Had she truly believed that her entire life’s happiness might reside in a pair of blue eyes and a handsome face? God help her, but she had, and that just illustrated to her older, wiser self how idiotic she’d been.
She was young and in love, and Ashley Linholm had seemed like the prince of her dreams. His kisses had drawn her soul from her lips and filled her heart with love. And he loved her, she had been certain of it, and certain that, like his ancestor, the great Lord Radulf with the Lady Lily, he would sweep her up and carry her off to their life together in his magnificent castle.
For one long delirious summer, they had been together, and then her dream had turned into a nightmare. On the day when her father had discovered them, locked in each other’s arms, in the summer house he blamed for his own ill-favoured marriage. Even now the remembrance of that moment made her shrivel inside.
Which was possibly why she usually did not think of it.
Then why, now, was she allowing herself to relive his kisses, and the hot melting caresses they had shared? It occurred to her that if her mother had felt for her Italian count half of what Juliet had felt with Ash, then it was understandable that she had bolted. And perhaps she could forgive her, just a little.
But she would never forgive Ash.
For abandoning her and allowing her to be married off to a man old enough to be her grandfather.
Her bitterness was like a dark stain in her heart. If she was ever to see Lord Ashley Linholm again, then she would tell him exactly what she thought of him. She would not hold back for the sake of politeness and nor would she temper her language . . .
Juliet bit her lip. She rather thought that if she were ever to see Ash again she would do none of those things. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to. She would pretend she didn’t recognise him and walk right past him.
Chapter Three
Summer, 1816, Mockingbird Square, Mayfair, London
Lord Ashley Linholm stepped through the door held open by one of his servants, and into Number Five. He was a different man from the one who had left feeling so confident about his future. He felt as if his life was i
n complete disarray.
Ash still didn’t understand why he had agreed to the earl’s ‘challenge’, apart from the fact that the man was extremely persuasive. He’d had the unpleasant sensation that he was back in the army, being ordered to do things he really didn’t want to do, by men who seemed not to care whether he lived or died. But then the stark truth was, neither had he.
He suspected Simon would be waiting in the library, so he went straight there. Ash’s father had died when his eldest son was five, just after Simon was born. During his minority the estate had been run by his father’s brother, Uncle George. If he was honest it still was, and although George had been a competent and diligent custodian, he was elderly now and, according to Simon, who had seen him more recently, ready to retire.
Ash had dallied long enough, enjoying the bachelor life and ignoring his responsibilities. He needed to go home to Crevitch and take up the reins—settle down to the life of a country gentleman. If he and his brother were to die, then the estate would go to a distant cousin he had never seen nor met. He was absolutely sure such a person could not love Crevitch as he did.
As he had thought, his brother was in the library reading one of the books that had belonged to their father. Ash himself rarely read them but Simon seemed to enjoy the dry old tales. He had even suggested they have the library catalogued, and Ash had agreed, thinking it would give his brother something to do during his convalescence.
Simon had come up to London from Crevitch a month or so ago, after spending time with their mother, recuperating. His leg injury had initially been serious but currently he could make his way with the aid of a walking stick rather than the two crutches he had used in the beginning. Now, every day, he walked to the garden at the heart of Mockingbird Square, and Ash was certain that was doing him good. It must be. He always returned home in a far cheerier mood.
“Well?” Simon had noticed him and was looking up with a rather strained smile on his pale face. Ash, far too full of his own concerns, barely noticed.
Simon tossed the book aside and reached for his cane. “Did Monkstead give his permission?” he demanded with uncharacteristic impatience.
“No,” his elder brother replied, and went to the window to stare out blindly at the promising summer’s day. “The strangest thing, Simon.”
He sounded odd even to himself, and his brother limped slowly across to join him. “What happened, Ash?” he asked quietly. “I thought you were set on marrying Miss Beales.”
The way he spoke her name, almost like a caress, also went unnoticed by his brother.
“I was. I am.” He turned, his bright blue eyes searching Simon’s dark ones. “Simon . . . do you remember Juliet Montgomery?”
Simon frowned. “Of course I do. She was our neighbour, before she married Baron Flett. Now she’s home again. When I was at the hospital she was there to help Doctor Knowles. I told you, Ash.”
But Ash didn’t seem to be listening. Suddenly he gave a strange sort of laugh. “Eight years ago, when you were barely out of short pants, brother, I thought that it was Juliet who made the sun rise and set. I was utterly besotted with her.”
“Juliet?” Simon couldn’t hide his amazement. “Well, she is very beautiful.” He leaned against the sill, taking the weight off his injured leg. “What happened?”
“Her father and our uncle decided that it wasn’t a suitable match for either of us. I was bought a commission in the army, and Juliet was married off to Baron Flett. We were both young . . . Soon I found myself involved in fighting the French, and by the time I came home, well, I barely gave her a thought. I’m sure it was the same for her.”
He sounded as if he believed that.
“So why are you speaking of her now? I thought you were set upon shackling yourself to Miss Beales?” Once again his voice softened but neither man seemed to notice it.