“I should like to have heard her version of the story. We have never talked about it.” He considered his words carefully. “I have never spoken of it to anyone.”
“You needn’t do so now,” she said quietly. “If you wish to—”
“No, it’s past time to speak of it.” Even as he said the words he realized they were true. He rolled onto his back, folded his arms under his head, and stared upward into the dark. “I was young and foolish enough to believe in love and silly stories about damsels in distress.”
“And the gallant knights who provide their rescue?”
He chuckled. “Precisely. I was the gallant knight rescuing the fair damsel from a fate worse than death—an unwanted marriage. Except that I wasn’t gallant so much as I was stupid, misled by a pretty face and a flirtatious manner. I thought she was the most wonderful creature I had ever met. An angel come to earth.”
“I daresay I have never met an actual angel.”
“As it turned out, neither had I,” he said wryly. “Although she certainly looked like an angel. Her eyes were an amazing shade of violet and matched her name.”
“That is angelic,” she murmured.
“One would think so.” He glanced at her shadowed figure. “Did you know her? Violet Smithfield? The daughter of the Earl of Traverston?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Pity. I would be curious as to what your impression was of her. At any rate, my fair damsel, this angel, wanted the man she was to marry to express his feelings in a more…” He thought for a moment. “Passionate manner, I suppose. Her fiancé was known for his reserved nature. For whatever reason, convenience more than anything, I suspect, she turned her attentions toward me with an eye toward making the poor man jealous.”
“Probably because she knew the moment she met you that you were dashing and gallant and courageous enough to come to her rescue,” Judith said firmly. “Women recognize such things, you know.”
“They also recognize a fool when they meet one, and that’s precisely what I was when it came to her.” He shook his head. “I can only attribute it to the stupidity and passion of youth. Suffice it to say one thing led to another. Well before dawn one day we slipped out of the city and were married, a scant quarter of an hour before her outraged father and equally outraged fiancé made their appearance.” He snorted with amusement. “I can tell you the man was no longer the least bit reserved about his feelings.”
“You can laugh about it now?”
“I suppose I can.” Surprise coursed through him. He hadn’t imagined he would ever see humor in the incident. “It had all the makings of a theatrical farce: outraged father, indignant fiancé, lovely but devious ingénue, and hapless, hopeless swain.”
“It would be most amusing onstage or in hindsight but not at all funny at the time.”
“True enough. When one risks everything for the woman he loves and then learns not only did the woman in question not return his feelings but was, in truth, using him to incite another man’s emotions, well, it can be most upsetting.”
“Upsetting?”
“Upsetting,” he said firmly. He was not about to use words like devastated or crushed or heartbroken. He had been all that and more but now it seemed both long ago and surprisingly insignificant. Without conscious thought through the years he had indeed put his marriage behind him and gone on with his life. It was a startling, and satisfying, revelation. “The marriage was annulled without delay, she married the man she had intended to marry all along, and I lived in a hell of my own making for a time.”
“I see.” She fell silent for a long moment. “That’s more or less what your aunt said.”
“Probably more accurate and less sensational.”
“Not really.”
“Now, turnabout is fair play, you know.”
“What?”
“It’s your turn to tell me about your past, your marriage.”
“There’s very little to tell. I was rather sheltered as a child and probably spoiled as well. I was barely seventeen and had just begun my first season when I met Lucian, Lord Chester. He was but a few years older than I. Dashing, handsome, and terribly romantic, he quite swept me off my feet. We married within two weeks of meeting. My parents died the following year, my husband two years later. He had a sister but I have no other family.” She shrugged. “There’s little more to say than that.”
Her recitation struck him as matter-of-fact and unemotional. How very odd. Judith was not an unemotional woman. “Come now, Judith, surely there’s more to say than that.”
“Not really.” She sat up and slid out of bed.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.” He watched her shadowy figure find the frilly concoction she called a dressing gown and wrap it around herself. “But you are.” She lit a lamp and cast him a pleasant smile, as if they had just returned from a stroll in the park instead of a night of exquisite passion. “It’s very late or rather very early, and you should probably be on your way.”
He sat up and stared at her. “You’re making me go because you don’t want to talk about your past?”
“Don’t be absurd.” She waved away his comment. “I’m making you leave because it’s nearly dawn. It would be best for all concerned if no one noted your comings and goings.”
“I daresay your servants are used to gentlemen coming and going at all hours.” The words were out of his mouth before he could catch himself.
“Indeed they are,” she said coolly. “I was thinking of your servants as well as your aunt. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she hasn’t been watching for your return.”
“Judith.” He scrambled out of bed, grabbing his trousers, and yanking them on. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know exactly what you meant, my lord.” She shrugged. “It’s not the least bit important at the moment.”
“I am sorry. I wasn’t think—”
“If the situation were reversed…” She crossed her arms over her chest. “If I were the one making reference to your…adventures, as it were, you wouldn’t be offended. Why should I?”
“Well, you shouldn’t, of course. There’s no reason why you should.” He pulled his shirt on over his head. “Although you are a woman.”
“I thought you had noticed. But what might have escaped your notice is that I have nearly as much property as you do and my fortune might even be a tiny bit larger. In addition, neither of us has extensive family, we are close in age, and I would immodestly suggest that both of us are considered excellent specimens, in term of appearance, of our respective genders. What I am saying is that our lives and circumstances are remarkably similar and we should be considered in a similar manner. Why then is it perfectly acceptable for you, a man, to share a woman’s bed without benefit of marriage but it is considered scandalous when I, a woman, does the same?”
He stared in disbelief. “Because”—he emphasized each word slowly—“you are a woman.”
“And you are an idiot,” she snapped. “And it scarcely hinders you at all.”
“An idiot?” He sputtered with indignation. “An idiot?”
“Yes. I-d-i-o-t. Do you need the word defined as well as spelled?”
“Bloody hell, Judith.” He tried to pull on his socks and hop toward her at the same time. “You’re being irrational.”
“Well, what can one expect? I’m a woman, aren’t I? And therefore prone to being irrational.”
“I didn’t say that.” And was grateful he had ignored the impulse to say exactly that. He was in enough trouble with her already for speaking without thinking. “I am sorry. I am truly, truly sorry. I was a cad to make such a comment.”
“I told you, it doesn’t matter. Now.” She nodded at the door. “Get out.”
A low growl sounded from the other side of the room. He ignored it. “If it doesn’t matter and it’s not important and you aren’t angry with me—”
“Not in the least,” she said loftily. “At least not for your comment.�
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“But it does serve as a convenient excuse to make me leave.”
She snorted. “Apparently not with any sense of urgency.”
He stared at her, the answer at once apparent to him. He should have seen it before. “Do you ever speak about your marriage?”
She glared at him. “Do you?”
“I did to you.”
“I have told you everything there is to tell.” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling in exasperation. “I was young. He was a poet, very romantic, intense, and quite irresistible. And when he died…How did you put it?” She narrowed her eyes. “Oh yes. I lived in a hell of my own making for a long time. Is that enough?”
“No!”
“Well it shall have to do.”
“Damnation, Judith!” He sat down hard on a chair that appeared far too delicate to handle anyone sitting hard, and continued putting on his socks and shoes. “This is not at all like you.”
“How do you know what is and isn’t like me? For all you know I could be irrational most of the time. We have spent two evenings together, scarcely long enough for you to become an expert on my nature. You don’t know me at all!”
“This conversation is over.” He got to his feet, grabbed his coat, and tugged it on. “But only for the moment.”
“Then you shall be conversing with yourself as I have no intention of continuing it!”
“We shall see.” He started toward the door. “Tonight, you and I made our association known to the rest of the world. There shall be a certain amount of gossip. No doubt a wager or two as to how long we will be together. I warn you right now, I intend for that to be a very long time.”
“We shall see,” she mimicked.
He again headed toward the door, then pulled up short. Damn it all, he was not going to leave this way. He turned, strode to her, and yanked her into his arms. At once Arthur launched himself across the room, yapping and nipping at his heels. Gideon ignored him and stared into Judith’s eyes, raising his voice to be heard above the din of the dog. “You claim to be a book all of London has read. But I think you allow the world to see only what you wish it to see. I have never known a woman like you and I want to know everything about you. How you think, what you feel, and yes, I want to know about your past.” He kissed her hard. “And I intend to find out.”
She glared up at him but did not pull away. “You are even more arrogant than I thought!”
“Yes, I am.” He kissed her again. “I shall call on you tomorrow.”
She huffed. “I shall look forward to it.”
He kissed her once more, softer, slower, and he felt her body relax against him. At last he released her. “Tomorrow then.” He nudged the still yapping dog away, stepped to the door, pulled it open, and glanced back at her. “But you’re wrong, Judith. I may not know the assorted details of your life, but I have known you from the moment I first looked into your eyes.”
She stared at him with anger and annoyance and what he thought, what he hoped, might well be the tiniest hint of longing.
He nodded and started through the door. At that moment he heard a growl and realized he had made a serious mistake in turning his back on the fur ball of a dog. Gideon felt a sharp tug at the back of his trousers just below the right buttocks and heard a ripping sound. He glanced behind him to see Arthur sitting proudly with a piece of Gideon’s trousers in his mouth. He could have sworn the nasty beast was grinning. He raised a brow and glanced at Judith. “Even he will not dissuade me. Good morning.” He shut the door behind him.
Gideon was in his carriage and well on his way home before he realized he had indeed meant everything he’d said to her. And realized as well the hole in his trousers was larger than he’d thought.
“Bad dog,” Judith murmured, still staring at the closed door.
Arthur trotted over to her, laid the swatch of fabric from Gideon’s trousers at her feet, and gazed up adoringly. She bent down and scratched him behind the ears. “You shouldn’t have done that, Arthur. It was quite naughty of you.”
Arthur thumped his tail on the floor in an unrepentant manner.
“Yes, of course, I wanted to do exactly the same thing.” She smiled wryly. “Well, perhaps not exactly the same thing, although I daresay biting him in his rear end would have been…” Without warning a wave of desire passed over her. “Never mind.” She nodded at his basket. “Back to bed now.” Arthur obediently ran to her bed, jumped on it, and settled himself firmly at the foot. She frowned at him. “Is every male in my life these days determined to ignore my wishes?”
Arthur cocked his head and wagged his tail.
“It’s most annoying, you know.” Judith crossed her arms over her chest and paced the room. “I don’t want to talk about Lucian. Not to Gideon, not to anyone.” Not even Susanna knew the details of her brief, tempestuous marriage.
Susanna had asked on occasion but had never pressed for answers. Admirable of her, really, since Judith knew virtually everything there was to know about Susanna’s marriage with Charles. Charles had been the love of Susanna’s life, and she reveled in her memories. Judith found her own memories had not withstood the test of time particularly well.
Oh, she had no doubt that she had loved Lucian with all the fervor of a seventeen-year-old girl who believed she had found her soul mate. And she had no doubt he had loved her as well, in his fashion. She had spent so many years not thinking about their time together, it was difficult now to think of it at all. But it had been ten years and was past time to do so.
The beginning had been glorious. Even now she did not doubt that. Lucian was full of life and passion and more exciting than she had ever dreamed. They had thrown wild, extravagant parties for his equally wild, extravagant friends. They were all of an artistic nature—poets and writers and artists. Many with more money than talent. Her world had been confined to her husband and his friends, and she had never for a moment questioned that they did not move in the more refined circles of her parents or the other girls she’d known. Indeed, what few friendships she’d had before she married faded with each passing day, and his world had become hers. When her parents had died, she’d had no one at all save him.
He had shown his temper on occasion in the beginning but it had been nothing of significance. He was a poet, after all, a genius, and one overlooked the imperfections of men of his creative temperament. It was in the last few months of his life that the incidents of anger had grown more frequent, more violent.
Without thinking, she glanced at her hand and the little finger bent so slightly, even she scarcely noticed it. The smallest thing would send Lucian into a rage. The stupidity of critics or mistakes made by servants or the presence of his sister. Or the wrong word from her. He would accuse her of being unfaithful, of infidelity with his friends. It was the furthest thing from the truth, of course. He was her life. Afterward he would be filled with remorse and apologize profusely and take her in his arms, and all would be well again. For a while. But the periods of harmony grew shorter. Even so, he had never hurt her, she had never imagined he would, and she had never feared him. A day before his death, something so insignificant she never could recall it had triggered his fury. He had called her a whore. Had again charged that she had been with other men. She denied it but he’d refused to listen. He’d thrown in her face what she had begun to suspect: hers was not the only bed he frequented. Her own anger erupted.
And therein lay her mistake. She had never spoken back to him before, never raised her voice. And her anger only served to increase his. He had forced her to her knees, gripping her hands so tightly, he had broken her little finger. She had fought against him, and he had struck her hard across the face. He had taken her then, brutally and with a violence that had torn her heart to shreds much as he tore her body. Had taken her in a manner that had nothing to do with love or passion and was in fact a cruel and awful punishment.
Later, he had wept with remorse outside the locked door to her rooms. He had promised nev
er to hurt her again, had begged her forgiveness. She refused to open the door and swore she would never forgive him. She told him she was leaving. Perhaps she would have relented when the soreness had left her body and her finger had healed and the bruise had faded from her face. But the next morning his body had been found at the bottom of the terrace. He and his friends had been fond of drinking on the flat rooftop of the house. From the empty bottles on the roof and the position of the body, it was agreed Lucian had been in a drunken state and had fallen to his death. Regardless of the official cause of death, Judith had known better.
“It was my fault,” she said quietly. Arthur rested his head on his paws and watched her pace. “I should have forgiven him at once.” But she hadn’t, and no amount of regret could change that.
And if she could change it, would she? Of course, she had loved Lucian. She would never have wanted him dead. A huge part of her had died when he’d died. Still, he had been growing more and more violent and less and less rational. Even now, she refused to consider exactly what his behavior had signified. Refused to so much as think the words mad or insane. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder: if he hadn’t died, would she have lived the rest of her life in fear? Indeed, would she be alive today?
“Is it any wonder that I prefer not to discuss my marriage?” she said to the dog. Arthur raised his head. “It was wonderful in the beginning; he was wonderful. The end of it should not negate that.”
But she knew it would if she spoke of it aloud. If she dwelled on it in her own mind. The tragedy would become so much more important than the joy.
She had mourned for two full years, then had firmly and deliberately put it all behind her and had gone on with her life. Not until now, not until Gideon, had she spent more than an occasional few moments considering her marriage.
What was it about that man?
She huffed and continued to pace. This wasn’t supposed to be at all serious. Why, at this point with Jonathon or Harold or Samuel—Lovett certainly never got to this point—she’d be casually considering the end rather than still feeling they had just begun.
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