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
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
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