by Anne Stuart
“I don’t know if I like that,” Val protested.
“You’re definitely better at applying makeup,” she pointed out, concentrating on the one man she felt at ease with.
“That’s because I have an incipient beard to cover. You don’t. Stripling,” he added for effect.
“But at least I beat you at chess,” she said sweetly.
“I see what you mean. Perfect siblings,” Phelan said, strolling into the room and taking the seat opposite his brother. “Pour me a cup of tea, brat, and show me how well you’ve taken instruction.”
“He’s improving,” Juliette said, watching with a critical eye and then handing the cup to Phelan, being very careful to keep her hand from brushing his. “He’s still a bit clumsy.”
“I make a better woman than you do a boy,” Val insisted.
“No,” she said smugly, “you don’t.”
“Children, children,” Phelan said. “Stop squabbling and tell me what induced you to put your skirts on again. I thought nothing short of imminent exposure could force you to put those things on willingly. Unless you’ve developed a taste for them.”
“Bugger off, Phelan,” his brother replied pleasantly, and mentally Juliette added the curse to her multilingual litany. “I’m going on a social call.”
“Not to the bluestocking?” Phelan groaned. “I thought you’d given up on her.”
“I’ve tried to resist temptation,” Valerian said with a wholly masculine grin. “I swear, I’ve tried. Juliette’s even given me lectures about the unfairness of being in a lady’s confidence. I can’t help myself. Besides, Sophie and I are friends. I’m afraid if I don’t show up sooner or later, she might decide to pay a little visit herself, and that might prove a bit awkward. At least I’m taking Juliette with me this time. I can’t do anything indecent with a witness.”
“I hate to inform you,” Phelan drawled, “but Juliette’s not going anywhere. Not for the time being.”
“Why not?” she demanded, furious. “You can’t keep me here! There’s no reason—”
“There’s every reason.” He overrode her complaints with that insufferable air of his. “And as a matter of fact, I already have been keeping you here, quite easily, and will continue to do so.”
“But it was your idea she accompany me,” Val protested, sounding very young.
“And I’ve changed my mind. You can visit your lady love, Val, as long as you remember why you’re wearing skirts, and exercise more than your usual caution. But Juliette stays at Sutter’s Head.”
If she expected Valerian to champion her cause, she accepted the disappointment when he shrugged his broad shoulders, gave her a wry smile, and rose from the settee with a feminine grace that normally would have had Juliette’s lips quivering in amusement. At the moment, she found no reason to smile.
“There’s no arguing with him when he uses that tone of voice, Juliette,” Valerian said. “Best not to waste your breath.” He glanced at his brother. “I take it Hannigan discovered something interesting?”
“He did.”
“About the little lady, I presume, not our own filthy mess?” he added, pausing by the door and shaking out his skirts with a brisk hand.
“Discretion, Val,” Phelan said wearily, leaning back in his seat.
Val grinned. “I’ll never learn. Don’t hold dinner for me. I intend to talk Miss De Quincey into feeding me. If not with victuals, then with the fruits of her wisdom.”
“Behave yourself!” Phelan admonished.
“You, too, big brother.”
They were alone. Juliette rose to her feet, but Phelan’s sharp voice forestalled her. “Sit down!”
“I don’t—”
“Sit down!”
Juliette sat. She glowered at him across the tea table, feeling childish but not caring.
“Are you going to pour me some tea?”
“You already had some.”
“With too little milk and too much water. My brother needs to practice.”
“He isn’t motivated.”
“True enough. I do think you’re better at your role than he is at his,” Phelan said idly. “At least you put your heart and soul into it. He doesn’t want to be a woman—he’s finding his skirts infuriating. Whereas I think you’d be much happier if you really were a boy. Or at least you think you would.”
“You’re very perceptive,” she said. “Without question I was born into the wrong body.”
His eyes met hers for a long, pregnant moment. “I wonder if you really believe that,” he said softly. “I might be tempted to find out.”
She couldn’t hide the panic that flared through her. “It’s the truth,” she said.
“Perhaps. I wonder, though, whether Mark-David Lemur would agree with you.”
There was a sudden roaring in her ears. Deafening, as only the sound of panic can be. She stared at him, and his eyes were dark, merciless holes, and there was no safety, no pity for her. She rose on unsteady feet, hearing the crash of the tea table as she knocked it over. And then she ran from the room, from the man, from the past that he could somehow see with his devil’s eyes.
She ran, terrified that he’d follow and capture her. Terrified that he wouldn’t.
And terrified, most of all, by the truth that even she couldn’t face.
Phelan watched her leave. His first instinct was to go after her. The sheer, blind panic had struck him deeply, making him feel guilty for one of the few times in his life. He’d been toying with her, wanting to see her reaction, and he’d been amply, cruelly rewarded.
He wanted to go to her, to comfort her. To put his arms around her, press her head against his shoulder, and hold her.
But that wasn’t all that he wanted to do. He wanted to unfasten the small white bone buttons that ran down the front of that soft cambric shirt. He wanted to slide his hand between the material and cover her small, perfect breast. He wanted to taste her mouth again, this time more completely. He wanted to use his tongue, and he wanted her to kiss him back.
He wanted too many things that she wasn’t prepared to give. Things he could take. Things that Mark-David Lemur had already taken from her.
He let her go. He had no choice. He couldn’t go after her and not take her. Not at the moment, when his body was taut with desire and his pulses were racing and he felt as randy as the seventeen-year-old boy Juliette MacGowan Lemur was pretending to be.
He needed time. She needed time. He could only hope that a cruel, indifferent fate was going to allow it to them. If the past was anything to go by, he doubted it.
Disaster was lurking around the next corner. And he’d better prepare for it.
CHAPTER NINE
Valerian had almost forgotten how much he hated this masquerade. Juliette had been such a welcome distraction that he’d been able to put the unpleasantness out of his mind. Until his ridiculous longing for Sophie de Quincey had grown too much to bear, and he’d climbed back into his corset and skirts once more, and found them to have lost even their capacity to amuse.
The choice was obvious. He could stay out at Sutter’s Head, playing chess and parlor games with Juliette, under Phelan’s watchful, jealous eye. That in itself was an entertaining distraction. Never in his life had he expected to find his emotionally detached older brother the prey to possessiveness, but there was no doubt as to the uneasy emotions prowling under Phelan’s mocking surface.
Or he could give in to Phelan’s demands and run like a coward to Paris. Running from Yorkshire had been bad enough. He’d been too shocked and confused, both by his father’s murder and by Lady Margery’s accusations. By the time he was thinking clearly, Phelan, with the help and possibly at the instigation of Hannigan, had brought him to this deserted spot on the south coast, in preparation for an escape to France.
He wouldn’t go. There were a thousand reasons, most of them overwhelming, why he should. If the truth, as he and Phelan suspected, was that Lady Margery had killed her husband, then Valeri
an had no interest in having it known, even if it would clear his name. His presence at Romney Hall, innocent though it was, had been anathema to Lady Margery. Phelan’s fraternal affection had been the ultimate betrayal as far as his mother was concerned.
No, he wouldn’t accuse the old lady, for her sake as well as for his brother’s.
But neither could he turn tail and run. Not yet. Sooner or later he’d have to accept the fact that he’d never see England again. But for just a few brief moments; minutes, hours, days, he intended to glory in a perfect English summer. And a perfect English girl.
And if the runners caught up with him before he made his escape, it would be worth it. Not for just any woman would he put on these absurd clothes and mince his way into town. He was a man who had always liked and appreciated women in all their glorious diversity, appreciated them with a healthy appetite and respect. There were so many of them, each with her own special charm, that he never thought he’d be so besotted with one quiet young lady barely out of the schoolroom. Besotted enough to endanger his safety, and even that of his brother.
Why did she have to be so wealthy, so beautiful, so damned well-bred? Couldn’t he have fallen in love with a barmaid, a miller’s daughter, an upstairs maid? Why did he have to reach the advanced age of five and twenty, only to fall hopelessly in love with an innocent?
He hadn’t been able to rationalize his way out of it. He hadn’t listened to his brother’s warnings, Hannigan’s suggestions, or his own better judgment. All he could listen to was his heart. And his heart was in search of his bluestocking.
It was a shame Phelan had grown so possessive about Juliette. With Juliette along, dressed in her sober boys’ clothes, Val might have been able to keep things in better perspective. He’d hardly attempt making love to Sophie with Juliette’s wise dark eyes watching.
But he’d been forced to come out alone, and on Phelan’s head be the results. Not that he would do anything to jeopardize his own or his brother’s safety. But he could indulge in a flirtation so light, so expert, that Miss Sophie de Quincey would never realize she’d been trifled with by a master.
It was the most he could ask for, the most he could hope for, in a doomed relationship. He intended to enjoy every moment of it.
Hampton Regis was a small seaside town, neither too smart nor too shabby, with the Fowl and Feathers its only hostelry. It possessed several small shops, a confectionery, and a lending library, and it was to that establishment that Valerian Romney made his first stop. He’d learned more about the ways of women from the French romances he’d been reading than he’d learned in a lifetime of observing the feminine half of the species, and he considered himself an apt pupil, always eager to learn more. Besides, the delicately phrased love scenes were as close as he was coming nowadays to physical satisfaction. At least he and Sophie were reading the same passages, even if they weren’t able to enact them.
For once his luck was with him. Miss de Quincey was on the premises; he could hear her voice from one of the back rooms, raised in warm laughter. He loved her laugh. It sent shivers of desire through his body, torment that he gladly welcomed. At least it reminded him that he was still a man.
He strolled through the library in search of that voice, pausing on his way to respond to the various greetings, flirting archly with old General Montague, allowing Sir Hillary Beckwith to kiss his large, gloved hand. He plastered a suitably languid expression on his face as he stepped into the back room, and it took all his self-control not to let his expression deteriorate into a furious scowl.
Miss Sophie de Quincey was not alone. Beside her, holding her hand, for God’s sake, was an absolute Adonis. Not a worthless exquisite like Sir Neville; this was the enemy. A true rival, Valerian decided miserably, from the man’s pomaded hair, dressed in the windswept style, to his perfectly tied neckcloth, to his buckskin breeches that molded sturdy legs to his coat that looked like it had come from his father’s tailor, the great Weston himself. The man inside those faultless clothes was a paragon, with perfect teeth, a chiseled profile, massive shoulders, and a flat stomach. Valerian paused inside the door, holding his long skirts in one strong hand, and glared.
The man, who’d doubtless been pouring compliments into Sophie’s willing ear, looked up first, and his admiring glance was all the more infuriating to Valerian’s trampled sensibilities. And then Sophie turned, and her bright blue eyes lit up with such joy that his bad temper vanished, and he crossed the room with a decidedly unfeminine stride to meet her outstretched hands.
She didn’t stop there. Miss Sophie de Quincey flung herself into his arms, holding him tightly, and her breathless little gulp was as much tears as laughter. “I’ve missed you so much!” she whispered in a shaky voice.
He couldn’t resist. He stroked the line of her back, careful not to let his errant hand linger past her waist, all the while making soothing, appropriate noises. When she finally released him, her eyes were damp and shining. “Are you all right?” she asked, searching his face. “When you weren’t seen in town, I was so worried …”
“A minor indisposition,” he said with an airy wave he’d perfected from Juliette’s instructions. He had every faith that he did it better than she did. “I’m quite well now.”
“Oh, no!” Sophie breathed. “Don’t tell me. You didn’t … That is … You … I mean …”
He was quite mystified as to what she was struggling to say, and her preening beau didn’t help matters. At least the overbuilt wretch had the sense to realize it. “I gather I’m de trop,” he said. “I’ll take myself off now, and look forward to a formal introduction at a later date. Your servant, Miss de Quincey.” With a polite bow and one last, lingering, disgustingly soulful glance at Sophie, he left them.
“Who was that popinjay?” Valerian demanded irritably.
Sophie managed a throaty laugh. “Oh, you shouldn’t call him that. Captain Melbourne is quite the most-sought-after gentleman in town. I’m very honored to be the subject of his attentions. Or so my friends inform me.”
“Fustian,” Valerian said, stifling his urge to come up with a term a great deal stronger and not at all ladylike. “He seems very conceited.”
“He is. But then, if you were vastly wealthy, wellborn, and a hero besides, you’d probably be conceited as well.”
“Since I’m none of those things, I’ll remain blessedly humble.”
Sophie laughed, and once more he felt that tremor of desire shake his bones. And then her face fell. “But you still haven’t told me! Perhaps I shouldn’t ask, but I felt … That is, there seemed to be a certain closeness, a certain lack of constraint between us that …”
“You may tell me anything, ask me anything,” Valerian said, taking her slender hand in his, hoping she wouldn’t notice the disparity as much as he did.
“Did you lose the baby?”
“What?” He couldn’t disguise his confusion.
“I knew I shouldn’t have said anything!” Sophie said miserably. “But your husband mentioned it to Mowbray, and you know how things get around. I know you didn’t admit me to your confidence about the matter, and I understood your delicacy, but when there was no sign of you for days on end, I was so worried …”
“I’m not pregnant,” Valerian said flatly, inwardly seething.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Sophie said, once more flinging her arms around him.
It was torture. It was heaven. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her silky blond hair tickled his nose, she smelled of lavender and lilacs and silk, and he thought if he didn’t kiss her he would surely die.
But she was crying. He could feel her hot tears against his neck, feeling her slender body tremble, and he felt more evil than if he’d been the villain who’d plunged the knife into his father’s heart.
It took all his stoicism to clasp her arms and gently pull her away. “There’s no need for tears, Sophie,” he said in a gruff voice.
“But the baby!” she whispered. “You lost the
baby.”
Damn his brother’s soul to an early and painful hell, Valerian thought savagely. “Let me assure you, dear Sophie, that I was never pregnant. It was all a mistake. Alas,” he added for good measure in a suitably sober voice, “it turns out that I’ll never be able to bear children.”
She looked ready to start sobbing anew, and in desperation Valerian cast around for something to distract her. While the thought of his Sophie weeping over his future was a delight, the cause of that weeping was less than enthralling. “Let’s talk about more cheerful things,” he said determinedly, tucking his arm through hers. “Tell me about your suitor. Are you going to marry him?” And am I going to have to kill him? he thought to himself.
“He wants me to.”
Valerian swallowed his growl. “He’s offered?”
“Oh, not officially. But he’s dropped several hints, just so that I might be prepared for the honor. And my mother had a talk with me.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Did she? What did she say?”
“Oh, she explained my duty, and told me I might as well marry Captain Melbourne as anyone else. At least he was pleasant to look at and wouldn’t make too many demands.”
“You don’t want a demanding husband?” Val asked innocently.
“Does any woman? Marriage is a social institution after all, not at all like the books and plays. One marries for security and position.”
“And children,” he added.
“Oh, Valerie!” she said, ready to dissolve once more.
“Calm yourself, my dear.” He patted her hand. “Nevertheless, with the right sort of man, there might be more to marriage than convenience and security.”
“What?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Passion?” he suggested.
She considered the notion. “For the man, perhaps. But women don’t feel passion. Love, perhaps, in certain lucky circumstances. But not passion.”
“You know this from your great experience?” Valerian said gently.
She stopped in the door, staring up at him uncertainly. There was no one within earshot, a lucky thing. “You promised me you would tell me about what really went on between men and women,” she said. “Do you mean to keep that promise?”