A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls)
Page 18
Grace tightened around him as she tumbled over another peak, and he indulged in one glorious moment of watching her face as it happened. Her eyes closed tightly and her pink lips fell open, her breaths coming in tiny, helpless gasps. Color tinted her cheeks and her hair spread out behind her head in a silky curtain the color of fine oak. This sweet moment of rapture would stay with him the rest of his days.
Then his own crisis was upon him and he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. It ravaged him, pleasure so acute he felt it in every hidden corner of his body, first burning, and then soothing. At the last second, he had just enough presence of mind to pull out of her and spill into his handkerchief.
He buried his face in her hair, smelling lavender and soap, wishing he could stay there forever. But the reality of what he’d just done was already turning his stomach into knots.
When his voice returned, he raised himself on one elbow to look into her face. “Grace, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that to you.”
Keeping her eyes averted, she shrugged a bare shoulder. “You didn’t do anything to me. When the moment came, I found I didn’t want to stop. I wanted it to be you, whatever happens next.”
Julian reared off her, tucking himself back into his trousers and tugging her wrinkled skirts down. Then he sat forward, dropping his head into his hands. “Good God, what have we done?”
Grace sat up, tugging her chemise back into place, refastening the busk on her corset. She tucked her breasts, still pink and tender from Julian’s hands and mouth, back under the heavy, steel-boned edge, covered up and carefully confined.
“Nothing that can’t be managed,” she said, sounding insanely rational, considering the riot happening inside of her.
Her hands were trembling. Her whole body was trembling in the aftermath of what had occurred. She retrieved her bodice from the floor and shrugged back into it, blindly putting her clothes to rights and hoping the scattered pieces of herself would come back together as well. They’d never quite fit the same way, though. He’d shattered her, and she couldn’t be restored to exactly what she’d been before. In the most obvious way, he’d taken her virginity, touched her first where no man had been. But it seemed of minor importance compared to the other way she’d been altered. Her heart, so long untouched, so hardened by life, had cracked wide open, and there was no fixing that.
Moments ago, nothing had mattered but having Julian, giving herself to him. It had felt so natural, so right. Now, as the reality of their situation settled back in place, the pleasure was curdling in her stomach.
“You can’t marry him. What will you tell Rupert when he discovers you’re not a virgin?”
“I’ll think of something.” It had been a mistake, a dreadful mistake, to come here today. She’d betrayed Rupert, herself, and even Julian, by doing so. Her only hope lay in escape, refusing to see Julian for as long as it took for the shame and longing to pass. If she spent the rest of her life doing the right thing, perhaps it might make up for this one moment of terrible wrong.
Keeping her eyes averted, she worked diligently to twist her hair back into a knot. It was a disastrous mess, but it would have to do.
“Grace, please don’t do this.” His voice softened, an aching plea she could barely resist. But she had to. For both of them.
Wanting you makes me hate myself. Those words echoed in her head, reminding her of why she had to resist him. He hated himself for wanting her. One day he’d hate her, too.
“Julian, we can’t. You don’t want to, not truly.”
“I know my own heart. I know I love you and I know I want you.”
She closed her eyes, absorbing the impact of his words. “You do. For now. But acting on it—Doing this would betray Rupert in front of all of London Society. It would make him a laughingstock. And Honor. You can’t do that to her.”
“We’re not engaged.”
“You’re as good as, and everyone knows it. Imagine the scandal. I wouldn’t be able to show my face. Honor and Rupert would be publicly humiliated. After your father, you know what people would say. Your good name would be ruined once and for all. Everything you’ve spent your whole life working for, all the good you hope to do in Lords, it would all be destroyed. And your mother—Julian, would you really subject her to yet another scandal?”
She didn’t dare look at him, but his silence told her she’d struck a nerve. What he was suggesting was an impossibility. He had to see reason.
“Yes, you want me now, but how long would it be before I’m not enough to make up for all the damage done and the pain caused? Even if I weren’t engaged to Rupert, I’m not the woman you’d want to commit your life to. You told me so yourself. I’ve got no money, no standing. I’d be utterly dependent on you, the very inequality you despise in marriage.”
“But that was before—”
“That’s who you are at heart, underneath this temporary passion.”
“It’s not temporary.”
“In time, your passion will cool and your values will assert themselves once more. You’d be saddled with a wife who’d caused you to abandon everyone you love and every principal you hold dear. I won’t let you do it to them and I won’t let you do it to yourself.”
Julian was silent for a long time. When her hair was contained and her clothes were restored, she stood and finally looked at him. He stood and met her gaze, defeat etched in every inch of his body.
She took a moment to memorize everything about him—the elegant bone structure, the graceful shape of his mouth, the slash of his eyebrows, his fierce eyes, alive with intelligence and the passion he’d tried so hard to deny. If and when he re-entered her life, she’d never again let herself look at him like this. It would be too dangerous. Because she knew now she’d love him until the day she died, and if he looked her in the eye, he’d see it for himself. For both their sakes, she’d keep it hidden deep inside.
“You won’t change your mind, then.” The resignation in his voice was like a knife twisting in her heart, no different than the knife she was twisting into his. Even if she was doing this for all the right reasons, it felt like the worst kind of wrong.
“In time, you’ll be glad I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe that, Grace.”
“I do. I know you, Julian. You’ll move on from this, and when you do, you’ll see. We’re doing the right thing.”
“Right for everyone except you and me.”
She shook her head. “No, this is right for you, too. I know it.”
“I don’t share your faith.”
“Then trust me to do the right thing for you.” She pressed her palm to the side of his face.
He grasped her hand in both of his, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. She fought back the sting of tears. She would not cry. If she started to cry, she’d fall apart and the next thing she knew, she’d have given in and run away with him, ruining both their lives forever.
His thoughts were racing in the same destructive direction, because he abruptly released her hand, gently pushing her away. “Go. If you’re going to leave, then just go.”
There was nothing else she could say to make this any better, so she said nothing. She took one last look at him, drinking in every tiny detail, then she turned and left the room without another word.
Somehow she made her way back through the lobby she scarcely recognized. The past hour had changed her, out to the edges of her heart and soul, and nothing would ever look the same again. Out on the sidewalk, a footman helped her into one of the waiting hansom cabs. She heard her voice utter Genevieve’s address, and felt the carriage lurch into motion, but it was all so far away and unreal. Some crucial part of herself had been left behind back in that room with Julian. In time, perhaps she’d learn to live without it, because there was no getting it back. It was forever his.
Chapter Sixteen
It took ten full days to cross the Atlantic. Bad weather off Newfoundland delayed them a bit, and Julian spent the first three days locked in his cabin in a state of blinding inebriation. Then he spent a day piteously sick, from both the scotch and the pitching ship. Then, once the Victory found smooth waters again, his mind began to quiet as well.
Grace was still a raw wound which might never heal, but some of what she’d said began to clarify in his mind. She was right—about part of it, at least. Stealing her from Rupert would wound everyone he truly cared about, including Grace herself.
Once that realization sunk in, the regret, which he already felt, became crushing. What he’d done to Rupert, even if his friend never found out, was unforgivable. If it remained a secret, he might never have to beg Rupert’s forgiveness, but he’d spend the rest of his life seeking forgiveness from himself. Grace was right about that, too. He’d betrayed himself, and acted in a way which repelled him. It was nearly as bad as what his father—his disgraceful father—had done. The only thing which would have made it worse would have been if Grace had taken his hand in the end and run away with him. Then he’d be sunk forever, turning into the very thing he’d always despised.
As the days passed and he made endless circuits of the ship’s deck, letting the bracing late spring sea air wash his mind clean, some clarity returned. Grace had acted from the most noble motivations, unlike him. In those heated moments, when he’d been incapable of rational decision-making, she made the decision for him, because she knew him better than he knew himself.
It only made his love for her settle into something deeper, even more profound. He didn’t just lust for her, he respected her. He liked her. Now, when she was forever out of his reach, he could clearly see she was perfect for him in every way. She had been from the first, but he’d been too arrogant, too blinded by his own prejudice, to see it. And he’d pay for his folly for the rest of his days.
He wrote her a letter on the ship and mailed it when he docked in New York. It wasn’t long. Just a few lines to let her know his thinking had cleared now, and he could understand her actions. It wasn’t enough, but he hoped in time it would bring them both some peace.
She’d told him he’d get over it in time. He wouldn’t. But he’d go to his family in America and try to find himself again—not the old version of himself. That man had turned out to be a failure in every way. As he put himself back together, he’d endeavor to become someone better. Someone who would have been worthy of Grace from the start.
* * *
The Brennan coach was sleek, black, and surprisingly understated, considering the scale of the Brennan family wealth and their standing in the city. It might be lacking in gaudy trim or ornamentation, but Julian had rarely ridden in a more elegant, well-built vehicle. There was hardly a bounce or jostle as the perfectly matched black horses conveyed him through the bustling streets of Pittsburgh.
It had been nearly five years since his last visit. Far too long, considering how dear his American family was to him. The city was thriving, a bold center of industry. Commercial and private carriages jostled for space in the streets, clogging the steel bridges arching over the Monongahela and Allegheny rivers. To the south, several inclined railcars conveyed passengers up and down Mount Washington. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks, hurrying to appointments or with arms full of purchases. The streets here were alive with energy and raw drive, entirely different than London, and a welcome change. Nothing here reminded him of home.
The coach entered the crush of the Sixth Street Bridge, where their progress slowed to a crawl, but eventually they were making their way through the wide, tree-lined avenues of Allegheny City across the river. City noise fell away as the houses grew larger and more ornate. Finally, they reached the largest and most ornate of them all, the Brennan family mansion, known as The Abbey.
“Welcome home, Lord Knighton,” the coachman said, opening the coach door and letting down the stairs.
It was odd, hearing his title in the man’s flat American accent. It almost made him want to correct the man and tell him he was simply the Mr. St. John he’d been before the title. Mr. St. John felt right at home here.
The Abbey, unlike the sleek, streamlined coach, was all about show. An imposing gray stone mansion four stories high and heavy with Gothic ornamentation, it dominated the surrounding neighborhood, as it was intended to do. Despite the austere English name and the five-hundred-year-old architectural style, the house was only forty years old, built by his grandfather as a gift for his grandmother.
The house’s magisterial effect was ruined when the massive ebony front door was flung open, not by a footman, but by his cousin, Phoebe. When he’d last seen her, she was only two years into her marriage to John Phillips. Motherhood and the intervening years had been kind to her, giving her angular features, so much like his own, a new sort of sophistication. Her thick, black hair—the Brennan feature he shared with her and so many members of the family—was swept up in a flattering, soft style, very American.
“How dare you!” she shouted.
Julian startled. “Pardon?”
“You haven’t been home in five years and all the notice we receive of your arrival is a cable sent from New York yesterday?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure—”
Her stern expression evaporated, replaced by the radiant smile he knew so well, and she flew down the front steps, throwing her arms around his neck. He staggered under her weight and laughed, the first time he’d so much as cracked a smile in what felt like weeks. This. This was why he’d come home. He needed this, the comforting embrace of his family, starting with Phoebe’s enthusiastic attack.
Phoebe leaned back to look at him and her smile faded. “Damn, Julian, you look terrible.”
He sputtered in laughter. It was easy to forget his American family’s rash bluntness when he’d been surrounded by proper English Society for so many years.
“You look lovely, too, Phoebe.”
She rolled her eyes. “Flatterer.”
“No, it’s true. You look wonderful. Motherhood suits you.”
A soft smile lit up her features, so like his own, they’d often been mistaken for twins as children. “Poor little things,” she said, turning towards the door and hooking her arm in his. “They haven’t even met their cousin, Julian.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t come to visit sooner.”
Phoebe opened her mouth to make some reply, but she was interrupted by a chorus of childish voices echoing down the hallway inside the Abbey. Moments later, no fewer than five small children burst from the door and tumbled down the stairs, enveloping Julian up to his waist. Phoebe chuckled. “You’re about to be very busy making up for that.”
“He’s arrived at last!” Julian looked away from the cluster of little boys and girls clutching at his hands and tugging on his trouser legs to see Phoebe’s mother, his Aunt Lucinda, standing magisterially in the open doorway.
“And he’s been immediately beset by mine and Peter’s brood.”
“Hello, Aunt Lucinda. You look well.” Lucinda smiled indulgently down at him, secure in the knowledge he was right. Lucinda was close to his mother’s age, but there was a vivacity in her face his mother had long since lost.
“Is he here?” His Aunt Lavinia appeared behind Lucinda’s shoulder, her equal in grace and elegance. They could have been sisters, they were so perfectly matched. In fact, they were only related because they had married his mother’s two brothers.
“Yes, he’s here,” Lucinda said, waving Julian up the steps. He made his way slowly toward them, dragging the boisterous, giggling, gaggle of children with him.
“Oh, do peel the children off him, Phoebe,” Lavinia admonished. “The boy can barely move.”
“Only half of them are mine, Aunt Lavinia” Phoebe protested.
At the top of the steps, he leaned in to kiss Lucinda’s smooth cheek. “It’s good to see you, darling boy,” she said in her imperious yet oddly warm way, resting her palm briefly against his cheek. “Phoebe has been beside herself all morning waiting for you to arrive.”
“Mother is exaggerating, as usual,” Phoebe said, attempting to remove a little girl of about two years away from Julian’s leg. “Come now, Susannah, leave him be. Don’t chew on his trousers, dearest.”
Lavinia leaned around Lucinda to bestow her own kiss on Julian’s cheek. “You see how much we’ve missed you, Julian? We’ve all crammed ourselves into the Abbey just to await your arrival.”
The over-dramatic proclamation made him laugh. The Abbey could have held a brood several times the size of the Brennan clan. “I appreciate the warm welcome, Aunt Lavinia.”
A new voice joined the melee, loud and commanding. “Is that my long-lost grandson finally returned from that infernal cold, rainy country?”
Genuine joy welled up in Julian’s chest. “Grandfather.”
Horace Brennan swept his daughters-in-law aside with an impatient wave of his hand. Lucinda and Lavinia scattered. No one disregarded a command from Horace Brennan, not even his adored family. At seventy-eight, Horace Brennan was still a vibrant and powerful presence. He was nearly as tall as Julian, with a far more robust build. His thick, snow-white hair matched a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. His clothes, expensive and impeccably tailored, spoke to the massive fortune he’d built in iron ore and steel production, and the body beneath it spoke to the vigorous strength and boundless energy of the man who’d made it happen.