Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons #4)(21)

Lillian resumed weeping her noisy little tears. Juliet turned her attention to the young maid who’d been a friend to her these years now. Peter handed a crisp, white kerchief to the maid who took it, and dusted it over her cheeks. “F-forgive m-me, miss. It’s j-just that I’ll m-miss you so. You’ll be be-better there, I know that.”

That was good, since Juliet herself didn’t trust that. She’d never say, as much to the kind girl or the maid would surely dissolve into a fat puddle of tears on the foyer floor. She offered a gentle smile for her maid, and claimed her hands. “Promise you’ll send word to me,” she said quietly.

Lillian nodded. “Absolutely, miss.”

Juliet swallowed. She’d not miss Albert. Nor even the London townhouse so loved by her brother or the fine items filling this empty home. Everything that mattered had already been lost; her Papa, Rosecliff Cottage, and now, this, the servants who’d become almost a defacto family to her over the years.

Filled with a sudden, unexpected reluctance, Juliet turned to the waiting footman.

Peter pulled the door open, and bright sunlight flooded through the entranceway. She held her hand up to her eyes to shield them from the blinding rays that streamed onto the white marble floor.

And with just ten steps, she walked out of her old life, and into the new life that waited her. Granted, with the arduous role of governess to three young ladies, but the prospect of it filled her with an unexpected excitement. A sense of purposefulness when she’d grown accustomed to living the life as a kind of invisible sister to Sir Albert Marshville. There would have never been a Season, and most likely never a husband or family of her own, but now she would have this.

The driver hopped down from his perch atop the black, lacquer carriage that surely cost more than all the items in her former chambers combined. He pulled the door open and held out a hand.

She murmured her thanks and placed her fingertip in his, allowing him to hand her inside. Momentarily blinded by the afternoon sun, her eyes struggled to adjust to the dark confines of the carriage. Juliet blinked several times and shrieked.

The Earl of Sinclair’s hard, sculpted lips turned up in a slow, inviting smile. “Hello, Miss Marshville. We meet again.”





Jonathan appreciated the internal battle that seemed to rage within Miss Marshville. She caught her full lower lip between her teeth and nibbled at the delectable flesh. Her gaze alternated between the just closed carriage door and him.

Then she appeared to prefer the devil within to the devil outside, for she settled onto the opposite bench. “My lord,” she said through tight lips.

“Never tell me you’re displeased, Miss Marshville?”

She folded her arms across her chest, plumping her small breasts, and bringing his attention momentary downward. “I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily pleased, my lord, my lord. My lord!” she snapped when he continued to stare.

Jonathan jerked his gaze upward with another grin. He usually preferred his women rounded in all the places a woman should be rounded; full-breasts, generous hips, an ample derriere. Suddenly, Miss Marshville’s breasts like small apples appealed to him the same way that forbidden fruit had surely appealed to the doomed Adam.

“May I speak freely, my lord?”

He waved a hand. “Please do, Miss Marshville.”

“I’ll not become your lover,” she stated with a bluntness he’d come to appreciate in the mere handful of hours he’d known the lady.

Jonathan reclined in his seat and chuckled. “Which is fine, as I’ve not asked you to be my lover, Miss Marshville.”

Her eyes went wide and her mouth formed a faint moue of surprise. “Oh,” she blurted. Crimson color stained her cheeks. “I’d thought…forgive me…I…” she fell promptly silent.

The astute, though innocent young lady had clearly noted his interest. “May I speak freely, Miss Marshville?”

“Please,” she said with a curt nod.

“I’d not ever force my attentions upon you,” he said quietly. He might be a rogue and enjoy the pleasures of a woman’s body, but he enjoyed his women warm and willing and begging.

She stiffened, and brushed her hands over the front of her modest, green skirts. “I’d never presume anything, my lord.”

“Ahh, but you did. Twice now. First last evening when you slapped me and now with your talk of lovers.” At that last word, the red of her cheeks deepened to the crimson shade of a summer’s apples, which only made him think of her delectable breasts…and he fought back a groan.

Over the years he’d become a rather apt read of character. It had saved him from title-grasping misses attempting to trap him into marriage for no other reason than their desire for the title of countess. The lovely, if defiant Miss Marshville had affected a rather masterful showing of antipathy where he was concerned.

Jonathan leaned ever-closer so a mere breadth of a hand separated them and lowered his head toward hers. “Perhaps I should be more direct, Miss Marshville. I’d not have kissed you, unless you wanted it.”

Her mouth opened and closed like a poor trout just snagged from his well-stocked lakes. The spirited Miss Marshville might condescend to him with her very eyes and the subtle nuances of her speech, but her heightened color told an entirely different story. One that told her body’s awareness of him.