Regency: Rogues and Runaways. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “So? Do cousins not marry in this country?”

      Gad. “And if this does tempt our enemy to act—provided the same person is responsible for both attacks—you will be in danger.”

      “These men you hire, this MacDougal person—could they not protect us and capture our enemy if we are attacked again?”

      “It’s too risky.”

      “But we must do something. The search does not progress, and I do not want to impose upon Lord Bromwell for much longer.”

      She was worried about imposing on Buggy? “He can afford it.”

      “Then you wish to continue this charade? What if it is weeks, or months?”

      Weeks or months of returning to a comfortable house with Juliette waiting, sitting by the hearth with her bright eyes and busy fingers, her vibrant presence like a flame to warm him.

      He must be losing his mind. Too many hours alone in that cell, waiting to be killed. Or perhaps he’d caught some tropical disease from one of the plants or specimens Buggy was always showing him. Or that blow to the head had been worse than he’d thought, because the vivacious Juliette, with her outrageous ideas, would never bring him the serenity he sought.

      Indeed, life with her would never be placid.

      She regarded him steadily, her mind quite clearly made up. “I have no wish to live forever in a gilded cage. I have always had work to occupy my time, even if it was not always pleasant. My room was terrible—that I know. But it was mine. Here, I am like one of Lord Bromwell’s spiders, trapped in a jar. The jar may be clean, it may be safer than the jungle, but the spider soon dies for want of fresh air.”

      So she should go. Be free and leave him. “If you wish to go, I’ll arrange for your protection for as long as you feel it necessary.”

      “I am not so ungrateful as that!” she exclaimed. At last her steadfast gaze faltered and her voice became a little less assured. “I could not depart thinking you were still in danger when I can help you flush out your enemy.”

      Was he supposed to believe she cared about him? After everything she’d said to him? “Proclaiming we are to be married is a foolish, dangerous idea. It’s also useless, because no former lover of mine is out to kill us. However, if you chafe at this life, you are free to go as soon as I’ve arranged protection for you.”

      Her expression unmistakably stubborn, Juliette threw herself onto another wrought-iron chair. “Non,” she said, crossing her arms. “I am not your guest. I am Lord Bromwell’s, and he has told me I may stay. So voilà, I stay.”

      “The hell you will!” Gad, she was infuriating! “As for saying we’re engaged—”

      The sound of a throat being cleared interrupted him. Millstone stood at the door of the conservatory, his face scarlet. “If you please, Sir Douglas, the dressmaker has arrived with the garments for Miss Bergerine. She’s waiting in the morning room.”

      “Oh, how delightful!” Juliette cried, jumping up as if everything was wonderful. “And now you will be able to take me to the theater, and Vauxhall, and all the other places in London I have heard about. Is it any wonder I agreed to marry you, my darling, despite your terrible temper?”

      Millstone’s eyes looked about to drop right out of his head.

      “You weren’t supposed to say anything,” Drury growled through clenched teeth, as furious and frustrated as he’d ever been in his life.

      “Oh!” she gasped, her remorse patently false as she covered her mouth her fingertips. “Forgive me! But I am so happy!”

      And then she gave him a hearty smack full on the lips before taking his hand and pulling him toward the door.

      The little minx!

      “Not a word to anyone about this, Millstone,” Drury commanded as she dragged him away.

      “Until we give you leave,” Juliette said with a joyous giggle, as if their secret engagement would soon be common knowledge.

      She might feel like a spider in a jar, but he was the one caught in her web.

      “Oh, Madame de Malanche, how happy I am to see you!” Juliette cried as they entered the morning room, a very pretty chamber used by the Countess of Granshire, Buggy’s mother, when she wished to write her correspondence or entertain her friends. The walls were papered with a bucolic scene, and the furniture was slender and delicate. Even the writing desk in the corner looked as if it would shatter if someone leaned on it.

      Right now, there were piles of boxes on the light blue damask sofa, the chairs and every side table.

      “Miss Bergerine!” the modiste replied. “You look radiant today.”

      “Because I am so happy!” Juliette slid the captive Drury a coy, delighted smile.

      He wanted nothing more than to escape, but he didn’t dare leave Juliette alone with this gossipy woman wearing a dress of the most startling, eye-popping shade of yellow he’d ever seen. Looking at her was like staring at the sun, and just as likely to give him a headache.

      “My cousin is delighted with her new wardrobe,” he said, cutting off the voluble modiste before she could say a word. “Juliette, ring the bell for your maid while I pay madame.”

      “Of course, my love. But first, madame, I would like to ask you to make my wedding dress.”

      Madame de Malanche’s hazel eyes grew nearly as bright as her dress. “You’re getting married? You and Sir Douglas?”

      “Juliette, ring the bell!” Drury ordered, glowering.

      “Oh, he is such a shy fellow!” she cried, clapping her hands as if amused and charmed. “That is why I love him so!”

      “Juliette,” he warned.

      Instead of going to ring the bell, however, she ran up to him and threw her arms around his neck. “Am I not the luckiest woman in England?”

      Damn her! Did she think she could control this situation? Control him? He’d show her how wrong she was.

      “As I am the most fortunate of men,” he said in a low, husky whisper reserved for his lovers alone.

      Then he took her in his arms and kissed her as if they were already married and this was their wedding night.

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