Emily Hendrickson (29 page)

With, live,
and
come;
what significance did they have for Alexander? for her? She hesitantly picked up the pasteboard along with the scrap of lace and tucked them into the drawer of her dressing table to join the others.

Out of sight, out of mind did not work for her that night. She slept badly, waking when Pansy entered with her breakfast tray, knowing she must look a fright.

The maid beamed a broad smile at her mistress, bringing the tray to the bed when she saw Juliet was not inclined to rise
.
“Special this morning, ma’am.”

“I have little appetite; I slept wretchedly,” Juliet said, running a distracted hand through her tousled hair. Her nightcap had ended up on the floor. Pansy picked it up, looked knowingly at Juliet, then left.

The tray held the usual pot of tea, slivers of toast, and raspberry jam, but directly atop her plate sat a small packet wrapped in lush white satin.

With trembling fingers Juliet undid the dainty riband that bound the packet, unfolding the satin hesitantly, as though something might leap forth to bite her. It was a miniature, handsomely painted by an artist with great skill. Alexander smiled at her with that disarming twinkle in his eyes.

She stared at the thing. A portrait? Slowly, fearing what she might find, she turned it over to see one small word printed on a pasteboard tucked into the back of the miniature. ME. She drew a relieved breath. Well,
me
at least made sense. She knew him so well he scarcely had to write his name, however unorthodox it might be to label the painting so.

Her heart slowed to a more normal rate. Here was something reasonable. A portrait, a nice thing to have were she to leave him forever. A memory. She paid no heed to the tears that slipped down her cheeks at the mere thought of never seeing him again. Why, it would be wonderful! She’d have peace!

Soggy toast and lukewarm tea did not provide a good start to a day. With Pansy’s help she dressed hurriedly, hoping to escape the house and Alexander if possible.

The garden was devoid of people; only the hedge sparrow and a robin searching for insects disturbed the scene. She snipped off flower heads and pulled weeds, thinking gardening a tranquil pursuit and just what she needed.

Mr. Lumpkin ambled along the path, a ceramic jar in hand. “This be for you, my lady,” he said, his voice rusty as though from disuse.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, eyeing the jar with misgivings. Rising from where she kneeled, Juliet accepted the jar, wondering what on earth Mr. Lumpkin offered. As she looked down, she caught sight of a neat white card on top of the jar. BE, it said. Further examination revealed the jar contained honey. Well, this made sense of a sort, although the word
be
ought to have an additional letter. She didn’t ask Mr.
Lumpkin who had given him the honey; she knew. Alexander. Why honey? Did he think her his sweet? After slipping the little card inside the bodice of her muslin dress, she brought the jar to Cook. The card would join the others, even if the word had been misspelled.

Was there to be no escaping Alexander and his teasing?

“How are you this morning, Juliet?” Alexander asked when he encountered her in the entryway. “A trifle off color, I fear. Not sleep well, perhaps? We should do something about that.” His smile was an intimate one; it seduced, beguiled, and made Juliet long to throw herself in his arms and beg him to do as he pleased with her. She might strangle him first, though.

“I am off for a bit of fishing. Harry Riggs said the stream offers nice little trout. I shall endeavor to bring some home to you.” He touched her lightly on the cheek, then left the house.

Juliet hurried up to her room, hoping to avoid meeting anyone else. She went to the window, from which spot she could see Alexander striding across the grass in the direction of the stream. An afternoon of peace. He could scarcely tease her when he was away from the house.

Sinking down on the little armchair, she viewed her sanctuary, then noticed a paper on her dressing table. Curious, she rose and walked over to gaze at a drawing. It was of a man fishing by the stream. Not particularly well done, she could nevertheless recognize Alexander seated under a willow tree. Likely the drawing was intended to remind her of the very spot where he had proposed to her. Placed atop the drawing was another of the pasteboard words. MY.

My?
How odd. It ought to have been me, not my. Puzzled at the error, Juliet placed the new word with the others, closed the drawer, and decided she might as well leave the shelter of her room. Alexander was here, everywhere he wanted to be. There was no evading him.

Again dinner was as normal as one might wish. Alexander had brought enough trout home for an excellent fish course for the six of them. True, the dowager made remarks about the streams at the Abbey offering larger trout, but that was almost to be expected from her. Miss Pritchard stated trout were always welcome, whatever the size.

The men enjoyed their port that evening, while the women repaired to the drawing room and a tray of tea brought in by a composed Mrs. Bassett.

Juliet looked at her with admiration. Nothing seemed to put her in a pucker, she was unflappable. The woman who had expected to care for a house in a remote village with not a sign of an owner, now had lords and ladies to cater to, all done with a serene face and effortless capability.

Again Juliet played a duet with Alexander, this time at the request of Helena, who professed to enjoy harp music in particular and duets in general.

Juliet managed to refrain from glancing at Alexander after she had plucked the first note, listening with care to the musical cues he offered and joining in with all the skill at her command.

“Well,” her father said, rather jovially for him, “you two will be able to enjoy making music together through the long winter nights.”

Juliet flashed Alexander a look of warning.

“Indeed, sir. Juliet and I are rather good at that sort of thing.” Nothing was concealed in his words, but Juliet felt heat from his gaze that made her tremble.

With great effort she remained in the drawing room, joining in a light supper when the dowager demanded it be served, sipping her tea with what she hoped was a calm facade.

What would he do next? Another word, perhaps? What word? What did they signify? She wished she knew.

Eventually she could hold off no longer. It was time to go to bed; the others went first while Juliet helped Mrs. Bassett gather dishes, performing unnecessary tasks until Alexander sauntered over to look at the neat pile of napkins she clutched in her hands.

“Stalling, perhaps? Not afraid to face what is coming, are you, Juliet?” He stood close enough so she could feel his strength, sense his determination.

“Of course not. I am not sleepy,” she said by way of reasoning.

“How agreeable,” Alexander murmured before leaving the room to mount the stairs.

Once he had gone, Juliet tossed the napkins on the table and followed him, quickly entering her room. With a dubious glance at the connecting door, she hurriedly undressed with Pansy’s silent help. She slipped on her voluminous nightgown, then climbed into her vast bed with a sigh of relief. Nothing more had happened. No white pasteboards, no words, and no Alexander. Pansy left with a whispered goodnight and Juliet was alone.

She snuggled cozily under the covers and was almost drifting off to sleep when she heard a creak—the door.

Sitting up, she whispered, “Who’s there?”

“Alexander, my love. I have come to tell you the last word of that puzzling collection you had gathered.”

“The words! You might have told me without waiting until now. Or it could have waited until morning,” she grumbled. “What is it?” she concluded, trying to pretend she was not interested.

“Love. The quote is ‘Come live with me and be my love.’ “

“I might have known a rake would think of something like that. The answer is still no. Alexander, you know you ought not be in my room.” She pointed to the door, wondering if he would meekly depart.

“But my love, everyone believes us married.” He crossed his arms, looking somewhat smug.

“I did not invite you to my room,” she protested.

“Or your bed. And that is the crux of the matter, dearest Juliet.” He strolled to the foot of her bed, and in the faint light offered by a lone candle he had placed on her bedside table, she could see he wore his navy banyon. He also wore that determined expression. She wondered what he could say that might persuade her to agree with his solution to their problems. There would be no marriage without love on both sides;
she
was determined on that.

“Please leave, Alexander. Have you not teased me enough?” She watched him with care, wondering what he’d do.

“My love, I have not begun.” He stared at her as though assessing her mind.

Juliet was thankful he kept his distance. He overpowered her senses far too easily when he touched her. And his kisses? They left her in no state to think rationally.

“I should miss you if you went away and left me behind as you have threatened to do,” he said quietly.

“I should miss you as well,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice. She couldn’t deny him the truth about that
.

He strolled around the room, coming to stand by the side of her bed, looking down at her with the odd light in his eyes that she had noticed on more than one occasion.

“There is but one answer for us, and you know it. We must be off to Gretna and I would that we go at first light.”

“Tomorrow? But
...
” Juliet weakened. “Father? The dowager? Miss Pritchard?”

“They can well take care of themselves, I fancy.” He pushed aside the covers, drawing her from the warmth of her bed and into his arms. “This is where you belong, Juliet, next to my heart. Can you deny it
.
Does this not feel like home and forever to you? Can you
honestly
tell me that you feel nothing for me, that you do not care deeply for me?”

“No,” she murmured softly, unable to lie to the one she loved. He tightened his arms about her and Juliet felt oddly cosseted.

“Juliet, would you marry me and be my love? I want you—not just to live with me and he my love—I want you to be my love, my wife, the mother of our children, the mistress of my home. Everything. And I want you forever.”

He held her close and stood looking at her, not kissing her, nor did he attempt to seduce her—although he very might well have found it as easy as pie.

“You might have said something before,” she said, illogically indignant that he had put her through such torment. Suddenly she halted her efforts to be released, staring up at his dear face with resolve. She would know the truth of the matter and now. Surely he would not lie to her.

“You say you want me to be your love, the mother of your children, but tell me Alexander, do you love me? It is not the money from your grandmother, is it?” She at last voiced the thing she had feared—that he found that incredible offer tempting, too tempting to ignore.

It was not easy to meet his gaze. What if she found the wrong message there? His lips might say one thing but his eyes would tell her the truth of the matter. She drew him toward the candle’s light and waited.

He frowned. “I care not a jot for the money. I see I have failed miserably in my courting if you can possibly think that of me after this time. You doubt that I love you? I suppose that is possible, given your first opinion of me.”

“I no longer think of you like that,” she protested.

“Juliet, come morning we are leaving for Scotland and a parson and it will be because I love you and you love me. We will marry and raise a family and, God willing, have a good many happy years together. Does that satisfy you?”

“Oh. Indeed, it does.” She digested this a moment, then said, “I will never leave you, Alexander, I promise.”

He rewarded her declaration with suitable appreciation.

* * * *

When Pansy entered the bedroom the following morning, she found Juliet dressed and ready to go out.

“You are up betimes, this morning, my lady,” the maid said in surprise.

Juliet smiled. “Pack my things, all my things, every scrap you can find. We are leaving this morning.”

Pansy stared at her mistress as though she hadn’t heard right. “Leaving?”

Juliet nodded, going to the drawer in her dressing table to stow the collection of white pasteboards in her reticule.

“Your father and his lady? The old dowager? Miss Pritchard? They leave as well?”

Juliet shrugged and smiled mysteriously. “I expect they will leave when they wish.”

The connecting door opened, and Alexander strode across the room to gather Juliet in his arms. “Good morning, love.”

The maid was too proper to be staring at her mistress in the arms of the man she’d claimed to dislike, but this was no ordinary kiss or Pansy was a nodcock. She busied herself with pulling garments from the wardrobe, peeking around the door from minute to minute to see if they were done. They weren’t for a long time.

“How soon can you be ready to leave? Take only what is necessary. Pansy can bring the rest along with Randall. He knows where to find us. Acceptable?”

“If you say so,” Juliet replied, her subdued words belied by the love in her eyes. “You heard the man. Pansy. I would have a valise or two with the essentials, a few changes of clothes.”

“The rosebud nightgown, as well, Pansy,” Lord Hawkswood demanded nicely before he returned to kissing Juliet.

“Yes, sir,” the maid said with a grin and set to work.

By the time Lord Winterton and Helena descended the stairs for breakfast, the traveling coach had drawn up before the front door and a modest pile of luggage was in the process of being stowed in the boot. The two elopers awaited them.

“We are off for Gretna, sir,” Alexander said quietly to Lord Winterton.

“You persuaded her then? Last evening?” He looked at his daughter’s pink cheeks and asked no more questions.

“My
wife
and I are taking a little trip to the north; Scotland, the lakes, other places of interest. We ought to be at the Abbey by Christmas,” Alexander concluded with a satisfied smile.