The Secret Life of Lady Julia

by Lecia Cornwall

  “I—­” He was lost for words. He glanced at the small landscape painting on the wall behind her, which probably hid the safe. For some reason, men like Carrindale always chose to hide their treasures behind nondescript art that wouldn’t otherwise have a place in their elegant homes. He could hardly stride to the picture, take it down, and ask Julia for the combination to the safe.

  He supposed in other circumstances a gentleman—­or even a rogue like him, if he had any sense—­would bow, make a joke of his inexplicable presence in this dark room, say he mistook the door for the way to the jakes, and take his leave before there was trouble.

  But he was already in trouble. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, the way the faint light outlined the shape of her neck and shoulders, the shadowed vee between her breasts, the ghostlike shimmer of her gown. The glitter of her jewels paled before the gleam of her eyes. His mouth watered.

  “I—­” He tried again, but she gave a desperate little sigh and rushed toward him. He opened his arms, caught her. Her lips landed on his, and it began all over again.

  He was powerless to resist. He wanted this woman. He couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t been in complete control with a lover. He never lost himself to passion. Women were a means to an end, for physical gratification or gain. He offered them pleasure, took what he wanted, and left before they could beg him to stay.

  But it was different with Julia, and he couldn’t begin to say why. Perhaps because she was forbidden to him, belonged to another man. Was it the thrill of stealing something he otherwise couldn’t have? No, it was the lady herself—­beautiful, trusting, half innocent, unconsciously seductive. She’d set his blood on fire with a simple stolen kiss in a dark garden, and now—­

  He knew exactly what she wanted.

  Him.

  It wasn’t rescue this time. It was plunder. She was making soft sounds as she sought his mouth, pressed her lips and her hips to his. He lifted her into his arms, carrying her the few steps to the deep leather settee, laying her down, his body on hers, as desperate as she. Her arms tightened, pulled him nearer. He was wrapped in her perfume, mesmerized by her eager kisses. She let him raise her skirts, slide his fingers up the silk of her calves, thighs, hips.

  Her hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, then fell away as he found the wet center of her.

  “Oh,” she sighed, and his fingers played over her, bringing her pleasure before he took his own. She gripped his lapels, pulled him down against her as she cried out, her body bucking against his fingers. He caught the sweet whimpers in his mouth.

  He reached for his flies, opened them expertly with one hand as he kissed her, unable to get enough of her mouth.

  She gasped as he entered her, and tensed beneath him. She was tight, almost too tight.

  Nervous, no doubt. He should have locked the door, but it was too late for that. He was beyond reason, beyond stopping, but she didn’t ask him to. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh, right through his shirt, a sweet, sharp, sensual pain.

  He didn’t last long. One last, long thrust, and he filled her, felt the hot rush of release.

  He fell against her, stunned. He stroked her face, kissed her gently, still buried inside her. He couldn’t read her expression in the low light.

  What the hell had he done?

  He moved off of her, turned away and used his handkerchief to clean himself before he fastened his clothes.

  She sat on the settee, arranging her own clothing, trying to fix her hopelessly disheveled hair.

  “Oh no, my earring! Well, my mother’s, actually. I’ve lost it! She’ll lecture me for an hour on carelessness, heedless behavior, and—­” She began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Heedless behavior!” she said. Her laughter faded. “I should not have—­”

  Nor should he. Not here, not now. The stakes were too high. He sighed. He wished he could afford to leave here empty-­handed, with nothing but the memory of a lover that finally made him feel something, even if only for a moment. The diamond in his pocket would feed him for a week, the Carrindale tiara for a month, and Julia’s necklace for half a year.

  She was searching the floor for it, and he almost relented. Taking her hands in his, he pulled her close for a moment, distracting her. Desire surged again. What the devil was the matter with him? He did not allow his feelings to get in the way of his survival. He hadn’t even realized he had feelings until now. He kissed her gently, making it farewell. She pulled away.

  He braced himself for tears, accusations, but she simply said, “You should go. The French doors lead to the garden, and there’s a gate that leads to the mews and the street.”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “I shall go upstairs. I’ll send my maid down to mama to say I have a headache.”

  There was no mention of Temberlay. Had the duke even noticed she was gone, that she’d been absent from the ballroom for nearly an hour? Thomas glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel.

  Less than an hour.

  He straightened his rumpled cravat as best he could and bowed over her hand. Her fingers coiled around his for a moment, as if she could not bear to let him go. He pulled free gently and let himself out.

  It wasn’t until he’d reached his lodgings that he saw the blood on his handkerchief. How could he have been so stupid?

  Lady Julia Leighton had been a virgin.

  Chapter 2

  Thomas waited outside Carrindale House in the rain until he saw Julia get in the coach and drive away. He followed her to Bond Street, watched her alight and go into an exclusive modiste’s shop. He watched through the window as she tried on a gown of sapphire blue silk. The shop assistant spread a lace veil over her dark hair, and a bitter taste filled his mouth. Her wedding gown. He clenched his fists and stepped away to wait for her to emerge.

  “Why Lady Julia, how pleasant to meet you here so unexpectedly,” he said brightly, as if he had merely chanced upon her in the street. He watched her pale cheeks bloom like roses, saw fear war with curiosity in her eyes.

  She dipped a curtsy and turned to her maid. “Wait in the coach. I’ll be along in a moment.” After the girl complied, she whispered to him, “What are you doing here?”

  “I found your earring,” he said, and taking her gloved hand in his dropped it into her palm. It was the only excuse he had come up with to see her again, returning what he’d stolen. Well, half of what he’d stolen. “It must have gotten tangled in my clothing when we—­” She shot him a wide-­eyed look of horror, and he fell silent. “Are you—­well, my lady?” he asked stiffly, resisting the urge to touch her flaming cheek.

  She glanced at the earring and closed her hand on it. “You’ve rescued me yet again.”

  There were a million things he wanted to say—­apologies, offers of marriage, confessions of feelings he had no right to, everything from concern to—­affection. He’d call it that.

  “Someday I shall have to return the favor,” she said.

  “I came to see if—­” But she tilted her head, and even if her blush betrayed her embarrassment at what had passed between them in the darkness of her father’s library, she schooled her expression into the same polite look of interest she’d given Fiona Barry in the park. She did not need him, after all. She was stronger than she looked. He felt admiration for her. She would make a magnificent duchess.

  He took her arm and escorted her the few steps to her coach. “So when is the wedding to be?” he asked.

  “January. At Temberlay Castle.”

  They reached the vehicle, and he let her go and bowed. “Then I shall wish you well,” he said. “And happy.”

  She lowered her gaze. “I am . . .” She paused, and he watched her throat bob as she swallowed the lie. “Thank you,” she managed.

  He kissed her hand, fe
lt her fingers tighten on his for an instant. He let her go and walked away, resisting the urge to look back. Whatever the future held for him, it did not include Julia Leighton.

  Chapter 3

  August 1814, London to Brussels

  It wasn’t home anymore—­merely England now, Julia told herself as she stood at the ship’s rail, watching the chalk cliffs disappearing behind the fog that blanketed the coast, white on white, a body disappearing into a shroud.

  Appropriate, she thought, since a ruined lady was indeed dead to almost everyone who had known her in better times. Her father had told friends she was dead after he’d discovered her sin, and disowned her on the spot. He had insisted she leave the country, not just his house, since it wouldn’t do for “decent” folk to see her ghost walking the streets of Mayfair, and feel the need to ask awkward questions.

  No, it was better this way, a fresh start, a new life all her own.

  In her arms, Jamie squirmed, waved chubby arms at the seabirds that wheeled overhead. She kissed her infant son and passed him to his nurse, and watched as they hurried belowdecks out of the wind. It would be hours before they reached Antwerp, and Julia knew she should go below too, but she stayed where she was and let the salt wind buffet her, wanting one last glimpse of the coast.

  Her parents had never even asked about the child, named after her brother James, the family hero. In better circumstances, Jamie would have been his grandfather’s heir, the next Earl of Carrindale, but he faced an unknowable future, like she did.

  It could be far worse, Julia thought, tightening her hands on the rail. Her fate was not so terrible as David’s. He’d died in a duel, scant days after she broke their engagement and confessed she was with child by another man. She did not fully understand the circumstances of the duel. The details had been buried along with David, yet another family secret. It wasn’t Thomas Merritt who killed him. She had refused to name her lover, and besides, Mr. Merritt had taken ship and gone from England soon after her encounter with him, mere days after she’d seen him on Bond Street, and long before she knew she was pregnant. She’d made discreet inquiries about him. It had turned out his name was well known, and he was a most popular topic for gossip. He was a rogue, a charmer, disowned by his family too, for his own ruinous behavior. Not at all the kind of man who rescued ladies in distress. Yet she could not entirely blame him. She shut her eyes. So much sorrow and misery had been caused by her foolish desire for a kiss—­a kiss that had ruined so many lives. As much as she wished to banish Tom Merritt from her thoughts, forget him forever, she could not.

  “Good afternoon.”

  Julia turned to find Major Lord Stephen Ives standing behind her, his cloak open to reveal his scarlet military tunic, bright as blood against the silver fog.

  She felt a pang in her heart. It was the same tunic her brother had worn, from the same regiment, the Royal Dragoons. James had died a hero in that tunic, and it was due to James’s bravery that it turned out she wasn’t entirely without friends after all.

  Nicholas Hartley, David’s brother, had stood by her. He’d given up his commission in the Royal Dragoons when David died and he inherited the title. He’d come to see her when he returned to England, as bewildered by the circumstances of David’s duel as she was. Nicholas never once blamed her for the way things had turned out. A friend from her childhood, he was as close to her as her own brother had been. He had arranged for a house, a midwife, and a nurse, and when her father insisted yet again that she leave the country, Nicholas had arranged an introduction to Major Lord Ives, and a chance for honorable employment.

  She was now the paid companion to Lord Ives’s sister, Dorothea Hallam, hired to accompany the brother and sister out of England. Stephen Ives was a diplomat, on his way to the peace talks in Vienna, and his sister was a recent widow, alone in the world. Neither had asked for details of her scandal fortunately, since she had used up all the favors. It was time to stand on her own two feet, rescue herself and her son from the consequences of the past.

  “Have you been out of England before?” Major Lord Ives asked now, coming to stand by the railing, yet keeping his distance from her. Was this how it would be from now on, respectable folk refraining from touching her or coming too close for fear that scandal was catching? Stephen Ives’s face was carefully blank, correct, but not unkind.

  “No, I’ve not traveled, but I’ve heard many stories,” she replied.

  “From your brother, no doubt,” he said with a polite smile.

  “Actually, it was my grandmother.” She swallowed. “And you, my lord—­have you been far afield, aside from Spain? War seems a hard way to see the world.” Someday she would work up the courage to ask him how James died, but she barely knew Lord Ives yet, was still learning the boundaries between a servant and employer from this side of the coin. Once, she had been his social superior—­an earl’s daughter, the fiancée of a duke—­but she was no longer even his equal.

  He studied her face for a moment, gauging her interest, perhaps, and she held his eyes.

  “Yes, war is the hard way to travel. I saw Portugal, Spain, and France through a soldier’s eyes, in ruins, mostly, after battles.” He forced a dry smile. “Now I’ll see Paris and Vienna as a diplomatic aide. I trust it will be much more pleasant, if, of course, the other envoys all agree to behave themselves at the peace negotiations.”

  “A least there will be no guns or swords,” Julia said.

  “No, we’re not enemies anymore, nor yet are we friends. A war of words can do as much harm as a battle.”

  She knew that. Her maternal grandmother had once been married to a diplomat, had traveled with him, learned protocol, foreign manners, and how to tread cautiously in the presence of courtiers and kings. Julia’s toes curled in her shoes. She was secretly thrilled to be walking in Arabella’s footsteps. Would she meet pirates or pashas or kings? Kings at the very least, she supposed, since every one of the crowned heads of Europe were expected to take part in the peace conference.

  A maid came on deck and dipped a curtsy to Major Lord Ives before turning to Julia. “Lady Dorothea wants you, Miss Leighton. The sea is making her feel poorly.” She pulled her woolen shawl tight around her throat against the wind.

  “Then I’ll not keep you from your duties,” Lord Stephen said, dismissing her.

  Julia followed the maid below. Would she ever get used to being addressed as plain Miss Leighton? She was not Lady Julia any longer. She was Lady Dorothea Hallam’s paid companion.

  It wasn’t an unpleasant post. She had known Dorothea slightly in happier times, like regimental sisters, since Dorothea’s husband Matthew had also been a Royal Dragoon. They attended some of the same parties, danced at the same balls. But Dorothea lost her husband and newborn son to fever, and had barely recovered herself. Her grief had made her a recluse, and Lord Stephen could not leave her behind when he accepted his posting, so Julia was hired to keep her company.

  Julia knew he hoped the trip to Vienna would improve his sister’s health and lift her spirits.

  She opened the door to Dorothea’s cabin, and a second maid looked up gratefully, then thrust a clean basin into Julia’s hands before taking her leave to empty the full one. Dorothea was as pale as the fog outside, still retching.

  Julia put a cool cloth on her forehead.

  “Will the boat sink?” Dorothea moaned, clutching Julia’s hand. “Death surely couldn’t be more horrid than mal de mer.”

  Julia rubbed Dorothea’s hands. “It won’t be long until we land in Antwerp.”

  Dorothea sank into the pillow and stared at the low ceiling. “D’you remember the last ball you attended?” she asked dully.

  “Yes,” Julia said carefully. She would never, ever, forget that night.

  Dorothea sighed. “I can’t. I know I must have danced with my husband. I must have been happy, but I don’t remember anything specific abo
ut the evening. I’m afraid I will forget the details, the little things, about our life together.”

  “The room was filled with flowers, and everyone was drinking champagne,” Julia said. There were flowers and champagne at every ball.

  Dorothea smiled wanly. “Oh yes, of course. I remember dancing with Matthew, laughing at something he said.” Her brow furrowed. “What could he have said? I should have committed every word to memory, just in case—­”

  “He told you how beautiful you looked,” Julia said.

  “Yes. I was probably wearing that blue silk gown he liked.”

  “The night was warm, and he brought you champagne on the terrace,” Julia went on, seeing another party, another face, in her mind.

  “Did he?” Dorothea asked.

  Julia fixed her eyes on Dorothea. “Of course.”

  “I suppose he must have,” Dorothea sighed. “One ball is so like the others, but I would have liked just one memory I was sure of, our last waltz, our final supper together. It happened so fast, at the end. Matthew said he had a headache, and the baby was fractious, and then I was trying to keep both of them alive, but I couldn’t. I remember very little about that day either, or any day since.”

  “You will,” Julia soothed. Dorothea would remember everything when she was ready, but right now her stricken face showed Julia that she couldn’t manage it. Lord Stephen had told her how fragile his sister’s health was. She had resorted to laudanum to sleep away her grief, and the drug left her a shell of herself. Julia held the basin as Dorothea called out her husband’s name and was sick again.

  Hours later, Dorothea was still green and queasy as Lord Stephen carried her ashore and put her in the waiting coach.

  “A few more hours, Doe,” he said, trying to sound jaunty. “We’ll be stopping for the night in Brussels.” His sister lay back against the squabs and shut her eyes.