***
Brogan fisted the bit of wood in his pocket. Its smooth curves did nothing to ease his anger. He should have whittled a star, something spiky. He needed to feel the bite of pain. Or the satisfaction of split knuckles, bruised bones, something, anything to remind himself that the drivel Juliana had spewed couldn't be true.
She was wrong. They couldn't be together.
He rapped on the ceiling of the carriage. “Stop here,” he shouted to the driver. Plucking Juliana up from the seat across from him, he plopped her on his thigh and faced her toward the window.
She gripped his arm for balance. “Much as this tour of London has been interesting,” she began.
“Quiet.” His hand curved around her hip against his better judgment. She was warm and soft and everything he couldn’t have. “This isn't a tour. It's a lesson.” He pointed. “See that man there? The one lying in the gutter.”
Juliana sucked in a breath. “What's wrong with him? Should we send for a doctor?”
“We could,” Brogan agreed. “If you could find a doctor who would come out here. Besides, there are ten more just like him all down this block.”
She leaned forwards, her cunny pressed against his leg as she peered out the window.
He could feel her heat through their clothes, though that didn’t surprise him. Juliana exuded warmth. She made everyone feel welcome, as though they could belong with her. The muscles of his thigh jumped under his skin.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Shoreditch. And there.” He pointed again. “That woman with her skirt ruched up around her hips and weaving down the street.”
Juliana drew back, her cheeks flushing. “I don't—”
He gripped the back of her neck and pushed her forward. “I know you don't want to see this. See how people who aren't earls and viscounts and famous poets live.” He swallowed. “Don't want to see where I come from. But you need to.”
She needed to understand how far apart they truly were. How foolish her notions were.
She swiveled her head to stare at him. “This isn't you. Brogan. This isn't your life.”
“I'm closer to these people than I am to you.” Something twinged hollowly in his chest. Damn her. Damn her for making him want something he couldn't have. For making him be the responsible one who had to end it.
A wail rose from the street, and Juliana popped her head out the window. “It's a girl. A child.” She frowned. “That man is shaking her.”
Brogan looked, checking to see if the child was in danger. His shoulders relaxed. “Yes. Her father. Probably angry she didn’t earn enough coin begging today.” He waited until he saw the father relent, wrap his arm around the girl’s shoulders and rest his forehead against hers.
It was a common enough scene in his old neighborhood. If the child were fortunate, the parents would only scold. The unlucky ones received beatings for not contributing enough to the family finances.
“She's dirty. She's hungry.” He shook his head. “No matter how much you speak of equality, her life will never change.”
“You don't know that. You can't know that.”
“There is much I don't know,” he agreed. “What I do know is that a man like me can never marry into nobility.”
He paused. Hadn't his employers married unconventionally? Married much beneath them, according to society’s standards? Was it really so unreasonable to dream?
Hope drained out of him until he felt nothing but numb. It was different when a man married a woman of lower standing. The consequences were fewer. A wealthy and consequential man could protect his wife from the barbs society would throw her way.
Brogan had nothing but his fist to protect Juliana, a weapon unsuited to guard against the humiliations and snubs from her peers.
Damn her to hell and back for wanting to throw her life away on a man like him.
She pushed the carriage door open.
Brogan grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”
She pulled the pearl bobs from her ears. “I'm going to give the girl my jewelry. And the ribbon trim on this gown should fetch enough money for a couple of meals.” She tugged at the edge of lace on her bodice as she moved toward the door.
