After the Abduction (31 page)

Let her go back to blasted London with her blasted family. If she refused to marry him until she got what she wanted, then she could damned well wait on his leisure. He would
not
let her wrap him around her little finger! He had important responsibilities, and the sooner she learned that, the better.

Now if only he didn’t feel as if the quagmire had finally swallowed him whole.

Chapter 18

Trifles light as air

Are to the jealous confirmations strong

As proofs of holy writ.

Shakespeare’s
Othello,
underlined in

Griff Knighton’s copy of the play

J
uliet had ridden halfway back to Charnwood when she heard a shot fired in the distance behind her. For a second, she panicked. Surely Sebastian wouldn’t hurt himself…

Then came another pistol shot, and she realized how stupid an idea that was. Sebastian didn’t even care enough about her to do as she asked. He certainly didn’t care enough to kill himself. He cared so little that he’d gone right back to his target practice.

How very appropriate. He could make a pistol behave exactly as he wished, which was all he cared about. A pistol didn’t ask him for anything as foolish as loyalty or support or…or even affection.

Tears burned her eyes, and her shoulders began to heave again. She didn’t stop the tears. She couldn’t. Dratted stupid scoundrel! It was so like him to want everything his way. He’d only told her the truth after he was sure he had her where he wanted her. And then to refuse to tell her family—

Very well, he could molder out there until doomsday for all she cared, him and his infernal pistols and his precious brother. But if he thought she would marry him without reassuring her family that all was well, then he could think again. She was right, drat it, and he knew it! He owed it to her to be truthful to her family.

Charnwood loomed up ahead, and she swiped furiously at her tears. Nobody must ever know of this. They’d try to make her marry him immediately. Or worse, try to hurt him. She ought to let them; Lord knew the wretch deserved it. But she couldn’t betray him like that.

Even if it restored her to the position of featherheaded ninny in her family’s eyes. Which she clearly was, anyway. Why else had she allowed herself to fall in love not once, but
twice
with a man who cared so little for her?

Except that this time she’d ruined herself in the process.

Oh, what did it matter? If the rumors got any worse, she’d be ruined anyway. Besides, it wasn’t as if she wanted to marry anybody else. If she couldn’t marry Sebastian, she wouldn’t marry at all. And right now, the possibility of marrying Sebastian looked decidedly shaky. The longer he locked himself away in Shropshire, the less inclined he’d be to marry. After all, it wasn’t as if he had any strong feelings toward her that made him want marriage.

She blinked back more tears. When he’d said those words about needing her, she’d let herself hope that he truly did. But clearly he needed her to soothe his conscience, nothing more. Very well, if he wanted his conscience soothed, he’d have to come after her in London. Because she wasn’t letting Sebastian Blakely tell her what to do anymore.

The setting sun pierced through some branches, blinding her with light, and she suddenly realized how late it was. Oh, dear, this wasn’t good. Griff and Rosalind had surely returned by now. She hastened around to the orangery door where Polly was supposed to be waiting, but there was no sign of the maid. Dismounting quickly, she tied the horse to a nearby tree and slipped inside. She’d have to send Polly to bring it to the stables once she reached the safety of her bedchamber.

Praying that no one saw her, she nearly wept with relief when she made it to the door of her bedchamber without being accosted. But when she opened her door to sneak inside, all hell broke loose.

“Where on earth have you been?” Griff shot up from a chair by the hearth. “We’ve been worried sick.”

Juliet froze in the doorway, her heart tripping double-time. Goodness gracious, this was pure disaster. In the corner, Polly stood looking ill at ease. She’d obviously been kept there so she couldn’t warn Juliet off. And a white-faced Rosalind sat rigid on the bed.

When Juliet glanced to her sister in a panic, Rosalind gave a tiny shake of her head. So Rosalind hadn’t told Griff anything. And now she probably expected Juliet to lie for her.

Even as Juliet rebelled at the thought, she mustered her energy to do so. Because if she didn’t, Rosalind and Griff would be at odds again, and she couldn’t bear to see it. Just because her own chances at happiness were melting away didn’t mean theirs had to.

She faced her brother-in-law calmly. “I went riding. What of it?”

He strode forward. “You’re supposed to be resting, that’s what of it! I thought you were too ill to travel, and here you are gadding about the countryside. And alone, at that.”

“I woke up feeling much better today, that’s all.”

His eyes narrowed. “Rosalind told me you were so ill this morning, you could barely raise your head.”

Juliet winced as her sister groaned. They really should have compared notes. “Well, I…um…”

“Polly, you may leave,” Griff said tersely, and the maid gratefully fled.

As soon as she was gone, he crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s going on here? What have you two been up to?”

“Nothing!” they said in unison.

He rounded on Rosalind. “I’m not an idiot, you know. Juliet has never been sick a day in her life and suddenly she’s stayed ill for a week? And wouldn’t allow a doctor near? I thought I could trust you to tell me if I had reason to be suspicious, but obviously I was wrong. You’ve both been plotting behind my back. And I demand to know why!”

As Rosalind sat there uselessly fumbling for words, Juliet stepped forward. “I wasn’t ready to leave Shropshire yet, that’s all. So I pretended to be sick.”

“Might that have anything to do with that scoundrel Templemore?” His face darkened to a shade of red that boded ill for both of them. “You’ve been meeting him in secret, haven’t you? I wondered why he was always absent, and now I know why.”

“That’s not true!” Juliet protested. Oh, dear, was her loss of virtue written in her face for the whole world to see? Or was he merely guessing?

“All this time, you pretended to be ill while you crept out to meet him. Damn it, Juliet, I thought better of you than this. But I won’t let him take advantage of you as his brother did. A worse pair of wretches I’ve never encountered. When I get my hands on the bastard—”

“Please, Griff—” Juliet began, alarmed at the thought of what he might do or say to Sebastian.

“This has nothing to do with his lordship,” Rosalind broke in wearily. “Juliet did it all for me.”

A rush of relief hit Juliet. “Rosalind, you don’t need to—”

“It’s all right, dearest,” her sister said. “I shouldn’t make you fight my battles.”

Griff stiffened. He searched his wife’s face, and then his features went stony. Turning back to Juliet, he said, “Lord Templemore has nothing to do with this?”

“Nothing at all,” she lied. The last thing she needed was Griff confronting Sebastian in his current state. Sebastian would add fuel to the fire by saying he’d compromised her, and before she knew it, the two men would be marking off paces in a field somewhere.

“Then it won’t matter to either of you if we return to London?” he asked.

“Actually,” Juliet said, “I was going to suggest that we return anyway. I went riding precisely because I’d grown tired of staying cooped up in my room. I’m ready to go back to London whenever you two are.”

Griff nodded, apparently satisfied by that answer. “Good.” He held out his arm to his wife. “Come now, Rosalind, let’s leave Juliet to pack. I think you and I have a few matters to discuss in private.”

As soon as they were gone, Juliet sank onto the bed. Well, that was that. She had no choice now. They were returning to London. She’d made her decision, and it was too late to do anything else.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. She was leaving Sebastian here. What if he
never
came after her? He’d abandoned her before for the sake of his brother; what was to keep him from doing it again?

For a moment, she considered running back to him. Perhaps she
was
being too stubborn about this. Could it really hurt if he hid the truth until his brother returned?

But then what would happen when Morgan
did
return? Disaster, that’s what. She could end up permanently estranged from her family, and for what? A man who
thought she’d “make him a good wife,” and that’s all. Who said he couldn’t love her. Who thought of her only as some waif in need of rescuing.

She blinked back new tears. No, she had run off with him once before without his offering her anything but promises of a future that had never materialized. She wouldn’t do it again.

This time she’d be wise. Even if it tore her heart in two.

Griff watched his wife sweep into the room ahead of him and march straight to the dressing room. The terror gripping him was too painful for words. Rosalind had been hiding things from him.

From the day they’d married, she’d always been truthful with him, never gone behind his back. That she’d do so now only increased his desperate fear that he was losing her. Ever since she’d begun to obsess about having a child, he’d worried that she blamed
him
for her inability to conceive. And why was it so important to her anyway? Why wasn’t he enough for her?

He’d lost her affections, and he didn’t even know how or why.

Oh, she still came to his bed with all the eagerness she’d shown before. But it was her behavior outside the bedchamber that worried him—her constant air of distraction, her determination to marry Juliet off, her fixation with having a child. He often found her staring at nothing. And when he asked what was wrong, she wouldn’t tell him. They used to share everything. Now they shared only a bed. He missed the way it was before.

He entered the dressing room to find her removing gowns from hangers and folding them neatly. “Rosalind,” he said, coming up behind her, “what’s this all about?”

She glanced up at him with a false smile. “What do you mean? You said we were going back to London.”

“That’s not—Why would you ask Juliet to pretend to be sick so you could stay here longer?”

She concentrated on her folding. “You’ll think it’s silly.”

God, he hoped so. He could handle silly. “Try me.”

“I thought perhaps the country air would do me good. Help me conceive, you know? I’ve long wondered if it’s not that ghastly London air that’s hindering me.”

Relief coursed through him for the briefest moment. Then reality sank in. “If that’s the case, why haven’t you ever asked me to take you home to Swan Park, or even the chateau? We needn’t spend all our time in the city.”

“I wouldn’t want to drag you from your work,” she said evenly. “Besides, I like being in town. But after we came here…well, I merely thought that staying awhile might be invigorating.”

“Invigorating.”

“Yes.” She shot him a hesitant smile. “And you must admit we’ve had a fine time together without you having to dash off to Knighton Trading all the time.”

He wanted to believe her. God, how he wanted to believe her. But her explanations simply didn’t ring true. Rosalind hated the country. She’d always thrived on activity and bustle and the excitement of the city.

“Yes, but what’s so special about Charnwood?” he persisted. “The master is never around, and the servants can’t heat water to save their lives…I can’t imagine why you’d find Charnwood any more ‘invigorating’ than your own home. And if that’s all it was, why not tell me you wanted to stay, instead of engineering some nonsense with Juliet? I would gladly have done whatever you wanted.”

“That’s not true. You would have insisted you had too much work to do to remain out here.”

He supposed he couldn’t refute that. Yet for her to go so far as to have her sister play sick…“So that’s all there was to it. You wanted to enjoy the country air.”

“Of course.”

“And you weren’t concerned that being here put Juliet in the path of Templemore, whose own brother kidnapped her.”

“He isn’t like his brother,” she said hotly. Too hotly. “He’s a very nice man. Juliet would be hard-pressed to find a better suitor.”

Now she was championing Templemore for Juliet. His eyes narrowed. “So I was right then. That’s where she’s been sneaking off to all this time.”

“She hasn’t been sneaking off anywhere,” Rosalind snapped. “If you don’t believe me, ask Polly. Juliet has been lolling about in her room, that’s all.”

“Has he been ‘lolling about’ with her? All those times he missed meals and disappeared God knows where—”

“For pity’s sake, Griff, he wasn’t with
her.
I’m sure that most of the time he was out at that cottage of his. I swear you’re the most suspicious man in creation.”

He went still. “What ‘cottage of his’? I never heard him mention any cottage.”

She glanced up at him, startled. The change that came over her face made his heart drop into his stomach. She knew something he wasn’t supposed to know. Regarding Templemore and a secret cottage.

Dropping her head, she folded a chemise into the smallest square he’d ever seen. “I…I…the servants mentioned it once. He goes out there to shoot, I believe.”

“But you haven’t seen it yourself or anything.”

“Seen it? No, of course not,” she said, too quickly.

God help him, she was lying. He could tell. Rosalind had always been an awful liar.

She was lying to him about Templemore. His blood thundered in his ears. Then something occurred to him, and he brightened. The cottage could be an assignation site for Juliet. Since Rosalind would never condone Juliet’s meeting Templemore alone, she might have gone
with her sister to act as chaperone. It would explain why she and Juliet had conspired to stay in Shropshire.

Yet Juliet didn’t want to remain anymore. No, it was Rosalind who seemed to have wanted to stay.