“Georgie, will you walk with me in the park?”
Georgie looked up from her book and cast a frowning glance at the leaden sky beyond the bay window. “I think it’s going to rain.”
Juliet twirled her bonnet around by the ribbons and gave her brightest smile. “Nonsense. Not until this afternoon. Oh, please come. I can’t ask Mother. She’s gone to call on Mrs. Cox.”
Her sister’s flushed cheeks were highly suspicious. Juliet never volunteered for physical exercise. “What’s going on, Ju?”
Juliet sank gracefully onto the chaise, almost fizzing with excitement. “It’s Simeon! He’s here, in London. I just received a note saying he wants to meet.” She cast a beseeching puppy-dog look at Georgie.
“Can’t he just call here, like all your other suitors?”
“You know he can’t. Mother’s likely to turn him away, and I don’t want to go behind her back. You know how disapproving she is. Oh, please say you’ll come. I promise it won’t take long. I’ve missed him so much.”
“Oh, all right. But wear a shawl.”
As Juliet rushed off to dress, Georgie suppressed a twinge of envy. At least her sister had heard from her beau. She hadn’t heard anything from Wylde for the past three days. Perhaps he’d reconsidered their outlandish deal. Perhaps that was for the best.
She’d been proud of the cool, logical way she’d presented her case, because when it came to Benedict Wylde, her feelings were thoroughly illogical—a confusing mix of wariness, mistrust, and heart-pounding attraction. She shook her head and went to find a bonnet and an umbrella in case her prediction of rain proved true.
It was only a short walk from Grosvenor Square, down Upper Brook Street to Hyde Park, and although grey clouds threatened, the day was surprisingly warm for March. They hadn’t been in the park more than a few minutes, strolling down the long avenues and trailed by Juliet’s long-suffering maid Charlotte, when disaster struck.
Juliet had just bent to sniff some early-blooming daffodils when she gasped.
“Oh! I see Simeon! Over there, on the other side of the pond!”
She waved her reticule at the thin figure, which had the undesired effect of disturbing a bumble bee that had been buzzing among the flowers, minding its own business.
“Aargh! A bee! Get off!”
Georgie tried to catch Juliet’s flailing arms. “Just stand still. It’s not interested in you. Once it realizes you’re not a flower, it will leave you alone.”
But Juliet was deaf to all reason. She flapped like a demented chicken. The blameless bee managed to get caught up in her shawl.
Juliet clapped a hand to the side of the neck. “It bit me!” she gasped.
“Stung you,” Georgie corrected automatically. “Bees don’t have teeth.”
“I don’t care!” Juliet wailed. “Oh Lord, I can’t breathe!”
Georgie rolled her eyes. This wasn’t the first time her sister had been, in her own words, “maliciously singled out for assassination” by a bee. The orchard back in Little Gidding was full of them.
Charlotte bustled up, her plump, kindly face the picture of concern. “Now, miss, you’ll be all right. Come on, let’s get you home.”
Juliet turned and squinted expectantly across the pond at where Simeon had been standing. “Oh, this is perfect! Where is Simeon? He can come and rescue me. When Mother sees how kind and gallant he is, she’s bound to soften toward him. Can you see him, Georgie?”
Georgie squinted across the lake. Simeon’s thin figure was heading toward them. “He’s coming.”
Juliet swayed slightly. “I wish he’d hurry. I really do feel faint.”
Her face had turned quite pale. Alarmed, Georgie put a hand out to steady her.
“Can I be of assistance, ladies?”
Georgie turned at the masculine voice, expecting to see Simeon, but it was Wylde’s handsome face that had appeared next to them. “Mr. Wylde!”
“Miss Caversteed.” He shot her an amused, sympathetic glance then turned to the flustered Juliet and offered his arm. “Miss Juliet, may I escort you home?”
Juliet clutched at his arm like the sole survivor of a shipwreck, her fear of fainting in a public place clearly greater than her desire to wait for Simeon’s aid. “Oh, Mr. Wylde. Thank goodness. Yes, please. Your assistance would be most welcome.”
Georgie glanced across the pond. Simeon had witnessed the entire incident but had been too far away to come to his beloved’s rescue. He hovered at the edge of a small copse of trees, apparently in an agony of indecision now that his chance to play knight-errant had been usurped by another. She shooed him away with a subtle gesture of her hand and turned back to Juliet.
“Were you on your way somewhere, Mr. Wylde?” she asked, as they began to escort Juliet toward the park gate.
“As a matter of fact, I was, Miss Caversteed,” he replied with exaggerated politeness. “I was on my way to call on you.”
Juliet gave a little gasp, which Georgie ignored. “How very fortunate. We are honored, of course.”
They were halfway home when Juliet’s steps faltered, and she touched one hand to her forehead. “Oh! Oh dear. I really do think I’m going to faint.”
Georgie groaned inwardly as her sister sagged elegantly against Wylde’s side.
With a resigned sigh, he caught her before she could crumple to the ground. He bent, hooked one arm behind Juliet’s knees, set the other around her shoulders, and swept her off her feet.
Charlotte gave a scandalized gasp.
He strode along Upper Brook Street like some well-dressed pirate, as if he barely noticed the weight of Juliet’s slim body in his arms—which, considering his wonderful physique, was probably true. Georgie bit back a sting of completely irrational jealousy and tried not to imagine what it would feel like to be held in those strong, capable arms or cradled against that wonderfully broad chest. Darting in front of them, she ran up the front steps, opened the door, and ushered them into the hall.
Wylde, still carrying Juliet, turned this way and that, then shot her a questioning look. “Where do you want her?”
Georgie glanced upwards. “The salon’s upstairs, but you don’t need to—”
He didn’t wait for her to finish. He simply mounted the stairs two at a time and deposited Juliet gently on the chaise longue in the salon at the front of the house.
He wasn’t even out of breath.
Juliet managed to settle, long-limbed and tragic, with one hand dramatically covering her forehead. Georgie was just about to pat her sister’s cheeks when Mother burst into the room and started fluttering like an overexcited pigeon. She was so intent on Juliet that she didn’t even notice Wylde, who had sensibly retreated to the corner of the room.
“Juliet! My love! What happened?” She caught Juliet’s wrist to check for a pulse.
“She was stung by a bee in the park,” Georgie said.
“Quick! My smelling salts. No! A feather. We must find a feather!”
“Why do you need a feather?”
“Why, to burn, child. She must be roused!”
Georgie grimaced. “Please don’t. Burnt feathers smell awful. She’s coming round on her own, look.”
Juliet opened one eye and sent Georgie an incredulous look. “I really fainted? Oh, how mortifying! Where’s Sime—”
Mother ignored them both. “Where can we get a feather? A pillow? Don’t just stand there, Georgiana. Wait! I have it. My hat! There’s a feather in my hat.” She tugged the bonnet from her head.
Juliet, ever conscious of fashion, roused herself enough to protest. “No! Don’t ruin it! It’s such a pretty hat.”
Mother was momentarily diverted. “Do you think so? I had second thoughts about it this morning when I looked in the mirror. I thought, ‘Whatever could have possessed Madame Cerise to suggest mauve?’” She tilted her head and studied the offending garment with a critical eye. “You can have it if you like. It will suit you better than me.”
Juliet wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you. Lavender makes me look ill. Maybe Georgie would like it?”
Georgie rolled her eyes. If Juliet was back to discussing fashion, she was well on the road to recovery. “Perhaps we should all have a nice cup of tea?” Georgie darted a quick, embarrassed glance over at Wylde to see what he was making of this introduction to her ridiculous family. From his expression, he appeared to find it highly amusing.
Mother frowned. “Tea? She needs laudanum for her excitable nerves!”
Wylde stepped forward. “Might I suggest a cold compress, to reduce any swelling, and some calamine lotion?”
Mother jumped as though she’d been shot, one hand pressed over her heart. “Oh, good gracious!”
“Mother, this is Mr. Benedict Wylde. He was kind enough to help Juliet back from the park.”
Benedict bowed. “Your servant, ma’am.”
Mother melted like a glacier under the midday sun. “Mr. Wylde! Of course. How can we thank you enough for coming to dear Juliet’s aid?”
“I’m just glad I was able to help.”
Mother preened under that irresistible smile. “It was an extremely romantic gesture.” She glanced meaningfully from him to Juliet, and Georgie groaned inwardly. “How fortunate you were in the vicinity.”
“Indeed,” Georgie said dryly. “Extremely fortunate.”
In all fairness, she couldn’t accuse Wylde of engineering the disaster, but he’d doubtless been only too happy to play the gallant hero to someone as pretty as Juliet. The gossip mongers would have a marvelous time dissecting this. It was too much to hope that nobody had seen him carting her sister into the house like some medieval groom carrying his bride over the threshold.
“I’ll have Mrs. Potter bring some tea up,” Mother said cheerfully. “And the calamine and compress.” She shot an arch glance at Wylde. “I’m sure you won’t mind keeping Juliet company for a few moments, will you, Mr. Wylde?”
She bustled out of the room without waiting for an answer.