Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Juliet lay beside Eric, her gaze fixed out the window, watching in awe as the black sky lightened to shades of dark blue and vibrant purple. Soon, a thin line of pink spread across the horizon, silhouetting the tops of the highest buildings.
Even for her, the hour was early, but Juliet was too hungry to sleep.
She’d been up for at least twenty minutes.
Meanwhile, Eric remained tucked beneath the counterpane, the oil lamp they’d forgotten to snuff, casting light across his closed eyelids.
A gentle hum buzzed from his lips, and he looked as handsome as a charming prince—her charming prince and stalwart hero cum fiancé. Her heart pirouetted in her chest.
Grruup, grruup, her belly gurgled.
Even her stomach rumbling loud enough to wake the long dead did not startle him.
Eric had told her they could go to the kitchen whenever they wanted.
Therefore, she would do just that. Hopefully, no one would care that he wasn’t with her, because she would not begrudge him his rest after everything they’d been through these past few days.
If she encountered anyone, she’d simply introduce herself as his fiancée.
His fiancée! Her back pressed to the mattress; she wiggled her bum and hips in a happy dance.
Eric did not stir.
Rolling out of bed, she searched for her clothing. After sliding into her chemise, she found her dress rolled into a ball near the chair. Her cheeks heated as she recalled how the garment had found its way onto the floor. She tittered, immediately silencing herself with a palm to her mouth.
Still, Eric did not stir.
She pulled it over her head and tied the drawstring into place. Her modiste needed to design a dress with built-in stays. And sooner rather than later, if she and Eric continued to engage in bedsport.
Of course, if she were married to a working-class man, she might no longer have a modiste. But who cared? Not her. She’d choose Eric over a new gown a million times over.
She grabbed the lantern from his nightstand and aimed it into the dark corners.
Last night, she hadn’t noticed a dresser along the far wall, but there one sat, Eric’s personal effects neatly arranged on top of it.
Hoping to find a brush, she tiptoed across the room.
Not only did she find a brush and comb, but she also discovered a pair of wool stockings.
She attempted to neaten her hair and then donned Eric’s stockings. She must look a sight, but at least she was no longer naked, and her feet were warm.
Lantern in hand, she exited the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
As she descended what she assumed was the servant stairwell, Eric’s stockings slid down her calves.
Once the ton’s perfect darling, she was currently sneaking down the back stairwell of a brothel, half-dressed and wearing her working-class fiancé’s too-big stockings.
“Scandalous,” the gossipy ladies who enjoyed tittle tattle would declare. “What a Jezebel,” their priggish husbands would say. Her mother would faint, and her father would brandish his silly dueling pistol, waving it in the air like he had the stomach to shoot the man she loved.
But none of this could take away from the joy bubbling within her. If her imagined scenario played out, she would ignore the comments from the ton, remind her mother to carry her vinaigrette, and use her best pleading eyes to convince her father she belonged with Eric.
Placing her index finger on her lips theatrically, and lifting her knees high, she exaggerated her stealthy step, thoroughly enjoying the thrill of sneaking about in the dark and behaving like a recalcitrant adolescent. What in the dickens was wrong with her?
“There is no harm in embracing your unbiddable side,” she whispered.
However, she probably should stop talking to herself.
Additionally, she needed to find balance between being true to her nature and being kinder to her parents.
They were not terrible people. They were simply trying to raise three daughters in a world where women were expected to adhere to a strict set of rules.
Emily and Maria had always been wise enough to be themselves.
It had just taken Juliet a bit longer to find her way. But it was better late than never.
After a couple of wrong turns, she discovered the kitchen. She expected to see Mrs. Paulson already preparing the morning meal but instead found herself alone.
Juliet followed the heavenly aroma of warm dough to a loaf of freshly baked bread sitting on a worktable.
Luckily, someone had also left a knife nearby.
Sawing into the bread, she cut herself a liberal slice.
She nibbled on the edge, but her mouth was so parched that she struggled to swallow.
What she wouldn’t give for milk and a hunk of cheese.
Her gaze slid around the room, searching for the larder, halting on the window in front of her.
Outside, the pink stripe had doubled in size, and the sun blazed a brilliant orange from the bottom of the horizon.
“How lovely,” she whispered.
Heavy footsteps startled her.
Preparing to introduce herself to the cook, Juliet spun around.
Instead, she gasped, and the slice of bread slipped from her hand.
Before she had time to scream, Charles charged toward her, silencing her with his palm.
His other arm wrapped around her as he aggressively wrenched her back to his torso.
Items from the counter crashed onto the floor as she attempted to escape from his grasp.
Charles shoved her hips against the table and grabbed the knife.
Caged between his body and the hard edge of the table, Juliet struggled to catch her breath.
As if she wasn’t terrified enough, he pressed the knife’s tip to her neck.
“Make a sound, darling,” he snarled in her ear, “and I will slice you open and leave you for dead on the floor of a Whitechapel whorehouse.”