Читать книгу Regency: Rogues and Runaways - Margaret Moore - Страница 10

Miss B. damned nuisance. Asks the most impertinent questions. Might drive me to drink before this is over.

—from the journal of Sir Douglas Drury

Holding a sheaf of bills in her hands, Juliette paced Lord Bromwell’s drawing room as she waited for Sir Douglas to return.

When the footman had first shown her into the enormous room, she’d been too abashed to do anything except stand just over the threshold, staring at the decor and furnishings as if she’d inadvertently walked into a king’s palace.

Or what she’d imagined a palace to be.

At least three rooms the size of her lodgings could easily fit in this one chamber, and two more stacked one atop the other, the ornate ceiling was so high. She craned her neck to study the intricate plasterwork done in flowers, leaves and bows, and in the center, a large rondel with a painting of some kind of battle. The fireplace was of marble, also carved with vines and leaves. The walls were covered in a gold paper, which matched the white-and-gold brocade fabric on the sofas and gilded chairs. The draperies were of gold velvet, fringed with more gold. A pianoforte stood in one corner, where light from the windows would shine on the music, and an ornate rosewood table sported a lacquered board, the pieces in place for a game of chess. Several portraits hung upon the walls, including one that must be of Lord Bromwell when he was a boy—a very serious boy, apparently.

The sight of that, a reminder of her kind host, assuaged some of her dismay, and she dared to sit, running her fingertips over the fine fabric of the sofa.

As time had passed, however, she’d become more anxious and impatient to present Sir Douglas with the bills. Although she’d vetoed the most expensive items and tried to spend Sir Douglas’s money wisely, the total still amounted to a huge sum of money—nearly a hundred pounds.

If what she feared was true, Sir Douglas would expect something in return for his generosity, something she was not prepared to give. If that were so, she would have to leave this house and take her chances on her own. It was frightening to think his enemies might still try to harm her, but she would not be any man’s plaything, bought and paid for—not even this one’s. Not even if she couldn’t deny that his kiss had been exciting and not entirely unwelcome.

At last, finally, she heard the bell ring and the familiar deep voice of the barrister talking to the footman. She hurried to the drawing-room door. Having divested himself of his long surtout, Sir Douglas strode across the foyer as if this house were his own. As before, his frock coat was made of fine black wool, the buttons large and plain, his trousers black as well. His shirt and cravat were brightly white, a contrast to the rest of his clothes and his wavy dark hair.

“Cousin!” she called out, causing him to pause and turn toward her. “I must speak with you!”

Raising a brow, he started forward while she backed into the drawing room. “Yes, Juliette? Are those today’s bills?”

“Oui,” she replied. She waited until he was in the room, then closed the door behind him before handing him the bills. “I want to know what you expect from me in return for this generosity.”

The barrister’s eyes narrowed and a hard look came to his angular face as he shoved the bills into his coat without looking at them. “I told you before I don’t expect to be repaid.”

“Not with money, perhaps.”

Sir Douglas’s dark brows lowered as ominously as a line of thunderclouds on the horizon, while the planes of his cheeks seemed to grow sharper as he clasped his hands behind his back.

“It is not my habit, Miss Bergerine,” he said in a voice colder than the north wind, “to purchase the affections of my lovers. Nor am I in the habit of taking poor seamstresses into my bed. This was not an attempt to seduce you, and the only thing I want from you in return for the garments and fripperies purchased today is that you make every effort to maintain this ruse for the sake of Lord Bromwell’s reputation, as well as your own safety.”

“Who do you take to your bed?”

The barrister’s steely gaze grew even more aloof. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

“That man who attacked me thought I was your mistress. If I know about your women, I can refute his misconceptions if he tries to attack me again.”

“Lord Bromwell and I are taking every precaution to ensure you aren’t molested again. And I hardly think such a creature will care if he’s made a mistake, at least if he has you in his power.”

“So I am to be imprisoned here?”

Sir Douglas’s lips jerked up into what might have been a smile, or a sneer. “You have never been in prison, have you, Miss Bergerine? If you had, you would know this is a far cry from those hellholes.”

“Then I am free to go?”

An annoyingly smug expression came to his face. “Absolutely, if you wish.”

No doubt he would like that, for he would then be free of his responsibility. He could claim she had refused his help and therefore he had no more duty toward her.

Perhaps he would even claim that by purchasing those clothes and other things, he had more than sufficiently compensated her, as if any number of gowns or shoes or bonnets could repay her for the terror she’d faced and might face again as long as he had enemies who believed she was his mistress.

Non, he could not abandon her so easily.

“Since you have put my life at risk, I believe I should stay.” Then, determined to wipe that self-satisfied, superior look from his face, she asked, “So what sort of women do you take to your bed?”

Unfortunately, her question didn’t seem to disturb him in the least. His lips curved up in what was definitely a smile, but one that, coupled with his dark hair and brows, made him look like the devil’s minion. “My lovers have all been married ladies whose husbands don’t care if they stray or not.”

“You like old women, then?”

His lascivious smile grew. “Experienced—but never a Frenchwoman.”

“Oh? Why not?” she inquired, trying not to let her irritation get the better of her as she retreated behind one of the sofas.

“I believe their skills in the bedroom are vastly overrated.”

“Believe?” she countered, brushing her hand along the rich brocade, her brows lifting. “You do not actually know?”

“I know enough to be certain that a Frenchwoman cannot be trusted, either in bed or out of it.”

The arrogant English pig! “So now you will insult a whole country?”

“Why so indignant, Miss Bergerine? I merely gave you the information you claimed to seek.”

She must be calm and control her anger. “Your friends who had the party… The woman’s name is Fanny, I think? Is she your lover?”

He started as if somebody had fired a gun at his head. “Where did you get that outrageous idea?”

He was not so smug and arrogant now! “When you were hurt, you called her name, or else it was Annie. Perhaps you’ve had lovers with both names?”

In spite of his obvious shock, Sir Douglas recovered with astonishing speed. “I was unconscious, was I not?”

“Not all the time. Not when you whispered that name and kissed me.”

He couldn’t look more stunned if she’d told him they’d been secretly married. “I did what?”

“You put your arm around me and you whispered ‘ma chérie’ and then you kissed me,” she bluntly informed him. “Or as I suppose an English lover kisses,” she added, as if his performance had been woefully inadequate.

Sir Douglas Drury blushed. Blushed like a schoolboy. Blushed like a child.

She wouldn’t have considered that possible without seeing it for herself.

“I don’t believe it,” he snapped.

“I am not lying. Why would I?”

His hands still behind his back, he strode to the white marble hearth, then whirled around to face her. “How should I know what motives you may possess for wishing to say such a ridiculous thing? Or why you would pick Fanny, whom I most certainly do not desire. She is a friend, and so is her husband. I would never, ever think of coming between them even if I could—which I most certainly could not. They are very much in love. I realize that would be considered extremely gauche in Paris, but it’s true.”

“I am not telling lies.”

He didn’t believe her. She could see that in his eyes, read it in his face.

“What’s the real reason for these questions, Miss Bergerine?” he demanded as he walked toward her like some large black-and-white cat. “Has somebody been telling you about my other reputation? Do you want to know if what they say about me outside the courtroom is true?”

She stood her ground, not retreating no matter how close he came. “I know all that I care to know about you, Sir Douglas.”

“Oh?” His lips curved up in that dangerous, devilish smile. “Perhaps you really want to find out what it’s like to be kissed by Sir Douglas Drury when he’s wide-awake.”

That made her move.

“You pig! Dog! Merde!” she cried, backing away from him.

Not far enough. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him. Before she could stop him—for of course she must—he took her in his arms and kissed her.

This was no tender kiss, like the one they’d shared before. This was hot and fierce, passionate and forceful. Seeking. Seducing. Tempting beyond anything.

His arms went around her and he held her tight against him, his starched shirt against her breasts. Her heart beat like a regiment’s drum, sending the blood coursing through her body, heating her skin, her face, her lips. Arousing her, asking her to surrender to the desire and need surging through her.

A memory came, of the old farmer in the barn, stinking and sweaty, grabbing her and trying to kiss her, his movements fumbling.

This was not the same.

Or was it?

She was just a seamstress and there was only one way it could end if she gave in to the desire Sir Douglas Drury was arousing, the excitement she was feeling, the need.

She put her hands on his broad chest and shoved him away, prepared to tell him she was no loose woman, no harlot, no whore. Until she saw the look on his face…

He was as upset as she. Because he couldn’t believe a woman like her would spurn his advances?

He was wrong. Very wrong! “You pig! Cochon! To take advantage of a poor woman who came to you for help!”

The door suddenly flew open and Lord Bromwell entered the room as if he’d heard her fierce epithets, except that he was smiling with his usual genial friendliness.

“Millstone said I’d find you both in here,” he said. His smile died as he looked from one to the other. “Is something wrong?”

Sir Douglas turned to her, his dark eyes cold and angry as he raised a single brow.

She was not upset with Lord Bromwell. He was truly kind. But if she complained about his friend to him, what would he do?

She could not trust him completely, for she was French and he was English. She could not be certain he would not send her back to her lodgings.

She quickly came up with an excuse to explain why they had been arguing. “I spent too much on clothes. Nearly a hundred pounds.”

Lord Bromwell gave Sir Douglas a puzzled look. “Why, that’s nothing. I should think you could afford ten times that.”

“I wasn’t quarreling about the amount, which is trivial,” Sir Douglas smoothly lied. “I was trying to make her see that she should have spent more. Madame de Malanche will be telling people I’m a miser.”

Lord Bromwell sighed with relief, and he smiled at Juliette. “That may seem a large sum to you, Miss Bergerine, but truly, Drury would hardly have noticed if you’d spent twice that.”

“One benefit of having a father with a head for business,” the barrister noted.

“Oh, and I’ve brought company for dinner!” Lord Bromwell said, as if he’d just remembered.

Company? She was to have to act a well-to-do lady in company? How could he do such a thing?

A swift glance at Sir Douglas told her he was no more pleased than she, especially when a young couple came into the room.

The woman was no great beauty, but her clothes were fine and fashionable, in the very latest style, and her smile warm and pleasant. The gentleman was likewise well and fashionably attired. His hair, however, looked as if he’d just run his fingers through it to stand it on end, or else he’d been astride a galloping horse without his hat.

“Lady Francesca, may I present Miss Juliette Bergerine,” Lord Bromwell said as Sir Douglas moved toward the window, his hands once more behind his back. “Miss Bergerine, this is Lady Francesca and her husband, the Honorable Brixton Smythe-Medway.”

“Please, you must call me Fanny,” the young woman said.

It took a mighty effort, but Juliette managed not to glance at Sir Douglas before she made a little curtsy.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” she lied.

Although the food was excellent and plentiful—including such delicacies as salmon, which she had never tasted before, and something called a tart syllabub, which was very rich and very good—the dinner was a nerve-racking experience for Juliette. Fortunately, she managed to get through it without making many mistakes by carefully watching and imitating the others, not touching a piece of cutlery or crystal glass until they did.

She also took care not to wolf down the excellent food as if she hadn’t eaten in days, but was used to such cuisine.

And the wine! Mon Dieu, how the wine flowed! Yet she made sure she only sipped, and never finished a glass. She had to keep her wits about her.

The merry Mr. Smythe-Medway was very amusing, but she quickly realized there was a shrewd intelligence behind those green eyes. As for his wife, she seemed sweet and charming, but the test would be how she behaved when there were no men present. As Juliette had learned in the shop, women could be completely different then.

Juliette was so concerned with not making any mistakes, she took no part in the conversation. She doubted anyone noticed, for Mr. Smythe-Medway seemed quite capable and willing to entertain them.

His wife was just as quick-witted, if more subdued, and even Sir Douglas gave proof of a dry wit that made his friendship with the loquacious Smythe-Medway a little more understandable.

After what seemed an age, Lady Fanny rose and led Juliette to the drawing room, leaving the men to their brandy and, Juliette supposed, manly conversation. She couldn’t help wondering what they would say about her and desperately hoped she hadn’t done anything wrong.

“I must say I’m even more impressed with your courage now that I’ve seen you, my dear,” Lady Fanny said as she sat on a sofa and gestured for Juliette to sit, too. The flowing Pomona green skirt of her high-waisted gown spread out beautifully, and the delicate pearl necklace she wore, although simple, looked lovely against her slender throat. “I was expecting quite an Amazon, not a petite woman like you.”

What exactly had Sir Douglas and Lord Bromwell said about her and what had happened? Juliette wondered as she lowered herself onto the sofa opposite, her back straight, her hands in her lap, a part of her mind sorry Madame de Malanche hadn’t had an evening gown ready for her to wear, too. Was Lady Fanny referring to the attack in the alley, or a robbery on the road?

“I was not so brave. It was very frightening,” she prevaricated, thinking that answer would suit either situation.

“Drury and Buggy told us all about what you did for him. Potatoes! I would never have thought of that. Indeed, I think I would have been frozen stiff with fear.”

The reality then. “I saw a man being attacked, and I went to his aid.”

“And now we must come to yours. I’m very glad Buggy came up with this plan, and we shall do everything we can to help.”

“Merci,” Juliette murmured, wondering how this coddled English creature could be of assistance against evil men trying to harm her, or Sir Douglas. “I hope my presence here will not cause a scandal.”

Lady Fanny laughed, and although her laugh was sweet and musical, Juliette still couldn’t see what attracted Sir Douglas to Lady Fanny. To be sure, she was pretty, in a very English way, and seemed kind and good-natured, but she was so… bland. So boring.

Perhaps that was what he liked about her. She would never argue with him, or demand his attention, or likely question a single thing he did. She would be, Juliette supposed, a demure, obedient little wife.

“I wouldn’t be too concerned about our reputations,” Lady Fanny replied. “Buggy was considered quite eccentric until his book became a success, and as for Drury’s reputation…”

Lady Fanny paused a moment before continuing, her cheeks a slightly deeper shade of pink. “I’m referring to his legal reputation. He’s quite famous for his successes. He could have been a barrister of the King’s Bench and possibly a judge by now, yet he remains at the Old Bailey. He prefers to represent the poor.”

The arrogant, wealthy Sir Douglas Drury cared about the plight of the poor? Juliette found that difficult to believe.

“In some ways, Drury’s had a very difficult life.”

She found that hard to believe, too. “But he is titled and educated and rich.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s never known pain, or heartache. His father spent most of his time on business ventures, and his mother—”

“Ah, ladies, here you are, and looking as lovely as a painting,” Mr. Smythe-Medway declared as he sauntered into the room, followed by Lord Bromwell and a darkly inscrutable Sir Douglas.

Why did they have to interrupt now? Juliette thought with dismay.

“I hope Fanny hasn’t been telling you she’s made a terrible mistake marrying me,” Mr. Smythe-Medway continued as he sat beside his wife on the sofa.

“Not likely.” Lord Bromwell smiled as he settled in an armchair. “She’s had years to learn all your bad traits, Brix, yet miraculously loves you just the same.”

Apparently paying no attention to the conversation, Sir Douglas strolled over to the drapery-covered windows. He parted a panel and looked outside, as if he was more interested in the weather than the conversation.

Some inner demon prompted Juliette to call out, “Do you agree it is a miracle, Sir Douglas?”

He turned and regarded them impassively. “Not at all. I believe it was inevitable.”

“Well, I say it is a miracle that Fanny fell in love with me,” Mr. Smythe-Medway declared with a grin. “And one I’m thankful for every blessed day—but no more so than now, for gentlemen and Miss Bergerine, I have an announcement to make. Fanny’s going to have a baby!”

Juliette cut her eyes to Sir Douglas. For a moment, it was as if he hadn’t heard his friend, although Lord Bromwell rushed forward to kiss a blushing, smiling Lady Fanny on both cheeks and pump Smythe-Medway’s hand while congratulating them both.

Yet when Sir Douglas finally turned and walked toward them, his smile appeared to be very genuine, and she could believe he was truly happy for his friends. It also made him seem years younger.

“I’m delighted for you both,” he said, kissing Lady Fanny chastely on the cheek before shaking his friend’s hand.

Maybe he meant what he had said. Perhaps he had never really loved her, after all, and was truly delighted for them.

Or perhaps, Juliette mused then, and as she lay awake later that night, he was an excellent liar.