“Is that so?”
Juliette rolled her eyes and sighed. “Yes, Raphe. He is an intelligent man and therefore more than capable of holding my interest.”
“Hmm...”
“Was I mistaken or did I hear him laugh at one point?” Gabriella asked.
“Florian laugh?” Raphe asked before Juliette could answer. “Impossible. The man has the countenance of a marble statue.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Juliette argued. Something deep inside her revolted against such a bland description of a complex man. “While mostly serious, he conveys more emotion than marble ever could.”
Gabriella and Raphe both stared at her in complete silence before Raphe quietly mused, “Your study of him is certainly intriguing.”
“Hardly,” she retorted. “I simply do what most people do when they are conversing. I look at the person to whom I am speaking. If I were to describe anyone else’s expression I would do so with equal flair.”
“Undoubtedly,” Raphe murmured. His gaze lingered on Juliette for a few more seconds before looking away and turning the subject toward a boxing match he wanted to go and see the following week.
Juliette breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to no longer be the center of her brother’s scrutiny. Because of course he was right. Shehadpaid greater attention to Florian than she had ever done to anyone else. And her interest in him was founded in more than respect and admiration and a surprising number of shared interests. It was also the direct result of the way he made her feel, of this craving she had developed for his nearness. She could not explain it, save to say it went beyond the physical and the intellectual. It existed deep within her soul and, God help her, refused to be denied.
It also prevented her from thinking of anything else, distracting her from what Gabriella and Raphe were saying. And with each passing second, her thoughts grew more persistent. They chased her home and up into bed, crowding her mind until she grew restless.
“Florian.”
She whispered his name to the darkness while savoring the kiss he delivered in the confines of her mind. Sparks ignited across her skin in response to the utter perfection of it, and heat filled her veins when he pulled her into his arms.
“Juliette,” she imagined him murmuring close to her ear as he tightened his hold, imagined the palm of his hand sliding over her hip and the strength with which he held her.
On a sigh of exquisite pleasure, she allowed her most private desires to soar before following him into the land of dreams where additional kisses and slow caresses awaited.
Bartholomew gripped the fireplace mantel and leaned forward, allowing the heat from the blazing flames to kiss his bare chest. “Tell me you’ve found my son’s weakness,” he muttered, addressing Mr. Smith, who stood a few paces behind him, immediately inside the door to the room.
“Doing so is harder than we anticipated,” Mr. Smith replied. “The drive with which he applies himself to his work is almost obsessive. As far as I have been able to tell, he does it mostly out of obligation.”
“In other words, destroying his career would not ensure his suffering.”
“It would, but not to the extent you hope. For that you have to aim at something he loves more than life itself. Which will be a challenge since Florian doesn’t let anyone close enough to capture his heart.”
Turning, Bartholomew considered the two naked women who slowly caressed each other on his bed. He’d been looking forward to sating his needs with their lush young bodies, but would regrettably have to wait now. “Leave us,” he told them, his voice prompting both to exit the room in swift succession, the saucy smiles they sent his way encouraging him to make this conversation with Mr. Smith quick.
“What about the Dowager Duchess of Tremaine? I’ve heard rumors he’s swiving her.”
Mr. Smith’s hard gaze met Bartholomew’s. “Whether or not he is remains unclear. Either way, their interaction with each other is not suggestive of anything more than friendship and professional partnership. He speaks with her regularly, confides in her perhaps, but losing her would not cripple him completely. His mother, on the other hand, might—”
“No. You will have to leave Claire out of this.” Not because he particularly cared for her, but because the history they shared had forged a peculiar connection. She was the mother of his child and guilty of doing no wrong. If anything, she’d always done precisely what he wanted, even if she’d claimed it had been for no other reason than to save her son.
“Perhaps you ought to reconsider going after him then,” Mr. Smith murmured.
Bartholomew flinched. “No. Florian might be my blood, but he betrayed me. He brought the law down upon me and denied me the chance to take over Guthrie’s territory.”
“At least you have the opportunity to do so now.”
“Yes. But not with Florian in my way. If he prevents typhus from spreading and the people of St. Giles from dying, acquiring the area will be just as difficult as it has always been.”
“So what do you propose we do?”
Bartholomew spoke without even thinking. “It is time to destroy Florian before he makes another attempt at destroying me.”
“Lady Armswell will likely hunt you down herself if you touch one hair on his precious head.”
