“Be reasonable, Mary,” he told her. “They don’t know you at Gambol House. They won’t let you in. Your connection to the duke is slim at best. His servants won’t have orders to take in strays.”
“You refuse to take me to Gambol House?”
“I do.”
“Then I shall go on my own.”
“You will find London quite unfriendly after dark,” he said, stepping in front of her.
“I will take a hackney,” she said. “Be so good as to summon one for me.”
“I have not the slightest wish to identify your body at the morgue,” he replied. “Young women have been known to get into hackney carriages after dark, never to be seen alive again. I can offer you a bed for the night. You’ll be quite safe here, you know.”
“You expect me to spend the night with you?” she cried in disbelief.
“You have nowhere else to go,” he pointed out. “You’ll stay the night, and tomorrow we’ll…we’ll think of something.”
“Such as?”
Julian shrugged. “My man already thinks we are man and wife. He would probably think it curious if you simply disappeared. We could be married, I suppose. Marriage, as they say, covers a multitude of sins.”
“Is that a proposal?” she asked in disbelief.
“My dear Mary, what else can we do?” he said gently. “You needn’t decide anything now, of course. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Come, I’ll show you to your room. You must be exhausted.”
“You mean to compromise me,” she accused him, “to force me to marry you.”
“You read too many novels,” he laughed. “Besides, I don’t have to compromise you. You were pretty damn well compromised the moment you set foot in your aunt’s house. If you’re really frightened of me, take your toasting fork to bed with you,” he offered, walking out of the room. After a moment, she followed him, toasting fork in hand.
The hall was empty. Quickly, she ran down the stairs and opened the door. The street was almost blanketed in fog. She could make out the moving shapes of people. She heard men’s voices, laughter. If this had been York, she would not have hesitated to walk out, but this was not York. It might as well have been Calcutta.
“Well?” said Julian. He was standing at the top of the stairs.
Silently, she closed the door and walked slowly up the stairs to him.
While Julian’s bedroom was larger than the closet off the landing, it was still a close, dismal chamber by Viola’s standards. The bed was narrow and covered with a thin, drab quilt, the floor was bare, and the chimney smoked. Viola’s bichon was curled up on a worn, upholstered armchair next to the fire. Viola collected her immediately.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Julian said cheerfully as Cork came from the adjourning dressing room. “Shall I bring you back something to eat?”
“Where are you going?” Viola demanded again.
“The Stock Exchange, of course,” he answered. “That’s where I spend most of my time.”
“On your wedding night?” Cork exclaimed indignantly. Immediately, a look from her mistress sent her scuttling back into the closet.
Julian stood in the doorway. “The closing bell is at nine o’clock,” he informed Viola. “You will hear it, if you’re still awake. If you need anything while I’m gone, just ask Hudson.”
In disbelief, Viola followed him to the landing. Julian was still wearing his coat, but Hudson was waiting at the foot of the stairs with his master’s hat. “Lock up,” Julian instructed him. “I have my latchkey. If Mrs Devize doesn’t need you, you may go to bed.”
“On the floor in the kitchen,” Hudson said expressionlessly. Having given Cork his own room, it was the only place left for him. “Very good, Captain.”
Viola watched the manservant lock the door and pocket the key. “Is there anything I can get you, madam?” Hudson asked her, coming up the stairs, his old bones creaking mournfully. If he thought it strange that his master should go out on his wedding night, he gave no sign of it.
“Have you been with Mr Devize long?” she asked him.
“I have been with the captain for many years,” Hudson replied. “I knew him as a boy.”
“Captain? Oh, yes, of course—he was in the army,” Viola murmured. “Did your captain give you orders to hold me prisoner?” she inquired.
“No, madam,” Hudson replied. “Is there anything I can get you before I retire?”
“Yes—dinner. I’d like a white soup, half a roast chicken with a side of asparagus, and a meringue for my sweet. Oh, and a cup of chocolate, for afters.”
Hudson frowned at her. “What do you think this is?” he demanded. “Roast chicken indeed! There’s a bit of cheese, and some hardtack biscuits, if you like.”
“Hardtack biscuits!” Viola said, horrified. “Oh, very well!”
Hudson muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Viola said sharply.
“Nothing, madam.”
In the bedroom, Cork had laid out Viola’s nightgown on the bed. “There’s a kettle of hot water,” she said, coming out of the closet. “Shall I fill the hip bath?”
“No, Cork,” Viola said firmly. “You may go.” Still wearing her coat and bonnet, she went over to Bijou and took the little dog onto her lap.
“Don’t you want me to help you undress at least?” Cork asked, surprised.
“Certainly not!” Viola said sharply.
“There’s naught to be nervous about, madam,” Cork said kindly. “From what I hear, ’tis over in a flash.”
With an unpleasant jolt, Viola realized her maid was talking about the consummation of her “marriage.” “Perhaps even quicker than that,” she said dryly.
“Aye,” Cork said seriously. “The younger the fellow, the faster it goes. So I hear.”
“Yes. Thank you, Cork.”
Alone in the room, Viola sat down beside the fire and untied the strings of her bonnet. Outside bells were ringing, but, unlike the natives, she could not tell one set of bells from another. Suddenly, she was very tired.
Just after nine o’clock, Julian crept silently up the stairs in his stockinged feet. Cautiously, he set his shoes out in the hall. As quietly as he could, he entered the room and moved stealthily over to the bed.
“What are you doing, Mr Devize?” Viola demanded from her seat beside the fire.
Julian started at the sound of her voice. “Hello!” he said, spinning around to face her. Silently, he absorbed the fact that, other than her hat, she had not removed a stitch of her clothing. She had not even taken off her shoes. “Are you hungry? I’ve brought sandwiches.”
Viola could not feign disinterest. “Considering I have had nothing but hardtack biscuits to eat—!” she began bitterly, breaking off abruptly as he handed her a hunk of something wrapped in brown paper. Unwrapping it, she discovered thick slices of ham and cheese surrounded by thick, crusty bread. Toasted, it would have been delectable, but she was far too hungry to bother with all that.
As she was occupying the only chair, Julian sat down on the cracked leather fender in front of the fireplace to eat his own sandwich. He took two small amber bottles from his inside coat pocket. “Ale or lemonade?” he asked her.
“What, no claret?” she grumbled, but she took the lemonade to wash down her food. Her hunger assuaged, she fed the last tidbits of her sandwich to the puppy.
“Why aren’t you in bed?” he asked her as he finished his ale. “I told you, you needn’t be afraid of me.”
“Oh, I’m not frightened,” she assured him. “It’s freezing on that side of the room. Do you know there’s nothing but greased paper in your window?”
“I’ll speak to the landlord, if it bothers you,” he said. Going over to the bed, Julian crouched down and gave it a manly shove. The bed did not budge.
“What are you doing?” she asked him scornfully.
He was shoving again, his muscles straining, his face growing red with embarrassment. “I’m going t
o move the bed closer to the fire so you will not be cold,” he explained.
“Oh.” She let him shove a bit longer, changing positions, then relented. “I think you’ll find that the bed is nailed to the floor. I tried to move it while you were gone.”
“Ah,” he said, desisting. “You might have said so.”
“You don’t really live here, do you?” she said.
Julian flashed her a look of surprise. “What do you mean?”
“There’s no furniture. No clothes. Apparently, no food.”
“You’re sitting in a chair,” he pointed out. “And my clothes are in the wardrobe in my dressing room, if you would care to see them.”
“I have already done so. Two shirts and one waistcoat. Where are the rest of your clothes? Do you expect me to believe that you have only two shirts and one waistcoat?”
Julian laughed ruefully. “I suppose I do live a somewhat Spartan existence,” he admitted. “Of course, I don’t spend much time here.”
“Clearly.”
“I must be on the Exchange ten or twelve hours a day. I eat in taverns mostly. I come home at night to sleep, but that’s about it.” Grasping the mattress, he pulled it off the bed and flung it on the floor at her feet, startling Bijou, who yapped in alarm.
“You expect me to sleep on the floor?” Viola asked him incredulously.
“You’ll be warm,” he pointed out, fetching the pillow and blanket for her.
“Where are you going to sleep?” she asked him suspiciously.
“What are you suggesting?” Julian asked. “I shall sleep in the chair, of course.”
“Mr Devize, do you actually think I’m going to let you sleep in this room with me?”
Julian frowned at her. “The servants will think it very odd if I don’t,” he pointed out, with forced patience. “It is supposed to be our wedding night, after all.”
“But it’s not our wedding night,” Viola said sharply.
“Thusly, I will sleep in the chair.”
Viola felt strangely annoyed with him. After a moment, she rose from the chair, carrying Bijou close to her body. He instantly took possession of the chair.
“How do I know you’ll stay there?” Viola demanded.
“My dear girl,” Julian said wearily. “If I intended to ravish you, I would have done so already. Besides, you have your toasting fork, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” she told him fiercely. “It’s in my pocket.”
Julian put his feet up on the leather fender in front of the fire. He closed his eyes. “Good night, Miss Andrews,” he said, settling in.
He looked quite content. Keeping her eyes on him, Viola sat down on the mattress and took off her shoes. The mattress was lumpy. She could not bring herself to lie down.
“I want the chair,” Viola said suddenly.
Julian opened his eyes. “No, you don’t. It’s quite uncomfortable, I promise you.”
The lady insisted, however, and soon Viola was curled up again in the chair with Bijou, while the gentleman stretched out on the mattress on the floor. “Good night, Miss Andrews,” he said pleasantly, closing his eyes.
Viola twisted and turned in the chair, upsetting the puppy. Mr Devize looked quite content stretched out on the mattress, his head on the pillow, his feet sticking out from under the quilt. In fact, his lack of interest in her was downright insulting. Perhaps he had not enjoyed kissing her. Perhaps she was not as attractive as she thought.
“This chair is uncomfortable,” she announced abruptly. “I want to change places.”
Julian sat up and eyed her with dislike. “I’d forgotten why I gave up on women,” he muttered. “This brings it all roaring back. Are you quite sure you want the bed, sweeting?”
“Get out of my bed, if you please,” she said imperiously.
Julian stood up and, with an ironic sweep of his arm, invited her to lie down while he reclaimed the chair.
Viola lay down on the mattress, punched the feather pillow into shape, and pulled the rough quilt up to her chin. She felt wide awake.
“Are we done?” he asked her curtly. “Are you satisfied with the arrangements?”
“Did you really give up on women?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he answered emphatically.
“Why?”
“Because they keep me up at night,” he said sternly. “Go to sleep, Mary.”
“Good night, Mr Devize.”
They both closed their eyes and pretended to sleep. Presently, Viola heard the chair creak as he moved about. It creaked again. Sitting up, she opened her eyes and glared at him.
“I can’t get comfortable,” he protested.
“It is a very uncomfortable chair,” she agreed pleasantly.
“But you’re comfortable, are you? That’s all that really matters.”
“For your information, I’m not at all comfortable,” said Viola, disliking his sarcasm. “The fire is only warming one side of me. I’m quite cold on the other.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “You could take turns, warming one side, then the other.”
“Or…you might warm the other side of me, Mr Devize,” she suggested. “It’s your fault I’m cold, after all.”
In a trice, he was beside her on the mattress.
“No, Mr Devize,” she complained, as he grabbed one side of the quilt. “This pitiful blanket is not big enough for us both. You must do without.”
In the next instant, he had her turned on her side, facing the fire. His body was fitted to hers. With one arm, he held her snug to him. “I think you’ll find,” he said in her ear, “it’s quite big enough for both of us.”
“So it is,” she said faintly.
“Warm enough?”
“Yes, I think so,” she breathed, her heart pounding.
“Good,” he said roughly. “Now go to sleep, damn it.”
Chapter Nine
With a strange man at such close proximity, Viola did not expect to sleep at all, but, within moments, she was so warm and comfortable that she drifted off. Some time later, her eyes popped open. The fire was flickering low in the grate. The bichon was whimpering softly in her chair. His hand, she thought wildly. It was not a dream. It was really happening. He had actually slipped his hand inside her coat. Even as she lay frozen in disbelief, his hand seemed to be reconnoitering for a way inside her dress.
“Mr Devize!” she said sharply. “What—!”
Julian grunted in his sleep, pulling her even closer to him, his damp mouth nuzzling the side of her neck, sending ripples of shock through her body. At the same time, his hold on her breast became even more possessive. Needless to say, Viola was not used to such treatment. “Mr Devize!” she cried indignantly, sitting up and giving his hand back to him.
“What?” Julian sat bolt upright, his handsome face creased in four places by the pillowcase. His short hair was sticking up in spikes. His heart was pounding. In the firelight, he looked so disoriented that she almost giggled. “What’s the matter? You all right?” he slurred, still half-asleep. “C’mere,” he mumbled, hauling her back into his arms. “You’re all right. Go to sleep.”
Viola found herself lying half across his body, her breasts crushed against his chest. She pulled away, but he only wrapped his arms around her more tightly, and threw a leg over her for good measure. “Hush, you,” he muttered irritably, then went back to sleep.
Almost immediately his grip on her loosened and an indignant Viola was able to extricate herself without the least difficulty. The arms that had clasped her so fiercely now dropped like rubber. Free, yet somehow bound, she propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at his sleeping face. Even without the shocking intensity of his blue eyes, it was a handsome face, boyishly softened in sleep. He looked quite innocent, in fact. Probably, he didn’t even know he had been holding her breast. Her fingers longed to smooth down his badly behaved hair.
Instead, she poked him hard in the chest. “Wake up!”
He o
pened his eyes and frowned up at her. “What’s the matter?” he mumbled drowsily.
Viola stood up and collected the bichon from the chair. “You were snoring,” she lied primly, looking down at him. “And I think Bijou needs to go out.”
Julian rubbed his eyes, yawning as he sat up. “What time is it?”
“It’s four o’clock,” said Viola. “In the morning,” she added helpfully.
“How do you know?” he asked, yawning.
Viola pointed at the little clock on the mantel.
“What’s that?” Julian demanded, squinting at it. He hadn’t seen it before; it certainly wasn’t his.
“That’s my little travel clock,” she explained.
He smiled faintly. “You have a travel clock?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Viola asked coolly. Her travel clock was a particularly nice travel clock set in a frame of pink diamonds. She was not so insulated that she believed that everyone had such a nice travel clock, but surely every lady who traveled needed a travel clock! Men, of course, had their pocket watches, so they did not count. “All ladies, I mean,” she clarified.
Julian stumbled to the chair and sat down to put on his shoes. Pulling on his coat, he stood to take the puppy from her. “Good God,” he said softly, looking at Viola as if seeing her for the first time. “Is that really you, then?”
“I beg your pardon?” she said crossly.
He smiled at her. “You’re really that beautiful, is that it? It’s not a trick?”
“Trick!”
“Your skin, your lips…That’s not paint?”
Viola glared at him. “Paint!”
“And your hair,” he went on pleasantly. “Your raven tresses, I should say. It just sort of curls like that, all on its own, does it? Without any curl papers?”
Viola was absolutely not charmed by this string of compliments. “I have a glass eye, and a wooden leg, if that helps,” she said sullenly, dumping the dog into his arms. “Take Bijou out, and make sure she does her business. And don’t let her get hit by a cart.”
The Heiress In His Bed Page 13