Her attempts to calm Sophie were not having the desired affect—the poor dear’s eyes were growing wider and wider with consternation. It had to be very difficult for her—Sophie was a lady, the daughter and sister of an earldom that had its roots in centuries of English monarchy. She had been raised in luxury, had never been exposed to the working class except to receive their services. Never like this, certainly, and it was all quite foreign to her. Claudia began to worry that she might not stay, might feel as uncomfortable here as she did in Stanwood’s house.
A woman appeared in the door carrying an old tarnished tea service. As she moved into the room, Sophie’s eyes rounded impossibly with what seemed like sheer terror. She fixated on the woman, staring intently at her as she placed the service down and poured a cup of tea. As the woman offered the cup to Sophie, Claudia saw what she saw—the white of the woman’s left eye was bloody red, the skin around it black and blue.
Sophie lifted her hand to the bruise on her chin. The woman slowly lowered the proffered tea to the table and sank into a chair, folding her hands tightly in her lap. The two women stared at each other until the woman muttered softly. “You ain’t alone, miss.”
And Sophie began to sob.
Claudia stayed an hour, until the snow began to fall. Sophie had calmed considerably, but nonetheless clung to her tightly as she took her leave. “It will be all right, Sophie,” Claudia whispered fervently.
Sophie nodded, trying hard to believe it, and the truth was that Claudia could only hope it would be all right. As the hack pulled away from the curb, a sick feeling of dread filled her to the back of her throat. As powerful as she knew Julian to be, he could not single-handedly change the laws of Great Britain to accommodate Sophie. Worse, there was the little matter of telling Julian what she had done.
That engendered an entirely different sort of panic in her.
Twenty-Three
JULIAN’S EYES STRAINED to make out the meticulously scripted letters of the ancient manuscript; his brain labored to translate the text into English. In two hours of work he had succeeded with one stanza. Just one four-line stanza. He removed his spectacles and restlessly ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. How long could he continue like this?
His hands slid from his eyes to the back of his neck, and hanging his head, he rubbed the taut muscles, feeling the shaft of tension down his spine and into his legs. This constant anxiety was killing him, this wild discomfort with everything and everyone around him. It was her fault, he thought bitterly, her fault because he could not stop loving her, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how hard he fought to put a steel cage around his heart, she just kept squeezing in.
He dropped his hands and slowly lifted his head, his gaze inevitably landing on the little pot of violets that sat on the corner of his desk. He leaned back, templing his fingers, studying the silly little thing. Someone tended the pot every day, watering it faithfully, pruning the dead blooms. Every day, more blooms appeared, their numbers now practically bursting from the confines of the little porcelain pot. Even that was different—it was painted with sunshine and trees and flowers, and if he wasn’t mistaken, a godawful rendition of the front façade of Kettering House.
The roots of those violets had, miraculously, twined around his dead heart, had squeezed a little more life into it each day, forcing him to remember that he loved her, that for all her peculiarities and crimes of passion, she was what he wanted in this life. It was the blasted blue and purple blooms that caught his eye every morning, dragging his attention to them, drawing him closer to their beauty … just as he was drawn to Claudia. And it was the crude little paintings on the porcelain pot, all things warm and bright, carefree and indifferent, but beautiful all the same.
Just like Claudia.
Julian abruptly shoved the old manuscript away from him and stood, moving unsteadily away from the desk and the violets. He did love her. Certainly he was angry with her for having so thoughtlessly influenced Sophie’s decision to elope. Yet he knew that the bad advice had not been given malevolently; Claudia had done it out of a passionate belief she was right. No, he no longer held Claudia responsible for Sophie’s misfortune.
So what exactly, then, did he continue to fight? What made him struggle to avoid her, labor to keep her from his every waking thought? Julian paused in front of the windows, staring blindly at the snow that covered St. James Square.
Perhaps if he were honest with himself—an endeavor in and of itself—he would acknowledge that there was a part of him that simply could not bear to know that she did not return his deep affection. He suspected her recent and sudden declarations of love to be the product of her guilt. She was blaming herself for Sophie’s tragedy, and her sudden attention was her way of atoning. Eventually, she would tire of her self-imposed penance, and when she did, he was certain things would return to the way they had been. She would despise her circumstance, think of Phillip often, and flit through Julian’s life and his heart like a butterfly, taunting him with her prettiness while she eluded capture. When that happened, he was quite certain he would crumble like earth between his fingers, disappearing into the tall weed-infested grass that had become their life.
So he clung to his survival instincts and held her at arm’s length.
Which was just as well, because there was another, equally desperate part of him that remained certain he would, eventually, ruin her, too. The dark forces of nature that seemed to govern his life would find a way to harm Claudia, just like others he had loved. He had been pushed to the limits of his sanity when Valerie died, shoved over the edge into the black abyss with Phillip’s death, and was now spiraling down into darkness with Sophie’s ruin. When misfortune at last found Claudia—and it would, if he loved her—his soul would surely burn in hell for it.
It was better, he had concluded, to keep her out of his mind and his heart. It was better to bury himself in ancient tomes, never lifting his head, blocking out all sound and light.
He turned away from the window and glanced at the clock on the mantel, then scowled deeply. Unfortunately, in a lighter moment, he had felt compelled to accept an invitation to join the Albrights and guests this evening for supper and cards. As much as it repulsed him, it was a fact that appearances among the ton were everything. Because of Sophie, he had accepted the invitation, knowing that if he were to keep up the pretense of her marriage, it had to seem as if everything was fine with the Kettering family.
Twenty-four hours had done nothing to bring about a brilliant idea, nor had the passage of time done anything to ease Claudia’s panic, which was now a full-blown raging hysteria. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she had committed a crime by taking Sophie away from her home! An unpardonable crime, and worse yet, under English law, her crime was Julian’s crime. He was guilty for stealing his own sister, for which he could lose his lands or his liberty or maybe even his head, and he didn’t even know it!
Several times Claudia almost left her rooms in search of Julian, prepared to confess all and beg his help. Cold, hard fear had stopped her each time—fear that he would ultimately force Sophie home after he had throttled his wife. Claudia could bear his wrath and whatever punishment he might mete out, but she could not bear to see Sophie’s return to Stanwood. No, she would die first before she allowed that to happen.
Her indecisiveness had kept her in a state of agitation all day, and she dressed thoughtlessly for the Albright supper party. She hardly noticed the elegant hairstyle Brenda gave her, weaving strands of silver ribbon through her dark hair that picked up the embroidery of her bodice. When she fastened the aquamarine and diamond earrings to her lobes that matched the necklace she wore, she at last forced herself to look in the mirror. The rose-colored velvet and brocade gown went well with her complexion, she supposed, but nothing could erase the lines of worry around her eyes, the pale skin, the guilty set of her mouth. Other than that, she did not think she looked particularly like a criminal.
With a weary sigh, she push
ed a curl from her temple and slipped lackadaisically into her pale rose slippers, then reluctantly made her way downstairs as if practicing her walk to the gallows.
In the blue drawing room, Julian paced impatiently as he waited for Claudia, his apprehension growing with each step. This was a bad idea, he thought, a very bad idea. How would he endure her at his elbow all evening? What had made him think he could act as if all was well in front of two of the most meddling men in Europe? If there was any one thing that he despised about Adrian Spence and Arthur Christian, it was their uncanny ability to read him like a goddam book.
“Oh, my. You are … beautiful.”
Her hushed voice startled Julian; he had not heard her enter and turned awkwardly, feeling his breath rush from his lungs as he did so.
Oh, God. She appeared before him like a princess. Very deliberately, he turned to face her fully, unable to look away from the stunning sight of her.
She blushed; smiling faintly, she self-consciously pushed a dark curl behind her ear. “Do I offend? I apologize. It’s just that you look so … well,” she said, and laughed uncertainly.
He could feel the heat of her simple compliment spreading through his body. Still, he could only stare, marveling at how she had managed to captivate him yet again, knock him off-center and send him into a tailspin of desire.
Her fair cheeks began to glow with her flush. “I sincerely hope I didn’t offend.”
“No,” he said, finding his voice. It’s just that I was thinking the same thing of you. “Please,” he added like a simpleton, and motioned toward one of two leather wing-back chairs directly in front of the fireplace. Her tremulous smile deepened. “It’s early yet,” he said gruffly. “Would you like some wine?” He flicked a gaze to the footman at the door and nodded curtly, then somehow managed to command his legs to move from the windows to the fireplace.
She hesitated, peering at him warily before following his gesture to sit, fussing with the loose curls of her hair as she glided across the carpet. She sat lightly on the edge of the chair facing the one he had taken, and as she arranged her skirts just so, he admired the ripe fullness of her intricately embroidered bodice—what there was of it, anyway—rising softly with each breath.
The footman appeared on her left, bowing with his silver tray. With a sweet smile, Claudia took a glass of wine, waiting until Julian was served before sipping daintily. He did not drink, but continued to gaze at her over the rim of the crystal glass, feeling the familiar sense of discomfort, the old fright that he might never hold such beauty in his arms.
Claudia lowered her wineglass and fidgeted with the jeweled necklace that rested against her throat. After a moment, she peeked up at him through her thick, dark lashes. “It’s almost a year now since I saw you at the Farnsworths’ Christmas Ball,” she said, dropping her gaze to the wineglass for a moment. “I remember it because you wore all black then, too. Black coat and trousers. Black waistcoat and neckcloth. You looked very much like a dangerous highwayman.” She paused; when he said nothing, she nervously cleared her throat. One finger traced the rim of the wineglass, round and round and round.
Julian remembered that ball very clearly. He had arrived at the tail end of some insane excursion, one that had taken him past Dunwoody, where Phillip was buried. What had possessed him to stop at Phillip’s grave he would never know, but he had, taking a handful of hothouse flowers. And he had left Phillip’s grave, his head aching to the point of bursting—the result, he had told himself, of no sleep and too much drinking. Not guilt.
“And you were still wearing your spurs,” she added. “Miss Chatham remarked upon them, too—she rather fancied you had ridden all the way from Kettering Hall just for the Farnsworth Ball.”
Julian arched a quizzical brow. “And what did you think?” he asked quietly.
“That you were the most handsome man in all of London,” she answered instantly.
He felt the first crack in the ice around his heart. Very calmly, he put the wine aside and asked, “Why do you flatter me so?”
“I do not flatter you, Julian. I admire you—I can’t seem to help myself,” she said, and drank hastily from the wineglass. “You simply reminded me of that night. I’m sorry.”
“I remember you, too,” he heard himself respond. “You wore a ribbon of dried hollyberries in your hair.”
A smile of genuine surprise swept her lips, one of her many smiles that could lighten his soul in the blink of an eye. “You remember that?” she asked, clearly pleased.
“As well as the hollyberries on your shoes.”
Claudia smiled fully then, and Julian could feel the warmth and brilliance of it on his heart, thawing the ice. She laughed gaily, a melodious sound he had not heard in weeks. “Papa was quite displeased with me, I’ll have you know. Swore I ruined a perfectly good pair of slippers.”
“I thought it rather festive,” he said, and realized that he was smiling, too.
“I don’t know how you managed to see all that,” she continued laughingly. “You were clear across the ballroom, surrounded by your many female admirers. I think they were four or five deep. And as I recall, Miss Chatham was among the most ardent.”
He remembered, all right. Even remembered kissing a panting Miss Chatham in the vestibule and wishing it had been Claudia. “A pity you weren’t among them,” he said.
Claudia’s smile slowly faded; her blue-gray eyes locked with his for a long moment, and Julian had the sensation that she could see past his protective armor, past the ice. “I was among them,” she said at last. “I have always been among them—you just couldn’t see me. And I shall always be among them, regardless of what may come.”
Speech eluded him. He suddenly moved forward, wanting to touch her, wanting to demand the truth from her. Reaching across the gap between them, he tenderly ran his hand over her elbow, down to her wrist, wrapping his fingers firmly around it. “Claudia,” he said low, “never tell me something like that if only to appease your troubled conscience. Never tell me that unless you mean it with all your heart—”
“My lord, the coach is ready,” intoned Tinley from the doorway. Startled, Julian turned toward the old man as he hobbled into the room to rest against a chair. “In the drive, nice and warm for milady,” he added with a self-satisfied grin.
The old man’s timing was incredible. “Thank you,” Julian uttered with only a modicum of civility, and looked again at Claudia. She was smiling, her eyes were sparkling, and slowly, uncertainly, he stood, his hand floating up her arm to her elbow to help her to her feet.
She rose gracefully, hesitating slightly as she stood before him. “I do mean it, Julian, with all my heart,” she murmured, and rocked up to the tips of her little rose slippers to shyly kiss the corner of his mouth.
Before he could recover from the extraordinary sensation of that simple kiss, she was walking toward Tinley putting out a hand to steady the old man as he hobbled to the door. Dumbly, Julian followed her to the foyer, staring hard at her as she donned her cloak and bonnet, struggling into his gloves as he struggled to believe her. He followed her just as dumbly out onto the hard, crusty snow, feeling her gay laughter invade his very marrow when she slipped and knocked against him.
And when the coach lurched forward, jostling them as the driver searched for the smoothest stretch of road, he regarded her suspiciously, afraid to believe her. She responded with a soft smile, her eyes sparkling as brilliantly as the jewels at her throat. “You don’t believe me,” she said at last.
“Not entirely,” he admitted cautiously. But God knows I want to.
The coach lurched sharply to one side Claudia tried to brace herself, but began to slip from the velvet squabs. Julian instantly reached for her, catching her under her arms, and without thinking, dragged her into his lap. “I want to believe you.”
Something flashed in her eyes; she abruptly grabbed his head, holding him with surprising strength as she kissed him, sliding her lush lips across his, nipping at the f
lesh along the edge of his mouth. She crushed her lithesome body to him while he carefully, almost unwilling, moved his hand delicately along her shoulder and neck, to her cheek, cautiously cupping her face.
The coach lurched again, and just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Claudia lifted her head, gazing down at him as she took several deep breaths. “I don’t know how to convince you,” she said. “I don’t even know if I should.” She moved off his lap to sit beside him. Julian did not respond, fearing that he might show her how desperate he was to be convinced, how dangerously close he had come to it by virtue of one smoldering kiss. Artlessly, she leaned against him as if they were old lovers, staring thoughtfully out the window as the coach bounced along. He quietly curled his hand around hers, and Claudia responded by squeezing his fingers.
Julian felt the reassuring little squeeze all the way to his heart, and wondered if he was perfectly mad to believe it could be right between the two of them, that they could be old lovers one day.
The Earl of Albright had, against his better judgment, brought his wife along on what was intended to be a very short trip to London. He had fully intended to return to Longbridge, his country estate, by the end of the week. Certainly, he had not meant to stay so long, much less host a supper party. But his wife, Lilliana, had insisted upon it, reminding him that she had been stuck at Longbridge for weeks without so much as a single guest and no one to talk to but him and the baby and various and sundry cows. And then she had shoved him flat on his back so that she might guarantee the answer she wanted by making passionate love to him. He was, as usual, quite helpless.
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