Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

  Until he heard the sound of her tears.

  That sound splintered like glass into his consciousness at the moment she climaxed. But he was already lost. Her body was convulsing hard around him, gripping him tightly, and drawing his own, violent climax. He fairly exploded; the life drained from him like a break in a dam, rushing furiously into her depths.

  And Julian felt the faint stirrings of love deep in his soul.

  With a final thrust, he lowered himself to her, resting his forehead against her shoulder as he sought to drag air into his lungs. She shivered beneath him, the aftermath of her passion and her tears. He blindly felt her face, his fingers dragging across the path of wetness on her cheeks, and his heart wrenched painfully in his chest.

  He had hurt her.

  And she had destroyed him.

  The wind had picked up, was howling outside and rattling the windowpanes. Claudia lay entwined in Julian’s arms, entranced by the feel of the heavy breath of his sleep on her neck as she tried desperately to deny what had happened between them.

  Oh, but it had happened … the most extraordinary experience of her life, the most intense, physical release, running the gamut from great pain to exquisite pleasure. He was right—it was a pleasure she had dared not dream, a freedom of spirit that she had not even thought possible for a woman. The intimacy of that act was extraordinary, the trust it demanded, the strength it required, together building to the most unbelievable experience a man and woman could share. Somehow, he had released her soul to the heavens.

  But not without taking a little piece of her heart in exchange.

  The experience had been so moving on so many different levels that she had not been able to stop the tears. Tears of joy, of frustration, of fear, of wonder—all of it, everything she had experienced in the last two weeks had finally culminated in one explosive moment, and in the course of it, she had lost a little of herself to him.

  So soon!

  There had been no words between them when it was over, nothing but a gentle kiss to her teary eyes, and then he had slipped out of her, rolled over onto his back, and thrown one arm over his eyes as his fingers twined with hers. He had not touched her again, not until he was deep in the clutches of sleep and unconsciously gathered her close, making her feel safe and secure and wanted.

  Claudia gingerly pushed his arm from her belly and inched her way to the edge of the bed. Wrapping the thin, cotton coverlet around her, she stood slowly, careful not to wake him. The only light came from the dying fire in the adjoining room, but it was enough for her to make out his naked form. His chest was broad and muscled, the expanse of it covered with a fine layer of down that tapered to a line running to the nest at his groin. She shivered, pulled the coverlet tightly about her, and gazed in wonder at his body. It fascinated her—she cocked her head to one side, considering the size and weight of his sex, wondering how he managed to walk about with that hanging between his legs. Or ride, for goodness sake! And how it had ever fit inside her …

  Her face flamed; Julian suddenly rolled over in his sleep, onto his stomach. Claudia’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of firm, muscular buttocks—the flame in her face was spreading rapidly down her neck, and she quickly turned away, fairly certain she should not be gaping at a man like that, even if he was asleep.

  Even if he was her husband.

  Oh, God.

  She hurried into the outer room and sat heavily at the table, staring morosely at the uneaten food. The wine Julian had poured had been left untouched; she lifted the goblet to her lips and drank thirstily, hoping it would numb her. Her body still tingled, still ached from that incredible experience.

  How could she have let it happen?

  Of course she knew she would have to lie with him, but she had never thought she would like it so very much! How was it that he could do such incredible things to her body? I want to bury myself deep inside you, feel you wrap yourself around me … let me love you, Claudia. Every time she thought of it, she felt the queer tingle in the pit of her stomach. Trembling, she put the goblet down and buried her face in her hands. She possessed some sort of character defect, surely—what else could explain the physical desire—the lust—she felt for that Rake? What, must she recount his many misdeeds against her every time he so much as looked at her? This was a disaster! She would give him her heart, she knew she would, and he would crush it, toss it aside like so much rubbish in favor of a new attraction. He had done it before to her. He had done it to many other women.

  Had Phillip?

  She lifted her head, stared into the fire.

  Had Phillip titillated women so easily? Would he have lifted her to the heavens as Julian had tonight? Would he have—

  “Can’t you sleep?”

  With a startled gasp, Claudia looked over her shoulder. Leaning against the doorframe, Julian stood bare-chested, his trousers pulled up loosely around his hips, unbuttoned. She gripped the edge of the coverlet a little tighter. “Ah, no. Yes.” She winced lightly. “I was hungry.”

  Julian smiled at that, padded across the carpet to her, and kissed the top of her head before sprawling onto a chair next to her. He reached out, laid his hand on her thigh—unconsciously, she thought—and made a face as he looked at the food. “Dear God, I hope you haven’t been eating that.”

  With a shake of her head, she reached for her wine. Julian resumed a slouch against the chair, regarding her beneath hooded eyes as she sipped. “Terribly seductive of you to look like that,” he said after a moment. “All wildly mussed and naked beneath that coverlet.”

  Claudia’s face flamed.

  He abruptly leaned forward and reached for a strand of her hair, twining it lazily in his fingers. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he muttered softly. “I would take my own life before I would willingly hurt you.”

  Another piece of her heart gone, just like that. She shifted uncomfortably. “It … it didn’t hurt so terribly much,” she lied.

  “Come back to bed with me, Claudia. I won’t hurt you again, I swear it.”

  Ah, but you will. She glanced warily at his handsome face, remembered the storm in his expression as he drove deep inside her. “Now?” she asked stupidly.

  He considered her for a moment, then let go of her hair and leaned back. “Would you prefer I return to my own rooms?”

  No, no, stay and hold me. “Yes. Yes, I … I think I would, please,” she said, and looked to the fire so he would not see her lie. “I … I need to be alone.” Julian said nothing, but she could feel him staring at her, trying to penetrate her thoughts. After a long moment, he stood up. As he walked by her, he ran his palm tenderly over her crown. “I am sorry I hurt you,” he said again, and leaned down, his mouth in her hair. “It will be all right, Claudia. Everything will be all right.” And with that, he disappeared into the adjoining bedroom.

  When she heard a door shut a few moments later, she laid her head on her arms and let the torrent of tears come until there was nothing left in her.

  Thirteen

  THREE DAYS LATER, Julian was rather relieved when Arthur Christian called unexpectedly, full of apologies for disturbing him so shortly after the wedding, but in desperate need of his signature on some papers having to do with the iron factory in which the Rogues were partners. Arthur’s arrival couldn’t have been timelier, as Julian was just beginning to panic. And he was not a man given to panic.

  Much less a man who knew what to do if he should panic.

  It was that explosive, mind-shattering experience in her bed on their wedding night that had undone him. Really undone him, made a lovesick fool out of him and a miserable one at that, as he was trying very hard to give Claudia a bit of space until she was ready to accept that they were, for better or worse, quite inextricably married.

  But unfortunately—for him, anyway—all the good intentions in the world hadn’t prevented him from slipping into her bed in the middle of the night last evening, or from pressing his throbbing arousal into her hips, or fro
m caressing her breasts as she lay on her side. Claudia never uttered a word, nothing more than a wistful sigh when he found his way under the bed linens and felt her heat. She had squirmed, moving her hips seductively against his hardness until he could stand no more. In silence, he had slipped into her warmth from behind, driving deep into her until she cried out in pleasure, then releasing himself into her.

  Panting, they lay spoon-fashion afterward, his arm draped over her belly. At some point, he had slipped into a deep, comfortable sleep. But something had awakened him, and he had found himself alone in her bed. Again.

  She was in the room adjoining the bedchamber, staring at the glowing embers in the hearth, a sheet wrapped tightly around her. There was something about the way she held herself close and tight, something in the purse of her lips that made him believe she was even more vulnerable than he had thought. She looked so forlorn sitting there, so miserable—it was not the Claudia he knew, and he had suddenly felt the sick dread of something gone terribly wrong. He had backed away, slipping out of her room just as quietly as he had come. And then he had tossed and turned the rest of the night, madly wondering what she was thinking, what caused her to rise in the middle of the night and stare so sadly into the dying embers. Did she despise him so completely? Did she think of Phillip?

  That was the question that drove him mad. He could cope with anything else, but the ghost of Phillip haunted him in a way Julian could not comprehend. It was ridiculous, not to mention bordering on insanity! Yet he could not seem to stop himself. Nothing could shake that awful, uncomfortable feeling that Phillip was watching him—that he knew Julian had let him fall into his grave so that he might have Claudia. It was absurd! Phillip was dead!

  Nonetheless, he had closeted himself in his study all day, had tried to work on the medieval manuscript in preparation for a lecture he was due to deliver at Cambridge soon. He had tried to do anything but think of her, or Phillip, or this bizarre circumstance of marriage he found himself in.

  Nothing worked.

  In the middle of the afternoon, in spite of himself, he had asked Tinley about her. The old man had thought hard about that, declared he was rather certain she had not appeared today. So Julian had very nonchalantly strolled into the kitchen—a room he had visited twice, perhaps three times since he had inherited this house—and had asked a very shocked cook if her ladyship had sent for anything.

  She had not.

  So he had returned to his study, wrestling with the urge to go up and see about her, panicking a little because he feared he just might go up and do Lord knew what when, thankfully, Tinley announced Arthur.

  Julian could tell from the way Arthur peered at him that he found his near glee upon seeing him a little odd. Julian adjusted his spectacles and tried to look quite relaxed, but after a moment, Arthur sighed, shook his head, and tossed back the brandy Julian had thrust into his hand with an insistence that he stay a bit. “I knew this would happen.”

  “What?”

  “What!” Arthur snorted. “Look at you, three days after taking your marriage vows, and already chafing to get out.”

  Out. Julian seized on that—yes, out is where he needed to be. Anywhere but in this room, thinking of her. Was it possible? Could he leave his bride? Yes! Distance was the one thing she seemed to want from him, wasn’t it? So let him give her distance, if even for a short time. He looked at the papers Arthur had brought, shuffled them into a neat stack. “Well, now that you’ve discovered my tragic secret,” he said casually, “was there something you had in mind?”

  Arthur laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asked, and nodded politely at Tinley as he walked in, carrying a silver tea service. Julian had not sent for tea—it was almost the supper hour. Tinley was losing what was left of his feeble old mind. “I confess, Kettering, I’m not sure it’s safe to cavort about town with a newlywed,” Arthur cheerfully continued. “Makes any contemplation I might have had of calling on Madame Farantino’s rather difficult.”

  Julian snorted at that. “I was hardly suggesting a night out on the town, Christian,” he said, watching Tinley shuffle to the door and pause, leaning against the brass knob as he took a deep breath. “I was merely suggesting that marital bliss might go down a bit easier with a good port.”

  “Indeed?” Arthur drawled as Tinley shut the door behind him.

  “You wouldn’t deny an old chum a bit of escape, would you?”

  Grinning, Arthur shook his head again and drained his snifter. Setting it aside, he came to his feet. “As the last free Rogue of Regent Street, I suppose I am honor-bound to help you.” He strolled to the door and glanced over his shoulder, waiting for Julian to stuff his spectacles in his coat pocket and join him. “And what of your bride?”

  She’ll be grateful to be rid of me. Julian shrugged, avoiding Arthur’s steady gaze. “She ought to be getting accustomed to it, don’t you think?” he answered vaguely.

  With a skeptical shake of his head, Arthur walked out the door. “I knew it,” he said again.

  Claudia stood at the full-length mirror of her dressing room, turning slowly from side to side, critically eyeing the gown she had chosen to wear to supper. It was a dark plum brocade with a low square neck, and without petticoats, it draped very prettily. She worried a moment about her hair—it wasn’t dressed, but pulled back to fall freely down her back. From across the room, Brenda made a sound of approval. “Lovely, mum,” she said admiringly, and came across the room to hand her a pair of amethyst earrings. Claudia fastened one on her lobe, recalling with a slight flutter in her belly how Julian had taken the pearl earring in his mouth. She fastened the other one, and gave herself one final inspection.

  What was she doing?

  Accepting her marriage, that was what. How many times did she have to tell herself that? She had decided this morning—having awakened still wrapped in the coverlet—that it was the only sensible, practical thing to do. Now if she could only convince herself that accepting this marriage didn’t mean that she was giving up any part of herself. No, she was not surrendering anything, so there was really nothing to mope about … although she had practically perfected the art in the last several days.

  Enough of that. He had said they would find a way to peacefully co-exist. Entirely possible—he was a gentleman. She was a lady. They could certainly live in the same house and be civil. Perhaps they’d even be friendly! Julian was, after all, ruthlessly charming, as she very well knew. What harm was there in an occasional supper together? It didn’t mean anything!

  And the fact that she had dragged out a new gown for the occasion meant even less. It was part of her trousseau—she was supposed to wear the clothes in her trousseau. It certainly was not to impress him. Yes, and what a pathetic liar she made! Claudia frowned at her reflection. The truth, should she care to admit it—which she did not—was that he had touched her in a way she did not believe she could be touched. Last night had been magical, the pleasure he gave her washing over her in some sort of waking dream. It had been magic and exotic and gentle and rough … he had lifted her to the height of sensuality, then had let her drift back to earth in a dream.

  It was so earthy, so primitive, that it had scared her. So much that she had slipped from his arms again, certain that what she was feeling, what she was doing with him was a weakness he would eventually exploit. In the morning’s light, however, that seemed awfully severe, if not childish. He had shown her nothing but pleasure, taking care to bring her incredible fulfillment before taking any pleasure for himself. There was nothing to suggest he had been insincere, or that he was merely using her. For heaven’s sake, she had been married three days now, and had yet to leave her rooms! She was pouting like a spoiled child who had been denied her way. But she was not a spoiled child, she was a grown woman, and it was time she acted like one.

  She found Tinley in the salon, polishing the top of a brass torchère, which she thought rather odd given the hour. “Good evening, Tinley!” she said cheerfu
lly.

  “Good evening,” he responded, sounding a bit distracted as he stared at the torchère.

  Claudia moved farther into the room, admiring the furnishings and paintings. Thick Oriental carpet, furniture made of English walnut and marble, two very large paintings of country life by Hans Holbein the Younger amid several smaller paintings, and a gilded ceiling that was an exact replica of one she had seen at St. James’s Palace. Kettering had good taste, she would give him that—and apparently as much wealth as she had heard rumored.

  “Is my Lord Kettering about?” she asked, tracing her finger around the rim of a French vase made of fine bone china.

  “No, milady. He’s gone out.”

  Claudia glanced at the ancient butler. “Out?”

  “Yes, milady,” he said, leaning very close to the torchère to polish a very tiny little spot. It was hardly in need of polishing; the thing was polished to such a sheen that there was really no need to even place candles on it. “Has he gone out for the evening?” she persisted.

  Tinley paused, looked at something over her shoulder, then resumed his work. “I can’t recall, really.”

  Frowning lightly, Claudia asked, “Do you know where he went?”

  “Yes, milady. Madame Farantino’s,” he casually informed her.

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Madame Farantino’s?” she choked out.

  Tinley nodded, never looking up. “Aye. Marital bliss might go down easier with a good sport,” he blithely repeated.