But what was the antidote to a woman who seemed able to awaken his deepest carnal appetites against his will? He might have thought bedding her was the answer, but he’d already done that, and it hadn’t changed a thing.
On the other hand, he reflected, did that afternoon at her cottage really count in that regard? There was a great deal about that afternoon he didn’t remember. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t get past this. Perhaps it was time to try filling in the blank spaces of his memory instead of trying to suppress it or forget it. Perhaps that was how he could finally conquer it.
Aidan straightened in his seat, lifted the opera glasses again, and studied her, letting anything he could remember about that afternoon enter his mind.
The white dress was the first thing he thought of. He remembered that, God knew, for the image of her in it soaking wet with nothing underneath was burned on his brain for all time. There had been buttons down the front, pearl buttons, and although the fabric had been damp, the buttons had slipped free of their holes with ease. No doubt that was why she’d chosen it, and why she’d chosen to wear no undergarments beneath it. Everything—the dress, the water, the lack of underclothes—had been meant to make the seduction as easy as possible.
He’d pulled the dress down her shoulders, but he hadn’t done that at the cove. No, they’d been in the kitchen of her cottage by that time, though he couldn’t recall walking back from the beach below.
Through the opera glasses, he watched her lean back in her seat and close her eyes as she listened to the music. The move gave him a splendid view of her exposed throat and décolleté, evoking the memory of how he had trailed kisses along her throat and across her bare shoulder.
He’d put his hands on her arms at some point—to push her away or bring her closer? He didn’t know what his intent might have been, but did know that he’d cupped her breasts in his hands, and any vague idea he might have had about pushing her away had gone to the wall.
He remembered her hand raking through his hair, pulling his head down to her breast, and how her skin had been warm and soft with the delicate scent of lilacs. He remembered his hands on her buttocks and the hot, aching tension building in his body as he’d pulled her closer. He was feeling it again now, watching her across the theater.
What had happened next? He stared at her across the theater, striving to remember. Had he taken her right there, standing up, her legs wrapped around his hips? Or had he carried her upstairs to her room first? What had happened next? Damn it, he thought, his gaze riveted on her, what was next?
On the stage below, the Valkyrie soprano hit the high-C. Julia opened her eyes and straightened in her seat as if to resume watching the performance, but then she paused, turning her head to look straight at him. Caught, he jerked the glasses down and leaned back, awash in arousal and frustration.
He didn’t remember anything more, but what did it matter? His honor had already been proved a sham by that point, and envisioning the various ways in which the actual coupling had taken place would only inflame the passion he was trying to extinguish.
His mind went further back, to their very first meeting and her bare legs dangling over the side of a bridge with her pretty toes skimming the water. Did it all come down to that? Surely he hadn’t thrown caution to the wind, compromised his reputation, and made himself a cad just to fulfill a silly adolescent fantasy.
He refused to believe it was that simple, or that he was that facile, yet she was the only woman who had ever tempted him beyond reason and beyond honor.
Why her? he wondered, thoroughly exasperated with himself. Perhaps she’d been right to say he harbored a secret longing for what he could not have, but there were many women among his acquaintance who could be considered the “forbidden fruit,” as she’d put it, and yet he was not like his father—he didn’t lust after every woman he met. So what was it about this particular woman that made her so hard to resist?
Aidan glanced at the bewitching woman across the way, and decided it was damned well time he found out.
Julia was restless. She paced about the crimson and gold interior of one of the Savoy’s elegant sitting rooms as Marlowe’s other guests milled about in a much more leisurely fashion, engaging in small talk as they waited for supper to be served in the private dining room beyond. Only one guest had not yet arrived, and though Marlowe had confirmed Aidan would be coming, Julia kept glancing at the door, a bit aggravated. Aidan was never unpunctual. What was taking him so long?
She wanted to talk with him about the idea she’d had earlier, and this supper party seemed a perfect opportunity, but she knew he had very little reason to talk with her, and the more time that passed without his arrival, the more nervous she became. She wandered about, unable to sit down for more than two minutes at a time, she tapped her fingers against her champagne glass and her foot against the floor, and though René tried several times to engage her in conversation, she was too distracted to respond with anything more than a few murmured monosyllables.
With only ten minutes remaining until supper would be served, he finally arrived, but Julia wanted to speak to him out of earshot of anyone else, and she was forced to wait a little longer while he greeted his hosts and was introduced to René.
When he moved to the refreshment table across the room, she saw her chance at last, but as she came up beside him, he gave her nothing more than an indifferent glance, and her nervousness grew. She strove to keep it hidden, taking refuge in teasing him as she watched him pour himself a glass of port.
“Port, Aidan?” she said, giving him an impudent look. “Is that wise?”
“In your company, probably not,” he answered dryly. “But I do sometimes drink, as you are well aware. I simply make it a rule to limit myself to one glass. In that sense, port serves me well since I dislike it. And,” he added, grimacing as he took a sip, “after the events of earlier this evening, God knows I need a drink.”
She laughed, but before she could reply, he held up his free hand, palm toward her in a gesture of surrender. “You were right about Felicia Vale. Absolutely right. That is why you made a beeline for me just now, isn’t it? So you could gloat?”
“Well, no, actually, but now that you mention it . . .” She paused, grinning. “Told you so.”
A hint of wry amusement curved the corners of his mouth. “No doubt you have a very strong pair of opera glasses, and saw the entire episode?”
She didn’t even try to deny it. “Every delicious moment.”
“That poor girl. I shall dance a waltz with her to compensate for your heartless way of entertaining yourself at her expense.”
“No you won’t. Even your sense of chivalry doesn’t extend that far.”
Unexpectedly, he chuckled. “I daresay you’re right.”
“But I didn’t make a beeline for you, as you put it, so that I could tease you about Felicia. I want to talk with you about something else. That is, I want to ask you something.” She paused and glanced around. “But I don’t want anyone else to overhear.”
“I don’t know if that’s wise,” he murmured. “The private conversations I have with you never seem to turn out well.”
She had rather the opposite point of view, for one of their private conversations had turned out to be her salvation, but it would not be wise to say so, not when she was about to surpass all her previous gall and ask him for help. “I understand your reluctance, and you have every right, but this is important, Aidan,” she said quietly. “Could you give me a moment?”
Her suddenly serious tone surprised him, she could tell, but he nodded. “Of course.”
At that moment, Sir George and Lady Debenham approached the refreshment table, and Aidan moved with her to an unoccupied part of the room, but when he gestured to a pair of facing chairs near the fireplace with a questioning glance at her, she shook her head. She was nervous enough already, and if she were sitting down, she’d probably start wriggling in her chair. “I’d prefer to stand, if you don�
�t mind.”
“Certainly.” He paused for a sip of port. “What did you wish to discuss?”
She took a deep breath and plunged in. “I am in need of an occupation, and I thought you might be able to help me.”
“An occupation?” he echoed, a puzzled frown knitting his brows. “What do you mean?”
“I . . . umm . . . I need money, you see.”
His frown deepened. “But surely Paul—”
“Paul can’t help me, and I wouldn’t ask him to. He’s giving me a very generous allowance in pin money, but that’s not much good because . . .” She paused, for this was much harder than she’d thought it would be. She hated talking of unpleasant subjects, and she really hated putting herself in a bad light to someone whose opinion she respected, but there was nothing for it. Aidan, at least, already thought the worst of her, so what she was about to say wouldn’t surprise him. “I’m in debt. Quite heavily in debt.”
“I see.”
Just that, two murmured words, and she felt defensive all of a sudden. “It’s not gambling, if that’s what you’re thinking. Or clothes, although I do spend a lot on clothes, I know. Some of it is the Mercedes, too. It was an expensive trinket, I daresay, but I had reasons for purchasing it, reasons which—”
“Julia,” he interrupted, “I didn’t ask you for an explanation of how you spend your money. I’m just trying to clarify what it is you want of me. Are you asking me for employment?”
She looked into those steady hazel eyes, but she could read nothing in their murky depths. Nor could she detect from his polite impassivity what he might be thinking. “Well . . . yes. I mean, possibly. I mean—” She paused again, cursing herself for stammering like a schoolgirl all of a sudden. It took gall for her to ask him for help after what she’d done, and if their positions were reversed, she’d probably tell him to go to hell. Though she knew Aidan wouldn’t say such a thing to any woman, that knowledge didn’t soothe her jangled nerves.
She took a deep breath, reminded herself of how limited her options were, and tried again. “You are a man of considerable business acumen, and you have many investment holdings. I was thinking . . . hoping you might have some post available that I could . . . umm . . . do, or at least a suggestion of how I might earn the money to pay my debts. That is,” she added with a forced laugh, “if you can think of anything I’m remotely qualified to do.”
He didn’t reply. Instead, his gaze skimmed over her in a slow, assessing perusal that seemed to miss nothing and perhaps remember a great deal. Under this scrutiny, Julia suddenly felt warm and flushed, and she had an inexplicable desire to bolt for the door. By the time his eyes once again met hers, she felt as if a dozen butterflies were fluttering around inside her. In his eyes, there was no spark of desire that she could discern; his gaze was cool, objective, almost disinterested. Strangely, that made her feel more vulnerable than any hot look of desire would have done, more naked than she’d been that afternoon in Cornwall. Suddenly, she was the one in desperate need of a drink.
“If this were a melodrama,” he said as she lifted her glass of champagne to her lips, “I would make you my mistress.”
Julia froze, the glass poised just below her parted lips, and her heart slammed against her ribs. Desperate, she grasped for her most effective weapon, the witty remark, and pasted on a careless smile. “What’s it pay?” she quipped, and took a swallow of champagne.
As expected, he laughed, but that didn’t diffuse her increasing tension. There was something new in the air, a change in the way he was looking at her, in the way he was speaking to her. It seemed more impersonal and distant than what she was accustomed to with him, and she didn’t like it. It made her feel even more off-balance.
She forced herself back to the matter at hand. “In all seriousness, I do need employment of some sort. Honorable employment. I want . . .” She paused, trying to find a way to explain without being asked any probing, inconvenient questions. “I want to do something useful with my life.”
He raised one eyebrow, looking so skeptical of her sudden earnestness, she couldn’t help laughing a little. “I know, I know, I’ve been such a lily of the field most of my life, but I want to change that. I was hoping you could suggest how I might do so.”
He was silent for a moment, and she knew he was considering any possible ulterior motives she might have. “I might have some ideas for you,” he said at last. “Come see me tomorrow. Nine o’clock,” he added. “Be punctual.”
She suppressed her sigh of relief. “Nine? Heavens, Aidan, the birds aren’t even awake at nine. Oh, all right,” she added as he gave her a look that dared her to keep objecting. “Nine o’clock tomorrow. But,” she added, feeling the need to make things absolutely clear, “if that bit about being your mistress wasn’t a joke, let me set you straight and say no in advance.”
“No need to refuse me, Baroness, for I would never consider making you my mistress, and I wouldn’t dream of proposing such an arrangement.”
Such an unequivocal reply surprised her a little, she had to admit. Not that she was unduly conceited, but Aidan had always been rather susceptible to her charms—she’d known that from the first time they’d ever met, so it wasn’t unreasonable of her to be a bit taken aback by his statement. And though he had ample reason to avoid becoming entangled with her again, it stung a little that he was so uninterested in the prospect. “Why not?” she couldn’t resist asking. “Because you’re too much of a gentleman to take a mistress?”
“No,” he answered and started to move past her. “Because I already have one. Now, if you will excuse me?”
He bowed to her and walked away without waiting for an answer, which was a good thing, since she could not, for the life of her, think of a witty comeback to that.
Chapter Eight
Julia was not a punctual person, and not always a reliable one. Part of this was due to years of ducking and dodging and running away from Yardley, which had necessitated a lack of reliability in her social commitments and a believable set of excuses to go with it. And part was due, she would have been the first to admit, to her innate procrastination, her love of late night parties, and her hatred for early rising, all of which she had been able to indulge freely during the past six months without fear or worry.
Her family, who loved her and understood all this, were quite accustomed to her lack of punctuality; her friends found her amusing enough to overlook that particular flaw. Aidan, however, was an entirely different kettle of fish, and so, upon arriving home after supper at the Savoy, she instructed Giselle to awaken her at half past six.
Despite such firm resolve, when the maid arrived in obedience to the emphatic instructions issued three hours earlier, Julia groaned, rolled over, and went back to sleep. When Giselle reentered her room thirty minutes later with morning tea and a compelling reminder that she had a very important meeting in the City two hours hence, Julia made the hazy rationale that she could always charm away any irritation that ensued from her lateness on any occasion, and drifted back into the very pleasant dream she’d been having about an absurd little Vivienne hat.
Another half hour passed, and her maid returned. Noting that her mistress was still asleep, Giselle, who knew Julia’s foibles quite well, took the course of action most likely to yield the necessary result. She leaned down to murmur in her mistress’s ear, and when Julia heard the words Duke of Trathen, her eyes opened as if she’d just been plunked down in an ice bath. Any dreams of absurd little hats and charming excuses went right out of her head.
“Heavens!” she cried, flinging back the sheets and sitting up, wide awake. “Giselle, what time is it?”
“Half past seven, madame.” The maid, who was holding open a violet silk peignoir for her to slip into, added, “You have no time to bathe, but I have hot water waiting on the washstand.”
“Such a good thing I did not smoke cigarettes last night,” Julia murmured, waving aside the robe as she ran to the washstand. “Aidan hates the sme
ll of smoke, and I’ve no time to wash my hair.”
The mere mention of cigarettes made her crave one, but the image of Aidan’s disapproving face as she’d pulled her case out the night before in his study was enough to banish her craving, at least for now.
Giselle vanished into the dressing room, and Julia slipped off her nightgown. She shoved the braid of her hair over her shoulder, poured steaming water into the washbasin, grabbed the square of French-milled lilac soap that sat in a little dish on the marble-topped washstand, and began a quick but serviceable bath, beginning with her face and working her way down.
“How long shall it take to arrive in the City, Giselle, do you think?” she called, soaping beneath her arms.
The maid emerged from the dressing room, carrying a tailor-made coat and skirt of pale gray, one of Julia’s less lavish white shirtwaists, and a pile of snowy white undergarments. “One hour.”
“An hour? Traffic in London is that awful nowadays? Oh, dear, I’m sunk like a ship.”
“Perhaps less than an hour,” the maid conceded grudgingly, setting the clothes on the bed, before coming to help her rinse away the soap and dry off. “But it does not do to be always late, madame.”
“I know, I know, I’m terrible. Come, Giselle, help me dress. I’ll do my hair while you go down and find me a taxi.”
She and the maid worked frantically to dress her in the many layers of garments required of a lady, then Giselle departed. Julia unraveled her braid, then twisted her black curls at the back of her head, making use of many hairpins and a few impatient oaths. She donned an enormous hat of gray felt with a wide brim and heaps of ribbons and feathers that would conceal her rather crooked efforts with her hair, then she thrust her feet into black kid walking shoes, caught up a pair of white gloves, and raced for the stairs, hoping Giselle had succeeded in her task, for acquiring a taxi always seemed an impossible task when one was in a hurry.
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