A Rogue in the Making (Forever Yours #11)- Stacy Reid Page 0,47
toward—”
“Good God, man, my valet is a woman in disguise.”
“How…fascinating.” He pulled on his cheroot. “Any lady I know?”
“As if I would reveal her identity.”
His friend grinned. “Such opportunities you have for debauchery, my friend. A lady in your private quarters. Tell me all the details.”
“There is nothing to tell, I’ve been a damned gentleman.” Except…bloody hell except for the night before he’d left. The taste of her, the feel of her under his hand, that lush derriere in his hand and rubbing against his cock. How had he resisted? Her smile when they star gazed. That tenderness in her eyes when she’d kissed him. And the fun they’d had staring through the telescope for over an hour before a biting wind had driven them inside. But the most precious moment was when she had fallen asleep on his chest.
“I think…I know I am falling in love with her.”
Worsley’s sigh held grievous disappointment. “One of the most pervasive vices I’ve seen. Did you know Lord Jenkins recently fought a most secret duel and almost got himself killed over his damn love argument?”
“I do not want to hear how love is worse than gambling and drinking,” Wentworth growled. “I want to know how I can be with her, always.”
“So, make an offer—”
“She is not interested in marrying me,” he admitted gruffly.
“Now I am interested in meeting her.”
His friend was so used to ladies of society contriving to marry either of them for their wealth, of course Juliana’s resistance would be refreshing to his jaded senses.
Wentworth pushed to his feet and went to the high windows overlooking the gas-lit streets of London below. Looking down on the scene from three stories above. Several carriages crawled by, some joining the receiving queue to enter the club.
“I’ve never seen you in knots over a lady before. If she means that much to you, find a way to marry her and keep her by your side.”
“You are surprisingly supportive.”
The viscount lifted his glass to his lips. “Let’s just say I have recent reasons to understand the urges that can plague the heart and torment dreams.”
Wentworth jolted. “Good God, you have your own valet.”
“More like a governess.”
“What need do you have for a governess.”
“It is a long story my friend. But should you attend the Duchess of Wycliffe’s ball tomorrow, you will see me dance with her.”
“You do not dance at society balls.”
“For her, I will.”
Wentworth smiled, enjoying the notion of his friend being just as knotted in love. “I hope she gives you a merry chase.”
Worsley grunted.
And Wentworth thought of all the reasons he and Juliana did not fit. “She is not an English lady. She…she does not fit into the pattern of my life. She is not the kind of person to care about titles.”
“So, she does not want to be a countess.”
“Or a married woman. But the freedom to be a business woman far away from me in bloody New York.”
Worsley clapped him on his shoulder.
“If you want her, truly want her, simply learn how you fit into her life.”
Then his friend sauntered away, leaving Wentworth alone with his heavy thoughts.
A week had flown by since her night in his lordship’s bath and bed, and for that duration Juliana had not seen Wentworth. He’d taken himself off to London and she missed him dreadfully. The ball loomed in three days’ time, and she suspected it was that chaos he had escaped. Dozens of servants had been hired from the village to assist for the night. Dozens of flowers were being cut from the nurseries with glass houses that supplied London’s wealthy elite. So late in the year, they were expensive to deliver in pristine condition to his Wiltshire seat. His gamekeepers had been hunting to provide game for the table and other delicacies had been ordered to cater for the assembled guests. The house bustled with activity and all the servants were harried to ensure that everything would be perfect for the ball. Only Juliana had been relatively idle.
Juliana escaped it all by staying in Wentworth’s room or spending her day near the lake, reading, or chatting with little Tommy. He had been following her around with a suspicious scowl on his little face, until he had confronted her, accusing her of being a girl.
She had not denied it nor confirmed it, and he hadn’t stopped following her about. It had now become their ritual to meet by the lake for luncheon where she would share whatever prized food she had managed to