Emily Hendrickson (7 page)

Randall brought in the latest London newspaper, one only four days old, and his lordship hastily scanned the paper for scandalous tattle about Society characters. His twisted smile indicated something amused him.

“Is there anything of import, my lord?” Juliet ventured to ask.

He folded the paper and handed it to Juliet by way of reply. It took but moments to spot the item that had caught his eye. “Lord H has disappeared, leaving Miss S in tears and on the hunt,” she read softly. “No need to explain that, I expect.”

“If you are finished with that tea, perhaps we might have our little discussion now?” He glanced at Randall, who left the room, taking the paper with him.

Alexander rose to escort his little “wife” to the library. He had figured that the room offered the greatest privacy while affording comfortable chairs in which to sit. He carefully closed the doors behind them when once inside and thoughtfully eyed Juliet.

She was nervous of him, perhaps afraid of the consequences of her actions—as she well ought to be. There was no point in recriminations now; it was too late.

“Well, my lady? You had best tell me what you have said about me to the local gentry. The more I know of our circumstances, the better.”

Juliet gave his lordship, the man who insisted she had better call him Alexander, a wary look. “You may not like this,” she cautioned.

“I don’t like any of this entire mare’s nest, but I had still best know of it.” He leaned back in his chair, his chin propped on one elegant hand as he watched her, reminding her of a cat watching its prey.

“I said you preferred to remain in London. If I hinted you had more interesting things to do and more fascinating women to amuse you, that is most likely all,” she confessed.

“You portrayed the little woman abandoned by a heartless rake who’d rather be anywhere but with you, is that it?” His eyes were all that revealed his anger with her and what she had said. Juliet had never considered gray eyes particularly expressive. Alexander proved her wrong, for his eyes snapped with his unspoken ire.

Juliet licked her lips and shredded the bit of cambric in her hands. “I suppose you could put it that way.”

“So how do we proceed from this point? I have come to find you—they will think—and do I desire a reconciliation with my pretty little bride? I expect so,” he mused. “What man after taking a look at you would accept that a man such as myself could leave you alone?”

“What does that involve?” Juliet dared to ask. His words had sent shivers up her spine for some reason.

“Think of it like a play,” he advised. “At first you must pretend to be vastly annoyed with me.”

“That should not be difficult,” Juliet murmured.

“Quiet,” he snapped, then continued. “You will have to appear to warm up to me by degrees, a slow process involving a bit of courting on my part.”

“Courting?” Juliet inquired, seizing the one word that had leaped out at her like a red flag.

“Little presents, nosegays of flowers, my attentions, that is all,” he said with what Juliet thought to be a very wicked little smile and a curious light in his eyes.

“What attentions? I want to be prepared.” She bravely met his gaze, tilting her chin in mock defiance.

“Holding your hand, for instance.”

He suited his words and picked up her hand. Only he didn’t merely hold it, he subtly caressed it, minute moves that sent tingles up her arm and to her heart.
Mercy!
If this was holding her hand, she didn’t think she would survive anything stronger. She had better learn the worst of it.

“And?” she asked without a quaver in her voice.

“I expect I ought to slip my arm about you when in public. Nothing ostentatious, of course, but little touches are a sign of affection between a couple.”

“What should I do while all this is going on?” she queried, proud of her steady voice.

“At first I think you must tilt up your chin and ignore me with disdain as you just did now. I am certain you should be very good at that,” he added wryly. “Then in time you must accept my little touches, perhaps even return them. It would give the impression that I am succeeding in my wooing and you are being an excellent wife.”

“By all means I should be an excellent wife,” she said with the same degree of sarcasm.

“Now, Juliet,” he began, then stopped. Appearing to change his mind about what he’d intended to say, he shook his head and said, “No, you may appear mocking to begin with, for you do not trust me at the moment, do you?”

“In truth, or this bit of fiction?” Juliet said, thinking he understood her all too well.

“Both, I suppose,” he said. Then he proceeded to outline a number of other things she ought to know about him and quizzed her gently about her past, learning a great deal more than she suspected.

“Is that all,
Alexander?”
Juliet rose from her chair when he appeared to have concluded his instructions.

“Dear Juliet, I shall likely think of something else, but I trust you have duties to attend to this morning.”

“Indeed. Mr. Wyllard is coming to assist me with planning the rose garden.”

“Mr. Wyllard?” Something about the way Juliet said the name alerted Alexander to trouble.

“A local widower who is an expert gardener. He has been enormous help to me these past weeks, offering advice and giving me special plants. Mr. Lumpkin, the man Mrs. Bassett found to serve as gardener, is not very helpful, although certainly useful.”

“And Mr. Wyllard is
...
helpful, that is,” Alexander concluded, vowing to put a spike in Wyllard’s aspirations should it be necessary. Although why he should care was beyond him.

“He is above all things wonderful,” Juliet said quietly. “He is most thoughtful and astonishingly knowledgeable about plants. He also plays the clavichord.” She dimpled a smile at Alexander. “We often play duets together, he on the clavichord and I on the harp.”

Alexander watched as she flitted from the room like a golden sprite. Oh, she definitely was trouble, and he wondered how she had managed to learn those wiles deep in the country with nary a gentleman to practice them on.

He strolled to the drawing room, but instead of studying the newspaper as he’d intended to do, he found himself standing at the window, watching as Juliet greeted a gentleman, obviously the famous Mr. Wyllard.

Hmm,
Alexander thought, pretty dull stuff
.
The chap’s garb was countrified, his hair receding, his manner looked to be slightly awkward as well. Yet little Juliet looked at the fellow with great respect and smiled at him in a way she’d not smiled at Alexander.

Retreating to a chair where he could read his paper as well as keep an eye on the proceedings in the garden, Alexander tried to concentrate on the news. His gaze kept drifting to the scene in the garden. This girl clearly needed a keeper. Did she realize how those smiles might impress a man? Did it occur to her that touching his arm in just that way was a flirtatious gesture, one she ought not use?

At last Alexander gave up trying to read and wandered from the house into the garden to confront the man he supposed must be his rival for Juliet’s affections. Rival, that is, purely in assumption.

“Oh!” Juliet cried when he rounded the corner to where they debated the merits of several kinds of roses. “My lord, that is, er, Alexander.” There was no way she could possibly have looked more flustered or guilty.

He strolled to her side, picked up her hand to place it tenderly on his arm, and smiled benignly at her. “My dear, will you not introduce me to your
...
gardener friend?”

Alexander caught the momentary flash of anger in her eyes as she looked up at him before she turned to make the introduction.

Mr. Wyllard looked properly impressed with his lordship in all his London garb—a coat from the finest tailor to be had, breeches that revealed an athletic form, and boots so polished he could see his reflection in them. When Mr. Wyllard brought his gaze to meet Alexander’s, he took a step backward.

Alexander, without saying one word, made it plain to Mr. Wyllard that Juliet belonged to Alexander and that no poaching was to be allowed. He placed a hand over hers and gently patted it, looking down at Juliet with what was deliberately intended to be a possessive air.

“Perhaps we can discuss this later, at a better time,” Mr. Wyllard stammered, giving Juliet a distressed look.

“I would not dream of interrupting a discussion on roses, my dear sir. What do you suggest?
I
believe fragrance to be important.” Alexander dredged up from the back of his excellent memory some information given him by the head gardener at the Abbey to casually toss it out, thereby causing Juliet to stare up at him in openmouthed amazement.

“I had no idea you knew anything about roses, my, er, Alexander,” she said, clearly awed.

Repressing a smile, Alexander patted her hand again and shrugged, “But then, did you try to learn about my interests, my dear?” He decided she was not to have it all her way. By Jove, a man could take so much, and he was not about to continue being pictured as the guilty party of this farce.

They continued to discuss the possible roses for the garden, Mr. Wyllard turning more and more to Alexander with suggestions and additional information as to what variety did well locally.

Just as Mr. Wyllard was about to make his departure, Juliet spoke up. “Have you forgotten we are to entertain this evening, George?”

He paled at her use of his first name, darting a glance at the formidable Lord Hawkswood before replying, “I do recall, my lady. If you wish, we could run through the piece now. I am entirely at your disposal.”

The three of them left the garden to enter the drawing room, where Mr. Wyllard took refuge at the clavichord.

Juliet sealed herself at the harp, placed so as to capture the morning sun on her music and thus on herself.

Rather than leave them, Alexander, in the spirit of the moment, lounged back in the one really comfortable chair in the room and prepared to suffer the amateurs.

Instead, he heard an exceptionally talented harpist and a decently accomplished musician at the clavichord attack a Mozart sonata someone had arranged for the two instruments.

“Very nice, indeed, Juliet. And you as well, Mr. Wyllard. Although there is one passage I rather like to hear thus.” And Alexander walked to the clavichord to render a section of the music perfectly, thankful that this was one piece he had learned.

Juliet immediately rang for tea, and the three of them sat discussing music and roses until Mr. Wyllard reluctantly decided that he really had to leave.

When he had gone, she rounded on Alexander like a spitting cat. “Did you really have to do that? Did you have to be so superior to poor Mr. Wyllard with your knowledge of roses and music?”

He shrugged, aware he walked a fine line here. “My dear
wife,
I desired your local friend to know that I am not only his superior, but that I am capable of assisting you, joining you in any activity you may desire, and that I will brook no poaching on my territory.

“Dear heaven, I would hate to cross you,” she muttered.

“But dearest, you already have,” he replied with equally devastating quiet.

“Do you actually play the clavichord, or was that a smattering of music you happened to know?” she demanded.

“Oh, I truly do play. Not that particular piece by memory, but most anything if I have the music. I must say, dear little
wife,
my grandmother would dote on you to hear you play as you do.” Then he dropped his mockery and added, “You amaze me, for you play incredibly well.”

“Thank you,” Juliet replied, clearly bemused by this turn of events. She cleared her throat, then suggested, “You would like to hazard a duet with me?”

“Where is your music?” he countered, not about to agree to a duet unless he knew what he was getting into. They hunted through the assortment of music contained in the canterbury to find a simple sonata both knew somewhat.

Thus it was that when Mrs. Bassett paused by the drawing room door, thinking that the nice Mr. Wyllard had remained, she discovered Lord and Lady Hawkswood in a lovely duet. Juliet at the harp delighted the ear with lush arpeggios while his lordship at the clavichord produced chords and harmonious accompaniment.

Mrs. Bassett went to the kitchen to tell Cook, “I have never in my life heard anything so wonderful as the music those two make.”

* * * *

“That is a lovely sonata,” Juliet said when she dropped her hands into her lap to study her most remarkable “husband.” “Do you have any more surprises up your sleeve?”

“I believe I shall just continue to astonish you. If I were to give you advance warning, it would spoil all the fun. Now, allow me to go over the accounts with Mrs. Bassett and consider what may need doing—that you have not already handled,” he added with a gallant bow.

They had a truce of sorts the rest of the afternoon until it came time to leave for the Tackley dinner party.

Juliet was almost dressed, needing only a necklace, her shawl, and gloves to complete her ensemble, when the door to the adjacent room opened and Alexander strode into the center of the bedroom. She gestured to Pansy to leave, which the maid did most reluctantly. Juliet picked up her pearls and clasped them about her neck while watching Alexander.

“I assume there is good reason for this intrusion, my lord?” she questioned firmly. She had never seen a man in his shirtsleeves before and found it most unsettling—all that fine cambric through which muscles and skin could be seen.

Black stockinet breeches over black hose fit him far too well, and his black evening pumps would likely put the local gentlemen into a green melancholy. What seemed to be giving him a problem was his cravat. At least, he held a length of linen in his hand, a frustrated expression on his face.

“Randall had to press my coat, and I have no desire to try this myself. Can you tie a cravat?” He looked at her then, really looked. She felt his gaze as it traveled up her simple silk gown of palest green until he reached the scalloped sleeves edged with fine lace and then studied the ivory satin sash tied beneath her bosom, she felt sure with a connoisseur’s eye.