Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

  “There is not,” he said curtly. He had no desire to belabor that painful point, and strode aimlessly across the room. There was nothing more he could say. He was sorry she was so against it … against him, but what could he do? He could hardly—

  Julian heard a sound and jerked around; Claudia’s fist was pressed against her mouth in her struggle not to cry. She whirled away from him, but Julian was quickly at her side, trying to hold her, although she shoved away from him. “Don’t cry, Claudia,” he uttered helplessly. “It will be all right.”

  “I feel so helpless!”

  “I know you do.”

  “I have no voice, no say! I am nothing! Cheevers won’t receive me, they say horrid things about me, and my father barely speaks to me!”

  He winced, truly sorry for the indignities she was undoubtedly suffering. She suddenly lifted her head and swiped angrily at the tears on her cheeks. “But there is no going back, is there?”

  “No,” he said.

  “All right, well then, I … I will not cry. I only … I’ve some questions.”

  “About?”

  “I am rather curious how it will be after we, ah … after Saturday.”

  “How what will be?”

  “You know … us. I mean, this,” she quickly corrected, gesturing wildly about the room. “Will I be placed under any restrictions?”

  “Restrictions?” he echoed dumbly, uncertain as to what she might be thinking.

  Claudia glanced heavenward with a sigh and wiped the wetness from beneath her eyes. “You are not making this very easy, Julian.”

  “I beg your pardon for that, but what sort of restrictions were you expecting?”

  “Will you restrict my freedom in any way?” she asked, gesturing irritably. “Tell me where I can go and where I cannot? Whom I may see or not see?”

  Now wasn’t this just bloody grand? She not only thought him a murderer of sorts, but also a man who would imprison his wife. “That’s ridiculous, Claudia. Why would I restrict you in any way? You may come and go as you like.”

  “Will I be allowed to remain in London, then?” she asked skeptically.

  “I rather assume you will remain with me, wherever that might be. Do I presume too much?”

  She blinked, her gray eyes clouded with confusion. “So … so you don’t intend to send me to Kettering?”

  Where in God’s name did she get these absurd notions? “Claudia,” he said impatiently, “I intend to live as any man and wife would, wherever it suits us, whenever it suits us, in London or at Kettering. I am certainly not going to imprison you, and I am not going to banish you.”

  She glanced down. The soft light of a candelabrum framed her profile as she scuffed the toe of her slipper into the carpet. The slipper had a tiny little bow on it, so light and fragile. Something in Julian reacted violently to that bow. As absurd as it was, it reminded him of Valerie, of another time he had felt the need to make everything all right and had failed. He had failed with Phillip, too. Claudia despised him for that failure, and Julian suddenly did not want to be responsible for another person’s well being. No. He could not bear the responsibility.

  God Almighty, he did not want to feel anything for an alluring little wench who could seduce him with nothing more than a smile and in the next breath cut him to the bone. And she had a dozen smiles at least, smiles that captured him, tugged at his heart, held him hostage … When she looked at him, did she think of Phillip?

  “Well then, there is one other thing,” she said softly.

  “Yes?” he asked curtly.

  “Will I … will you grant me an allowance?”

  He snorted. “No. I intend for you to be penniless, too.” That sarcastic response seemed to confuse her again, and Julian motioned impatiently toward the door. “Of course you will have an allowance, Claudia. I will provide for whatever your heart desires and deny you nothing. Good God, do you recall nothing from the summers you spent at Kettering? You may name your own allowance—”

  “Thirty pounds?” she quickly interjected.

  “Per annum?” he asked sharply.

  “Per month?” she asked meekly.

  Extravagant, but what did he care? He could certainly afford it. If it kept her occupied, separate from him … “Done. And let us further agree to peacefully coexist, all right? You shall go about your business, and I shall go about mine. There is no reason for either of us to suffer unduly for our folly,” he said, halting abruptly in front of her. “I don’t intend to punish myself forever for this colossal mistake.” Claudia blinked, lifted an uncertain gaze to him, searching his face, silently questioning the sudden change in him, and Julian cursed her for the unwelcome pull of his heart. “You can do that, can’t you, Claudia?” he demanded snidely. “Ignore the presence of another? I know I certainly can.”

  The harsh words seemed to fill the room until she quietly responded, “Better than you, my lord, I assure you.”

  “Marvelous,” Julian drawled, and pivoted on his heel, moving quickly for the door before he did something very foolish, like begging her to love him. “Shall we return to our guests? No doubt they are wondering if I’ve got you on a bench again,” he said, and refused to acknowledge the burn in his gut when he heard her pained gasp of astonishment. Why should he? Her dismay was no different from his own. Ah yes, a crushing dismay that the wheels were turning, wheels he could not possibly stop, wheels that would run them over if he allowed it. There was no way out of this catastrophe for either of them.

  A hard, steady rain was falling in London on her wedding day. In the barouche, Claudia sat across from her father, avoiding his gaze. Her stomach lurched with every swerve of the coach; she had been sick with regret for days now.

  She glanced up at the patch of dull gray sky above the rooftops that slowly slipped past, wondering for the thousandth time why she had ever allowed herself to be coerced into this. Unfortunately, the only thing I can do is marry you. But I don’t intend to punish myself forever for this colossal mistake. She would never endure it! Abruptly squeezing her eyes shut, Claudia fought off the tears she had managed to keep at bay for the last forty-eight hours.

  The coach slowed, rounded a corner. “Buck up now. We’ve arrived,” her father said sharply.

  Claudia winced at the sight of the cathedral. Several men milled on the top step of entry, just beneath an overhang. The earl had, naturally, insisted on two dozen or more prominent guests to witness what had been billed as a small, family wedding. He thought that would make it seem almost planned, but it was absurd—the whole of London knew she was being forced into this, her public and everlasting penitence for her indiscretion.

  “Come on, then, you look rather weepy. Enough of that now.”

  She slid her gaze to her father’s impassive face. What did he expect her to do, titter gaily like a blushing maid? Honestly, she had never thought him a particularly sentimental man, but his indifference this past week had bordered on heartless. Could he not understand, not even a little bit, how very difficult this was for her? How very humiliating it was to be dragged into a union with a man of Kettering’s character?

  “Did you love Mama?” Claudia suddenly asked.

  She might as well have asked him if he was a traitor to the crown. “I beg your pardon?” he gasped.

  “Did you love Mama?” she asked again, marveling that she had never before asked him that simple, fundamental question.

  Oblivious to the door swinging open, the earl gaped at her as if she had lost her mind. “Love?” he repeated, as if the word pained him. “What are you doing, Claudia? This is hardly the time—”

  “Papa, please! Just tell me—did you love her?”

  He frowned darkly, ran his thumb and finger down the sides of his mouth, then mindlessly smoothed his neckcloth. He glanced at the footman standing at attention next to the open door. “A moment, Stringfellow,” he said, and gestured for the door to be shut.

  It was a long moment before he spoke. “As with most m
arriages within our rank, ours was arranged through our families. We hardly knew one another,” he said circumspectly. “However, I quite respected your mother. I suppose I even grew rather adoring of her after the first year of marriage when she was with child. But it would be untruthful of me to say I loved her—and neither should you trouble yourself with such sentiment, Claudia. It is hardly necessary to a successful marriage, and I rather think such a notion can be disruptive after a time. Love is like a fine wine—it eventually turns to vinegar. You would do best to strive for a healthy respect for your husband. If you give him your obedience, an amicable companionship will see you through.”

  Claudia gaped at her father, both fascinated and appalled. Was it possible that he could have shared the greatest of intimacies with a woman—the conception of a child—and thought it nothing more than amicable companionship?

  “Now. We’ve only a minute or two before you are due at the altar.” With that, he flicked the door open and exited quickly.

  Claudia did not move—could not move. Through the open door, she stared at the church and the men gathered on the stoop staring curiously at the barouche. Her stomach moved again and she wondered madly what the scandalmongers would make of it if she was actually sick at the altar. There was no time to contemplate it, however, because her father’s gray head appeared in the opening, and his expression clearly relayed that he was quite beyond exasperation. “Enough of this, Claudia!” he whispered hoarsely. “You have made your bed and now you shall lie in it—come along now!”

  If that wasn’t the greatest understatement of the decade—oh yes, she had made her bed, all right. Numb with fright, she slowly, deliberately, pulled the hood of her cloak over her bonnet, adjusted the cloak about her shoulders, and extended her hand to her father.

  The small crowd gathered on the top step of the church parted to let her pass, all of them staring as if she was some sort of oddity as they murmured faint congratulations, to which her father naturally responded. In the narthex, Eugenie, Ann, and Sophie were anxiously waiting. Claudia had not taken much interest in the planning of this wedding, listlessly deferring to Eugenie’s relentless enthusiasm and Ann’s eye for details. She glanced at Sophie as she removed her cloak and handed it to an attendant—her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she had been crying, and her mouth was set in a frown. Eugenie fairly danced at her side, whispering excitedly about who had come. Ann flitted around like a bumblebee, tending to her gown.

  Self-conscious, Claudia looked down. Her gown was a silver velvet with an overskirt of a very fine, transparent chiffon intermittently decorated with tiny little crystals that reflected the soft candlelight in the church. It was a little tight through the fitted bodice and the waist; she supposed she had gained a bit of weight since she last wore it. It was really a rather old gown, one she had worn a few years ago when she attended a very important ball with her father—the very same ball at which Phillip had waltzed her into a heady state of adoration. She had not worn the gown since, but now the silver velvet seemed a good, somber color for the occasion.

  “It’s time,” her father muttered, and grasped her elbow tightly as if he was afraid she might bolt. Ann was suddenly bustling around them, arranging everyone in a line, whispering last minute, frantic instructions into Sophie’s ear before fairly shoving her from behind the screen that separated the narthex from the nave.

  Eugenie followed, grabbing Claudia in something of a bear hug before stepping into the aisle. The earl silently grasped her hand and clamped it down upon his forearm, then pulled her forward. The panic in Claudia’s chest rose to her throat; she stumbled beside her father, righting herself just as he stepped into the aisle leading up to the altar.

  A sea of people swelled to their feet; heads swiveled until all eyes were on her. Claudia’s vision suddenly blurred—with tears or fright, she wasn’t certain—and she frantically searched for something to focus on, something that would keep her from seeing their faces. Her lashes fluttered wildly, she looked toward the vicar—

  Julian.

  Oh, God. Oh, God!

  Her stomach listed violently. Standing next to Arthur Christian, he wore a dark gray frock coat and trousers, a navy waistcoat intricately embroidered with silver thread. Taller than everyone else, his black hair—still too long, she thought madly—gleamed in the light of the dozens of candles at the altar, contrasting vividly with the white of his collar. Although his round spectacles made him appear less predatory than normal, they did not hide the glint in his raven eyes, or the fact that they were riveted on her.

  Heaven above, he was magnificent.

  Her heart was hammering furiously now, gathering momentum with each step that drew her closer to him. Claudia could not tear her gaze from his. Mesmerized, she did not hear the vicar ask who gave her to him, or her father’s answer as he put her hand into Julian’s. His fingers closed around hers; the earl stepped away, and there was nothing between them, nothing but the ugly truth. But still, Claudia gazed up at him, still disbelieving, caught on the edge of a waking nightmare. Julian smiled reassuringly, leaning into her as they turned toward the vicar. “It’s all right.” He whispered it so softly that she thought for a moment she had imagined it, but the gentle squeeze of her fingers assured her she hadn’t.

  And there she stood beside him, murmuring mindless responses to the vicar, staring helplessly at the stained glass window of the Virgin Mary. She was shivering; it was so cold in the cavernous cathedral, the only spot of warmth his hand, wrapped firmly around hers. It was odd, she thought dreamily as he pushed a plain gold band on her finger, that a single hand could hold her up, buoy her during the most extraordinary moment of her life. The hand of a man who had ruined her life not once, but twice now.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife …”

  She heard nothing else, just felt his hand on her cheek, the brush of his lips against hers, his soft sigh on her lips. And when he raised his head, Claudia saw the glimmer of something deep in his black eyes, too deep—for a moment, he seemed almost vulnerable. He took her hand in his, put it in the crook of his arm and covered it protectively with his own, and led her down the aisle as music lifted from the strings of the quartet.

  Oh, Lord.

  It was done.

  But it was only beginning.

  Twelve

  DURING THE WEDDING breakfast, the weight of reality began to seep into Claudia’s marrow. It wasn’t just the gold band that felt foreign and unnatural on her finger. Nor was it the guests who politely acknowledged her new status by addressing her as Lady Kettering.

  It was him.

  Not that Julian had uttered a word to her, other than to tell her that Sophie would be staying with Ann and Victor for a fortnight. He had offered this in the course of the carriage ride to her father’s house on Berkeley Street and had waited patiently for her response. But Claudia had not found her voice quite yet, and he had at last turned his attention to the window.

  He had hardly spoken to her since, but it didn’t matter. His mere presence was overpowering. He chatted easily and gaily to the many people who congratulated him, acting as if this had been an event they had wanted to occur. Perfectly charming, relaxed and witty, his presence filled the space around her, pushing her into a corner. As the afternoon wore on, the consequence of her folly weighed heavier and heavier. She belonged to him now.

  And he touched her. Since the moment they had been pronounced married, he had touched her freely—her hand, her elbow, the small of her back. This was not something she was accustomed to—her father had never been one for displays of affection and what little she got, she had forced. But the feel of his fingers on her elbow, his hand riding her waist, was too … comforting. It frightened her. If she allowed him to lull her into a false sense of security, he would wound her in the end, she was certain of it. He would eventually tire of her, eventually seek his pleasure elsewhere, just as he always did.

  And there were words. “To the health and happiness of my young
bride,” he had toasted, “I pledge my undying respect and honor.” A woman sighed; Arthur Christian applauded the earl poet, and Julian smiled into her eyes as he touched the rim of his flute to her own. She had to remind herself that they were just words, said to please the guests. Yet her stomach had fluttered wildly.

  And now they were alone.

  Alone and apart in the massive Kettering House on St. James Square. When they arrived, old Tinley showed her to her new suite of rooms, and there she had remained, staring out the window at the gray day, the rain-soaked courtyard gardens, and the wisps of smoke rising from chimneys across the London skyline.

  Having paced restlessly in front of the hearth of the master suite, Julian stopped and glared at the clock on the mantel. Eight o’clock. Four hours now since she had followed Tinley up without a word, presumably to change and join him. He had not actually said that to her, but he thought she would have understood it. Like it or not, it was their wedding day. What did she intend, to mope about in her rooms until the bitter end?

  He pivoted on his heel, strode toward a small brass cart, and helped himself to a whiskey from the crystal decanter there. He wasn’t exactly new to feminine moping. With four sisters—any one of whom may have locked herself in her room at any given time—he was quite accustomed to waiting out such episodes. But not this time—he was too impatient, too unsettled by the rapid succession of recent events.

  He should have kept her longer at Redbourne’s, kept her occupied, he thought wryly as he sipped the whiskey. But he had been anxious to be away from the prying eyes watching closely for any tear in the façade or any other sign that the scandal had not quite ended. And he had actually felt sorry for Claudia—she had been a bundle of nerves all morning, a shadow of her usual self, starting at the slightest touch and shrinking from the good wishes of Redbourne’s fifty or more guests.

  Redbourne, that idiot! The man held his position with the king in higher regard than he did his daughter! For the sake of appearances he had invited fifty guests to what should have been a quiet ceremony for the immediate family and hosted a wedding breakfast to rival that of any wedding in the best of circumstance! Not once, not once, had he heard Redbourne say a kind word to Claudia or show her even a modicum of sympathy. No, he had been too concerned that the wedding seem as planned and proper as was possible and that not one untoward piece of gossip reach the king’s ear.