The Secret Life of Lady Julia

by Lecia Cornwall

  She had to see him again, had to know. The kiss he’d given her in Talleyrand’s library still burned on her lips. She’d spent a restless night thinking about Thomas when she should have been considering Stephen’s proposal. How could she say yes, be his wife, when she could not stop thinking about another man?

  She would ask him about the letter on her pillow. Another kindness, perhaps, like his return of Dorothea’s watch? Then she would thank him for his assistance the previous evening, and take her leave well within the fifteen minutes allowed for polite calls. Once all that had been done, she would be able to forget him, see him as a perfectly ordinary man and not—­

  The door opened.

  His shirt was undone at the neck, and he hadn’t shaved. She could still see the bruise on his forehead, read the surprise in his eyes.

  “Julia,” he said as her breath caught in her throat. “Why are you here?” He stepped aside to let her in. The room was filled with the scent of his soap, his discarded clothing and books, his bed, visible through an open door.

  “Is anything wrong?” he asked, but she threw herself into his arms and pressed her mouth to his.

  His arms came around her, clasping her to him as he met her kiss and let his lips melt into hers. It felt right, perfect, she realized. She fit against him as if they’d done this a thousand times.

  “Julia, what are you doing?” he asked, holding her away from him, cupping her face in his hands, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Why are you here?” he asked again as his eyes drank her in, bored into her.

  She felt tears in her eyes. “I need to know—­I have to know—­why I can’t forget you.”

  He stared at her for a moment, searching her face, and she held her breath. If he laughed, told her she was mad, she would shatter, fall to pieces. But she would be able to go on, move forward with her life without forever wondering if her feelings at her betrothal ball—­and now—­ were a mistake, a trick of the light, or too much champagne.

  She straightened her spine. She was being foolish. In a moment he’d offer her a sherry to calm her nerves, suggest she sit down for a moment . . .

  “I should go,” she said, and moved toward the door. He caught her wrist.

  “Stay,” he said softly.

  He kissed her, sipped at her lips, twined his fingers into her hair, loosening it. Pins fell to the floor like rain. She gripped the folds of his shirt, holding him to her. His mouth tasted of whisky, and she found she liked that as much as the taste of champagne, maybe more.

  He trailed kisses over her cheeks and down her throat as he untied her cloak and let it drop away, then kissed her collarbone as he undid the buttons of her gown, let it fall to her elbows.

  She slid her hands into the open collar of his shirt, caressed the warmth of his flesh, the hardness of bones and muscles, felt his heart beating under his skin.

  His hands moved to cup her breast through the fine linen of her shift. She gasped. Oh yes, this is what she wanted, what she dreamed of. She tangled her hands in his hair as his mouth found her nipple through the thin garment, then moved to the other. She was caught in her gown, couldn’t move, only able to feel what he was doing to her.

  “Thomas,” she sighed, arching against him.

  He lifted her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom, kicking the half open door out of the way. He fell to the mattress with her, kissing her still, trying to fight his way out of his own clothing at the same time, both of them breathless.

  “Why is it like this with you, and no one else?” he muttered.

  She couldn’t answer that, had no idea, since he was the first, the only man she had ever—­ She drew a sharp breath as he left her, began to prowl the bedroom, running his hand through his hair. His shirt hung open, revealing the muscles and planes of his chest.

  “I’m famous for my control, for my bloody prowess in bed—­ask anyone.”

  She leaned on her elbow, her loose hair falling over her open bodice. “There’s no one else here.”

  He looked at her as if she were daft. “I didn’t mean that. I meant that I can’t stop with you. I don’t want to. I haven’t forgotten you either, or one single detail of that night.”

  “Then it isn’t always like this?”

  He stared at her. “Don’t you know? What about David, after me, and Ives?”

  She didn’t reply, had no words to tell him he was the only one.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, brushed a long lock of hair over her shoulder, stared at the deep vee between her breasts. “I don’t know a single thing about you, except that I want you like I’ve never wanted any woman, and I don’t know why. One rushed, clumsy tumble in the dark, a few brief moments, that’s all it was, and yet—­” He caressed her cheek, cupped it, ran his thumb over her lower lip. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  She pressed her cheek into his palm. “Is that why you made this a condition of the bargain?”

  He pulled his hand away as if she’d burned him. “Is that why you’re here? It was a stupid thing to say. I didn’t mean it.”

  She felt a flash of anger. She was tempted to say yes, but the look in his eyes stopped her. There was hurt in the depths of his eyes, longing, and something she’d never seen before in any man’s eyes, and it took her breath away. “You were in my room last night. Why didn’t you wait for me, demand your payment then?”

  “I climbed that damned wall to prove I could. I waited, Julia. I thought you must be with—­” He stopped. “You belong to someone else.”

  She reached up to caress the bruise on his forehead, gently, with the tip of her finger. “I belonged to someone else then too, that night, and it didn’t stop you—­us—­from—­”

  He caught her hand, brought it to his mouth, kissed her palm. “You still don’t blame me for what happened that night, do you? You should. You have every right to hate me. I had experience. I should have stopped. You should have told me you were a virgin.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I wanted it, wanted you. I want you now.”

  He leaned over to kiss her, and she lay back, slid her arms around his neck, drawing him down to her. “You . . .” He kissed her again. “ . . . are the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Show me,” she said.

  He didn’t need a second invitation. They undressed each other. She took his shirt. He tugged her gown over her head and tossed it aside, then untied the ribbons on her shift and peeled that away too, leaving her naked. He stared down at her, and she fought the urge to cover her breasts with her hands, suddenly shy.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “You’re beautiful, Julia Leighton, even more beautiful than I imagined. I wished, afterward, that we hadn’t made love in the dark, that I’d been able to see you.”

  She closed her eyes and ran her hands over the hard planes of his chest. She caressed the muscles of his shoulders and arms, familiar, but new, as well, thrilling. “You are just as I remember,” she murmured as she opened her eyes. “Better, now we have light, and privacy and—­” But that was all they had—­not time, beyond a few short hours, not tomorrow. Her heart contracted in her chest.

  He held her for a moment, his chin resting on the top of her head, hers in the hollow of his neck, and she breathed him in, memorizing him for the days to come, when she would be without him again. She marveled at the feeling of his naked flesh against her breasts, the heat of his skin, the sensation of his heart beating next to her own, and raised her mouth to his. His tongue sought hers, tangled until they were both panting.

  She fumbled with the buttons of his flies, her hands brushing against the hardness trapped under the fabric. She couldn’t make her fingers work, not while he kissed her, stroked her, drove every sensible thought out of her head with his tongue, his hands, his body on hers. He found places she had never even known existed—�
�wonderful, secret, delicious places—­driving her beyond reason, to a place of pure sensation. He took over the task, deftly opening his breeches. She hadn’t touched him that night, hadn’t had the chance or the experience in their frenzied encounter. She explored him now, reveling in the new experience and in his response. He groaned as she caressed him, his erection hot against her palm.

  “Julia . . .” He whispered her name, watched what she was doing to him, his jaw tight. He pressed her back into the bed, sought her mouth with his as he stroked her breasts, her back, her hips, and the curve of her buttocks. She did the same things to him, since she knew very little of how to proceed, but trusted that he did. It had worked before.

  His body was magnificent. She marveled at the play and flex of his muscles, the hard, hairy surfaces that melded so perfectly with her softness. His legs tangled with hers, his body fit against her curves perfectly, as if she were made just for him and no other.

  His hands parted her thighs, and she gasped as she felt his fingers dip beneath the curls to touch her flesh. He teased her, tormented her, and she nipped at his lips, his tongue, as he kissed her, arched her hips, wordlessly demanding more, but he took his time, moved slowly when she wanted speed, touched lightly when she wanted friction and pressure. His erection brushed her hip, and she closed her hand around it, felt it leap, and squeezed gently. His breath turned into grunts of suppressed desire, and the tempo of his fingers increased. He caught her cries in his mouth as the pleasure peaked, poured over her. Surely she would die of this. She cried out again as he plunged his fingers into her, working her, pleasing her until she thought she couldn’t stand any more. He positioned himself above her then and drove into her, sending her soaring even higher. She dug her nails into his shoulders as her body rippled around him, drawing him in, lost to everything but the feeling of his body joined to hers, the heat, the friction, the need. Again, and again. Could she ever have enough of him?

  By the time he groaned and arched into her one last time, she was spent, sated with pleasure, exhausted. He put his arms around her, holding her against his pounding heart. She felt tears in her eyes.

  It had not been anything like she recalled.

  It was better.

  Chapter 49

  It was almost dark when Thomas helped her dress, slowly tying the ribbons that he’d untied so eagerly, doing up the tiny buttons, trying to stem the desire to undo them again, just once more. Neither of them asked what they were both thinking. What now?

  He doubted that the long afternoon of making love had helped anything at all.

  “You were right—­Stephen asked me to marry him,” she said as she was donning her cloak.

  He felt his heart stop for a moment. He forced his features into a calm mask. “Did you accept?” he asked, keeping his tone as bland as his expression. Would she have come here, to him, if she had? He held his breath, watched as she drew on her gloves.

  “I’ve been avoiding him all day.”

  He swallowed. “You should accept. He’s a good man. Reliable, honorable, noble.”

  “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” she asked. She was blinking back tears.

  “I can’t offer you the same, Julia. Why didn’t you say yes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He caught her hands in his. “Yes, you do. Tell me.”

  She lowered her gaze. “Fear, perhaps, that I’ll never be able to be the kind of wife he wants.”

  He didn’t understand. She was smart, brave, clever, passionate. What more could a man want? “You would have made a perfect duchess. You’ll make an excellent diplomat’s wife,” he said, kissing her forehead. She raised her lips to his, kissed him again, and he tasted tears. He let her go reluctantly, stepping back, looking at her. He handed her his handkerchief, and she looked at it in her hand, touched the monogram with her fingertips.

  “I still have the last handkerchief you gave me. The first time you rescued me, in Hyde Park.”

  She was looking up at him, her hazel eyes wide and wet, her mouth still red and soft from his kisses. There was a dangerous emotion written there. He felt a hard jab of anger. Was she hoping he’d rescue her now, make the choice for her, beg her to stay with him, here, in his pauper’s quarters? “Is that what this is about? I’m not a hero, Julia. Stephen Ives is the hero. Say yes, marry him, live happily ever after,” he said harshly, as if his heart wasn’t breaking in his chest. “Forget me.”

  She stared at him, her lips parting, pain clear in her eyes. He stayed where he was, though he wanted to pull her into his arms. Stay with me hovered on his lips, but he clamped them shut. She swelled with dignity and hurt pride, drawing herself up, straightening her spine. She flicked her hood over her head like a nun’s cowl.

  “Good-­bye, Mr. Merritt.” She left without a backward glance.

  He sat in the dark by the window and watched her walk away. The room smelled of sex and violets. The smell of her body clung to his hands, his hair. “Tom,” he whispered to the empty air. “My name is Tom.”

  Chapter 50

  The Prince de Ligne set his mouth in a pout as Katerina swept in. “You are looking very plain this afternoon, Princess. Hardly any jewels at all.”

  She kissed his wrinkled cheek and sent Thomas a smoldering look. “You shall have to make do with some hot soup, old roué. It has become far too dangerous to wear jewels of any value. I am in the process of having paste copies made of some of my favorite pieces. Kostov insists. There have been many thefts—­in the park, in dark corners at even the best parties.” She sent Thomas a baleful glance. “Where is your little English friend and her pistol now?”

  Accepting Stephen Ives’s proposal of marriage, Thomas thought, his stomach tight.

  De Ligne smiled. “She was here just this morning—­”

  He broke into a coughing fit, and Katerina patted him on the back and held a handkerchief to his lips, looking worried.

  “Tell me, is Kostov’s directive about your jewels because he is worried about them or about you?” the prince asked Katerina when he’d recovered.

  She sent him a sad smile. “He loves me in his way. He said I could have one of his soldiers to guard me if I wished. I refused, of course. He would have chosen his biggest, strongest man, and there is no room for such a one here in your little birdcage.”

  “Good, because I would not share you, and neither would the viscount,” de Ligne replied, winking at Thomas. Katerina snapped her fingers and her maid brought a tray forward, laden with soup, bread, and watered wine. The prince made a face, but the princess sat on the edge of the bed and took charge of the spoon herself.

  “You must eat,” she insisted, and he took a little to please her.

  “So tell me, my dear, which lady was robbed of her jewels?” the prince asked.

  She frowned. “One of the Tsar’s bedmates. They say she was on her way home, near dawn, and she was waylaid in the park. And an Italian baroness too—­she lost a necklace that had been in her family for years. Thieves are everywhere, bold as you please.” She cast a glance at Thomas. “Perhaps your English miss should give shooting lessons to ladies in the park.”

  De Ligne chuckled. “A fine idea. Do you think it would become a fashion? Bands of elegant ladies, dressed to the nines and armed to the teeth, roaming the parks?”

  Thomas folded his arms over his chest. Erich, again, no doubt, playing Robin Hood. The damned fool was going to kill someone before long.

  He still owed the man a debt.

  “I think I have a better idea on how to stop the thieves,” he said. “How would you like to help?”

  Katerina grinned. “If I can wear my jewels again, I will do anything.”

  Chapter 51

  “Thomas Merritt has arrived to see you, Major Lord Ives.” Stephen glanced at the clock. It was nearly nine, and Merritt was right on time, obviously eager to rece
ive his reward. Upstairs, Castlereagh and Lady Castle­reagh were dressing for a ball. Stewart had arranged it all. All he himself had to do was hand over the Order of the Garter and wait for the alarm, and Stewart would do the rest. Tom Merritt would be dragged away in chains, and neither he nor Julia would ever have to see him again. Once out of sight, Julia would forget him quickly enough, wouldn’t she?

  “Merritt,” he said, greeting the thief coolly as he was shown into the library.

  “Ives,” he replied, equally cool. “I trust everything went well after the other night?” Merritt had the audacity to ask.

  “Your job is done, and if you are referring to Julia, she is perfectly well.”

  Stephen crossed to the liquor cabinet in the corner, unlocked it, and drew out a bundle wrapped in a handkerchief. He flicked it open, revealing Castlereagh’s Order of the Garter star. It twinkled on the white cloth.

  “I believe this is what you came for.” He rewrapped it and held it out, glancing at the clock. Any moment now all hell would break loose.

  Merritt didn’t reach for it. In fact, he looked amused. “So we have something in common after all, it seems, Ives.”

  Stephen felt anger rise. “What do you mean? I have nothing in common with you!”

  Thomas tilted his head. “Would you have me believe that his lordship gave this to you, with his blessing?” he asked sarcastically. “Charles Stewart’s monogram is on the handkerchief.”

  Stephen felt his skin heat. “Just take it,” he snapped, “and then I never want to set eyes on you again.”

  But Merritt sat down instead, made himself comfortable. “I have a different proposition to make.”

  Stephen glared at him. “I’m not interested.” He glanced at the door. Any moment . . .

  “You might be. It’s sure to impress Castlereagh, and a lot of other important ­people. It would ensure you are commended in official reports, noticed in London. It could very well lead to promotion. You’d be a hero.”