Season for Temptation

by Theresa Romain

  No, he didn’t think there were any books in Italian . . . but there might be, somewhere.

  Finally, when she asked him if he had any examples of block printing in his collection, he threw his hands into the air.

  “I have no idea,” he exclaimed. “You’re making me heartily ashamed of myself. I’m sure there are some wonderful gems in here, but my grandfather was the last serious collector. As far as I know, there’s not even a catalogue of what we own.”

  “Then you really ought to have one made,” Louisa said decisively. Her face lit up. “Oh, James, could I work on one? It would be my delight. I know our book collection at Stonemeadows so well, and as you might imagine, it’s not often that I get the chance to look—really look—at another home’s library.”

  “I would love to have you create a catalogue, if you would enjoy that,” James replied. His nagging unease lifted a bit at Louisa’s excited expression. “Actually, that’s a fine idea. The library would be the better for your expert treatment.”

  “I’m hardly an expert,” Louisa confessed. “Just a selftaught book lover. But I would like this, very much. I can make a beginning while we’re here this week, and perhaps we can continue on here awhile longer than we had planned.”

  “I’ll help you,” Julia offered. “We can start right now. I really want to climb around on that ladder that rolls along the edge of the shelves.”

  James followed her eager gaze. Good Lord, no. That ladder had to be twenty feet high. Well, fine, perhaps it was only eight or so—but it was still far too tall for a young lady to be climbing.

  “Absolutely not,” James answered. “Those are not playthings. They’re for getting books down, not for pretending to be a baboon.”

  “A baboon?” Julia seemed much struck by the word. “I have no idea what that is, but it sounds fabulous. I’m climbing the ladder.”

  She at once began to step up the ladder, hitching up her skirt to her knees to get it out of her way. James averted his eyes, but not before catching a glimpse of a slim, well-shaped ankle and calf.

  All right, so maybe he had waited to avert his eyes until after he had already gotten a good look.

  His heart beat a little faster. He couldn’t watch this—or, more accurately, shouldn’t watch.

  He coughed. “Far be it from me to diminish your enjoyment at all, but this is rather unusual behavior. While I am sure we both find it delightful, you may not want to do this at a party in London next season,” he said formally, eyes firmly fixed on the floor. Away from her legs.

  “Nonsense,” Julia replied matter-of-factly. “I know perfectly well that libraries are the best places to meet handsome and eligible young men for the purposes of marriage.”

  He looked up swiftly; was she talking about him? She had to be talking about him. Him, and the way he and Louisa had met.

  What did she mean, referring to him as handsome and eligible? Was she teasing him, or was that how she really saw him? He shot a questioning glance at Louisa, but she didn’t seem to be listening. She was already reaching her slender arms up for Julia to hand down several volumes into them.

  Thus he missed exactly what caused Julia to fall.

  He just heard Louisa gasp, saw the volumes tumble to the floor, saw Julia tumble on top of them. She landed awkwardly on top of a heavy folio, flat on her back, one of her legs pressed under her at a very odd angle.

  Her face went white, and he was sure his own did as well. He went icy all over. He had killed Julia, he just knew it.

  How could he have let something happen to her? In his own home, where he should have kept her safe? His skin prickled with shocked guilt.

  Then she moved, and opened her eyes. Of course, of course. She was fine—or at least, definitely not dead.

  He realized that he might have overreacted a bit. Thankfully, no one could read his thoughts.

  “Oof,” Julia said.

  He and Louisa instantly bent over her, clamoring to know if she was all right.

  “I’m fine,” Julia assured them, her expression tight with pain. “Just a bit embarrassed. I can’t imagine what caused me to fall. I’m not normally clumsy. Do you think it could be a problem with the ladder? Er, not that there’s anything wrong with your ladder, James, I’m sure.”

  “Except for the fact that it nearly killed you,” he said, still struggling to calm down.

  Julia sat up cautiously and stretched out her legs in front of her, rotating her feet in slow circles. “It didn’t do anything of the kind, and you know it. I was probably just overbalanced.” She winced and stilled her right foot. “I suppose I landed wrong on that one. Drat.”

  Lady Irving bustled into the room, drawn by the noise.

  “My, my,” she exclaimed. “This is better than I would have expected from the rest of your house, Matheson.” She gestured broadly at the untidy pile of books scattered on the floor. “Casual disorder is all the rage now, you know. Although I do think this is going a bit far with the concept.”

  “We’re not being fashionable,” Julia replied, struggling to stand. “I fell off this ladder and dropped the books.”

  Lady Irving looked at her in mock amazement. “What in God’s name was a gently bred young lady doing scampering about on a ladder?”

  “Aunt, Julia is hurt,” Louisa replied in a quiet but firm voice.

  “Oh, please, I’m fine,” Julia insisted. “I’ll just have to . . .” She shifted her weight onto her right ankle, and sucked in a pained breath. “All right, maybe I’m not exactly fine. But close.”

  She hopped over to the sofa so she could clutch at its back for support.

  “Gently bred ladies don’t hop either,” Lady Irving informed her. “I can see you have a few manners to master before we go to London.”

  “Really?” Julia asked, diverted. “If you couldn’t hop, what would you do if you hurt your ankle?”

  “I’d use a cane, and swat at people with it, of course. Much more fun. Besides, you look like a fool when you hop. Nothing personal, my girl; anyone would.”

  Julia rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m not going to hop in London. I just needed to get to the sofa.”

  James could see it was time to step into the conversation. “It’s very ungracious of me not to help you,” he said, and handed Julia gently onto the sofa. As she clasped his hand for him to assist her, his skin tingled with the physical thrill of it, and he drew his hand back as swiftly as manners would allow so Julia wouldn’t feel him tremble.

  “I’ll get you a cushion so you can prop up your foot,” he said gruffly, and found a small pillow on another chair. One all the way across the room, just to give himself time to calm down.

  It must have been the surprise of her fall; surely that was it. He felt pulled to her; he wanted to touch her, hold her, kiss her until she forgot about the pain.

  Again he averted his gaze. He shouldn’t be looking at her like that. Not lying on a sofa, helpless, laid out quiet and lovely before his eyes like a gift.

  Correction; he shouldn’t even be thinking of her like that. He shouldn’t be having any of these thoughts, for that matter.

  What was wrong with him? Had twenty-seven years of an aristocratic upbringing taught him nothing about selfcontrol? He had already chosen his wife. He might have chosen quickly and in a somewhat businesslike manner, but he had chosen well. Louisa would make a fine viscountess. For one thing, she would never clamber around on a ladder and make his heart stop with terror.

  She would never make his heart stop at all.

  He silently handed Julia the cushion, then left her side to rejoin the conversation between Louisa and Lady Irving.

  “I think we should get her home as soon as possible,” Louisa was saying to her aunt.

  What? No, he had to put a stop to this talk.

  “Surely she would be more comfortable as she is, staying here until she has a chance to recover,” he suggested. His voice had only a little squeak of desperation in it.

  “No, you’r
e right, young missy,” Lady Irving agreed with Louisa. “She’ll do better in her own house. Closer to the surgeon’s, for one thing, in case he should be needed. But also, no telling how long she’ll be laid up.”

  The countess considered. “I can take her back to Stonemeadows, and you and Simone can stay here and complete your visit. Stay longer than we planned, even, if you like.”

  Louisa shook her head. “That will never do, ma’am. You know perfectly well you can’t get along without Simone; you need her to arrange you every morning, and she makes you comfortable throughout the day.”

  “Very true,” her ladyship acknowledged, running prideful hands over the bright green brocade of her gown. “I would never be able to trick myself out in style without her help.”

  James rolled his eyes. If Lady Irving’s taste was in the common style, he was . . . well, he was a baboon.

  “I suppose,” Louisa replied, “we will all have to go home again.” She fixed her eyes on James and looked genuinely disappointed. “I am very sorry, but I think it’s for the best.”

  She cast a longing look around the library, over the pile of scattered books on the floor. “I wish I could stay longer.”

  James forced a smile to his face. “I’m gratified to hear it.”

  He looked at the small figure on the sofa, lying as flat and still as if she had been ironed. She looked so pitiful; his heart turned over.

  “I feel just terrible about your sister’s fall.”

  “Please don’t,” Louisa assured him. “It was an accident, and she’ll be fine. No power on earth could have kept her off that ladder once she decided it sounded fun.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry to have you go. But I have to say, I think she will be much more comfortable with you beside her.”

  Louisa’s smile was sweet, her eyes a bit teary. “Thank you,” she said, clasping his hands gently, “for understanding.” She wrapped him in a quick, affectionate hug that surprised the breath out of his body.

  Lady Irving was already summoning the capable Simone, who at once began to give orders to have trunks packed and the carriage brought round.

  And that was that.

  Before the afternoon was out, James saw them on their way, crammed into the carriage like tinned fish so that Julia’s injured foot could be propped up on the opposite seat. Poor girl; she leaned hard on him to walk to the carriage, and thanked him sweetly although he could see she was in pain.

  “I’ll never be a baboon again,” she promised.

  He laughed, and apologized again to her, and to Lady Irving and Louisa.

  The betrothed couple parted with a proper kiss on the cheek; honestly, he had been so distracted, he didn’t even try to embrace Louisa in a more romantic way. He was too busy thinking of how he’d fallen short as a host, and as a future husband.

  He had failed to keep them comfortable, entertained, and safe. He had failed even to keep them there. He didn’t think they had taken it amiss . . . but still, would any of them want to come back, ever?

  He remembered the warm, fragile feeling of Julia’s body, leaning against his for support as she walked out to the carriage. He remembered Louisa’s hug of affection.

  He wished they would all come back, so he could try again, and get it right this time.

  Chapter 9

  In Which Portugal Is Lost

  To Julia’s dismay, her ankle took weeks to mend.

  The first week was unbearable. She spent what felt like every waking minute trapped on a sofa or lying in her bed. She could hardly believe her own stupid clumsiness, which had caused them all to leave Nicholls early and miss out on so much of James’s company.

  The second week began as badly, but then it brought a letter from James that Louisa read aloud to the family. The letter mentioned Julia’s name twice and inquired very kindly about her health. That day actually went pretty well.

  Weeks three, four, and five of Julia’s convalescence brought more letters for Louisa. She no longer read them aloud to the family. She hummed through the days, wrote long letters to James, and seemed delighted when she received a reply—which she always did, promptly.

  She happened to open one of James’s letters once in Julia’s presence, and Julia caught a glimpse of what looked like a list.

  “Excellent,” Louisa had breathed, skimming the missive.

  “What’s excellent?” Julia had been unable to resist asking.

  Recalled to herself, Louisa flushed. “I just had some questions for James. Relating to, um, Nicholls.”

  Julia instantly lost interest. She didn’t want to hear about Nicholls, about Louisa’s and James’s future life together. She couldn’t bear the thought of Louisa leaving her, though she knew that was illogical and inevitable.

  And maybe she didn’t quite like to think of James married, either. Weren’t they all content and happy as they were? Couldn’t things just continue on like this? Why did everyone have to keep talking about him and Louisa getting married all the time?

  It was six weeks and two days before Julia was able to test her ankle again. Six weeks and two days since she’d seen James, hurt herself, and left Nicholls.

  Six weeks and two days of being a fool.

  Usually she loved autumn, but this year, it seemed melancholy. She missed James’s face, his voice, his smile.

  She missed seeing him frown at her when she said something outrageous (usually unwittingly), or making him smile when she did something ridiculous (also usually unwittingly). She just missed . . . him.

  Winter began early, with a biting cold that promised to be both long and severe. Julia’s mood lifted somewhat when she was allowed back on her feet again in November, but as Christmas drew nearer, the coziness of the season didn’t cheer her as it usually did.

  She tried her best to wrap herself in glee, helping her small siblings poke silver trinkets into the plum pudding that would soak in brandy for the weeks until Christmas dinner. She helped the cook bake treats—and sample them: glossy jam tarts, Yule cakes, a gingerbread full of enough sweet spices to make an Elizabethan explorer swoon. She cut strips of paper for the children to paste into links, and laughed when they coiled so many paper chains around their father’s favorite chair that it looked like a paper mill had spun a cocoon. Greenery was cut; the everyday tallow candles were exchanged for sweet-scented beeswax, and warm, spicy smells filled the house.

  But beneath Julia’s smile, her gloom weighed on her. She was penned inside the house by the numbing cold; she missed the company of her sister, who spent much time in the library writing letters to James.

  In between crafting amusements for the children, then, she paced Stonemeadows. She tried to walk away from her dull feeling, leaving it behind in some neglected attic or cellar, but it inevitably found her again. Lady Irving finally told her in annoyance that Julia only needed a set of chains to look like the home’s resident ghost, wandering the corridors, muttering and pale.

  But in mid-December, a letter arrived that changed everything. James had written another of his long lists to Louisa, who pored over it eagerly as usual. This time, though, when she read the end of the letter, her eyebrows knit in sudden displeasure.

  “No,” she said in a flat voice.

  Lady Oliver and Julia looked up at her, startled, from the floor, where they were helping Elise, Emilia, Anne, and Tom put together a puzzle map of Europe. Tom was very little help, being scarcely past the age where he liked to put bright-colored objects in his mouth, and his sisters forbore his desire to work on the puzzle with grudging impatience.

  “Is something wrong, Louisa?” Lady Oliver asked with concern, then immediately diverted her attention back to the four small children beside her. “Tom, don’t eat France; it’s nasty. Can you help your sisters find where France goes? Emilia, can you show him?”

  The girl sighed and shoved the offending country into place. Julia praised her, then looked up questioningly at Louisa.

  Louisa pressed her lips together and was si
lent for several seconds, her eyes unreadable. “I’ve received an invitation that I don’t wish to accept,” she finally said.

  “An invitation? Who on earth from?” Julia wondered. She realized that wasn’t exactly tactful, and explained, “I mean, it’s just that we are quiet here. I didn’t mean people shouldn’t be inviting you out all the time, because they should—at least, if there were many people around.”

  “I know what you mean,” Louisa assured her. “It’s . . .” She trailed off, then drew in her breath. “James’s family wants me to spend Christmas with them in London.”

  “Wonderful!” Lady Oliver squealed, tossing the puzzle map’s Portugal gleefully into the air.

  Julia said, “Oh.”

  Louisa looked appreciatively at her sister. “I can see you understand, Julia. Mama, I don’t wish to go. I’ve never spent Christmas away from home, and, honestly, I am terrified of James’s family. I haven’t spoken to them much and I’m quite sure they don’t approve of me.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Oliver replied, distracted, as she began to look under furniture for the displaced country. “Portugal, where are you?” she crooned.

  “I think it is a good sign that they want to have you there,” Julia said bracingly. “It shows that they want to welcome you into the family.”

  “Maybe.” Louisa looked doubtful. “But I had in my mind that I wouldn’t have to go back to London until February at least. This is just so soon.”

  “But you want to see James again, right? You’ll get to see him again?” Julia asked.

  “Yes, of course. Yes, he’ll be there,” Louisa said vaguely.

  Julia scrutinized her. What was she thinking of? How could she not want, with every fiber of her body, to go to London and see James and his family?

  Granted, she had never met James’s family, but if they were anything like him, she was sure they must be delightful.

  “What if we go now?” Louisa finally spoke.

  At the puzzled expressions of both Julia and Lady Oliver (who was still looking for the lost Portugal, ably assisted by her younger children, who were eager to finish their map), Louisa explained herself. “You and I, Julia. What if we could persuade our aunt to go to London now, and we could both go? I am sure you would be as welcome as I at Matheson House for Christmas. Would you like that?”