Sophie said nothing until she stood only a foot from his nose. The spaniels began jumping on her until Julian ordered, “Sit, all of you!”
The spaniels sat, their tails wagging madly. Then a seagull flew close and they were off, yipping, trying to catch it.
She lightly laid her hands on his shoulders. “I am very glad you have found someone to tell you about your father. He sounds an estimable man.”
“I asked the baron to tell me all his memories of my father.”
“Why, then, don’t you invite him and Vicky to dinner this evening? I should love to hear stories about your father as well. I’ll wager your mother can add her own.”
“No, she can’t. He died when she was your age. She knew only the old man.”
Julian took Sophie’s hands and gently lifted them from his shoulders. “It will rain soon.”
“Yes. You can taste the rain in the wind. Roxanne asked me what was going on, since she said I looked different and she’d heard me humming all morning, a sure sign something was up. I wonder if I should tell her I kissed you and there were tongues involved in this kissing, and it was very fine indeed. I wonder if Roxanne has ever been kissed with tongues.”
He stared down at her, mesmerized. “She’s twenty-seven. Surely she has.”
“Ladies are not like gentlemen, Julian. A lady can be one hundred and untouched, a virgin still. There are no societal dictates that allow an unmarried lady any sort of freedom at all.”
“Surely she has been kissed.”
“I do know there was a gentleman a long time ago, but her father, my grandfather, Baron Roche, discovered he wanted her money, and so Roxanne kicked him out. There hasn’t been any gentleman since. I am afraid she will start wearing caps any day now.” Sophie tightened her hold on him, then gave him a brilliant smile. “There is no one about save us, Julian.” And she went on her tiptoes and kissed him, her skirts whipping madly about his legs.
The spaniels forgot the seagull and barked and leapt around them.
When Julian raised his head, he felt lust roiling thick and hot in his blood. He wanted to kiss every beautiful inch of her, listen to her moan, laugh when he kissed her toes—instead, he stood very still. Sophie lightly patted his cheek. “It will be all right, Julian, you’ll see.” She whistled for the spaniels and strode like a young boy toward Ravenscar, not looking back. To Julian’s surprise, his dogs left him to race after her. How had she gained their loyalty so quickly?
He walked to the cliff and looked out over the vast expanse of turbulent water. Rain, he thought, any minute now. What the devil was he going to do? He could still taste her in his mouth.
40
If Richard was surprised to see his father and sister when he escorted Leah into the drawing room early that evening, he gave no outward sign of it. He stood for a moment in the doorway, looking toward the windows, listening as the rain slapped loud against the glass, the wind whipping up in a mad fever, lashing the trees sideways. Leah, however, said, “Goodness, my lord, how very nice to see you. And such a surprise. Good evening to you, Vicky. What a dreadful night to travel.”
The baron lifted Leah’s hand, lightly touched his lips to her wrist. “It was a very short trip, my dear, and the rain wasn’t coming down quite so fiercely. I’m sure the horses are happy to be cozy in your stable, Julian.”
He crossed to where Corinne sat, resplendent in a black gown, Julian’s beautiful pearls in three loops around her neck, and eased himself into a chair opposite her.
“We are quite a party this evening,” Corinne said, brow raised as she surveyed her guests. “Despite this hideous storm, Cook was singing, a sure sign her pickled salmon will be ambrosia.”
“I did not know you intended to visit, Father,” Richard said, his voice stark.
“Julian sent me an invitation,” the baron said easily. “Truth be told, it is rather quiet at the manor, and Vicky gave one or two very deep sighs, so I decided, despite the weather, this would be a welcome diversion.”
Richard wasn’t happy, it was clear to everyone in the room. Why, Julian wondered. Had Richard intended to try to gullet him this evening, at least verbally, and now he couldn’t in his father’s presence? Or didn’t he want his father to know he was bedding Sophie’s aunt?
He heard Devlin laugh, turned to smile at him. He was talking to Vicky and Roxanne, and if Julian wasn’t mistaken, it seemed Vicky bloomed under his attention. He watched Roxanne take a small step back, turn, and speak to Sophie.
He’d tried to avoid looking at her, but now he looked his fill. She looked amazing in a cream satin gown, and her breasts—no, he wouldn’t remark upon her breasts. Julian turned back to the baron, drew him aside.
Pouffer appeared in the doorway, bowed to Corinne. “Dinner is served, your grace.”
The old man looked natty, Julian thought, his linen as white as Julian’s, his black suit shining, his black boots a mirror. His shoulders were ramrod straight, his head thrown back. He was obviously enjoying himself immensely. Julian felt a stab of guilt. He’d been gone for three years. And Pouffer could have died. Thank God he hadn’t. And now everything was different. He wasn’t at all certain why it was different, but it was. This was his father’s home, and now it was his, and Ravenscar deserved more than a part-time master. No, not a master, a prince. The Prince of Ravenscar. It was his kingdom. His father had ordained it so.
“I have brought you something, Julian,” Rupert said. “I had it well wrapped against our inclement weather.”
Julian smiled at the baron, his head cocked to one side.
“Come, Rupert, what did you bring Julian?” Corinne asked, coming to her feet. “Ah, I see, you wish to surprise him, to have him stew about it over dinner. Well done. Do tell me as we walk to the dining room.” The baron took her arm and led her away, his head lowered to hers.
After a dinner of excellent pickled salmon, buttered grouse, squab pie, and a mélange of peas and carrots and onions, Cook presented her own special Banbury cakes for dessert. Julian watched his guests, wondered what the baron had brought him, and kept wondering, but he knew he wouldn’t ask, just as, he suspected, the baron did. Julian had always loved surprises, even as a small boy. He would never forget the morning his mother had awakened him and told him to follow her. He had skipped and run all the way to the stables, where a chestnut pony stood, eating oats from the bin. He’d never forgotten the joy that had welled up in him. Clancy had died only four years earlier, old and content. What had the baron brought him?
Everyone else at the table was also curious, and guesses abounded, but Julian offered none at all. Roxanne said thoughtfully, “Perhaps it is another spaniel, Julian. What shall you name him? Wait, the baron wouldn’t have bundled him up like a package, would he?”
“No spaniel, Miss Radcliffe,” Rupert said, and toasted her with his wineglass.
Richard said, “You gave him something that belonged to Lily, perhaps? Some token for him to ponder throughout what time he has left?”
His father frowned at him. “No, I have nothing that belonged to your sister, save her small portrait.”
Vicky said, her voice firm and adult, “I think it must be one of your valued books, Father. About animal husbandry, perhaps?”
The guesses continued, the baron shaking his head with each one, a small smile playing over his mouth.
Julian held his peace until the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port.
Not an instant after they’d passed out of the dining room, he rose as well. “I am ready for my surprise, sir.”
Rupert laughed. “You have been so restrained, my boy, I shan’t tease you any longer. Come with me.”
Julian walked into the drawing room, nodded to the ladies, then stared as Baron Purley pointed. Hanging over the mantel was a portrait of a man. Julian’s heart started to pound. It was his father, he knew it to the soles of his feet. He was young, Julian’s own age. He stood tall and lean, radiating as much power as the beautiful black st
allion beside him. His large hand lay on the animal’s sleek neck. A wry smile played over his mouth. He was an eighteenth-century gentleman, his black hair powdered, his eyebrows as black as a sinner’s dreams. He looked like a king, a magnificent being in control of everything in his universe.
Julian was his image. He walked numbly to stand in front of the portrait, simply stared up at it, saying nothing at all. He was scarcely aware that everyone had stilled; there was no sound at all now in the drawing room, as if everyone was holding his breath, waiting, watching him.
Julian swallowed. He didn’t turn, merely asked, “Sir, where did this portrait come from? I have never seen it. Indeed, I have never before seen a painting of my father. He—he is a young man.”
Corinne said quietly, beside him, her hand on his forearm, “I have never seen it, either, Rupert. Oh, my, had I known him then, I should have flown through the vilest storm to get to him. Even old, he was formidable.” She paused, swallowed. “You are his image, dearest. I had not realized—” She swallowed again and turned. “Where did you get this painting, Rupert?”
“Actually, his grace gave it to me not long before he died. He said since we were close, he hoped that I would also be close to you, his son. He asked me to guard it until you were a man grown, Julian. He said that once you were a man, perhaps you would see yourself in him.
“I had forgotten it, truth be told, until I was telling you about your father. It is about time you had it, don’t you think?”
Julian felt swamped with feelings so intense they were nearly unfathomable, and they ebbed and flowed through his racing blood. He turned to face the baron. He said simply, “Thank you, sir. I thank you very much.”
Corinne said, “I thank you, too, Rupert.” She threw out her arms. “Do you know, I believe this grand surprise calls for dancing. Shall we?” She raised her voice and called out, “Pouffer, we need a waltz!”
The old man must have been standing outside the door, because he was in the drawing room and seated at the pianoforte in an instant. Soon the strains of a waltz bounded throughout the room. Julian had always wondered how those arthritic old fingers made such beautiful music.
Julian found himself turning toward Sophie. She wasn’t moving, merely smiling at him.
He cocked an eyebrow at her and held out his hand.
His mother looked toward him, smiling, before she accepted the baron’s hand. “That was very well done of you, Rupert.”
He said, as he waltzed Corinne slowly in wide circles, barely missing Devlin and Roxanne, “Julian—the prince—is special, as his father told me he would be so long ago. Perhaps it is best I forgot the painting until now. They are of the same age, and Julian can now understand who and what his father really was when he was young.”
Corinne said, “It is such a pity so many die so very young. His grace was very lucky. You and I are lucky as well. I have found that one seems to come to understand what one is really made of as the years pass and experience brands us. But there seems too little time to make use of what we learn, since the time simply disappears from one thought to the next, and then one is dead. But another’s experiences, do they really teach us anything at all?”
Rupert said, “I agree that we all travel alone. I think another’s experiences may touch us, maybe even teach us about ourselves.”
Corinne said, “I remember well your precious wife, Lydia. Such a dear lady she was. She surely touched you deeply, made you more aware of who and what you were.”
The baron said nothing. He began humming.
Richard paused by them for a moment. “I believe years do change one, but not at the core, never at the core.”
Vicky tapped her slippered foot until Pouffer finished the first waltz and immediately broke into another, this one more exuberant. The old man seemed to bounce on the piano seat. Vicky danced with Julian, and she laughed, a sane, focused laugh, Roxanne thought, as she watched them.
Devlin said to Roxanne, as he watched Sophie waltz with the baron, “Who knew Pouffer had such talents? Her grace, I have found, usually has fine ideas.”
“I think Corinne wished to give Julian time to settle. Seeing his father as a young man, seeing himself so clearly in his father, it must touch him deeply.”
Devlin said slowly, “Julian holds what he feels deep inside, so I do not know how profoundly it touches him. I believe I heard Richard laugh at something your sister said. How can you be enemies with a person when you are dancing? Have I ever told you your name sings on my tongue?” He grabbed her and brought her into his arms. She was laughing as he whirled her about, barely missing Leah, who was so happy she didn’t even frown at her.
After all of them drank their tea and were off to bed, Julian found himself returning to the drawing room. To his surprise, his mother was there, a candle held high in her hand, staring up at his father’s portrait.
He said quietly, “I wonder why Lord Purley never showed it to you?”
Corinne turned slowly to face her son. “I’ll tell you why, Julian. I never showed any interest, and so he simply forgot, as he said.” She looked at the portrait again. “When I met your father, I was seventeen years old. Your father was old, beyond old, to my girl’s eyes. Even when I married him, I never thought of him as any other than what he was when I met him. Do you know, looking at him quite terrifies me.”
“I am the image of him, Mother. It is like I am looking in a mirror. Do I terrify you?”
Corinne looked at her son, lightly patted his forearm. “It is not the same thing, dearest. No, not at all.”
“Do you have a portrait of yourself as a young girl, Mother? Hidden away? Perhaps there is something about my face that resembles you?”
She only shook her head.
“I shall have a portrait done of you now. I should like to see the two of you side by side above the mantel.” He paused for a moment. “Why did you never remarry, Mother? You were twenty when you became a widow, were you not?”
“It was a very long time ago, Julian, and if you do not mind, I have no wish to speak of it.”
He wondered why she’d had no wish to speak of it as he walked to his master’s bedchamber. He knew a portrait of her now would please him very much. Odd, but she would look like his father’s mother now, not wife. Sometimes life was Byzantine.
He paused in the wide corridor, listening, but he didn’t hear rain or wind. The storm had passed out to sea. It was now utterly still. Then he heard whispers. They came from Leah’s bedchamber.
Richard was in Leah’s bedchamber. Julian hoped she knew what she was doing.
41
Roxanne was dreaming of her mother. She couldn’t see her, but she knew she was close; she could smell her scent—jasmine, her mother always wore jasmine. Her mother said something, a muffled sound, as if behind closed hands, but Roxanne heard it. She was still half asleep when the sound came again, a sort of scratching sound, coming from against her door; someone was there, someone meant to hurt her—she snapped awake. She jerked up and stared toward her bedchamber door.
It was quiet. Again, that slight sound—perhaps it was a mouse, perhaps a branch slapping lightly against her window. What drivel. Again, she had the mad thought that someone was outside her door, maybe talking low, someone who wanted to come in. But the door was locked. If they were up to good, why didn’t they simply knock? That’s because they’re not up to good. Her heart started pounding. She stared at the large brass key in the keyhole. She’d turned it after she’d sent Tansy off to bed, surely she had, but she couldn’t be certain.
This was ridiculous. Put her in a dark room by herself and watch her begin to foam at the mouth. Why couldn’t Sophie have come to sleep with her again tonight? Roxanne swung her legs off the bed, slid her feet into her slippers. She grabbed up her wrap, pulled it around her shoulders, and tightened the sash at her waist. She walked very quietly to the door, pressed her ear against it. And listened.
Nothing at all.
She watched her
own hand turn the brass key to unlock the door. She was witless, she thought, no other explanation for it, as she watched her hand pause on the knob. Then before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled open the door and stepped out. The corridor was dark, silent. She had no candle, but her eyes began to accustom themselves to the darkness. She began to make out shapes—a table set against the wall with a marble bowl atop it, a marble bust of some long-ago Monroe inset in a small alcove. But no one was lurking about to make those small sounds.
Not fifteen feet down the corridor, a door creaked open. Roxanne’s heart stopped. Was that what she’d heard? She saw a shadow—it was a man—and he stepped out into the corridor, a candle held in front of him.
She heard his voice, quiet, a bit peeved. “Who is there?”
Roxanne’s breath whooshed out, and without a thought, she ran toward the man, her slippers clipping on the wooden floor. She threw herself against him.
“What? Who—Roxanne?”
He cursed, grabbed her with one arm while with the other he held out the candle so he couldn’t catch either of them on fire. “Roxanne, what the devil are you doing out of bed? What—”
“I heard something or someone out here, Devlin.” Roxanne realized she was pressed against him. She also realized there were only three items of clothing separating them. Devlin’s hand pulled her closer, and suddenly he was kissing her hair, all wild around her head, spilling over her shoulders, his brain filled with her scent, the feel of her, the softness of her hair against his mouth.
Was he mad? He forced his brain to step back, since his body wasn’t about to. He was panting, surely not at all the thing for a man of his sophistication to do, but she was standing so close, and perhaps her breasts were heaving a bit beneath those two thin layers of nightclothes, and he felt them.
Devlin nearly stumbled out of his own slippers. He brought the candle closer so it made a barrier of sorts between them. “I heard something, and came to investigate.”
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