Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons #4)(52)

He reached for his glass and took a sip of wine. He considered Emmaline’s question. The specifics of one’s lineage was a driving force in the deliberately arranged matches amongst the ton. For Jonathan, however, such a thing hadn’t mattered when he’d courted Miss Abigail Stone, the American-born granddaughter of the Duke of Somerset.

It didn’t matter now. He sat up straighter in his chair. Why couldn’t he court Juliet? She made him happier than he’d ever been in his life. And more than that, she made him want to be a man worthy of a woman such as her—a woman undaunted by any challenge, resolute in her convictions, passionate in her beliefs.

“I think that is my answer,” Emmaline said softly when he failed to respond. She picked up her own glass and studied him over the rim. “The scandal sheets say you are courting Lady Beatrice,” she said for his ears alone.

He tightened his fingers on the long stem of his glass. “You should know not to believe everything in the scandal sheets, Em.” He forced himself to lighten his grip, lest he snap the fragile crystal in half.

“I’d have you wed for love, Sinclair. I want you to be happy.”

He winked at her. “Well, that certainly makes two of us, then. I also wish to be happy.”

Emmaline pointed her fork at him in a menacing fashion. “Do not try to charm me and make light of this conversation.”

Jonathan took another sip, and then set his glass down. “Not necessarily the best place for a serious conversation.” He should have recalled her dogged tenacity back from when he’d helped her force her betrothed’s hand. It now seemed as though she intended to match make for him.

Why didn’t the idea of that rouse the proper level of horror?

“No one is paying us any attention,” she assured him. “What of your Miss Marsh? She seems to make you happy, and not any of that false blitheness you’re known for,” she said from the corner of her mouth.

Jonathan started, and his elbow knocked into the partially drunk wine. He ignored the footman that rushed over to clean his place setting; his mind spinning. He’d convinced himself the world remained unaware of his singular fascination with Juliet Marshville. If Emmaline knew, then his mother either knew, or would inevitably find out, and she’d then insist on turning Juliet out. His palms grew sweaty at the mere prospect of it.

Emmaline’s eyes widened. “Ah,” was all she said. Then, “She seems like a wonderful…governess.”

Juliet was so much more than a governess. She was good-hearted, valiant, bold. The footman poured him a new glass of wine and he studied the crimson alcohol as it filled the crystal. Would he ever see a shade of red again without comparing it to Juliet’s luxuriant curls, like some lovesick poet? He picked up his drink and swirled the contents. Finally, he said, “She is.” He took a sip. “A wonderful governess,” he added more as an afterthought. Jonathan frowned as Emmaline went unusually silent. He followed her stare to the front of the room. A single, familiar black curl peeked out from behind the door. He glanced around discreetly in attempt to see if anyone noted the twelve-year old interloper. The guests, however carried on with their inane topics of discussion.

Poppy leaned her head into the room ever so slightly. Drake followed Jonathan’s eyes to the front of the room. His friend winked at Poppy. Poppy returned his wink and then darted off.

“My lord?” Lady Beatrice murmured at Jonathan’s opposite shoulder.

Jonathan shoved aside thoughts of Juliet and gave his attention to Lady Beatrice, all the while wishing he was free to return above stairs with Poppy.





Juliet sat in the black Bergerè chair at the edge of the hearth in her chambers. A light fire crackled, and warmed Juliet on the chilled night. Her sketchpad sat uselessly on the rose-inlaid side table beside her seat. She pulled her legs under her and shifted sideways, resting her arms on the arm of the chair.

She’d not seen Jonathan in more than three nights now. Not since she’d so scandalously panted and moaned for him like a common Covent Garden doxy. She cringed, curling her toes into the soles of her feet as she relived her wanton actions in his dark, quiet library.

She groaned, and shook her head furiously willing the memories away.

There could be no hope of anything more with him, a rogue that all mothers warned their daughters away from. Only, Juliet’s mother had been gone for most of her life, having died when she was just a girl of five. Still, Juliet knew to avoid wicked men like the Earl of Sinclair.

And yet, she hadn’t.

She’d wrapped her legs about him and begged him to pleasure her. If he’d so wanted, he could have lain her down and taken her virginity, and she would have given it to him with glad relief, as weak as she’d been that night for him. He’d proven honorable, and she, well, she’d demonstrated the wicked streak that ran through her.

I don’t believe we’ve spoken of marriage, he’d said. The coldness of his tone had chilled her more than those seven curtly spoken words ever could.

Sadness pulled at her heart. Why would Jonathan Tidemore, the Earl of Sinclair, have spoken of marriage? Gentlemen like him did not wed women like her. They married their perfect, proper English misses with golden ringlets and pale blue eyes. Ones that even blushed in a manner befitting a lady.

Women like Juliet were nothing more than mere diversions; a warm and eager body to carry out all the forbidden things a true lady would never permit them to do. And she hated herself for wanting him, in spite of it all. Just as much as she hated him for making her want him.