Stanwood entered first, exaggerating the hitch in his gait like a bloody cock as he sailed into the green salon. Smiling broadly, he bowed with a flourish to Ann and Eugenie. “Ah, my dear sisters,” he crowed with delight. “How well you look.”
Julian opened his mouth, but whatever he might have said to the bastard died on his tongue as Sophie walked sluggishly into the room, her head bowed. His gaze narrowed on his little sister as the million things he would say warred for a place on his tongue. But before he could speak, she lifted her head and pierced him with a look so forlorn that he all at once felt submerged, as if he floated somewhere just beneath the surface—voices were suddenly muted in his ear, his vision of everything around him blurred. Sophie’s chin began to tremble as she looked at him, and Julian saw the perfect despair swimming in her brown eyes. He was not even aware he moved—he only knew he was suddenly halfway across the room, his arms held out to her.
Her tears erupted like a dam burst; she flung herself into his arms and buried her face in his coat, sobbing uncontrollably. Julian held her tightly to him, caressed her back. “Shhh,” he whispered in her ear, “don’t cry, pumpkin. Everything will be all right.”
“Oh, come now!” Stanwood scoffed, and grabbed Sophie’s hand, dragging her from Julian’s embrace. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and squeezed tightly. “That’s hardly necessary, my love. You’ll cause him to think you regret what you’ve done!”
“No, of course not,” she muttered, and shakily wiped the tears from her flushed cheeks.
“Well, then, Kettering,” Stanwood continued with a smirk. “You heard her—can’t ignore me any longer, can you? Might as well introduce the family to me.”
“You know them,” Julian responded low, fighting the deep urge to strangle the smirk from Stanwood’s lips.
“Indeed I do.” With a chuckle, Stanwood turned to face the rest of them, a sneer of pure contempt on his lips. “But they do not know me, do they? Take the venerable Madame Renault, for example, and her renowned French husband. I never traveled in their circles, so how could they know me? But you know me now, do you not, Genie?” he asked casually, clearly shocking Eugenie with his familiar address. “And Ann, of course,” he said, shifting his sneer to her. “We encountered one another once before—you probably don’t recall it. You were leaving St. George Cathedral and I tipped my hat to you, wished you a good day. Unfortunately, you did not deign to acknowledge it.”
Ann looked uneasily at Sophie. “William,” Sophie said weakly, “please allow me to introduce you properly—”
“For goodness sakes, Sophie!” he exclaimed laughingly, and tightened his hold on her to such a degree that Sophie looked almost pained. “You make it sound as if I am an outsider! Ah, but I am a part of the family now.” He glanced at Claudia, cocking his head to one side. “You understand, surely, Lady Kettering. You know very well what it is to join this esteemed family under the cloud of a bit of scandal—”
“That’s enough!” Julian roared.
Stanwood laughed gaily, released Sophie, and took several steps toward him, his arms outstretched. “Julian! We are brothers! What, you would debate it? Of course I am part of your family now!” He smiled, casually straightened his neckcloth, and without looking at his wife, said, “Tell him why we’ve come, dear.”
With a small shake of her head, Sophie looked helplessly at Eugenie.
“Tell him!” he said more forcefully, his derisive smile deepening.
Behind him, Sophie began to wring her hands. She looked to Eugenie again, then at Julian’s boots, seemingly unable to look him in the eye. “We, ah … we have no place to live. William and I thought … w-we thought …” She paused, cleared her throat. “We thought that perhaps you would agree to lease a house near the park—”
He had not thought the extortion would come so soon. “Am I to understand that, having ruined my sister, you would now attempt to extort money from me?” Julian interjected, yanking a lethal gaze to Stanwood.
“No!” Sophie exclaimed, but her protest was silenced by one look from Stanwood, and the resentment began to pound in Julian’s chest like a drum.
“I would prefer to call it a loan,” Stanwood said, turning back to Julian. “Don’t look so chagrined, Kettering. We require it only a fortnight or two—just until Sophie’s twenty-first birthday. Then we shall have funds sufficient to last us all our days.” He flashed a sickening smile; behind him, Sophie bowed her head and closed her eyes.
“Call it a loan if you will,” Julian said with deadly calm. “It is extortion all the same.”
Stanwood’s face darkened. “We require a residence, Kettering. Should you like to see where I could afford to keep my wife? It is small by your standards, and I daresay too far south of the Thames. It is, however, marginally clean, and I think the rats are not quite so thick there as—”
“Oh my God!” Eugenie cried out in horror.
“We take your point, Stanwood!” Victor angrily interjected.
“Good,” he drawled.
That was enough. If Stanwood wanted to extort money from him, he could damn well do it without frightening his sisters half to death. Julian started toward Stanwood; the bastard stepped backward like the coward that he was, and Julian sneered as he brushed past him and reached for the handle of the door. “Rest assured, sir, I shall endeavor to find you suitable lodgings …”—he glanced at Sophie, who had yet to look up—“near the park if you like.” He opened the door and held it open. “I thank you for bringing Sophie to us. We are most grateful to see she is safe and well.”
A small sound escaped Sophie. “You … you are most generous,” she murmured, risking a shy glance at him.
“It has nothing to do with generosity, love,” he drawled, and pierced Stanwood with a look so hard that the man visibly flinched. “Was there more, Sir William?”
For the first time since he had entered the salon, Stanwood looked disconcerted. He glanced uneasily at the rest of them, seemed to think for a moment, then quickly shook his head. “For the moment, no,” he said tightly, and motioned impatiently to Sophie, who hurried to his side. “We are temporarily at the Savoy. Wish them all a good day, Sophie.”
“Good day,” she mumbled, and gazed longingly over her shoulder at her sisters.
“Come on, then,” Stanwood said, and scowling at Julian as he passed, dragged Sophie behind him as he quit the room. Julian watched until they were far down the corridor before closing the door.
“Outrageous!” a frustrated Louis bellowed as Julian turned to face them. “Who is this … this bastard?”
“He is, unfortunately, Sophie’s husband,” Julian said wearily, and walked to the sideboard in search of something to dull his fury.
“Did you see her?” Ann cried. “Dear God, did you see how she looked?”
“He would rob us! We cannot allow it!” Victor heatedly exclaimed, looking to Louis for confirmation and receiving a firm nod in response.
“But we can, Victor,” Julian said. He suddenly felt extremely fatigued. “We must think of Sophie. If he wants his revenge on me, I intend to let him have it.”
“You do not mean this!” Louis burst forth. “You cannot surrender to blackmail! What, do you think he stops with lodgings? He will demand all from you before he is through!”
“What are a few hundred pounds compared to her happiness?” Julian shot back, frowning darkly at Louis. “I don’t give a damn about the money!”
“But this is blackmail, Julian!” Victor insisted. “He would use Sophie to hold your coffers ransom to him!”
“Exactly!” Julian bellowed. “He would use Sophie! I have no doubt whatsoever that he would use her in the cruelest way possible against me. He wants money, and money is nothing to me, not when I see her as she was here! I cannot knowingly do anything that might lead to her harm!” He jerked up a bottle of port from the rest and eyed it menacingly. “I cannot,” he insisted more to himself than to the rest of them, and poured the port into
a glass.
“He’s right,” Ann said frantically, her eyes beseeching Victor. “We must think of Sophie!”
“Yes, we must,” Eugenie agreed, and hastily crossed to Louis, standing in front of him, her hand on his arms folded implacably across his chest. “Louis, darling, I cannot bear to think of her residing in one of those wretched neighborhoods! You heard him! Rats, Louis!”
Victor and Louis exchanged black looks; Louis looked down at Eugenie’s upturned face, the muscles in his jaw bulging as he bit back his protest. After a moment, he glanced at Julian and sighed. “This is a mistake, mon ami,” he said, his voice considerably softer. “You must accept that Sophie made her choice when she eloped—you owe her nothing.”
“Louis!” Eugenie cried. Louis suddenly wrapped his arms around her and roughly kissed the top of her head. “You must accept it, too, ma chérie,” he said gently. “She has done this to herself.”
But she was an innocent. Julian took a healthy gulp of the port. And then another. “You may think what you like, Renault, but she is my responsibility, and I will do everything within my power to keep her from harm. For the moment, it would seem a house near the park is the asking price for that.”
“It will be a king’s ransom in the end,” Victor added stubbornly, to which Julian shrugged indifferently before downing the rest of his port.
There was little discussion after that, with the exception of Eugenie and Ann’s suggestions for exactly where Julian ought to find a home for Sophie, Eugenie being of the firm opinion it should be as close to St. James Square as possible. Julian kept silent, but he did not like the sound of that too terribly much. He rather doubted that he could bear seeing Sophie, if only occasionally. If only across the Square.
As the debate continued, his gut churned with anxiety, and he stalked restlessly from the windows to the hearth and back again, moving aimlessly, pausing every now and again to look up at a portrait of his father.
He was vastly relieved when at last Louis stood and helped Eugenie to her feet, signaling the end to the somber occasion. Numb, he watched Claudia bid them all a good day and walk them to the door of the salon.
He was leaning against the window casement, holding the bottle of port loosely in one hand when Claudia at last turned to face him. Her blue-gray eyes were full of sadness, and he brought the bottle to his lips and swigged a mouthful. He did not want her here, not now—he was too spent to endure a traitorous wife. “You are undoubtedly fatigued after the encounter with Sir William. Perhaps you would like to nap before supper,” he said indifferently, and took another drink of port.
“Wouldn’t you like some company?”
Julian smirked, disregarding the hurtful look in her eye. “No, Claudia. And even if I did, I should think I’d like it from Tinley before you.”
It was obvious that stung her sharply; Claudia glanced uneasily at the carpet. “I know you are hurt—”
“I am sick unto death of your perceptions,” he bit out, and stood abruptly, crossing quickly to the sideboard, where he put the bottle of port down so hard that the crystal decanters rattled against one another.
“Yes, so it would seem,” she uttered softly. “I can’t seem to apologize to you in a way that seems appropriate—”
“In that, madam, you are correct,” he snapped, and swung around from the sideboard, bracing himself against it with his hands as he fixed a cold glare on her. “There is nothing you can do that would be appropriate, not now, not ever. So please do me a simple courtesy and just … go on.”
“Julian, I want to help you.”
What madness had invaded her he could not say, but the woman refused to surrender, almost provoking him to a fit of rage. “You have helped me quite enough, haven’t you, Claudia? I could not possibly endure any more of it! So if you please, good afternoon,” he snapped, motioning angrily toward the door.
Her shoulders sagged, her courage apparently failing her. Looking terribly dejected, if not confused, she turned toward the door.
Except Julian was not quite through with her. “Before you go—”
She pivoted sharply, her lovely face radiating hope, and Julian realized he felt nothing. The feelings for her, feelings he had carried inside him for two long years, were gone. Smashed, beaten down, obliterated by her indifference to him and her callous disregard for Sophie. He didn’t want her help, he didn’t want her hope—he didn’t want anything from her at all. God, how he despised her now! “I would greatly appreciate it if you would allow me to walk through my own house without forcing your helpfulness on me again. Hear me well, Claudia. I do not want your help. I scarcely want anything to do with you at all.”
She blinked, then merely nodded, as if he had informed her of something as mundane as the time tea would be served, and turned away, walking out of the salon, her head held high and her spine ramrod stiff.
How she managed to walk out so calmly was beyond Claudia, especially since her legs threatened to buckle beneath her at any moment. Yet the next thing she knew, she was in her suite, having sent Brenda off to prepare a bath she hoped was so scalding hot that it might actually wash away her remorse. And as she calmly undressed, she realized why she was able to bear his disdain.
Something had happened that had inexplicably changed her. Something that forced a mellowing of the indignation from which she had suffered for many years and roused her from the deep hurt that had defined her.
Oh, she knew very well what had happened—she had seen his heartache, as plainly as if he wore it draped like a sash of honor across his chest. And the moment she saw it in his ravaged face, she had at once and with clarion vision understood how wrong she had been. As she sank into the hot, fragrant waters of her bath, she thought of the way Julian had once looked at her … that strange, warm way he had of making her tingle inside.
Yet she had ignored him completely, had run from his efforts to make their marriage bearable. She had tried to escape him in every instance—in her bed, at his table, among his family—she had been too afraid of her feelings for him, too afraid of being hurt. She had made him out to be indifferent, a ruthless charmer with little else on his mind than carnal pleasure. She had convinced herself that her causes were more important than anything else, pretended that everything else faded in comparison. Nothing mattered, and therefore, nothing could hurt her … including her husband.
Lord God, she had been deluded all right. Nothing had pointed that up more than Sophie’s return. Of all the things she expected to happen when Sophie walked through that door, his embrace was not one of them. Not in a thousand years would she have expected him to embrace his fallen sister so firmly, folding her in the protective, forgiving circle of his arms. She had expected him to rail at Sophie, perhaps even disown her, but never to comfort her, not after the dishonor she had brought him.
It was not a simple act of kindness, but a gesture worthy of kings.
And now? Yes, what now, Claudia? Oh God, what now?
She languidly finished her bath, mulling over the awareness that had finally battered through her thick head, pondering what she must do. When she came to the inevitable conclusion, she rose from her bath and dressed. Her conclusion was hardly profound—it was merely instinctive.
She had to fight.
If she wanted his love, she would have to fight to earn it. She needed her courage now as she never had before, because this would be the most difficult battle of her life. She had to fight not only for herself but for Julian, too. For them.
Because he needed her more than ever, whether he wanted to accept it or not.
Twenty
JULIAN IMPATIENTLY SWIPED at the lock of his hair that fell again across his brow, tickling him, reminding him that he was, indeed, quite alive, and not suffering from some horrid dream. He glanced at the little pot of violets next to his elbow and scowled. The damn things were everywhere and he was bloody tired of looking at them. With a heave to, he managed to get his arms and legs to move together to push himse
lf up from the leather chair he had sunk into, then staggered across the carpet to the sideboard.
There were several bottles there, some he recalled sampling earlier. Squinting, he selected a bright blue bottle, smiling when he saw the bottle was full. “What have we here?” he mumbled, and, tipping his head back, let a stream of gin burn the back of his throat and his gullet. “Ah,” he muttered, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Good ol’ bloody gin.”
“Julian?”
Her voice was like drums banging in his ears and sent his heart reeling in a strange but familiar sense of confusion. He awkwardly turned and looked over his shoulder.
His grip slipped; the gin bottle clanked against the glassware on the sideboard.
Damn her. Damn her! Wearing a gown of shimmering lilac satin, the witch looked every inch an angel. Her beauty was extraordinary and it angered Julian that he was, once again, struck hard by the magnificence, the sheer perfection of her.
He hated her, hated her for making him weak with wanting and enslaving him to her! “Get out,” he snapped, jerked around, grabbed the bottle of gin, and reeled toward the leather chair he had vacated in front of the hearth, as far away from her as he could possibly get under the circumstance. He fell into it, drank from the bottle he clutched in one hand, staring blindly at the violets as he strained to hear any sound of her. There was nothing. The discomfort rolled over him in a sickening wave, and faltering, he risked another glimpse of her.
She was still standing at the door, her long, slender fingers on the door handle. Julian scowled; she quietly shut the door. “No,” he said, shaking his head so violently that nausea burned his throat. “Don’t want you here. Just go.”
But she was moving toward him, seemingly gliding on air. In a moment of sheer madness, Julian believed it was an apparition advancing on him, the image from his dreams. His scowl turned into a confused frown, and he sat up, watching the gossamer silk skirt float out from her body as she flowed toward him, smiling. Smiling. A soft, compassionate smile that sent a shiver down his spine. He watched her, wishing to God in heaven that she had come to him before now.
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