Shit.
Sam crouched behind a trellis overrun with vines, unbelieving, as Juliette stood on the Breckinridges’s terrace … with his brother.
A gurgling fountain nearby had drowned out most of their conversation, but in the light of the lanterns, Sam could see the besotted expression on Nigel’s face as he gazed at her with undisguised desire. He could see his brother’s hands caressing her skin.
And he almost retched at the sight.
It couldn’t be coincidence that Nigel had sent him to toss Juliette and her uncle out of their house. But even if Nigel wasn’t the saint Sam had imagined him to be, he was no scoundrel.
Sam was the one who was regularly featured in the gossip rags—he was the one who was a source of constant disappointment. Not Nigel.
And yet, the evidence before him was hard to refute.
Nigel and Juliette had formed some sort of attachment … and now Sam was in the middle of it. Which was the very last place he wanted to be.
Still, he couldn’t drag his eyes away from Juliette’s face. Beneath her cool façade he detected a hint of distress, and an odd tingling at the base of his spine wouldn’t let him leave her, just in case she needed him.
So he watched as Nigel steered her away from the lanterns, closer to Sam’s hiding spot behind the trellis. Too close, damn it.
He had to move, quickly. He crouched and began crawling toward the cover of a waist-high hedge—then stopped short.
The shoulder of his jacket caught on the trellis’s frame, holding him prisoner.
Nigel and Juliette were only yards away and would surely spot him if he didn’t free himself quickly. He pulled harder, willing to sacrifice his jacket if it meant he could escape undetected and save all involved a heap of embarrassment.
But he remained stuck.
He had no choice but to throw his whole body into the effort. Holding his breath, he counted to three and prepared to lunge.
One, two, three …
Crash. He managed to pull himself free, but took half the damned trellis with him in the process. The other half listed toward the terrace, balancing for one hopeful moment before tumbling down, directly toward Juliette. Panic flooding his veins, he scrambled to his feet to rescue her from the mess—
But of course he was too late.
Nigel shielded her, letting the falling posts and scraps of wood bounce off his back. Sam took a step toward them, then froze.
Neither Juliette nor Nigel had seen Sam on the other side of the rubble—Nigel was too preoccupied with pulling ivy leaves out of Juliette’s hair; she was busy brushing the dust off his jacket.
As they fussed over each other, Sam slowly retreated.
Juliette didn’t need him.
And if Nigel discovered he’d been spying on them, he’d skewer Sam alive.
So he stayed in the shadows as he rounded the corner of the house, keeping his head low. He paused as a few curious guests who’d heard the ruckus spilled out onto the terrace. Listened as they proclaimed his brother a veritable hero for protecting Juliette.
Sam sighed, wishing that for once, he’d been the one to save the fair maiden.
He would have liked to be the one checking her for scrapes and telling her not to fret about his ruined jacket—that he’d sacrifice a hundred jackets to keep her safe.
In truth, he was more like the villain in her story—the one who’d darkened her doorstep, bringing distressing news about her uncle’s house. The one who’d failed to keep his end of the bargain and then managed to knock down the trellis on top of her.
He shoved his hands deep in his pockets as he left the gardens and strode in the direction of Juliette’s house. It was a long walk, but he welcomed the chance to expend some pent-up energy—and think.
If the ball guests had spotted Sam alone on the terrace with Juliette, they would have assumed he was in the process of seducing her … and, in all likelihood, they would have been correct.
But when the guests had discovered Nigel with her, they didn’t appear to suspect anything untoward. Rather, they likely assumed that Juliette had merely wanted a bit of fresh air and that Nigel had been good and honorable enough to escort her to the terrace and protect her from all manner of falling objects.
Sam had no one to blame for the unfavorable comparison but himself. He’d earned his bad reputation with every drunken night, every short-lived affair, every reckless throw of the dice. Likewise, Nigel’s good name was the product of a lifetime of doing the right thing: making top marks at school, following the rules, doing his duty.
Why then, hadn’t Nigel been forthright with Juliette about her uncle’s house?
He’d only told Sam that the house was occupied by a distant relative, so perhaps he hadn’t realized the connection to Juliette. But the note Sam sent him that afternoon had made the circumstances perfectly clear.
Sam had said the house was occupied by Lord Wiltmore and his niece, who wished to see proof of Nigel’s legal right to the property before they vacated it. Sam had also asked his brother to grant Juliette and Wiltmore some time—time to adjust to the news and make other living arrangements.
And Nigel hadn’t responded. Yet.
Sam rubbed the back of his neck and walked faster down the dark, mostly deserted street. Given all he’d seen and heard tonight, he had to assume that he was being manipulated and played the fool by either Nigel or Juliette. Maybe both.
He didn’t want to believe either capable of such treachery. Nigel was his flesh and blood—the wiser, older brother he’d always idolized. And Juliette … well, she was someone he’d thought could become his friend. Or something more.
But at least one of them was lying to Sam.
Whoever the guilty party turned out to be, Sam was going to be gutted.
He shrugged to himself, shaking off his uncharacteristic melancholy. He was better off not caring. Nothing he could do would change his brother’s opinion of him—much less society’s.
And someone like Juliette could never see past his unsavory past and his myriad sins.
To hell with them both.
If a tiger couldn’t change his stripes … neither could a rogue.
* * *
The moment Julie stepped through the front door of her uncle’s house, she kicked off her heeled slippers and rubbed the arches of her feet, nearly moaning with relief. She couldn’t recall a night when she’d danced so much, twirling around the parquet floor into the wee hours of the morning.
But the joy she should have felt was dimmed by her frustration with Nigel. The disaster with the trellis had prevented her from receiving the answers she sought.
He’d certainly made her no promises where her uncle’s house was concerned … but she did have the distinct impression that the marquess was open to negotiations.
Which was, in itself, troubling.
Julie picked up her slippers, hoisted the hem of her dress, and tiptoed toward the parlor, mildly disappointed that Sam had not waited up for her. Ridiculous, that.
She’d danced with half a dozen handsome men, all of whom were eligible bachelors and infinitely more suitable for her than Sam.
And, at the moment, she could barely recall their names.
Sam was the one who’d tried to spare her embarrassment after her dress debacle at dinner. He was the one who’d made Uncle Alistair believe his research was worthy. He was the one who’d said she deserved a gentleman—even though she’d been certain he wanted to kiss her.
She walked slowly toward the staircase, navigating carefully around small tables and the stool at the pianoforte, and—
“Good evening, Juliette. Or should I say morning?”