Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons #4)(39)

Jonathan glanced at the placid lake. “What bad luck.” He furrowed his brow. “And, how very odd, Miss Marsh. I’d not noticed a wind before.”

She nodded quickly. “Oh, yes. A great, big gust. Perhaps you didn’t notice it because,” she gestured toward his party in the distance, “you were with company.”

“That makes perfect sense,” he said somberly. Though it made absolutely no sense to him, whatsoever. They continued to study one another. “Miss Marsh?”

She jumped. “Yes, my lord?”

“Do you intend to sit there all afternoon?”

Juliet eyed the ground for a long moment, as though seriously considering the possibility.

He held out a hand, and she shoved herself up from her crouched position, and placed her trembling fingers into his. As he helped Juliet to her feet, he leaned close, closer than Society would find proper, close enough to surely earn remarks upon the scandal rags. Polite Society and the scandal columns could all go hang. “You, Juliet, have left me with many questions this day.”

She paled, and the dusting of freckles over her cheeks stood out stark in contrast. “I don’t know what you mean, Jonathan.”

“That,” he whispered softly. “Is my point exactly. They stood so close, he detected the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the pulse pounding wildly at her neck. Oh, God, I want to kiss her. Here. Now. What manner of spell had she weaved over him?

Juliet reeled backward and reached for Poppy’s hand.

He considered that protective movement, and took a step toward her ready to demand answers to the questions she’d left him this day.

“You should return to your party, my lord. Poppy and I intend to sketch. Isn’t that right, Poppy?”

His unfaithful sister folded her arms and gave a short nod. “We do.”

Humph, and just like that all the years of ribbons and ribbing and various other indulgences and he was dismissed by his easiest-mannered sister with a simple ‘we do’.

Juliet dipped a curtsy; not a very familiar curtsy but rather the deep, formal ones bestowed upon one of a lofty position, and started off in the opposite direction.

His jaw tightened, and he ignored the lords and ladies passing by with their murmured greetings and curious stares. Of course, as the title Earl of Sinclair dated somewhere around the 1300s, most would consider the title Sinclair to be one of those lofty positions.

But bloody hell, this was Juliet and when he was with her, he’d never been the Earl of Sinclair, he’d simply been Jonathan. With the title-grasping mamas and eager widows, he’d not simply been Jonathan in more years than he could remember.

Sin. Sinclair. The earl. The Earl of Sinclair. Never, just Jonathan.

Until the governess with her fiery and emotion-laden eyes.

And she’d dipped that goddamn, deep curtsy and hurried after her charge like she was nothing more than a…a…His brow wrinkled. Well, hell, she was a governess.

Not, just a governess. He’d never dare disparage her with such a snobbish judgment. He could not. She’d evinced more strength and honor than most women of his acquaintance. A lady who’d readily give up her comforts as a young lady and take upon the working role of governess all to see the rightful restoration of her cherished property…well such a woman could never be ‘just-a-anything’.

He forgot all his greatest intentions of returning to his sisters, trusting they were in good care with Westfield and Lady Beatrice. Instead, Jonathan trailed a short distance behind Juliet and Poppy. He noted her faint limp as she moved, a limp he’d only first noted in passing, and wondered what had happened to her. Only, his curiosity was stifled by the way in which she continued to steal glances over her shoulder. He glowered at her at her fast-retreating form. Her swift, jerky movements spoke to the concerted effort she made to avoid him. His gaze narrowed. Juliet’s eyes flitted about the crowded park, all the while Poppy prattled on at her side.

Juliet would avoid him like he was a thief in the Dials? Fury quickened his steps. A trio stepped into his path. Jonathan cursed.

“Do you go about damning your friends now, in the presence of ladies and children, no less,” a sardonic voice mused aloud.

Jonathan, who’d been driven by a single-minded determination to go after Juliet and Poppy, blinked several times. He managed a sheepish grin for his friend Lord Drake who held a babe of nearly two years in his arms, and his brown-haired wife, Lady Emmaline. Jonathan sketched a short bow. “Lady Emmaline, it is ever a pleasure.”

Emmaline returned his smile. “Sinclair, a pleasure as usual.”

And he’d agree under most circumstances it was a pleasure to see the young lady who he’d schemed with to force Drake, who she’d been betrothed to since the age of five, to the altar. This, however, was not one of those times. Of a nearly like height, Jonathan peered over Drake’s shoulder. He caught sight of Juliet and Poppy upon a patch of grass at the edge of the river.

“Have you lost something?” Drake asked with a heavy dose of humor to his question.

Yes, my good-sense, my mental faculties.

Drake, more intelligent than most English noblemen combined and returned war-hero, unfortunately would not miss the glances Jonathan could not keep from stealing over his shoulder. He followed his gaze to where Juliet sat beside Poppy in the distance.

Jonathan tugged at his cravat as a dull wave of heat climbed up his neck. As the refined Earl of Sinclair he didn’t stare. And he most assuredly did not stare at young ladies he’d hired as his sisters’ governess. Even if said young lady with her sunset kissed curls had haunted his dreams since their meeting several days past.