idyllic, then why had she written the letter that had brought him to London yesterday and to the rather bizarre scene this morning with Lord Dalbury’s sister?

The beautiful Lady Juliet presented a perpetual air of damsel in distress, although she had proved most resourceful. That she had pulled off that little drama without missing a beat suggested he had met a master of deception. Not a very desirable trait for a woman, but in her dire circumstances, forgivable. He usually loathed dishonesty in anyone, but even he had been swept up into the madness of her lie. Indeed, he would have fought the sickening blackguard for her honor. Would do it still if required. Perhaps a fencing match this afternoon would quench his blood thirst.

He headed for his suite upstairs. Pray God Lady Juliet would not come to grief on her imprudent journey. A shame he could not have provided her with an escort, but he bore no relation to the woman at all. Her reputation would be in shreds by the time they reached their destination. Not to mention her brother would likely call him out for his pains.

Neither did his own life need the addition of a romantic entanglement. Oh, but that woman could tempt a saint—a description that had
never
applied to him. Nothing appealed to him more, however, than a woman in need of rescue. No. He must dismiss the image of her—such a soft, sweet armful.

Her fears about the Frenchman were likely unfounded. The fellow wouldn’t have the audacity to pursue her, if he thought her a married woman. Weighed against the impropriety of such an escort, even with the presence of her maid, his current course seemed the only prudent one.

Entering his boyhood room, he signaled his valet for a change of clothes. The reputation of Angelo’s School of Arms had reached even to the backwater of Virginia. He might as well go see for himself if it deserved its repute. One never knew when one would be called on to defend a lady’s honor. Best err on the side of caution and be well prepared.

* * * *

For over an hour they fought their way out of the madness of the London traffic, jostled by huge wagons filled with goods, almost run down by a phaeton driven by a wild-haired gentleman, and slowed to a crawl by the sheer number of vehicles leaving the city. A lengthy journey fraught with tension that had drained her more than she expected. Juliet gave thanks to God as her coach pulled into the inn yard of The Blue Bull.

Roberts swung down as soon as the carriage came to a halt and swiftly met the inn’s ostlers who were trying to take the horses out of the shafts.

Juliet beckoned Glynis and George into the inn and went to find the innkeeper. Not five minutes later she and her servants sat in a private parlor, gathered around a table.

“I have had a change in my plans for the summer.” Juliet looked at them one after the other. “There is a gentleman in London whom I must avoid until my brother returns in December. The easiest way I see to do this is to retire to the marquess’ Cumberland estate near Wigton. No one must know we are there, so we cannot return to Dunham House before leaving.”

The coachman and stable boy exchanged dismayed glances.

“I realize this will put a strain on Roberts and George. You believed you would return to the house this evening and so have brought no belongings.”

Both men nodded.

“Please know I will compensate you all accordingly when we reach Guinevere’s Keep and will make provision for your clothing and such necessities as you require until we return to London.” She shrugged. “With the marquess from home, this is the only means I can think of to thwart him.”

They stared raptly back at her, and she relented. “If any of you can think of a better plan, I will certainly be glad to hear it.” She sat back in her chair, glancing from face to face. Her brother’s servants had always been loyal, but now she asked much of them on very short notice.

Roberts grunted and put his elbows on the table. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but with the master gone and all, I think you’re showin’ right good sense in tryin’ to get away from that peacock what arrived in that new-fangled French carriage. Cabree-olay his driver called it, or some such nonsense. ’Twas a small two-wheeled carriage if you ask me.”

Good. If Roberts approved of her plan, she’d have no trouble with the others.

“Me an’ George’ll keep you safe, my lady. You an’ Glynis. But I think you’re wise to nash it out of London. In Cumberland you’ll be amongst your own people, your brother’s people that is, and there’s none more loyal to a good master.” He pulled at the sleeves of his blue livery jacket. “And don’t you worry none about our clothes and such. We’ll make do. Always have.”

She smiled at the coachman. Roberts must be winded after such a long speech. The man had never before linked more than two sentences consecutively in her hearing. Weariness suddenly overtook her. “Thank you, Roberts. Do you also speak for George?” The lad, no more than fifteen, ducked his head then nodded.

“Well, then, do you know the road to take to Guinevere’s Keep?” Saying the name made her smile in spite of herself. If only she were accompanied by her knight, all her dreams would have come true.

“Aye, my lady. I’ve traveled it a time or two. And we’ve got a good ’nother six hours of daylight left. We can make a decent start even with changes.” He rose to see to the re-hitching while George, red creeping up his neck, acted as protector and escorted her and Glynis to the inn yard. A few minutes later, they were again on their way and Juliet truly relaxed for the first time since leaving Dunham House.

Less worry about their journey, unfortunately, left more time for thought, speculation, and outright longing for her earlier companion. Rather than banish these wistful pinings, she embraced them, relived the encounter this morning with Amiable Dawson. Especially his outrage at Philippe’s vulgar insinuation about them under the mistletoe. Yes, he had been infuriated at that affront to her honor.

Had part of that anger stemmed from his desire to be in the same position with her—or the one subtly hinted at by Philippe? Tingling all the way to her toes, she closed her eyes, and imagined kissing Amiable under the mistletoe at a Christmas party, then beneath the silken covers of a soft bed in a room so warm covers weren’t necessary.

They lay in bed together, naked though she did not feel embarrassed. Amiable cupped her head, guided her lips to his. Their mouths met, a sweetness of soft lips and tongues exploring tenderly. No haste. They had all the time they needed. She tugged his ribbon and his hair flowed free around his shoulders, like a pagan Norse god come to life at her touch. He pressed her down into the bed. His pleasantly heavy weight held her, cherished her. Raining kisses from her mouth, to her throat, to shoulder, to breast, he drove her mad with his silky lips. She moaned with delight and moved her hips against the hardness that urged itself between her legs. Seeking, prodding, parting her thighs…

A rough hand seized her, shook her. Philippe. Philippe had come to take her away. To make her his wife instead.

“No! No! I hate you, Philippe. I will never be yours,” she screamed with the force of a gale wind.

Juliet jerked awake, the glare of the afternoon sun blinding her. She blinked and squinted.

“Lady Juliet? My lady?” Glynis peered at her from the seat opposite, edging toward the corner. Her small hand rested tentatively on Juliet’s forearm. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, though a slick cold sweat trickled down her neck despite the heat of the closed carriage.

“You gave me such a fright. You must have been having a bad dream, my lady. About…
him
. That awful Frenchman. You began to moan and twitch and when I shook you to wake you up, you screamed, ‘No, no, Philippe.’ He is still a cruel man, my lady. I am glad you are now out of his reach.”

“Thank you, Glynis. Yes, I had an awful dream about Vicomte St. Cyr. I’m glad you awakened me.” Praise God she had said nothing worse. Nothing about Amiable. Her cheeks heated and she gave thanks for the fading light.

The remembrance of the beginning of her vivid dream stayed with her the rest of the afternoon—the space between her thighs aching for Amiable’s touch—until the carriage finally swept into the yard of the White Hart Inn in St. Albans, the first leg of her journey completed.

* * * *

The clock on the mantle chimed the quarter hour. After one o’clock in the morning and, despite the excitement of the day, her escape from London, her afternoon nap and its disturbing dream, Juliet still couldn’t sleep.

After almost an hour of tossing and turning in her wretched bed, she’d sent Glynis to the kitchen to see if they had kept hot water over the fire. Perhaps a bath would soothe her enough to make sleep possible. Had she brought her lavender oil? So calming. Surely that would help.

She slipped on her robe and padded to her traveling trunk at the end of the bed. She lifted the lid and pulled out the box that held her soaps and perfumes. As she checked the vials, a tentative knock sounded at the door.

“Come in, Glynis.” She uncapped a vial and sniffed the contents. Jasmine. No. Not for the bath.

The door opened.

“Are they bringing the tub? I think the lavender oil will help me relax.”

“Very good, my lady.” The deep masculine voice froze her, vial in hand.

Her head snapped up.

A towering male figure stood shadowed in the doorway.

Dear God, Philippe had found her.

“Or is it Mrs. Dawson perhaps?”

No accent. He was not Philippe. A hired thug sent to kidnap her?

Strength drained away. She dropped the box and whirled around, seeking a way out of the room that suddenly seemed to close in on her.

Bottles crashed and the reek of jasmine filled the room. Juliet shrieked and stumbled back behind the bed. Trapped. Easy prey.

The man raced toward her, calling out something she couldn’t hear for the blood pounding in her ears. The candle he carried blew out. He cursed and reached for her.

“Nooo! Get away. Don’t touch me.” Slapping at his hands, she twisted to avoid him and landed with a thud, flat on her back. Air rushed out of her lungs.

He sped around the end of the bed.

She struggled to scream for Glynis, but produced only a high-pitched squeak.

The man knelt beside her.

Dear Lord, where was her rescuer now?

“Are you all right, Lady Juliet?” The concerned tone and familiar voice of Amiable Dawson answered her prayer instantly.

She slumped against the floor and blessed air raced into her lungs. He had come for her.

He clasped her in his strong arms and hoisted her into the air. Tucking her firmly against his chest, he carried her back around the bed and sat in one of the chairs before the cold fireplace. He cradled her in his lap and rocked her like a child.

She gasped in air and burrowed her face into him.

“Shhh, my lady.” He disengaged his arms from her. A candle on the table flared then he returned to shelter her. “I am so very sorry I frightened you. I thought you recognized me when I came through the door.” He pressed her head against his chest. Just like this morning.