The Rogue Is Back in Town Page 8

  Chapter TWELVE

  Sam had known—and bedded—many beautiful women in his lifetime.

  But he’d never known anyone who compared to Juliette Lacey. True, some women may have been more classically beautiful or more fashionable. Some may have been more sought after.

  None, however, possessed Juliette’s courage and confidence.

  Despite the myriad challenges she’d faced today—most of which had admittedly been spawned by him—she hadn’t once swooned or cried or crumpled to the floor.

  Even now, when he was certain she wanted to crawl beneath the table, she stood her ground, looking him directly in the eyes.

  He wished he could tell her that she had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. That the glimpse of her nakedness was akin to a glimpse of heaven, and that nothing on earth—no glorious sunset, no work of art—could compare to her beauty. He wanted to tell her to hold her head high. That her daring red gown matched her fiery personality perfectly, and that it was vibrant and unapologetic—just like her.

  Instead, he resolved to be a gentleman. At least for the evening. He rounded the end of the table and pulled out her chair, inviting her to sit.

  Ever so carefully, she lowered herself onto the seat.

  “Why, my dear, you look even lovelier than usual.” Wiltmore raised his wineglass toward Juliette in a toast.

  “Thank you.” She smoothed her napkin across her lap and sipped her wine tentatively, as though doing her best to remain in control in spite of everything. Sam admired that about her. “You look very handsome yourself, Uncle.”

  “Samuel tells me you plan to attend a ball this evening with Miss Winters.”

  Juliette shot a withering glance at Sam before pasting a smile on her face and addressing her uncle. “I’m not yet certain of my plans. Charlotte was quite insistent, but I had my heart set on remaining at home tonight. I think I shall tell her that I’ve developed a headache.”

  As a footman circled the table serving the first course, Wiltmore shook his head, causing his hair to sway wildly. “That will never do. A headache is far too common an excuse.”

  “That’s what I told her.” Sam ignored her incredulous expression and tested the soup, which was delicious.

  “A good excuse is less vague and more prolific,” Wiltmore expounded.

  “Precisely.” Sam nodded in agreement. “It must be serious enough that no one will dream of questioning it but not so grave as to cause undue alarm.”

  Juliette leaned back in her chair and tilted her head in mock interest. “How fortunate it is you are here to enlighten me. Tell me, Cousin Samuel, what excuse would you suggest I give to my sweet friend Charlotte?”

  Sam set down his soup spoon and pretended to ponder the question. He’d given the matter some thought while she rested. “Tell her you woke from your nap to find that a particularly horrid spot had suddenly surfaced on your face, and, as a result, you cannot possibly show yourself at the ball.” He smiled, wholly satisfied with his efforts. “Do you see what I mean? It’s believable without giving your friend reason to worry.”

  Juliette sniffed. “I would never forgo a ball because of a silly spot, my lord. I am not that shallow—as Charlotte is well aware.”

  “Very well. We’ll need another excuse.” Sam drummed his fingers on the table for a few moments, then snapped them triumphantly. “You could tell her that you have seven chapters left in a book you must read before returning it to the lending library—which you intend to do first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “And what shall I say when she inquires as to the title of the book?”

  Wiltmore slurped his soup. “One must anticipate those sorts of oblivious questions.”

  Sam shrugged. “Make something up.”

  “No,” Juliette said glumly. “Charlotte reads extensively. She’d go looking for the title and discover my lie.”

  “Never fear.” He rubbed his chin as he stared at a hairline crack in the plaster ceiling, hoping for sudden inspiration. “There’s one more possibility.”

  “Which is?” she asked, arching a brow hopefully.

  “Simply tell her you’ve developed a headache.”

  She tilted her head, perplexed. “And what of your earlier advice—that I should avoid such a common excuse?” Her dress shimmered in the candlelight, and her skin seemed to glow from within. The whole effect was damned dazzling, but Sam did his best to appear unaffected.

  “My earlier advice has been trumped by another important theorem: that the best falsehood is the most obvious one,” he said.

  “Is it, now?” Her eyes sparked with unspoken retorts—barbs she’d no doubt throw if her uncle weren’t sitting between them, observing their exchange with keen interest.

  “Yes, obvious is best in most situations—at least ninety percent of the time.”

  “Ninety percent,” she repeated through her teeth.

  “Quite right,” Wiltmore agreed. “It is the same with science. The answer is usually right in front of us. The truth is what’s left after we sweep away all the extraneous stuff and distractions. Elspeth reminded me of that principle this morning.”

  Sam glanced at Juliette over the rim of his glass, but she avoided his gaze. Something told him that the old man hadn’t been speaking metaphorically when he’d mentioned his late wife.

  “Aunt Elspeth was a wise woman,” Juliette said softly. “And speaking of extraneous stuff, there is much we can sweep away in your study. We will begin working in earnest tomorrow. Now that Cousin Samuel is settled,” she said pointedly, “the two of you should discuss some of the various topics you’ve researched. Perhaps he’ll be able to help you narrow your focus to the one that will best suit our purpose.”

  “And what purpose is that?” Sam asked, eyeing the lamb cutlets that the footman offered.

  Wiltmore waved a dismissive hand. “Juliette has the wild idea in her head that I should organize and present my findings to the Royal Society.”

  “Why is it a wild idea?”

  Wiltmore blinked as though the question befuddled him. “It’s a highly prestigious organization.”

  “Formed of men—and perhaps a few intrepid women—who are no more worthy than you,” Sam said. “They put on their breeches the same way. Not the women, of course. But certainly the men.”

  “But it’s an esteemed group,” Wiltmore countered, “whose members have devoted their lives to the sciences and the dispute of knowledge.”

  “Then that’s something else you have in common with them,” Sam said. “And another reason they should be delighted to have you join their ranks.”

  “Do you really think so?” Wiltmore’s fuzzy gray eyebrows shot up his forehead.

  “I do.” Sam sliced into the tender cutlet. “It sounds as though there’s some work to be done, but I’ve no doubt you’re up to the task.”

  In truth, Sam had no idea whether the old man was up to the task—or if he was even in possession of all his faculties. But Sam had little tolerance for exclusive clubs and pretentious societies. Maybe because he’d been tossed out of his fair share.

  “Interesting,” Wiltmore murmured to himself. “Perhaps this won’t be an exercise in fertility after all.”

  Sam nearly choked on his lamb and reached for his wineglass. Across the table, Juliette covered a smile with her napkin.

  And beamed at him as though he’d just performed a minor miracle. Once he’d managed to swallow properly, he smiled back at her. And the look they shared raised the temperature in the dining room by ten degrees.

  Sam knew better than to misinterpret the approval in her shining eyes. She was grateful that he’d encouraged her uncle. But his body responded as though she were sending an altogether different signal, making him very glad for the cover that the tablecloth provided. Her gown was the perfect foil for her innocence, leaving just enough to the imagination.

  The problem was, his imagination was a bit too good. He could feel his palm sliding over silk as he settled his han
d at the small of her back. He could smell the citrusy fragrance of her hair and taste the sweetness of her lips.

  He wanted her. And though she was principled, she was also passionate enough that he might be able to seduce her, given ample time and opportunity. In her case, it would take more than a few pretty words and accidental caresses to do the trick, but he was up to the challenge.

  Whether he should employ his roguish charm in order to bed her was a different matter entirely. The situation with Juliette was complicated. As far as she was concerned, he was the villain intent on stealing her uncle’s house. And regardless of what transpired between Sam and her, he would do what his brother asked of him.

  The tenuous truce lasted throughout the remainder of dinner, until a knock sounded at the front door and Juliette nearly jumped out of her seat. “Is it nine already?”

  Wiltmore leaned forward and addressed Juliette in a stage whisper. “Will you plead a headache, my dear? It would be a terrible waste of a dress if you did not offend the ball.”

  “I think I must go for a short time, at least,” she said. “If I were to decline the invitation at this late hour, Charlotte would no doubt march in here and drag me away by my hair. Mr. Finch, did Lucy retrieve my shawl?”

  “Indeed. Your gloves and reticule as well. Everything is on the table by the door. Miss Winters and her aunt await you in their coach.”

  “Would you please tell them I’ll join them in a moment?” Juliette closed her eyes briefly as though she required a few seconds to collect herself. When she opened them, she turned to her uncle. “You should retire early tonight—you’ve a busy day tomorrow. And Cousin Samuel”—she narrowed her eyes at him—“I trust you shall find a book or a solitary card game or some other form of innocuous entertainment for the evening.”

  Sam nodded soberly, even though the chances of him reading a book that evening were approximately as great as the odds of the moon falling out of the sky.

  Wilmore scratched his head. “What’s this? Samuel’s not joining you?”

  “No,” Juliette said, too adamant for Sam’s liking. “He’s not.”

  “Well, my dear, you mustn’t fret,” the old man said, sympathetic. “Charlotte will make a fine companion. Besides, you’ll be swarmed by gentlemen wishing to claim you for a dance.”

  Sam didn’t doubt it for a second. But the bloody young bucks vying for her attention were going to be interested in much more than a dance. He happened to know because he was one of those young bucks.

  He gripped his dessert fork till it bent.

  The thought of other men ogling her sensuous curves, whispering seductive words in her ear, luring her onto the moonlit terrace … Damn it all to hell.

  She gracefully rose from the table and Sam stood as well. “Allow me to escort you out.”

  “Enjoy yourself,” Wiltmore said, waving from his chair. “I look forward to hearing all about the ball tomorrow.”

  “Sleep well, Uncle.” As she squeezed his shoulder affectionately, Sam tucked her other hand securely in the crook of his arm, ignoring the sharp look she gave him.

  The moment they were out of earshot, she warned, “You may not come near the door. Charlotte or her aunt may see you.”

  “I know,” he said, savoring the pressure of her hand on his arm. “I just wanted a moment alone with you. To tell you…”

  To tell her what, precisely? That she was the most beautiful, captivating creature he’d ever known and the vision of her in her daring red gown would haunt him forever? That he wanted to haul her to his bed and show her all the glorious things her body could feel? Or that maybe—just maybe—he could be more than a rogue. For her.

  “Charlotte is waiting.” She released his arm and tugged on her gloves, the simple act nearly as arousing as if she’d slipped off her stockings in front of him. She blinked up at him with sooty lashes, her lips parted expectantly. “What did you want to say?”

  He took the shawl from the table, draped it over her bare shoulders, and impulsively took her hands in his. “The gentleman that Charlotte spoke of earlier…”

  Her breath hitched as though she was instantly on her guard. “Yes?”

  He swallowed. “I hope … I hope he’s deserving of you.”

  She looked away. “Please remember our bargain. And do not speak to my uncle about the house. What you did at dinner—bolstering his confidence—well, thank you for that.”

  “Do not worry about him. Enjoy yourself this evening.” And stay away from rogues like me.

  The fortifying breath she took made her breasts swell above the tight bodice of her gown, and he nearly groaned at the sight.

  “Good night … Sam.” She smiled softly before gliding toward the door and making her exit.

  Sam. The sound of his name on her lips echoed in his head, filling it like a concerto—and giving him a sliver of hope.

  But holy hell. Dressed in that gown, she may as well have been Red Riding Hood, blindly running into a ballroom full of wolves. He couldn’t remain in the house wondering who she was with and whether the cad would try to hold her hand or kiss her lips.

  Someone needed to keep the wolves at bay—and it might as well be him.

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Julie had planned to contract a splitting headache no later than ten and return home. But once she arrived at the Breckinridge Ball and was thrust into the swirl of glittering gowns, sparkling jewels, and boisterous laughter, she realized that Charlotte was correct—Julie had needed a few hours of dancing and revelry.

  A few hours to feel young and free and admired.

  She’d been avoiding the social whirl since her encounter with Nigel at the masquerade ball, and each time she declined an invitation, it became more difficult to accept the next. Charlotte had provided the much-needed shove, and now that Julie was there, she had to admit she was enjoying herself.

  She’d danced every set of the evening so far and was now waltzing with a dashing army officer whom her friend had introduced. He had impeccable manners and a charming smile, but for some reason, she kept comparing him to Sam.

  Her dance partner didn’t have Sam’s razor-sharp wit or confidence, and he lacked the ability to leave her breathless with a mere arch of his brow.

  But as long as she was in the officer’s arms, twirling around the dance floor, she didn’t have to think about scientific papers or property deeds or broken promises—and it was a heavenly respite.

  “May I call on you, Miss Lacey? Perhaps tomorrow?” The young man’s question yanked Julie back to the present. The music had ended and he was walking her back to the perimeter of the dance floor where Charlotte and her aunt stood.

  “Of course you—” What was she saying? As long as Sam was staying at their house, she couldn’t dream of entertaining visitors. “Actually, my uncle hasn’t been entirely well.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, I am certain he shall recover fully. But he’s not been himself of late.”

  The soldier smiled weakly. “I understand,” he said, clearly pained. “However eager I am for your company, I would not wish to disturb your uncle’s rest.”

  “Please, do not think—”

  “Good evening, Miss Lacey.” The commanding voice came from behind her, but she already knew who it belonged to—Nigel.

  Her dance partner made a hasty, awkward departure, leaving her alone with the marquess.

  “Good evening, Lord Currington,” she said smoothly. As if he hadn’t passionately kissed her over a month ago and neglected to call on her ever since.

  And now, to add insult to grievous injury, he’d sent his brother to evict her and her uncle from their home. She didn’t want to believe he was capable of such a thing. Perhaps it was Sam who was lying … but she didn’t want to believe he could be so callous either.

  “You look exquisite tonight.” Nigel’s eyes gleamed with appreciation, and Julie’s belly flipped. The resemblance to his brother was remarkable, but Nigel was more serious, more
reserved. Unlike Sam, he couldn’t afford to squander his days sleeping off the previous night’s excesses. He couldn’t afford to spend his evenings in gaming hells and brothels.

  Nigel’s title required him to be responsible and honorable. Which begged the question—why hadn’t he behaved honorably where Julie was concerned?

  She inclined her head slightly, determined to remain aloof. She would not let him see how much he’d hurt her, how desperate she’d been for him to call.

  “Dance with me.” Part command, part plea, the words made her heart flutter in her chest.

  “I should return to my friend’s side. I’ve hardly spoken to her since we arrived.” Julie had no intention of letting him wound her again—and as vulnerable as she felt, it wouldn’t take much. Besides, how could she dance with the man who would toss her uncle out of his house?

  He dropped his chin and stared at the ground, clearly disappointed. “Your rebuff is no more than I deserve. But I wish you’d give me the opportunity to explain.”

  Julie bit her tongue. He’d had a month’s worth of opportunities, chances to seek her out, and hadn’t bothered. What could he possibly say that would explain his failure to call on her or to at least send a note? “A ball is hardly the optimal time or place,” she said icily.

  “Permit me to take you for one turn about the room. Then I shall return you directly to your friend Miss Winters.” His pale blue eyes searched her face, beseeching her to say yes.

  “Very well,” she said, too curious to refuse him. Perhaps a few minutes in his company would help her move on—or to at least ascertain whether he really did have a superior legal claim to her uncle’s house.

  She took the arm he offered and allowed him to guide her toward the refreshment table near the far wall.

  They walked in silence for a few moments, and at last he whispered, “I haven’t been able to forget you.”

  Her skin tingled at his admission, but she was no ingénue, easily manipulated by a few huskily spoken words. “No? I confess I’m surprised.”