Regency: Rogues and Runaways. Margaret Moore
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besides.”
“I most certainly shall!” Madame de Malanche cried eagerly, while the linen-draper and silk mercer smiled, as did the shoemaker, still tapping away in the corner.
The overly excited haberdasher waved a pair of stockings like a call to arms and the milliner came boldly forward with the most ridiculous hat Drury had ever seen, quite unlike the charming chapeau Juliette had worn when she’d left him in her room.
“Sir Douglas, the corsetier has arrived,” Millstone intoned from the doorway.
That was too much.
“I believe that is my cue to depart,” Drury said, hurrying to the door. “I leave it all to you, Juliette. Adieu!”
In spite of his desire to be gone, he paused on the threshold and glanced back at the young woman standing in the center of the colorful disarray. She looked like a worried general besieged by fabric and furbelows, and he felt a most uncharacteristic urge to grin as he beat a hasty retreat.
Only later, when Drury was in his chambers listening to James St. Claire ask for his help to defend a washerwoman unjustly accused of theft, did he realize that he had left a Frenchwoman to spend his money as she liked. Even more surprising, he was more anxious to see her in some pretty new clothes than worried about the expense.
At the same time, as the modiste and others pressed Juliette to select this or that or the other, she began to wonder if there wasn’t another motive for Sir Douglas Drury’s generosity.
Chapter Five
Miss B. damned nuisance. Asks the most impertinent questions. Might drive me to drink before this is over.
—from the journal of Sir Douglas Drury
Holding a sheaf of bills in her hands, Juliette paced Lord Bromwell’s drawing room as she waited for Sir Douglas to return.
When the footman had first shown her into the enormous room, she’d been too abashed to do anything except stand just over the threshold, staring at the decor and furnishings as if she’d inadvertently walked into a king’s palace.
Or what she’d imagined a palace to be.
At least three rooms the size of her lodgings could easily fit in this one chamber, and two more stacked one atop the other, the ornate ceiling was so high. She craned her neck to study the intricate plasterwork done in flowers, leaves and bows, and in the center, a large rondel with a painting of some kind of battle. The fireplace was of marble, also carved with vines and leaves. The walls were covered in a gold paper, which matched the white-and-gold brocade fabric on the sofas and gilded chairs. The draperies were of gold velvet, fringed with more gold. A pianoforte stood in one corner, where light from the windows would shine on the music, and an ornate rosewood table sported a lacquered board, the pieces in place for a game of chess. Several portraits hung upon the walls, including one that must be of Lord Bromwell when he was a boy—a very serious boy, apparently.
The sight of that, a reminder of her kind host, assuaged some of her dismay, and she dared to sit, running her fingertips over the fine fabric of the sofa.
As time had passed, however, she’d become more anxious and impatient to present Sir Douglas with the bills. Although she’d vetoed the most expensive items and tried to spend Sir Douglas’s money wisely, the total still amounted to a huge sum of money—nearly a hundred pounds.
If what she feared was true, Sir Douglas would expect something in return for his generosity, something she was not prepared to give. If that were so, she would have to leave this house and take her chances on her own. It was frightening to think his enemies might still try to harm her, but she would not be any man’s plaything, bought and paid for—not even this one’s. Not even if she couldn’t deny that his kiss had been exciting and not entirely unwelcome.
At last, finally, she heard the bell ring and the familiar deep voice of the barrister talking to the footman. She hurried to the drawing-room door. Having divested himself of his long surtout, Sir Douglas strode across the foyer as if this house were his own. As before, his frock coat was made of fine black wool, the buttons large and plain, his trousers black as well. His shirt and cravat were brightly white, a contrast to the rest of his clothes and his wavy dark hair.
“Cousin!” she called out, causing him to pause and turn toward her. “I must speak with you!”
Raising a brow, he started forward while she backed into the drawing room. “Yes, Juliette? Are those today’s bills?”
“Oui,” she replied. She waited until he was in the room, then closed the door behind him before handing him the bills. “I want to know what you expect from me in return for this generosity.”
The barrister’s eyes narrowed and a hard look came to his angular face as he shoved the bills into his coat without looking at them. “I told you before I don’t expect to be repaid.”
“Not with money, perhaps.”
Sir Douglas’s dark brows lowered as ominously as a line of thunderclouds on the horizon, while the planes of his cheeks seemed to grow sharper as he clasped his hands behind his back.
“It is not my habit, Miss Bergerine,” he said in a voice colder than the north wind, “to purchase the affections of my lovers. Nor am I in the habit of taking poor seamstresses into my bed. This was not an attempt to seduce you, and the only thing I want from you in return for the garments and fripperies purchased today is that you make every effort to maintain this ruse for the sake of Lord Bromwell’s reputation, as well as your own safety.”
“Who do you take to your bed?”
The barrister’s steely gaze grew even more aloof. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”
“That man who attacked me thought I was your mistress. If I know about your women, I can refute his misconceptions if he tries to attack me again.”
“Lord Bromwell and I are taking every precaution to ensure you aren’t molested again. And I hardly think such a creature will care if he’s made a mistake, at least if he has you in his power.”
“So I am to be imprisoned here?”
Sir Douglas’s lips jerked up into what might have been a smile, or a sneer. “You have never been in prison, have you, Miss Bergerine? If you had, you would know this is a far cry from those hellholes.”
“Then I am free to go?”
An annoyingly smug expression came to his face. “Absolutely, if you wish.”
No doubt he would like that, for he would then be free of his responsibility. He could claim she had refused his help and therefore he had no more duty toward her.
Perhaps he would even claim that by purchasing those clothes and other things, he had more than sufficiently compensated her, as if any number of gowns or shoes or bonnets could repay her for the terror she’d faced and might face again as long as he had enemies who believed she was his mistress.
Non, he could not abandon her so easily.
“Since you have put my life at risk, I believe I should stay.” Then, determined to wipe that self-satisfied, superior look from his face, she asked, “So what sort of women do you take to your bed?”
Unfortunately, her question didn’t seem to disturb him in the least. His lips curved up in what was definitely a smile, but one that, coupled with his dark hair and brows, made him look like the devil’s minion. “My lovers have all been married ladies whose husbands don’t care if they stray or not.”
“You like old women, then?”
His lascivious smile grew. “Experienced—but never a Frenchwoman.”
“Oh? Why not?” she inquired, trying not to let her irritation get the better of her as she retreated behind one of the sofas.
“I believe