Page 34

Compliments cost nothing,

yet many pay dear for them.

Book of German sampler designs, worked by Juliet Laverick in penance after Helena caught her flirting with a smooth-tongued footman at fifteen

Sebastian led Juliet toward the drawing room, certain that he’d lost his blasted mind. What had possessed him to offer help to Lady Rosalind? Her jealous husband was already trawling for any excuse to throttle him—this would not improve matters.

And yet…Knighton’s protective interference and Lady Rosalind’s affectionate teasing at luncheon had affected him profoundly. Sebastian hadn’t seen such a well-suited couple since before his aunt’s death had left Uncle Lew bereft. Like a perfectly balanced pistol, Lady Rosalind’s enthusiasm compensated for Knighton’s cynicism, and his common sense compensated for her impulsiveness.

Until their argument. What man could ignore the hurt in Lady Rosalind’s eyes and the bleak despair in Knighton’s? Not being able to have a child could poison even a good marriage—Sebastian knew that well enough. He’d often wondered if his mother’s trouble with conceiving had initially caused his parents’ estrangement. Perhaps by the time his mother had found herself with child, it had been too late to save their marriage.

Perhaps not, but he hated to see another couple suffer through such a problem when they were so obviously devoted to each other.

As he and Juliet entered the drawing room, he glanced down at her sun-dappled hair. Then there was the practical reason for stepping in—like the possibility that it could gain him Juliet’s goodwill. God knew he could use help in that regard. The woman didn’t feel the least kindly toward him—or Morgan either—and she was clearly finicky about her suitors.

Not that he blamed her. But it didn’t make matters any easier.

After showing her to the settee, he started to sit in the adjoining chair. Then something bit him in the behind, making him leap up with a yelp. “What the devil—” Reaching back, he extracted a needle from his rear and dropped it onto the table, where it landed with a ping. “Remind me to be more careful where I sit in the future.”

“Dear me, I’m so sorry!” She rose to whisk a wooden contraption out of the chair, then set it on a side table. “It’s my embroidery. I must have left it here when we went in to luncheon. I-I’m usually more careful. Did it hurt you?”

“No more than the average needle piercing one’s bottom,” he grumbled.

With a murmur of distress, she quickly circled behind him and lifted his coat tail.

He turned abruptly to face her. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Trying to see if you’re bleeding or—”

“I’m fine.” The last thing he needed was Juliet examining his ass at close range. Still, he liked having her fuss over him. No woman had fussed over him in years. He rubbed the sore spot, then held out his fingers. “You see? No blood.”

“Thank goodness,” she said with great contrition. “Truly, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s not your fault. I should have looked first.” He flashed her a wry smile. “But I’m not used to having women—and all their contraptions—at Charnwood Hall.”

“I know.” She sidled around him to resume her seat on the settee.

He remained standing. No telling what else lurked in his chair upholstery. How many needles did a woman use at a time? One? Six? He had no idea. The sum total of his knowledge about needlework could be fit into the lock of a pistol.

Then he blinked. “What do you mean—you know? Am I that poor a host to my female guests? Or did you deduce it from my reaction to being attacked by a chair?”

A small smile graced her lips. “No. I deduced it from what your servants told Rosalind’s maid. They were overjoyed to have ladies here for the first time in years.”

“I see I’ll have to admonish my talkative servants.”

“Don’t you dare! They’re already afraid of you.”

That brought him up short. “Whyever for? I treat them well enough.”

“Yes, of course, when it comes to salaries and working conditions. And it’s only the females who complain.” When he bristled, she added hastily, “Don’t misunderstand me—they seem to respect you enormously. But they’re also terrified of you.”

“What rubbish! What have I done to terrify them?”

“It’s what you don’t do. You bark orders without stopping to chat or thank them. You treat them with stiff formality, and they see that as evidence of your disapproval.”

“It’s inappropriate to ‘chat’ with one’s servants.”

“You chat with your valet, don’t you? And the butler? And your footmen? It’s only the women you’re curt with. When I said last night that you might not even like women, it wasn’t an idle supposition. Servants do talk, you know.”