“I don’t.” The serene smile wouldn’t budge, even at the sight of my crooked grin. Her face, moments ago so expressive, was all but motionless. There was nothing behind her eyes. I hated this. I was about to say so when a servant interrupted with the tea tray.
Lady Juliet busied herself with pouring. That was when I caught it, the slightest tremble in her hand. She was affected. I couldn’t explain why that knowledge relieved me.
Unfortunately, it was that exact moment, that very tremble, that caused it—the disaster that followed. The cup caught on the edge of the saucer as she replaced it. The whole lot went flying, landing at my feet with a crash. Tea all over me. All over the carpet. I would have assumed she did it on purpose if it weren’t for her reaction. No one could blame her for wanting to scald me; I’d been badgering her on purpose and retribution was only fair.
The way her eyes widened with horror instantly dispelled that notion. Before I could move, she was on the floor before me gathering shards of teacup with bare hands. All the while apologizing with alarming veracity. Now I wanted the placid smile back—anything but this panicked, frantic shell of a woman.
As soon as my thoughts caught up with her movements, I knelt to help her. When I finally managed to wrest her hands from the teacup remnants, she was bleeding on both palms. I bit out a curse at the sight, but she flinched in response and started to beg forgiveness once more for bleeding.
The realization lapped over me in waves like a tide coming in. The bile rose in my throat, anticipating the understanding before it actually dawned.Richard Dalton, what have you done to this girl?I should have hit him last night.
I was shaken from my reverie by her distressed cry. A small amount of her blood dripped onto the carpet. I pulled her hand into mine, the one with the worst injuries, trapping it there with my thumb. If I let her go, I didn’t doubt she would cause more damage to herself in her desperation to clean. Her hand was so tiny in mine, delicate and soft. She still trembled, but her apologies ceased, and she stared up at me, wide-eyed and unreadable. Gently, I pressed my handkerchief into the largest of the cuts. She winced, the pain finally cutting through her panic. Only then did I notice the soft, soothing sounds that escape me unbidden.
“It’s alright, Duchess, you’re alright.” My voice was low, hoarse.
She swallowed harshly before replying, “I am no duchess.”
I couldn’t restrain the small, ironic chuckle. “You’re a duchess in all but title. I’ve never met anyone with such infallible manners. I’m sorry for vexing you. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You were doing it on purpose?”
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry.” I didn’t give my mouth permission to utter that sentence. I regretted it almost instantly when she tried to pull her hand free from my grasp. I liked her hand there. It was tiny and warm and graceful with underlying strength.
Over the nearly imperceptible copper tang of her blood, I caught her scent for the first time. Apples, citrus, and something woodsy but fresh. It was intoxicating. She finally succeeded in wresting her hand from my grasp just as the maid returned to refresh the tea.
I assumed the maid’s panicked cry was due to our improper proximity. Instead, she, too, fell to her knees beside us, frantically blotting the carpet with the edge of her apron. My earlier nausea returned with a vengeance. A startled gasp ripped free from Juliet. My hand tightened on hers without permission. Reluctantly I released her, forcing myself to take a calming breath. I needed to remain in control. She was frightened. I didn’t want her to be frightened of me. We would likely never meet again after I left. She had no cause to fear me.
Juliet rose to her feet to call another servant. It was an awkward movement, given the limited use of her hands. She returned with a footman on her heels. He was equipped with a stiff brush and some cleaning solution that smelled strongly of vinegar. He joined the maid on the floor, moving with a slightly more covert terror.
I peeled myself off the floor, only then noticing the discomfort of my wet clothing and raw skin. Juliet was still fussing nearby, her hands clasped worriedly in front of her. A few of her curls had escaped her coiffure in the chaos. They framed her face, catching the light of the late-afternoon sun. Her skin was flushed with her recent agitation, and her lips were bitten with an enticing red.
I stepped toward her without conscious thought. She pulled back, reminding me of my place. I pushed down the sting of the rejection. After all, she wasn’t mine. Not to comfort. Not to admire. Not to tease. She would never be mine. Even if she weren’t promised to Rosehill, she wasn’t for me. Daughters of earls didn’t belong with bastards.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered with a gesture at my person and the chaos around us.
“You have no reason to be, Duchess.” I embedded the sentiment with as much sincerity as I was capable. Willing her to believe it, even for a moment.
My heart ached a little at her dismissive shake. It was clear she did it without conscious thought, as if she knew without question that she was at fault. I stifled the sigh of frustration that brought.
“I’d best be off. I doubt your father would approve of my being here.” I couldn’t help but add, “For what little it’s worth, I am sorry you found out that way. I shouldn’t have let him place the wager in the first place; my men knew he wasn’t good for it.”
“Thank you. If it eases your conscience at all, I am glad to know… Even if I wish it weren’t true.”
“Good day, Lady Juliet.”
“Good day, Mr. Wayland.”
With those final words, I stepped past her into the hall. The butler handed me my hat and overcoat, shutting the door firmly behind me.
Nine
CADIEUX HOUSE, LONDON - MARCH 5, 1814
MICHAEL
The round,bronze door handle of the Brook Street house may have actually inserted itself into my arse. Apparently, I hadn’t found my way into the Dalton family butler’s good graces. There were any number of reasons for his distaste. If one were capable of communicating distaste solely by the manner in which one handles a door, that man was an artist.
For early March, it was unseasonably warm, and the beau monde was taking full advantage. The rapidly melting snow mixed with the remains of the carriages and was forming a hazardous slush. The ladies and gentlemen were content to ignore both the smell and sight in favor of a promenade.
