by Amanda Quick
One day soon, Julian promised himself, he really would have to do something about Waycott.
The gardens were magnificent. Sophy had heard they were Lord Dallimore’s pride. Under any other circumstances she would have enjoyed the sight of them by moonlight. It was obvious that much care had been given to the carefully clipped hedges, terraces, and flower beds.
But tonight the elaborately designed greenery was making her pursuit of Lord Utteridge difficult. Every time she rounded a tall hedge, she found herself in another dead end. As she got farther from the house it became increasingly more difficult to peer into the shadows. Twice she stumbled into couples who had obviously left the ballroom seeking privacy.
How far could Utteridge wander, she asked herself in gathering irritation. The gardens were not so vast that he could lose himself in them. Then she began to wonder why he had chosen to take an extended excursion in the first place.
The answer to that occurred to her almost immediately. A man of Utteridge’s character would no doubt use the privacy of the gardens for an assignation. Perhaps even now some hapless young woman was listening to his smooth blandishments and thinking herself in love. If he was the man who had seduced Amelia, Sophy told herself resolutely, she would do her best to see to it that he never married Cordelia Biddle or any other innocent heiress.
She plucked up her skirts, preparing to circle a small statue of Pan prancing in the middle of a flower bed.
“It’s not wise to wander around out here alone,” Waycott said from the shadows. “A woman could become quite lost in these gardens.”
Sophy gasped and swung around to find the viscount staring at her from a short distance away. Her initial fright gave way to anger. “Really, my lord, must you sneak up on people?”
“I am beginning to think it is the only way I will ever be able to talk to you in private.” Waycott took a couple of steps forward, his pale hair was almost silver in the moonlight. The contrast with the black clothes he favored made him look vaguely unreal.
“I do not think we have anything to talk about that requires privacy,” Sophy said, her fingers tightening around her fan. She did not like being alone with Waycott. Julian’s warnings about him were already ringing loudly in her head.
“You are wrong, Sophy We have much to discuss. I want you to know the truth about Ravenwood and about Elizabeth. It is past time you learned the facts.”
“I already know as much as I need to know,” Sophy said evenly.
Waycott shook his head, his eyes glinting in the shadows. “No one knows the full truth, least of all you. If you had known it, you would never have married him. You are too sweet and gentle to have willingly given yourself to a monster like Ravenwood.”
“I must ask you to stop this at once, Lord Waycott.”
“God help me, I cannot stop.” Waycott’s voice suddenly turned ragged. “Do you not think I would if I could? If only it were that easy. I cannot stop thinking about it. About her. About everything. It haunts me, Sophy. It eats me alive. I could have saved her but she would not let me.”
For the first time Sophy began to realize that whatever Waycott’s feelings had been toward Elizabeth, they had not been superficial or fleeting. The man was clearly suffering a great anguish. Her natural sympathetic instincts were instantly aroused. She took a step forward to touch his arm.
“Hush,” she whispered. “You must not blame yourself. Elizabeth was very high-strung, easily overwrought. Even those of us who lived in the countryside around Ravenwood knew that much about her. Whatever happened, it is finished. You must not agitate yourself over it any longer.”
“He ruined her,” Waycott said, his voice a mere thread of sound. “He made her what she became. Elizabeth did not want to marry him, you know. She was forced into the alliance by her family. All her parents could think about was the Ravenwood title and fortune. They had no regard for her sensibilities. They did not begin to comprehend her delicate nature.”
“Please, my lord, you must not go on like this.”
“He killed her.” Waycott’s voice grew stronger. “In the beginning he did it slowly, through a series of little cruelties. Then he began to grow more harsh with her. She told me he beat her several times with his riding crop—beat her as if she were a horse.”
Sophy shook her head quickly, thinking of how frequently she, herself, had provoked Julian’s wrath. He had never once used violence to retaliate. “No, I cannot believe that.”
“It’s true. You did not know her in the beginning. You did not see how she changed after she married him. He was always trying to cage her spirit and drown her inner fire. She fought back the only way she could by defying him. But she grew wild in her efforts to be free.”
“Some say she was more than wild,” Sophy said softly. “Some say she was mad. And if it is true, it is very sad.”
“He made her that way.”
“No. You cannot blame her condition on Ravenwood. Madness such as that is in the blood, my lord.”
“No,” Waycott said again, savagely. “Her death is on Ravenwood’s hands. She would be alive today if it were not for him. He deserves to pay for his crime.”
“That is utter nonsense, my lord,” Sophy said coldly. “Elizabeth’s death was an accident. You must not make such accusations. Not to me or anyone else. You know as well as I do that such statements can cause great trouble.”
Waycott shook his head as if to clear it of some thick fog. His eyes seemed to become a shade less brilliant. He ran his fingers through his pale hair. “Listen to me. I am a fool to ramble on like this in front of you.”
Sophy’s heart went out to him as she realized what lay behind the wild accusations. “You must have loved her very much my lord.”
“Too much. More than life, itself.” Waycott sounded very weary now.
“I am sorry, my lord. More sorry than I can say.”
The Viscount’s smile was bleak. “You are kind, Sophy. Too kind, perhaps. I begin to believe you truly do understand. I do not deserve your gentleness.”
“No, Waycott, you most assuredly do not.” Julian’s voice sliced like a blade through the darkness as he emerged from the shadows. He reached out and removed Sophy’s hand from the other man’s sleeve. The diamond bracelet gleamed on her wrist as he tucked it possessively under his arm.
“Julian, please,” Sophy said, alarmed by his mood.
He ignored her, his attention on the Viscount. “My wife has a weakness for those she believes to be in pain. I will not have anyone taking advantage of that weakness. Most especially not you, Waycott. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
“Completely. Good night, madam. And thank you.” Waycott bowed gracefully to Sophy and strode off into the darkness of the gardens.
Sophy sighed. “Really, Julian. There was no need to cause a scene.”
Julian swore under his breath as he led her swiftly back along the path toward the house. “No need to cause a scene? Sophy, you do not appear to comprehend how close you are to making me lose my temper tonight. I have made it very clear to you I do not want you seeing Waycott under any circumstances.”
“He followed me out into the garden. What was I supposed to do?”
“Why the devil did you go out into the garden alone in the first place?” Julian shot back.
That brought her up short. She could not tell him about her attempt to get information from Lord Utteridge. “It was very warm inside the ballroom,” she said carefully, trying to stick to the truth so that she would not humiliate herself by getting caught in an outright lie.
“You should know better than to leave the ballroom alone. Where is your common sense, Sophy?”
“I am not quite certain, my lord, but I begin to suspect that marriage might have a very wearing effect on that particular faculty.”
“This is not Hampshire where you can safely go traipsing off on your own.”
“Yes, Julian.”
He groaned. “Whenever you use that tone I know you a
re finding me tiresome. Sophy, I realize that I spend a great deal of my time lecturing you, but I swear you invite every word. Why do you insist on getting yourself into these situations? Do you do it just to prove to both of us that I cannot control my own wife?”
“It is not necessary to control me, my lord,” Sophy said distantly. “But I am beginning to believe you will never understand that. No doubt you feel the need to do so because of what happened with your first wife. But I can assure you, no amount of control exercised by you would have been sufficient to save her from destroying herself. She was beyond your control or anyone else’s. She was, I believe, beyond human help altogether. You must not blame yourself for being unable to save her.”
Julian’s strong hand closed heavily over her fingers on his arm. “Damn. I have told you I do not discuss Elizabeth. I will say this much: God knows I failed to protect her from whatever it was that drove her to such wildness and perhaps you are right. Perhaps no man could have contained her kind of madness. But you may be certain I will not fail to protect you, Sophy.”
“But I am not Elizabeth,” Sophy snapped out, “and I promise you, I am not a candidate for Bedlam.”
“I am well aware of that,” Julian said soothingly. “And I thank God for it. But you do need protection, Sophy. You are too vulnerable in some ways.”
“That is not true. I can take care of myself, my lord.”
“If you are so damned skilled at taking care of yourself, why were you succumbing to Waycott’s tragic little scene?” Julian snapped impatiently.
“He was not lying, you know. I am convinced he cared very deeply for Elizabeth. He certainly should not have fallen in love with another man’s wife, but that does not alter the fact that his feelings for her were genuine.”
“I will not argue the fact that he was fascinated by her. Believe me, the man was not alone in his affliction. There is no doubt, however, that his actions tonight were merely a ploy to gain your sympathy.”
“What is wrong with that, pray? We all need sympathy on occasion.”
“With Waycott, it would have been the first step into a treacherous sea. Given the smallest opportunity, Sophy, he will suck you under. His goal is to seduce you and throw the fact of your seduction in my face. Need I be more blatant about it than that?”
Sophy was incensed. “No, my lord, you are quite clear on the subject. But I think you may also be quite wrong about the Viscount’s feelings. In any event, I give you my solemn vow I will not be seduced by him or anyone else. I have already promised you my loyalty. Why do you not trust me?”
Julian bit off a frustrated exclamation. “Sophy, I did not mean to imply you would willingly fell for his ruse.”
“I believe, my lord,” Sophy went on, ignoring his efforts to placate her, “that the least you can do is to give me your solemn assurance that you accept my word on the subject.”
“Damn it, Sophy, I told you, I did not mean—”
“Enough.” Sophy came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the path, forcing him to stop also. She looked up at him with fierce determination. “Your vow of honor that you will trust me not to get myself seduced by Waycott or anyone else. I will have your word, my lord, before I go another step with you.”
“Will you, indeed?” Julian studied her moonlit face for a long moment, his own expression as remote and as unreadable as ever.
“You owe me that much, Julian. Is it really so hard to say the words? When you gave me the bracelet and Culpeper’s herbal you claimed you held me in esteem. I want some proof of that esteem and I am not talking about diamonds or emeralds.”
Something flickered in Julian’s gaze as he lifted his hands to cup her upturned face. “You are a ferocious little thing when your sense of honor is touched on the quick.”
“No more ferocious than you would be, my lord, if it was your honor that was being called into question.”
His brows rose with casual menace. “Are you going to call it into question if I fail to give you the answer you want?”
“Of course not. I have no doubt but that your honor is quite untarnishable. I want assurance from you that you have the same degree of respect for mine. If esteem is all you feel for me, my lord, then, by heaven, you can give me some meaningful evidence of your regard.”
He stood silent another long moment, gazing down into her eyes. “You ask a great deal, Sophy.”
“No more than you ask of me.”
He nodded slowly, reluctantly, conceding a major point. “Yes, you are right,” he said quietly. “I do not know any other woman who would argue the issue of honor in such a fashion. In fact, I do not know any women who even concern themselves with the notion.”
“Perhaps it is only that a man pays no heed to a woman’s feelings on the subject except on those occasions when her loss of honor threatens to jeopardize his own.”
“No more, I beg you. I surrender.” Julian raised a hand to ward off further argument. “Very well, madam, you have my most solemn vow that I will put my full faith and trust in your womanly honor.”
A tight knot of tension eased inside Sophy. She smiled tremulously, knowing what it had cost him to make the concession. “Thank you, Julian.” Impulsively she stood on tiptoe and brushed her mouth lightly against his. “I will never betray you,” she whispered earnestly.
“Then there is no reason we should not do very well together, you and I.” His arms closed almost roughly around her, pulling her close against his lean, hard length. His mouth came down on hers, heavy and demanding and strangely urgent.
When Julian finally raised his head a moment later, there was a familiar look of anticipation in his eyes.
“Julian?”
“I think, my most loyal wife, that it is time we went home. I have plans for the remainder of our evening.”
“Do you, indeed, my lord?”
“Most definitely.” He took her arm again and led her toward the ballroom with such long strides that Sophy was obliged to skip to keep pace. “I believe we will take our leave of our hostess immediately.”
But when they walked through the front door of their own house a short time later, Guppy was waiting for them with a rare expression of grave concern.
“There you are, my lord. I was just about to send a footman to find you at your club. Your aunt, Lady Sinclair, has apparently taken very ill and Miss Rattenbury has twice sent a message requesting my lady’s assistance.”
FIFTEEN
Julian prowled his bedchamber restlessly, aware that his inability to sleep was a direct result of the knowledge that Sophy was not next door in her own room. Where she should be. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair and wondered exactly when and how he had arrived at a state of affairs in which he could no longer sleep properly if Sophy was not nearby.
He dropped into the chair he had commissioned from the younger Chippendale a few years ago when both he and the cabinetmaker had been much taken with the Neoclassic style. The chair was a reflection of the idealism of his youth, Julian thought in a rare moment of insight.
During that same era, which now seemed so far in the past, he had been known to argue the Greek and Latin classics until late at night, involve himself in the radical liberal politics of the Reform Whigs and even thought it quite necessary to put bullets in the shoulders of two men who had dared to impugn Elizabeth’s honor.
Much had changed in the past few years, Julian thought. He rarely had time or inclination to argue the classics these days; he’d come to the conclusion that the Whigs, even the liberal ones, were no less corrupt than the Tories; and he had long since acknowledged that the notion of Elizabeth having any honor at all was quite laughable.
Absently he smoothed his hands over the beautifully worked mahogany arms of the chair. Part of him still responded to the pure, classic motifs of the design, he realized with a sense of surprise. Just as part of him had insisted on trying a few lines of poetry to go with the diamond bracelet and the herbal he had given Sophy. The verse ha
d been rusty and awkward.
He had not written any poetry since Cambridge and the early days with Elizabeth and in all honesty he knew he’d never had a talent for it. After one or two tries he had impatiently crumpled the paper in his fist, tossing it aside in favor of the brief note he had finally written to accompany the gifts to Sophy.
But that was not the end of it, apparently. Tonight he had received further, disquieting evidence that some of his youthful idealism still survived even though he had done everything he could to crush it beneath the weight of a cynical, realistic view of the world. He could not deny that something in him had responded to Sophy’s demand for proof that he respected her sense of honor.
Julian wondered if he should have agreed to let her spend the night with Fanny and Harriette. Not that he could have influenced her decision to do so, he reflected wryly. From the moment Sophy had received Guppy’s message, she had been unswervable in her determination to go immediately to Fanny’s bedside.
Julian had not argued the matter. He was genuinely worried about his aunt’s condition. Fanny was eccentric, unpredictable, and occasionally outrageous, but Julian realized he was quite fond of her. Since the death of his elderly parents, she had been the only member of the Ravenwood clan he genuinely cared about.
After receiving the message, Sophy had delayed only long enough to change her clothes and wake her maid. Mary had bustled about, packing a few necessities while
Sophy had collected her medicine chest and her precious copy of Culpeper’s herbal.
“I am almost out of several herbs,” she had fretted to Julian in the carriage that he had ordered to take her to Fanny’s. “Perhaps one of the local apothecaries can provide me with some good quality chamomile and Turkish rhubarb. It is a shame that Old Bess is so far away. Her herbs are by far the most reliable.”
At Fanny’s they had been greeted at the door by a distraught Harriette. It was the sight of the normally placid Harriette in a state of anxiety that brought home to Julian how ill his aunt must be.