Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons #4)(27)

She picked the ribbon up and studied it. When she’d left home, she’d just been so glad to be rid of Albert and Lord Williams she had not really considered what leaving actually meant.

Until now.

With the exception of the servants who’d been a family to her over the years, she was shocked to find she missed very little of her former life.

But she missed the time she’d had to sketch. As hard and unpleasant as life had been since Papa’s death, she had found joy in her art.

When she’d accepted the earl’s offer of employment she’d not really thought about how the hours she worked would interfere with the precious time she had to sketch. Though Jonathan had been entirely generous with both the terms of her employment and wages, her responsibilities prevented her from sketching at a time of day when lighting was most advantageous for an artist.

Juliet glanced out the window into the quiet London streets below. She imagined she would be filled with a seething hatred for the gentleman who’d refused to return her cottage and instead put an offer of employment to her. Jonathan, with his bold arrogance and roguish smile was everything she’d never wanted in life. She’d wanted a somber gentleman with perhaps an easy smile who’d indulge her love of art, overlook her crippled leg, and give her a babe or two to care for. Instead, with his terms, he had stolen those simple hopes from her and replaced them instead with the promise of freedom—if she simply succeeded in her role as governess.

And she would succeed. She had little thought of any other possible outcome.

The time here, with him, and his sisters would be as fleeting as a single summer that one looked back on with perhaps a fond remembrance. But when she eventually took her leave of this lively home, she suspected she’d not carry with her the resentment she’d expected to have in her heart toward Jonathan.

Juliet’s gaze snagged upon the green ribbon. She picked it up and tugged at it with her fingers, smoothing her thumb and forefinger over the satin fabric. She rather would prefer hating Jonathan Tidemore, the Earl of Sinclair, than feel…anything else toward him. Except, in the short time she’d come to know him, she’d come to appreciate the care he showed for his sisters. Even if they were over-indulged, they were clearly loved, and it was impossible to hate a man who loved his sisters.

Juliet sighed and set the ribbon down. She flipped through the pages of her book. Papa’s visage stared back at her. The dimple in his right cheek, the easy smile upon his face. She quickly turned the page. The broad wood swing anchored to the elm tree. She flipped to the next. Rosecliff Cottage stared mockingly up at her. She touched the tip of her finger to the long-ago drawn image, trailing her nail along the cobbled walkway lined with rose bushes.

Juliet flexed her jaw several times, and swallowed back the ball of regret that granted fools like Albert Marshville power over women. She angrily turned the pages until she opened to an empty page. She smoothed her palm over the blank canvas, and reached for the box of charcoal. She withdrew a piece and began to sketch.

The lines of the page came together, and she continued to work. Poppy’s mischievous smile materialized, with the glimmer in her eyes. Juliet continued to sketch the young girl. She sat there so long, her back ached from the stillness of her position. She paused to flex her fingers, then returned to her efforts. She added the midnight curls, the likeness leant credibility by the black of the charcoal.

A long while later, Juliet set the nub of charcoal down and raised the page to her lips and blew upon it. She lowered it back to her lap and studied the now filled page, angling her head to study her work with a critical eye.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and she started. The book fell closed with a decisive thump. She held her breath as the steps continued on, and realized it was surely a servant seeing to his or her evening’s duties. She bit the inside of her cheek. Why should she be disappointed that it wasn’t another?

The door opened, and her breath froze in her chest.

Jonathan stood framed in the doorway. Resplendent in his fine evening clothes, his thick, well-muscled legs filled the black fabric of his breeches. He leaned against the doorframe and studied her through sinfully thick black lashes. “Juliet,” he greeted.

Juliet set her book aside and climbed to her feet. “My lord,” she greeted, dipping a curtsy.

He angled his head toward the window seat. “Please, no need for formality on my behalf.” His husky baritone warmed her through.

She remained standing, praying he’d leave, hoping he didn’t.

He shoved away from the doorjamb and strolled boldly into the parlor, king of this, his castle, and she a mere subject to his grand presence.

She moved her gaze over the chiseled lines of his firm cheeks, his aquiline nose, his hard, squared jaw with the faintest cleft at the center, the only hint of softness in a face made for artists to sculpt and her fingers twitched with longing for her charcoal and a blank page to commit him to memory, this beautiful specimen of masculine perfection.

Jonathan came to a stop before her. He captured his jaw between a thumb and forefinger and rubbed it back and forth studying her like she were an unfamiliar species he’d happened to stumble upon. “Are you unable to sleep, Miss Marsh?”

His words roused an image of her comfortable bed, and then all manner of wicked thoughts not at all appropriate for an innocent young lady tumbled through her head. She groaned.

He peered at her through thick, black lashes. “Is everything all right, Juliet?”