by Lily Maxton
After a thunderous heartbeat of indecision, she cautiously poked her head out between two pillars.
A man was crouched in the shade of the tree, examining one of the wildflowers. His back was to her. All she saw was broad shoulders and a head covered by a wide-brimmed hat. She couldn’t even tell what color his hair was.
Damnation! She needed to know what he looked like. She needed to be certain the man wasn’t someone she knew. Why it was so vital, she couldn’t say. Just a gut feeling that she must find out his identity and put to rest the idea that he might be a shadow from her past.
He was Irish. What did that matter? A lot of people were Irish. Thousands of people were Irish. It meant nothing.
But she had to know for sure.
There were smaller stone benches between some of the pillars, positioned so one could sit and look out at the grounds. She propped herself on one of the benches, wrapping one arm around the pillar next to her. Now she could lean forward to get a better view of the man, but if he happened to glance in her direction, she could pull herself back quickly.
She leaned out into open air, her arm tight around the pillar. She caught a glimpse of his hair underneath the hat, but in the shadow of the tree, she couldn’t determine anything other than it was dark and not blond or red. She groaned. Aloud. His head turned.
For a second she froze in place, like a creature in amber. That profile. The nose, the lips, the jaw.
Good Lord, it was him! Older, different, stronger, but the same man.
Something violent and aching twisted in her chest.
And then their eyes met.
She gasped and tumbled off the bench and onto the ground with a pained oomph.
She was staring dazedly at the bright blue sky when his shadow fell over her. Her eyes closed for a brief second. It was very, very important that she didn’t touch him. The last time they’d touched was still written on her skin, burned into her memory.
She scrambled to her feet before he could reach down to help her. Her hand flew to her hair. Her hair! As though she was checking to make sure all the pins were in place, right in front of him. Embarrassed, she lowered her hand.
“Adam,” she whispered. Then clenched her jaw. She was Julia Forsythe, former mistress of some of the most powerful men in the country. No one made her whisper like some weak-willed ninny.
Except, apparently, Adam Radcliff.
He was staring down at her with unfathomable brown eyes.
Did he…did he not recognize her? The possibility made her feel very, very small. She’d recognized him the instant she laid eyes on him. No, before that even. She’d known the sound of his voice.
“Hello,” she said, rather breathlessly.
Enough of this, she told herself sternly. Enough. Through an impressive feat of willpower, she forced her spine to straighten, forced her gaze to hold his, and nodded once. Coolly.
That was better.
But why wasn’t he saying anything? Did he truly have no idea who she was? It hurt, in a deep down and hidden place she’d locked away long ago.
“It is you, isn’t it, Mr. Radcliff?” she asked politely, while her insides trembled.
A bald lie. There was no mistaking him. He hadn’t changed much in fifteen-odd years. Adam Radcliff was a large man, as he’d been a large boy—tall and broad-shouldered with a hard, square jaw, long nose, and a mouth that was a little on the thin side. He’d inherited his Irish mother’s black hair and dark eyes.
He wasn’t quite handsome. If you glanced at him once, your eyes would pass him over. But if you did happen to glance at him twice and let your eyes linger, that hint of Irish wildness from his mother’s ancestors might come through, and might be a little intriguing.
He was simply a man.
But he was very much a man.
Her pulse quickened as she studied him. She tried to tell herself her galloping heartbeat was from the shock of seeing him again, and certainly meant nothing deeper than that.
But her semblance of polite regard slipped for an instant and her voice came out sharp. “Do you not remember me?”
“I remember you,” he said shortly, gruffly.
It did not sound like a compliment or a fond reminiscence. She cleared her throat, then mentally cursed herself at that sign of nervousness. She tilted her chin up and spoke calmly. It took more effort than she would even admit to herself. “You work for Lord Riverton?”
“I’m head gardener,” he said.
She nodded, trying not to show her surprise. It might still be domestic labor, but the head gardener of an estate as grand as Blakewood Hall wasn’t a position to be scoffed at. “You’ve done well for yourself.”
“Aye,” he said.
“It’s positively idyllic here.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Do you have a gaggle of children underfoot to complete the fairy tale?” She made her tone slightly sarcastic, so he wouldn’t think she was interested in his personal life. She didn’t want to be interested.
But oh, how interested she was! Her skin prickled as she waited for the answer.
“No children.”
“Surely a wife, then?”
“No wife.”
Her body relaxed. Treacherous, blasted thing.
He crossed his arms over his chest. They strained against the fabric of his coat, a coarse, dark linen for working outdoors. “What are you doing here?” he asked in a voice as dark as the linen.
“Riverton invited me.”
“Don’t they usually keep women like you in London?” The question was asked neutrally but still gave her an unpleasant shock.
Women like her? She tamped down a sudden rush of anger. Were courtesans not real women? Instead, some sort of evil mystical beast, the sort of which parents told their children about to keep them in line?
“I wanted a change of scenery,” she said. It was close enough to the truth without going into all the sordid details. She smiled politely. “Do you enjoy your work?”
“Aye,” he said, without taking his gaze from her. “Do you enjoy yours?”
She looked down at her shoes, took a slow, calming breath, and then forced herself to meet his emotionless stare. “I don’t consider it work,” she replied with her best seductive smile.
Regret filled her almost instantly when a shadowed look crossed his face. But the expression was gone quickly, to be replaced by that impenetrable mask.
He lifted a shoulder. “In that case, enjoy it while you can.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“You turn thirty next year, don’t you? Haven’t heard of any famous middle-aged courtesans.”
She bit her lip so she wouldn’t snarl at him. Thirty was not middle-aged!
But he spoke the truth—she was nearing the end of a courtesan’s desirable years. She, herself, had recognized the inexorable passing of time, which was why she’d decided to write a memoir about her life as a successful courtesan. Between the savings from her past paramours and the income from her book, she could live comfortably enough when she retired.
She wondered if he knew about the memoir. Or had even read it? The idea made her uneasy. She had imagined faceless people reading Confessions of a Courtesan, not Adam Radcliff’s head bent over it, not his eyes flicking over the words.
When she’d regained some control over her emotions, she said, “A woman’s skills are far more important than her age, and I still have all the skills I need.”
“My mistake,” he said coolly.
She nodded stiffly, fought a sudden urge to slap him for daring to make her feel uncomfortable in her own skin, and said, “I should leave you to your work.” She glanced down at his large hands, which had dirt stains under the fingernails. He must still work in the soil, even though he was head gardener.
He followed the direction of her gaze, and perhaps he mistook her glance for a disparaging one. He curled his fingers into his palms to hide them from view—a vulnerable, defen
sive gesture that made her ache for him. But then he said, “Not all of us can lie on our backs for a living.”
She flinched. She didn’t know why she flinched—obviously she did lie on her back for a living, though that wasn’t all she did. But there was a harshness in his tone, like he condemned her for it.
Maybe he had a right to condemn her. She’d fled from Adam after he kissed her all those years ago, and she’d gone straight into another man’s arms. Maybe he had every right to despise her.
Did he remember that kiss as well as she did?
No, probably not. It was years ago, after all. A kiss would’ve had to be meaningful to remember it so well and for so long.
And it hadn’t been meaningful. Not in the least.
“Julia—” he began, an apologetic note in his voice.
Her name on his lips. Her heart leaped violently. How long had it been since she’d heard him speak her name?
But she wasn’t going to let him think he’d hurt her feelings, even if he had. “It is indeed unfortunate,” she agreed glibly. “But not all of us are good enough to be paid for lying on our back.” Without waiting for his reaction, she sent him a smug smile, and flounced off as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
It was only when she’d slipped inside the house and leaned against the wall that she allowed herself to pass her trembling hands over her face.
And that night, under her pink canopied bed, she dreamed of the past.
She dreamed of a boy who’d taught her Gaelic words, and who’d protected her and done his best to make her laugh when she was sad. She dreamed of an exquisite kiss from long ago—innocent and strangely sensual, and the only kiss that had ever, ever touched her heart. And she dreamed of a hard man with black hair and brown eyes who looked exactly like that boy, but didn’t resemble him at all.
Chapter Two
There were some things a man shouldn’t be forced to endure, Adam thought sourly the next day. He could see Julia through the distorted glass panes of the conservatory—a womanly figure in a red walking dress which any sensible woman would deem too bright for morning attire.
She stood outside, her face tilted up to catch the sun. She’d done that in London sometimes, he remembered. She would stand motionless on the foot pavement, close her eyes, and just listen to the bustle around her. She hadn’t been a restful girl, and those were among the few times he remembered seeing her look peaceful.
He’d always thought of her more as a nymph, flitting here and there, causing mischief.
Now here she was, turning his life upside down once again.
Julia Forsythe arriving at the place where he’d toiled the past ten years, the kept woman of the man he worked for—that was one of those things a man shouldn’t be forced to endure. It made his mouth flood with bitterness so potent he could taste it.
She was even more beautiful than she’d been as a girl. That thick, dark brown hair gleamed from care, and his fingers ached to touch it. Her long black eyelashes hid eyes that were a deep, pervading blue. Her skin was pale and smooth, her lips cruelly soft—she had high cheekbones and arched brows befitting the most glorious queen.
But Julia’s beauty had never been what had drawn him to her. When they’d first met in the tenement housing where she’d lived with her father and Adam lived with his mother and siblings, her beauty had actually been a mark against her.
Adam hadn’t had beautiful things in his life then. He hadn’t trusted them. And he hadn’t trusted her, with her lovely eyes and her perfect English accent—not the cockney he was used to but the cultured tones of the higher classes. Julia’s father had been a successful merchant until her mother and baby brother had died in childbirth. After that, she’d once told Adam, her father had simply given up. He’d always gambled, always drank, but after the death of his wife he turned to those things in excess and lost himself in them. After a few years, rented rooms in a working class neighborhood were all he’d been able to afford.
Julia had been a rose growing up through a crack between the rough cobblestones.
Adam hadn’t trusted her, but he’d seen the way some of the men watched her, and he’d seen that her father was no good to anyone, so he’d reluctantly taken it upon himself to protect her. He didn’t have to like her to know that innocence should be protected. When he wasn’t around, he would ask one of his brothers to take over the task.
Nothing specific had happened to alter his opinion of her. The change wasn’t some earth-shattering thing. It happened by simply spending time with her, gradually seeing what lay beneath the beauty.
She was energetic, she liked to laugh, and she liked to learn.
But most of all, she was kind. She would sit on a stool in their cramped sitting room, letting his younger sister braid her hair with clumsy, tugging hands. She never spoke a sharp word to the child, even as she winced under the ministrations.
His heart warmed at the memory, then squeezed painfully at the loss of that Julia—the one he’d loved so fiercely for the unstudied kindness she showed everyone around her. Kindness had been a rarity in those days.
Apparently her glamorous life as a courtesan had drilled it out of her.
The woman who’d reappeared in his life was haughty and arrogant, flaunting the finest clothes her masters could provide.
Not all of us are good enough to be paid for lying on our back.
Those words had haunted him all through the night. Images of Lord Riverton, sweaty and grunting, bending Julia into every kind of unorthodox position had played through Adam’s mind until he’d fallen into a troubled sleep.
But it was morning now, and he had a job to do. He turned away from the view through the glass and set about tending his plants.
As he examined a rose that was starting to wilt, he heard the sound of a quick breath, and he turned. Julia hovered on the brick walking path that went through the middle of the conservatory. He nearly sighed. It seemed he wouldn’t escape the woman—she was here to haunt him like a vengeful ghost.
Except she looked nothing like a ghost. With that bright red dress, the pink spots on her cheeks from her walk, and her lovely dark hair, she was more vivid than any flower in the conservatory. More beautiful. More exquisite. More alive.
“I didn’t know you were here,” she explained.
He turned back to his work. “It’s fine,” he said gruffly, not wanting her to see how much her presence affected him, how it made him dizzy with old emotions best forgotten.
After a moment of tense silence, Julia moved closer, peering at the rose bushes that grew from large pots lining the walkway. They were his own special variety of Provence rose, only available at Blakewood Hall. The blooms maintained the fragrant scent and delicate, layered petals that were typical of the Provence. It was the color that set his plants apart—a lush reddish-purple instead of the common pink.
She traced the delicate petals with a bare fingertip. His chest tightened as though she’d caressed him. What he wouldn’t give to be that flower, even knowing she probably touched every man the exact same way and made him feel like he was the only one.
“Riverton used to give these to me,” she said softly. “He said you can’t get them anywhere but Blakewood Hall.”
“They’re mine,” he said, unable to keep the hint of pride from his voice. “I bred them myself.”
“Did you? They’re beautiful.” She let her hand fall. I remember you used to grow plants in pots in the window. You’ve come a long way since then.”
He jolted at the reminder.
He’d always loved gardening. In Ireland, when his father was still with them and they’d lived in a cottage, his mother had shown him how to plant and nurture and grow. When his father had left, and they’d moved to London because his mother’s relative had said she could help her find work, he’d still attempted his gardening. But things didn’t grow very well in a small window that didn’t get much sunlight.
“Is your family well?” Julia asked.
He knelt down and checked the temperature and moistness of the soil inside the nearest pot, silently cursing himself for feeling so grateful for such a small, meaningless thing. “They’re well,” he finally answered.
She continued to hover next to him. She didn’t take his shortness as a hint to leave.
“Your mother?”
“She’s well,” he repeated. “She lives in a cottage not far from here.”
“She didn’t stay in London?”
“She never liked the city. She left as soon as she could.”
Which had been when Adam was promoted to head gardener and received enough of an income to send her money each month.
“Like you,” Julia said quietly.
He didn’t comment. No, he hadn’t left when he could. He’d left when he’d fully accepted that Julia would never come back to him. If she’d given him any sliver of hope, he might still be there, staying until he grew old and weathered. Waiting. Always waiting.
Enough time had now passed that he didn’t think of her often.
But after all these years, he still dreamed of her. And that was something he couldn’t forgive. She’d burrowed so deep inside him that even when he could stop himself from thinking, he couldn’t keep himself from dreaming.
He cast a sidelong glance at her. Her face was hidden from view. She was looking down at the roses, quiet and still, and that stillness tugged at his emotions. She’d never managed to stay immobile this long when she was a girl. Even when she would sit so his sister could braid her hair, she would fidget by tapping her foot or plucking at her dress sleeve.
Being a mistress had polished her.
He stood up from his crouching position, annoyed by the thought. “What do you do all day?”
She faced him. Surprise flashed, then was quickly concealed. Another thing that had changed—as a girl she hadn’t been so good at hiding her feelings.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean when you don’t have to service your employer,” he said nastily. “What do you do?”