Barnaby turned to him, startled. “What, you’re leaving the table? You’re the host, Cross! You can’t simply wander away when you grow bored.”
“If I’d left when I grew bored, cousin, I’d have gone before the soup was cleared. I’ve a matter of some importance to attend to, but I’ll return soon enough. In the meantime, you may as well become accustomed to acting as host.”
“What thedevilare you on about? You can’t truly mean to—”
But hedidmean to. He turned on his heel before Barnaby could object further, strode from the room without another word and made his way toward the drawing room, leaving his poor cousin with his mouth hanging open.
Alas, it was a wasted effort. Juliet was trapped on a settee near the front of the room, firmly wedged between Lady Fosberry and Lady Drummond. He’d have an easier time liberating a murderer from Newgate than he would discreetly stealing her away.
If he were as devoted a cousin as he should be, he’d return to the dining room at once to relieve Barnaby of the task he’d given him, but for now, perhaps the wider a berth he kept between himself and Boggs, the better. Otherwise the man could well find himself on his way back to London tonight, the abominable weather be damned.
So, he retreated to the blessed quiet of his study, instead. Once he was there, he poured himself a glass of port, then dropped down into a chair before the fire with a sigh too deep to have been torn from anywhere other than the murkiest depths of his chest.
He’d made a mess of things with Juliet, in every way in which a gentleman could make a mess of things with a lady. For instance, a proper gentleman did notdevoura lady’s lips as he’d done to Juliet’s lips this afternoon, and he certainly didn’t plunk her down on top of his desk, hike up her skirts, and insinuate himself between her thighs.
Good Lord, what had he been thinking? For all her natural sensuality, Juliet was aninnocent, for God’s sake. He should have considered that before he kissed her, urged her lips to part under his, felt the softness of them, the warmth inside, the taste of her…
But his appalling lack of control wasn’t even the worst of his sins.
She hadn’t invited Lord Boggs to attend her here at Steeple Cross. No one who’d seen her at dinner tonight could possibly imagine she longed for Boggs’s company. Unfortunately, he hadn’t reached this conclusion until the hot streak of jealousy in his chest had cooled, and he’d been able to consider the matter rationally.
Jealous and irrational, over a lady he didn’t deserve, and could never have.
She’d felt his coldness this afternoon, and had understood every one of the veiled accusations he’d flung at her. He owed her an apology, but tomorrow would have to be soon enough to beg her pardon. Until then, he’d make do with another glass of port. Perhaps it would help soothe his guilt.
Or perhaps two glasses would.
Just as he’d raised the glass to his lips, however, the door to his study burst open, and Barnaby appeared in front of him, looking like a thundercloud. “What did you mean, I may as well get accustomed to acting as host? I demand to know at once, Cross.”
Miles took a sip of his port before he glanced up at his cousin. “What’s become of my guests? You agreed to look after them, Barnaby.”
“Bollocks. I never agreed to a thing, as you’re well aware. They’re content enough, as long as the port and cigars hold out. It smells like a bloody gaming hell in there already.” Barnaby helped himself to a glass of port, then plopped down into a chair across from Miles.
“I don’t recall inviting you to join me, cousin.”
“That’s too bloody bad, Cross. I’m here now, and I’ve no intention of leaving until I’ve had my say.”
God in heaven, was he to have no peace? “Be quick about it, then.”
“Very well. How long do you intend to keep up the charade that you’re not madly in love with Juliet Templeton?”
In love with Juliet Templeton, indeed! The very idea is preposterous! You only imagine so because you’re in love with Lady Cora, and think every other gentleman must feel as you do—
The denials all rushed to his lips at once, but the healthy draught of port he’d just swallowed rushed into his lungs, leading to a coughing fit that prevented him from uttering a single word of it. Then, somewhere between his denials and a near-fatal gagging, the strangest thing happened.
He no longerwantedto deny it. He had to tell someone, as he was making a bloody mess of it on his own, and if he couldn’t tell the truth to Barnaby, who could he tell? He swirled the remainder of the port in his glass, tossed it back in one swallow, and met his cousin’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter if I’m in love with Juliet or not, Barnaby. She isn’t for me.”
“Bollocks, Cross. Why shouldn’t she be for you?”
“I don’t intend to marry, ever. I’m… not suited for it.”
He’d always thought this perfectly obvious, but Barnaby’s eyebrows shot into his hairline as if he’d never heard anything more ridiculous. “Nowwhat are you on about, Cross?”
“Look around you, cousin.” Miles waved his glass around. “If you were Miss Templeton—or any young lady, come to that—would you want to live here? Damn it,” he muttered, when the port sloshed over the side of his glass and splattered the cuff of his shirt.
“Then bring her to one of your other dozen or so houses.”
“Where, Barnaby? My country seat in Kent? Don’t you recall how miserable my mother was there?”
