‘Then you must let her do this for you, Cousin.’ Once again Helena was the practical one. ‘You are still far too young and beautiful to allow yourself to just wither away in the country!’
‘I assure you I am not yet ready for my bath-chair, Helena!’ Juliet gave an indulgent laugh, revealing straight white teeth between lips that were full and unknowingly sensual.
Now aged thirty, Juliet knew she was no longer in possession of the youthful bloom that had once caught Crestwood’s eye. Instead, she had become a woman of maturity—and not only in years. Her time spent as Crestwood’s wife had left an indelible mark upon her.
Thankfully, she had borne Crestwood no children to inherit their father’s cold and unforgiving nature, and so her figure, although more curvaceous now, was still slender. The long darkness of her hair was healthily shiny, loosely confined now at her crown, with wispy curls at her nape and temple as was currently the fashion. Her complexion was still as creamy and unlined as it had ever been.
But there was a lingering shadow of unhappiness in the green depths of her eyes, and Juliet smiled much less often now than she had been seen to do during her single coming-out Season twelve years ago. Before over ten years of marriage to the icy Earl of Crestwood had stripped her of all that girlish joy.
‘Anyway, I will never remarry,’ she added fiercely.
‘No one is suggesting that you should do so, silly.’ Helena reached out to squeeze her clenched hands affectionately, having been intuitive enough within months of coming to live at Falcon Manor to know of Juliet’s unhappiness in her marriage. ‘Two weeks at Banford Park, to gently introduce yourself back into Society, does not mean you have to accept a marriage proposal.’
Juliet had been softening slightly towards the idea of a fortnight spent in the congenial company of Dolly Bancroft’s ‘few select friends’, but this last remark made her bristle anew. ‘Nor any other sort of proposal, either,’ she stated, only too aware, after years in their midst, of the behaviour of some of the ton at these summer house parties, where it seemed to be accepted that a man would spend his nights in the bedchamber of any woman but that of his own wife.
Helena shook her head. ‘I am sure, as she has said in the letter that accompanied her invitation, that Lady Bancroft just means to repay your earlier kindness to her.’
Juliet wished that she could be as sure of that. Oh, she did not for a moment doubt Dolly’s good intentions. She had come to know the older woman as being kind and caring, as well as deeply in love with her husband. Juliet only feared that her own idea of good intentions and Dolly Bancroft’s might not coincide…
‘Oh, do say you will go, Juliet!’ Helena entreated. ‘I can come with you and act as your maid—’
‘You are my cousin, not a servant!’ Juliet protested.
‘But your cousin is not invited,’ Helena pointed out ruefully. ‘Think on it, Juliet. It could be fun. And you will be all the fashion, with your French maid Helena Jourdan to attend you.’
Fun, as Juliet well knew, was something that Helena had not had much of in her young life. Her parents, the sister of Juliet’s own mother and the Frenchman she had married twenty-five years ago, had been victims of the scourge that had overtaken France during Napoleon’s reign, both killed during a raid on their small manor house six years ago, by soldiers in search of food and valuables.
Helena had been present when the raid had occurred, and reluctant after her escape to England to talk of her own fate during that week-long siege. But it had not been too difficult to guess, from the way Helena chose to play down her delicate beauty and dressed so severely, that she had not escaped the soldiers’ attentions unscathed.
The two of them had lived quietly and alone except for their few servants this past year and a half, at the estate Crestwood had left his widow, and whilst Juliet had not minded for herself she accepted that at only two and twenty Helena would probably welcome some excitement into their dull lives.
The sort of excitement a two-week stay at Dolly Bancroft’s country estate would no doubt provide…
Chapter One
‘I have no idea why you felt it necessary to force me from my bed at the crack of dawn—’
‘It was eleven o’clock, Gray,’ Sebastian pointed out as he expertly handled the matching greys stepping out lively in front of his curricle.
‘As far as I am concerned, any hour before midday is the crack of dawn,’ Lord Gideon Grayson—Gray to his closest friends—assured him dourly as he huddled down on the seat beside him, the high collar of his fashionably cut jacket snug about his ears despite the warmth of this August summer day. ‘I barely had time to wake, let alone enjoy my breakfast.’
‘Kippers, eggs and toast, accompanied by two pots of strong coffee,’ Sebastian said cheerfully. ‘All eaten, as I recall, while you perused today’s newspaper.’
‘My valet was rushed through my ablutions, and…’
Sebastian stopped listening to Gray’s complaints at this point. He was too full of anticipation at the prospect of the challenge of seducing Juliet Boyd to allow anything—or anyone—to shake him out of his good temper.
‘…and now my closest friend in the world is so bored by my company that after dragging me forcibly from my own bed and home he cannot even be bothered listening to me!’ Gray scowled up at him censoriously.
Sebastian gave an unrepentant grin as he glanced down at the other man. ‘When you have something interesting to say, Gray, I assure you I will listen.’
‘Could you at least try to be a little less cheerful?’ his friend muttered sourly. ‘I do believe I am feeling a little delicate this morning.’
‘A self-inflicted delicacy!’ The two men had done the rounds of the drinking and gambling clubs yesterday evening—Sebastian had won, Gray had not—after which his friend had left to spend several hours in the bed of his current mistress, before returning to his home in the not-so-early hours.
‘You are in disgustingly good humour this morning, Seb.’ Gray gave another wince. ‘Have you taken a new mistress to replace Lady Hawtry?’
‘Not yet.’ Sebastian grinned wolfishly. ‘But I intend doing so in the next two weeks.’
‘Oh, I say!’ Gray’s interest quickened. ‘I hope you are not intending to try your luck with Dolly Bancroft during your stay at Banford Park? I warn you, next to your brother Lucian and yourself, Bancroft is the best swordsman in England!’
‘You may rest easy concerning both my interest in Dolly’s bedchamber and Bancroft’s prowess with the sword,’ Sebastian assured him dryly. ‘Dolly and I are no more than friends and never will be.’ Especially now that he knew Dolly had been bedded by both his brothers!
Gray arched a dark brow. ‘But you admit there is a lady involved in our uncharacteristic behaviour in attending a summer house party?’
‘Of course,’ Sebastian drawled, but he had no intention of sharing his particular interest in bedding the newly widowed Countess of Crestwood.
‘Tell me I do not see the parson’s mousetrap snapping at your booted heels…’ Gray mocked.
Sebastian gave a humourless laugh. ‘You most assuredly do not.’ He was even more determined to avoid that state after seeing both his brothers succumb over the last year.
‘I must say neither of your brothers seems to mind it so much.’ Gray’s thoughts travelled the same path. ‘I am not sure that I should mind, either, if I had one of their wives for my own!’
‘In that case, feel free to find your own wife, Gray,’ Sebastian jeered. ‘But for goodness’ sake, do not attempt to find one for