Page 24 of This Earl of Mine

“Did he follow us home? Look outside!”

Georgie crossed to the window. Sure enough, standing forlornly behind the iron railings that delineated the small garden in the center of Grosvenor Square, stood Simeon Pettigrew.

“Yes, he’s there.”

Simeon was only a year older than Juliet, nineteen to her eighteen, and was personally responsible for convincing Georgie that love really was blind. And quite possibly deaf and stupid as well. There was no other way to explain Juliet’s inexplicable attraction.

Simeon had a long, thin face with eyes that drooped down at the outer corners and gave him the look of a perpetually disappointed puppy. Round spectacles perched on his long nose. Not because he needed them—the lenses were clear glass—but because he was under the erroneous impression that they made him look more scholarly. Unable to grow a full beard, he maintained the few straggly hairs that sprouted from his chin and a sad attempt at a mustache, which appeared as a shadowy, peach-like fuzz on his upper lip. He kept his wavy black hair deliberately long, chin length, so it was always getting in his mouth; he sucked the end of it absentmindedly when he was concentrating.

Without meaning to, Georgie glanced over at Wylde: a decade older in years, and a lifetime older in experience. A man, compared to a boy. Unlike Simeon’s waxy pallor, his face was bronzed from his time spent abroad. The few lines that fanned from the corners of his wicked brown eyes only added to his unholy allure. Even at this hour of the morning, the dark hint of stubble on his jaw made Georgie’s fingers itch to touch it, to feel the rough texture.

She pressed her hand to her chest and felt the lump of her wedding ring beneath her dress. She’d taken to wearing it suspended on a chain around her throat, a physical reminder that she’d taken control of her own destiny. It nestled against her skin, against her heart, like a secret. What would Wylde think if he knew? Would he think her sentimental? Longing for him? The thought brought a weakening sensation to her knees and a confusion in her stomach.

The sudden spatter of raindrops on the windowpanes snapped her out of her reverie.

“I should take my leave.”

Georgie glanced at Wylde and frowned. “It’s raining. Did you leave your carriage at the park?”

“I don’t keep a carriage.” He shot her a self-deprecating smile. “Too expensive. But it isn’t far to St. James’s. Walking takes twenty minutes. A carriage takes fifteen. It’s almost the same.”

“You can’t have expected the rain, though,” she persisted. He was wearing an extremely well-fitted morning coat of dark blue, a neatly tied cravat, white shirt, and breeches. None of which would benefit from a soaking.

He shrugged, an impressive feat considering the fit of his jacket. “I’ve been rained on before. In several different countries, thanks to Bonaparte. I shan’t dissolve.”

“Well, you’re probably made of sterner stuff than Simeon out there.”

Wylde moved to stand behind her. He glanced over her shoulder, and she became intensely aware of the warmth of his body, so close, the faint tang of his skin. A slow heat curled in her belly.

Simeon was still staring up at what he probably believed was Juliet’s window. He was wrong; Juliet’s room faced the back of the house.

“Lovesick idiot. He’s bound to catch a cold,” Wylde murmured. His tone clearly suggested,You’ll never catchmedoing something so stupid for a woman.

Simeon looked thoroughly miserable now, hunched against the drizzle. As they watched, he glanced upward, and his thin shoulders rose and fell in a sigh, as if such treatment was no less than he expected from the pitiless heavens. As if in response, the shower quickly became a deluge of biblical proportions. The rattle of carriages was drowned out by the hiss of the rain on the pavement as it collected in runnels and washed into the drains.

Juliet sat up, all lounging forgotten. “Oh, my poor Simeon! Is he getting terribly wet?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Wylde caught Georgie’s eye, and they shared an amused look.

“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that,” he muttered. “Oh, I almost forgot. Do you have any plans for tomorrow evening? I’m meeting someone at Vauxhall. If we’re seen there together, I can show you some conspicuous attention and get rumors flying.”

Before Georgie could reply, Mother returned, accompanied by Mrs. Potter, the housekeeper, carrying a large tray.

“Will you stay for some tea, Mr. Wylde?”

“I’m afraid I cannot, Mrs. Caversteed. But I was hoping I might see you ladies at Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night. I hear Madame Sacqui is performing her rope-walking tricks, and there will be fireworks at ten.”

Mother shot a congratulatory look at Juliet. “That sounds lovely! Juliet’s been wanting to see the fireworks for an age, haven’t you, dear? If the weather is fine, we’ll be there.”

He bowed slightly. “Shall we say nine o’clock, by the rotunda?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll see Mr. Wylde out,” Georgie said, herding him toward the door.

The front hall was uncharacteristically deserted; Pieter was doubtless below stairs making a cold compress for Juliet. Georgie opened the front door—and came face-to-face with a sodden Simeon, who was standing at the bottom of the steps, apparently summoning the courage to knock. His black hair was plastered to his skull, and in one hand, he held a limp posy of flowers, presumably purloined from Hyde Park’s borders.

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