by L. C. Sharp
He wanted her. He expected nothing from her, he’d said, but he wanted her. She closed her eyes as his head emerged from the folds of cloth, the close-cropped dark hair smoothed over a finely shaped head.
Behind her closed eyelids, she saw the light go out as he extinguished the candles. The bed depressed as he got back in and drew the covers over them both. The pillow above her head sank a little. He’d laid his arm over her in a protective gesture that made her throat tighten. Nobody had treated her so tenderly. No one in her life before this. Before she’d set foot in this house, she’d never known that kind of care.
He began to speak softly, the low rumble of his voice steady. “Keep sleeping, sweetheart. I thought to evict you, but how could I do that when you’re so soundly asleep?” He paused, and she thought he’d fallen asleep, but he started again.
“I’ve heard you cry out before, and wanted to help you, but you were so badly affected after your ordeal. You flinched every time I touched you. If I tried to comfort you after a bad dream, I could have made matters worse. But tonight you came to me.”
His voice softened. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time. You are dear to me now. I ensured you had the choice everyone else in your life denied you. To make your own way in the world if you wished it. But you decided to stay with me. And I swear, Juliana, I will always be here for you. I will not let you down.”
Wetness touched her cheek. A tear.
Juliana opened her eyes. “Yes, I did decide to stay with you.”
He choked a bitter laugh. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I know you did. Thank you for coming to me tonight.”
He turned his head, a silhouette in the shady darkness. She’d been wrong; he’d allowed one candle to continue to flicker, the one on her side of the bed. So she could see the depths of his eyes, and the shape of his face. “You came to me.”
“That’s true, too.” She smiled. “I did. You’re my rock. I know I can depend on you.”
She moved closer, lifted her head in invitation. He took it and tucked his arm under her head so she could snuggle closer. “Do you mind if I stay for a while?”
“Mind?” His lips curved in a smile. “I welcome it.”
Chapter Eleven
Juliana woke up alone. Not an unusual occurrence, but this time, the bed felt different, somehow. Facing the wrong way. Her befuddled senses righted themselves, and she realized where she was.
Had Ash risen and gone about his work without waking her?
A scratching sound from behind her caught her attention, and she rolled over to see what it was.
Her husband was sitting at a table by the window, making notes. Dressed in a simple banyan, his head bare, he was as domestic, as intimate as she’d ever seen him. As she watched, he dipped the stripped goose feather in the ink and scratched a few more notes. Pausing, he bit the tip. But as she moved again, he looked up, and their gazes caught.
He smiled, the kind of welcoming, warm smile only a few people witnessed. She was one of them now, part of his family. “You slept well,” he commented. “When Corbett came in you didn’t stir.”
Juliana pulled the sheets up to her chin, her startlement and confusion making him laugh.
“We are husband and wife. We can be expected to share a bed from time to time.” He put the pen back in the plain pewter standish, an item that looked as if it had endured much hard wear.
Someone, probably Corbett, had drawn the curtains. Juliana never slept through that. The sound of the rings rattling on the rod generally woke her, and the change of light disturbed her sleep. “What time is it?”
If it was still very early, that would explain it.
“Eight o’clock,” he told her. “Or very nearly.”
“What?” Forgetting the sheet, she sat up, leaning her elbows on her updrawn knees. “How could I sleep for ten hours?”
In anticipation of the late night tonight, they had all retired early. She’d been in bed by ten, awake again around midnight, and then she’d spent an hour talking to Ash. She had never slept that long before, or so soundly.
“You must have needed it. We both know you have not been sleeping well. But I had the privilege of holding you last night, and you slept better.” He paused, glanced out the window and back at her. “Could you do that again, do you think?”
“Yes,” she said without thinking. She’d allowed her instincts to drive her. She would love to spend more nights like last night. True, they had not shared the intimacies of husband and wife, but that seemed almost immaterial. There were different kinds of intimacies, and theirs was mind to mind. “Would you like me to?”
“Yes.” He smiled again. “Apart from the pleasure of holding you and ensuring you sleep well, the servants will not gossip. We have a loyal set of servants in this house, but word can still get out.”
She did not follow his reasoning. “Husbands and wives rarely share the same bed in my world. They have separate rooms, separate lives.”
“Lonely lives,” he said. Sucking in a breath, as if he’d shocked himself somehow, he picked up his pen again and dipped it in the inkwell. “Although I confess I never thought it as such before.”
A single horse clip-clopped past the house, and then a wheeled vehicle. The sounds were sharper than usual. Ah yes, unlike hers, this room lay at the front of the house.
This room was comfortably furnished, even though it was bigger than hers. She liked it as much as she liked her own. She’d lived with soulless luxury all her life, and she disliked its anonymity. Ash had spent a lot of time in this room, and it showed. The old-fashioned four-poster bed had green velvet curtains at each post, so the owner could truly tuck himself inside his own private room within a room. Most modern beds had canopies, suspended by hooks from the roof rather than having those sturdy, carved posts at the bottom. Her bed had that.
The furniture was sturdy, plain and well made. She had stolen glimpses inside, when Ash had opened the door to her, but she’d never had the luxury of studying it properly before. The walls held a couple of landscapes, and a few prints and pieces of paper. “You use this room like you use your study.”
He followed her gaze. “Yes, I do. When I have an idea, I pin it to the wall. Amelia hates me for it.”
“I don’t.”
“And you are mistress here now.” He sketched a mock bow, but did not get up. That would have been decidedly strange. “Do you object?”
“No. I like it.”
He gazed at the motley collection of dog-eared sketches and notes currently pinned to the wall opposite the bed. “Your aesthetics are as askew as mine.” He brought his attention back to her, and they shared a shame-faced grin. “The notes serve a purpose.”
“They do.” Her mind returned to the murder. “If not for your insistence, Lord Coddington’s death would have been excused as a robbery. I’m not sure the Fieldings appreciate your interference, you know.”
“They’ll have to put up with it. I take the burden of the awkward, difficult cases from them so they can get on with the important business of petitioning Parliament for the welfare of cutpurses and whores.”
True, the Fieldings did put up a number of White Papers for consideration of Parliament and its many committees. It kept them busy. “And you have the entrée where they do not.”
He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “And you make that even more likely. You’re the daughter of an earl, where I am a mere baronet. You may walk into St. James’s Palace, should you choose to do so.”
She laughed. “After I’ve contacted the Lord Chamberlain. Why is it that I have absolutely no desire at all to see the king?”
He joined in the laughter. “I have absolutely no idea.”
Time she started her day. Sweeping back the covers, she felt with her bare feet for the two wooden steps pushed up against the high bed and climbe
d out. “By the way,” she added, as she headed for the communicating door. “Before last night, I thought you might not...that you might not like women.”
Why had she blurted that out? Why couldn’t she leave well alone?
His laughter stopped as if cut off. “I like women well enough. Most of them, at any rate.” As she laid her hand on the door he added, “But I understand your meaning. What made you think that?”
“You know.”
“No I don’t. Tell me.” The soft, commanding voice he used when displeased came out. She shouldn’t have said anything, but their easy conversation had lured her into it.
No help for it. Juliana turned to face him. “That you preferred men in your bed.”
Would he condemn her for thinking that?
To her shock, he laughed again, just as amused as before. “I cannot think why you should believe that. My dear, I’ve been trying to give you some room, time to recover. I thought you understood that.”
Heat ran from her neck to the roots of her hair. “You expect me to—”
He cut her off with a slash of one hand. “I expect nothing. I told you that when we married, and nothing has changed. You must do as you wish.”
She had started this, so she had better take it to its conclusion. “Do you want to employ a mistress?”
“No. What made you think that?”
“Every man has needs.”
“Who told you that? It doesn’t sound like you.”
No, she recalled belatedly. “My mother did, on my wedding day. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Dropping his pen so it fell on the paper and made a smudge, he got up and came to her. Gently, he took both her hands. “I made promises to you when we married. They were not empty promises. Whatever comes of this marriage, I will not stray.”
She should have just left. She didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. A wave of emotions overwhelmed her, confusing in their multiplicity. “Thank you. I think. Ash, I don’t want you to suffer for the kind act of marrying me. I understand why you did it. You like to help others, do you not? And I respect you for it. But sometimes you have to think about what you want.”
“You,” he said. “I want you.”
He couldn’t have said it or shown her more clearly. When she’d seen his body last night, she’d seen his physical response. Now she saw his sincerity, the bone-deep decency of the man.
When she nervously wet her lips, his gaze followed the movement. Then he raised his eyes and she saw the need in his, the deep passion she had never seen in anyone before.
Baring his needs in that way, letting her see what he wanted and trusting her that far, reached to her own desire, supporting and encouraging it.
“I want you too.” What else could she say?
“But not today,” he said. “We can wait, can we not? I had thought we would live our own lives after we married, that perhaps you would prefer a quiet life in the country, but matters turned out differently. Now we are bound, my lady. One way or another we will go forward together.”
Yes, she thought. Yes, they would.
* * *
Late afternoon, Juliana went through the ritual of preparing for a ball, recalling how many she’d gone to when she had lived in Mayfair with her parents. She’d read a lot of books while her maid had fiddled with her hair, consulted with her mother about the choice of gown and jewelry.
This evening would be different. She had chosen to wear hair powder, which she no longer had to wear daily. She chose the shape of the hoop, not the wide oblong compulsory at court that her mother preferred, but something far smaller, and to her eyes at least, more elegant. Her gown was not festooned with frills and furbelows, so that if she did not take care, she would catch a piece of lace or fancy embroidery on the many ornaments on the low tables scattered around her parents’ house and bring the lot down.
She chose sapphire-blue figured silk because it became her. She chose deep ruffles for her elbows, because she enjoyed the soft sensation of fine lace brushing against her skin. And because she had a skillful maid, she was done in half the time she used to take. No enameling, a mere brush of pink on her cheeks and a light dusting of rice powder on her face.
When she was ready she sent Girard to Amelia, to ensure that she was suitably dressed.
As she settled down with a book to enjoy a relaxing half hour before dinner, a soft knock sounded on the communicating door. She called out to him, because it could only be her husband. “Come in!”
He wore his customary gray, simple but finely made, the waistcoat of a lighter shade than the breeches and coat. Silver threads wove through the fabric, and a pattern of ferns decorated his waistcoat. She raised a brow. “You look almost festive.”
Ash stood there, just inside the room, and surveyed her. “And you outshine me ten times over.” He stepped forward. “I brought this for you, if you care to make use of it. It was, of course, not my mother’s.”
Juliana had inherited no family jewelry. Ash’s family didn’t have any.
He gave her a black velvet case. A new case, not the soft and worn ones family treasures came in.
She opened it, and smiled with sheer pleasure. “It’s lovely. Thank you.” She lifted the central piece, a pendant. The sapphire was carved, not faceted, a design of flowers twining around a central, smooth stone. An illusion, since it was all one piece. Diamonds surrounded the tear-shaped jewel, adding brilliance. The chain had small diamonds set into the links. He’d added tear-shaped drop earrings and a pair of bracelets. The set was totally unlike anything she had owned before.
“That central stone is old,” he said. “How old I don’t know, but the rest was made to suit it.”
Juliana got to her feet and turned around, handing him the pendant. When he skimmed her skin at the back of her neck while he was fastening the chain, she did not flinch. They were past that now.
She touched the stone, hard and cold, resting just above her cleavage. She hooked the earrings in herself and let him clasp the twin bracelets on for her. Stepping back, he scanned her through narrowed eyes. “I wasn’t aware you were wearing blue, but this set is perfect for you. You look—” he paused “—wonderful.”
She wondered what he was going to say before he changed his mind. After this morning, when he’d shown her so clearly what he wanted, she had some thoughts about that. When she came to him she wanted it to be with a full heart and mind, no hesitation, no doubts.
* * *
Amelia, in apple-green with touches of pink, needed no powder to bring a becoming flush to her cheeks. After a quiet dinner at home, when Gregory exclaimed at their finery, and then a short interlude in the drawing-room so as not to be the first guests to arrive, they set out for the Newcastle mansion.
Since they were so deeply involved in political life, the Pelham brothers spent much of their time in London, much more than a family who only came to town to launch their daughter into society or attend the latest play, so the Newcastle mansion was substantial.
It was set at the end of the row that also contained the Ashendon house, but had a more impressive façade. It even had the double row of stairs that made it look like an Italian palazzo.
Flaming torches sat in torchères set along the front of the house, sending light out to halfway across the large space, one of the biggest enclosed areas in London. Footmen in livery stood at the base of the stairs, and at the top. They would not do anything so crass as to check invitations, but one held a roll of paper, which no doubt held the list of invited guests. “This will be a terrible squeeze,” Amelia drawled, making the other two laugh.
“At least we don’t have to sit in a carriage for hours waiting for our turn to get out,” Juliana said, recalling the firework display. “I much prefer walking. When I attended balls every night with my parents, we spent half the night in a carriage. But a ball
isn’t a success unless one finds breathing difficult. With any luck, we’ll find what we came for and be home before the second crush arrives,” she added.
The brother and sister stared at her. “Second crush?” Amelia asked.
“Well, we are the first, arriving unfashionably early. It isn’t yet ten, you see. But enough people will be there to make our arrival decent. After half past ten, the theatergoers will come, and the rooms will fill. Then the people at the height of fashion, the ones who have already been to a ball, will throng inside.”
“The Newcastle balls are lavish and people have been sent away if the rooms are too full,” Ash remarked.
They passed the long line of carriages. The occasional glint and sparkle revealed the jewels and spangles worn by the people inside, and the murmur of voices followed them as they walked up the square to the entrance to the mansion.
Ash greeted the footman. “Good evening, Brown.”
Trust him to know the man. The footman bowed them through and they ascended the stairs slowly. Amelia made the soft remark that she did not usually wear her skirts this long, but she would not lift them for anything. Juliana, who was managing the climb without thinking, paused to smile and glance down at the parade in the square. Ash was right. People were arriving much earlier than she would have expected.
They ascended the stairs and entered the imposing hall. Stairs rose either side of the hall, to form a wide landing above. Paintings by the most fashionable artists adorned the walls, some family portraits, others of associates of the duke. His mentor, Sir Robert Walpole, as he’d been when he was Prime Minister, occupied a prominent place at the top.
“It’s all very...” Amelia murmured, seemingly at a loss for words.
“Theatrical,” Juliana supplied.
“Elegant,” Amelia corrected, and shot a glare at Juliana.
“Both of you are right,” Ash said. “Especially on festive occasions like this.”