Regency: Rogues and Runaways. Margaret Moore

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      She strolled past him, her hand brushing another plant. “So we shall have to enjoy Lord Bromwell’s hospitality a little longer.”

      “Yes.”

      She turned to face him. Women were often intimidated by him, or intrigued; rarely did they regard him as if they had something serious to discuss. “Have you ever thought, Sir Douglas, that the people who attacked us might have been hired by a woman? One of your former lovers, perhaps?”

      No, he had not, because it was ridiculous. “I highly doubt that. My lovers have all been noblewomen—married noblewomen who have already provided their husbands with an heir, and who have had other affairs. I’ve not ruined any happy homes, imposed my child in place of a true heir of the blood, or seduced innocent girls. And all the women whose beds I’ve shared have understood that ours was a temporary pairing, nothing more. I can’t think of one who would be jealous enough or foolish enough to hire ruffians to attack us.”

      Juliette continued to regard him those shrewd, unnerving brown eyes. “You sound very certain.”

      “I am.”

      “Perhaps you are right, but such women also have great pride, and a woman’s pride can be wounded just like any man’s. I can easily believe such a one could be so mad with jealousy she would want to hurt you. That she would be so angry you ended your liaison with her, she wouldn’t hesitate to do you harm, or hire a man to do so. And she would despise the woman she believes took her place in your bed.”

      “They all understand the way of the world,” he argued. “Ladies do not commission murder, and certainly not over the end of a love affair.”

      Juliette’s eyes widened with genuine surprise. “You believe that because they are rich and noble they are not capable of jealousy, or anger when an affair is ended? That they are finer, more noble creatures than men? If so, you should work for a Bond Street modiste. You would soon see that these ladies, for all their birth and finery and good manners, are capable of great spite and maliciousness. Some take huge delight in doing harm.”

      “With words, which is a far different thing from planning murder.”

      And far, far different from delivering the fatal blow oneself, as he had.

      He forced those memories back into the past where they belonged, to focus on the present and Juliette, who was shaking her head as if he were pathetically stupid.

      “A jealous or neglected or thwarted woman may be capable of anything, whether to try to win back her beloved, or to punish him. If you think otherwise, you are truly naive.”

      Nobody had ever called Sir Douglas Drury naive, and after what he’d seen of human nature in his youth and childhood, during the war and at the bench, he truly didn’t think he was, whether about women or anything else. “None of my lovers would do such a thing.”

      “Then you are to be commended for choosing wisely. Or else they didn’t love you enough to be jealous.”

      He had to laugh at that. “I know they did not, as I did not love them.”

      Juliette’s brows drew together, making a wrinkle between them, as she tilted her head and asked, “Has anybody ever loved you?”

      Her question hit him hard, and there was no way in hell he was going to answer it. She was too insolent, too prying, and it made no difference to the situation.

      “Have you ever loved anyone?” she persisted, undaunted by his scowling silence. “Have you never been jealous?”

      Up until a few days ago, he would have answered unequivocally no to both questions—until he’d been saved by an infuriating, prying, frustrating, arousing, exciting Frenchwoman with a basket of potatoes.

      Nevertheless, he wasn’t about to answer her question. “Whether or not my love has been given or received is none of your business, Miss Bergerine.”

      “If I had not been attacked because of you, I would agree that your affairs are none of mine,” she agreed. “But I was, and if you are an expert in the courtroom, you are obviously not an expert on love. Nor can you see into a person’s heart.

      “I find it easy to believe that whatever you may have thought of your affair or her feelings, at least one of your amours has loved you passionately, certainly enough to be fiercely jealous and wish to do you harm. If she thinks I have taken her place, she would want me dead, too. And a rich woman usually gets what she wants.”

      This was ludicrous. He would know if any of his lovers bore him such animosity. “Fortunately, I can see into a person’s heart, Miss Bergerine, or as good as. That’s why I’m so adept at my profession. That’s why I always win. So I am quite confident none of my former lovers is involved in these attacks.”

      “If you are so good at reading the human heart, monsieur le barrister, what am I thinking now?”

      Damn stupid question.

      Except… what was she thinking? And was it about him, or another man? Buggy? Allan Gerrard? Gad, she might be thinking about Millstone for all Drury could tell. He’d never met anyone more obtuse.

      Yet there were other times when her emotions were written on her face as plainly as words on a page. Was it any wonder she was the most infuriating, fascinating woman he’d ever met?

      “Well, Sir Douglas? What am I thinking?” she repeated.

      He guessed. He was good at guessing—making assumptions on the merest shred of evidence and pressing until the full truth was revealed, even if it wasn’t always exactly what he thought it would be. “I think you’re very pleased with yourself, because you think you understand women better than I.”

      He remembered the way she’d stroked that leaf and noted the little flush coloring her soft cheeks. And because she seemed to want to tear his secrets from him, he would not hold back. “I think you’re feeling desire, too—a desire you don’t want to acknowledge.”

      Juliette laughed. Juliette Bergerine, a Frenchwoman in England with hardly a penny to her name, laughed in Sir Douglas Drury’s face.

      “You are only guessing, monsieur le barrister,” she chided, “and you are wrong. While I cannot deny you have a certain appeal, you are not the sort of man who arouses my passion.”

      He had felt the sting of rejection before. He knew it well and intimately. When he was a child, and even during her fatal illness, his mother had often sent him away. Although his late father had inherited a considerable fortune, he always claimed to have business to attend to. Drury had suspected that had often been an excuse to avoid both his wife and his son, whom he seemed to consider no more than an additional nuisance. Neither one of his parents had possessed the devotion or temperament for parenthood. Over time, Drury had come to believe he was immune to such barbs, only to discover here and now that he was not.

      “So you see, you could be just as wrong about your lovers,” she continued, speaking with decisive confidence, oblivious to the pain she’d caused. “Therefore, Sir Douglas, I believe we must not hide and wait and hope our enemy will show herself. We must force her to take action. I should not remain cloistered here. I must go out and about—and you must tell everyone we are to be married. For if there is one thing that will drive a rejected lover СКАЧАТЬ