been apart.”
“That is hardly your concern now, my lord,” Amiable said. “The lady is my wife and however much you may regret losing her, I must ask you to refrain from such statements of affection lest it become a matter of honor.” He itched to lay his hand to his sword again but did not wish for the situation to escalate. Yet.
“Oh, but it is my concern, my lord.” The Frenchman stalked toward them, one deliberate step after another. “I have the prior claim to dear Juliet. In fact, I must insist you remove your hands from my wife immediately.”
“Your wife?” Amiable scowled at the Frenchman, although his resolve slipped. Had he stuck his nose into a proper quarrel between husband and wife? Would he never learn to control his impetuous nature? Certainly not if it concerned a woman in distress, it seemed. He pushed Juliet behind him.
“You must stop saying that, Philippe. I am not your wife.” Tears glistened, and she blinked them back.
He admired courage in a woman. She might not be his Katarina, but she deserved his protection nonetheless.
“Why would you claim such a thing, man?” he demanded. “Juliet and I were married properly, with the banns read and in a church.” He prayed she had given the man no particulars before he had arrived.
“Our ceremony was no less proper. The magistrate performed it before witnesses.”
“Why have you not spoken to me of this, my dear?” Give the woman her head. He’d become quite interested himself in what had transpired.
“I never married him, Jack. You must believe me.” She sank her fingers into his arm in a death grip as her eyes sent a desperate plea for his confidence in her. “I never spoke my vows to him.”
“You did not need to, ma petite, as you well know. Jeanette spoke them for you,” St. Cyr snapped, his voice loud in the small room.
Lord, give me strength… “Who is Jeanette? If she spoke the vows, then you are married to her, my lord. Not Lady Manning.”
St. Cyr sneered. “The Marquess of Dalbury sent Jeanette Valois to France as proxy so his sister and I could marry despite the circumstances. When my father broke the betrothal, I acted against his wishes and went through with the ceremony with Jeanette standing in for Juliet.” St. Cyr leered at her. “So you see, I am your true husband as I have the prior claim. Even though secret, the marriage is valid. You belong to me.” He reached for Juliet’s hand.
“Allow me to doubt a bit longer, St. Cyr.” Amiable knocked the man’s hand aside. “Why did you not contact my wife before now with the news that the marriage had indeed taken place?” He glanced at Juliet. “It has been something over a year now?”
She nodded, and hung her head. She drew a handkerchief from her pocket and twisted it.
“I would have written,” St. Cyr said, “but because of the unfortunate relations between our two countries, mail became uncertain. I could not send a letter through diplomatic channels and risk it coming to the attention of my father.”
St. Cyr almost sounded plausible, yet something in his voice did not ring true. His smooth replies sounded much rehearsed. Had Amiable defied his father to marry a woman, he’d make damned sure the woman knew so she wouldn’t marry someone else. His hackles rose. He simply did not trust the man. “And now, by some miracle, twelve or so months later, you manage to appear in England with this unsubstantiated tale of a marriage.”
“I managed to get passage on an Irish ship leaving Paris, and from Dublin I made my way to London.”
“Your timing is exquisite, Philippe.” Juliet glared at the Frenchman. “My brother has just left for Italy and will not return for some months.”
“This need not concern the marquess.” St. Cyr waved, dismissing Amiable. “I can arrange for the annulment of your marriage to this gentleman, and then we can—”
“I am afraid that is out of the question, St. Cyr.” Damn but he wanted to take the young fop by the seat of his satin breeches and throw him out the front door. “Disabuse yourself of the idea I will have my marriage annulled, with or without her brother’s consent. She is my wife and there’s the end of it. You have upset her enough for one day. I will thank you to leave.”
“Juliet, mon amour.” St. Cyr reverted to his native French. “You cannot have a serious regard for this monstrous oaf?” He raked Amiable contemptuously with his gaze. “He is a barbarian compared to me, my dear. I can make you forget him, forget any of his crude gestures of love. Do you remember our embrace? At the king’s Christmas court ball? Such a quaint custom of the mistletoe. You seemed to long for more than just my tongue that night, my sweet.”
“Philippe, please.” Juliet shrank from him, blushing until her face matched the hue of her dress.
“I fear you did not heed my words earlier, St. Cyr,” Amiable replied in flawless French, pulling his sword free. “You have just besmirched the honor of my wife and I will have satisfaction of you.”
“Jack, no.” Juliet pulled Amiable to a corner of the room and whispered, “Please do not engage him, sir. We can hardly have a scene here without…” She peered over her shoulder.
Totally unconcerned with the challenge he had just been issued, St. Cyr inspected the Watteau on the wall, once again idly twisting his walking stick in his hand. The fool.
“You have no true reason to challenge him.”
“There you are wrong, my dear. Any gentleman has the duty to defend a lady’s honor.” He smiled at her, then turned back to St. Cyr. “May I suggest you apologize, my lord, unless you wish to meet me tomorrow morning?” He pointed his sword tip at St. Cyr’s mouth. “I will be much obliged to cut that offensive tongue out at your earliest convenience.” At last. Action he could take satisfaction in. He’d savor the anticipation of such a meeting.
St. Cyr paled a trifle as he looked from him to Juliet. “Forgive me, mon ange,” he addressed her, “for recalling our past intimacies. They should have remained in the memories of just us two.”
“Humph.” He stared hard at St. Cyr. Not the most contrite plea for forgiveness, but nothing more seemed forthcoming. Reluctantly, he executed a slight bow, acknowledged the dubious apology, and sheathed his blade.
“I have no such memories, Philippe.” Juliet spoke in French. “Nor do I want anything else from you except to be left alone.”
“C’est impossible, chérie. We are man and wife. I will not leave you alone in the care of another man. I insist you accompany me back to my inn.” St. Cyr dove for her hand.
With a strangled cry, Juliet spun around to hide behind Amiable.
“By God, that is enough.” He’d make an end to the wretch this time. “There are laws in England that prevent men from forcing women to marry them.”
“The law says Juliet is already married to me,” St. Cyr said softly and drew a sheaf of papers from his jacket. He waved them at Amiable. “And only to me.”
Chapter 2
Blood roared in Amiable’s ears, as though he stood in the heat of battle. He drew his sword and lunged, aiming to skewer the Frenchman through the stomach. “The law will matter not at all if you are dead, St. Cyr.”
St. Cyr grasped the knob of his walking stick and pulled a thin blade free just in time to parry the thrust, then scampered for the door, calling out in English, “This is not the end of this, Juliet. I will return with the authorities and make you see reason.”
As the viscount fled the room, Amiable scrambled after him.
“Let him go.” Juliet tugged his arm.
Amiable stopped and the front door slammed shut. “I wish I’d run the blackguard through.”
“No,