She didn’t know how long she sat there before Trix found her. But the cigarette had long since been ground out beneath her heel and several more waltzes had come and gone.
“I thought I’d find you out here.”
She roused herself and sat up. “Well?”
Trix gave her an innocent stare as she sat down beside her. “Well, what?”
“Don’t be coy. I saw your face when you were dancing with Trathen.”
That was enough. “Oh, Julie!”
“You like him.” Julia couldn’t keep the flatness out of her voice, but Beatrix, caught in the exciting throes of meeting a gorgeous man, didn’t seem to notice.
“Like him? What girl wouldn’t? He’s a dream.”
“What about Sunderland?” the devil in her couldn’t help asking.
“Will?” Beatrix bit her lip, wavered just a second. “He’s never coming back from Egypt, is he?”
She could have said yes. She could have urged Trix to keep waiting for the man who had left her behind. She could have propped up her cousin’s hopes about Will so that she could have Aidan for herself. But she looked into Trix’s eyes and she didn’t do it. “No, Trix. I don’t think Will’s ever coming back.”
Beatrix nodded, almost as if she hadn’t expected any other answer. “And Trathen? Is he a man of good character?”
Julia looked away, squeezing her eyes shut, tempted, so very tempted, to disparage Aidan, to deem him a horrible man and discourage Trix from any romantic notions about him. “Trathen—” She stopped and took a deep breath, opening her eyes. “Trathen’s a very good man. At least, I think he is. A bit stiff and very old-fashioned, but top drawer. One of the best.”
Trix nodded. “I like him. And I think . . . oh, Julie, I think he likes me, too.”
Of course he did. How could he not? Beatrix was bright as the sun, radiant, beautiful, and warm. Born the daughter of an earl, she’d be a perfect duchess, having been preparing for just such a role all her life. And surely Aidan wanted to marry. They were a match made in heaven, a golden god and a golden goddess.
And it might be true love in the making. Trix deserved true love—and everything that was supposed to go with it—the romantic courtship, the wedding of the season, the big brood of children, the happy ending. How could Julia, who’d done so much to mess up her own life, who couldn’t even fall in love anymore, who only wanted to use one man to get away from another—how could she stand in the way of Trix’s happiness?
She couldn’t. Not even to save herself from Yardley. Not even if Aidan was the perfect choice for her purposes. She forced herself to speak with the air of carefree joie de vivre she’d spent so many years perfecting.
“Well, you’ve a clear field, darling. He’s not entangled with any other woman, so far as I know.” She managed a perfect laugh as she waved her free hand toward the ballroom. “So don’t stand out here, talking to me. Go back inside and dance with the prince.”
Beatrix laughed and went back in, and as Julia watched her go, she also watched her chance for freedom crumbling into dust.
Chapter Eleven
It didn’t take long for Julia to appreciate Aidan’s astuteness in giving her a job so well suited to her abilities and temperament. As she spent the weekend sorting through the correspondence he’d given her, as she met with Lambert on Saturday morning to discuss the transition of Aidan’s engagements to her purview, as she began deciding which invitations would be worth his time, she realized being a social secretary was the one job in the world at which she could truly excel.
Though he’d denied it, she still suspected that in giving her this post, Aidan had been partly motivated by his innate chivalry, but since he’d offered to take over her loan interest-free and was paying her sixty pounds each month on top of it, she wasn’t going to quibble about his motives. She didn’t even tease him about it.
In fact, Monday afternoon when they met again, she made no mention of his susceptibility to women in distress. Instead, she strove to get straight down to business, assuming he preferred that sort of businesslike demeanor from those in his employ.
Within an hour, they had successfully dealt with most of the invitations. Only a few remained to be discussed when the door to Aidan’s office opened and Lambert came in, carefully balancing a laden tray on one forearm as he pushed the door wide with his free hand. “Afternoon tea, sir?” he inquired, pausing by the door as he secured the tray firmly in a two-handed grip.
“Tea already?” Aidan asked, sounding surprised.
“It is five o’clock,” Mr. Lambert pointed out. “But if you would prefer to wait . . .” He let his voice trail off, and Aidan looked at her.
“Tea?” he asked, and when she hesitated, he glanced again at the man by the door. “You did bring enough for two, didn’t you, Lambert?”
The secretary didn’t even blink. “Of course, sir. I assumed Her Ladyship would be in need of refreshment also.”
“Excellent.” Aidan beckoned the secretary forward and began clearing space for the tea tray on his desk.
Julia watched Lambert lay out the tea things, and she noted there were only two teacups. “You prepared tea for yourself as well, I hope, Mr. Lambert?” she asked, fully conscious that both of them were Aidan’s secretaries and hoping she was not incurring the young man’s ill will by being the only one taking tea with their employer. “Shall you join us?”
Lambert smiled. “Oh no, ma’am, thank you for asking, but I always have my afternoon tea at my desk.” He turned to Aidan. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes, thank you, Lambert. You may go.”
The young man departed, closing the door behind him, and Aidan leaned toward her across the desk. “Lambert always reads during his tea,” he told her in a confidential voice. “Books by lady novelists.”
She laughed, for a more unlikely reader of romantic fiction than Mr. Lambert she could not imagine. “You’re having me on,” she accused.
He shook his head as he reached for the teapot. “I’m not,” he assured as he poured for both of them. “Lambert adores novels, and the more romantic they are, the better he likes them. You take milk in your tea, I believe?” he asked, setting aside the teapot and picking up the milk jug. “And sugar?”
“I do. How on earth did you know that?”
“I saw you take tea every day at Marlowe’s house party.”
“But that was two years ago!” She felt a sudden rush of pleasure, flattered that he remembered such a thing. “I can’t believe you remember how I prefer my tea.”
He shrugged as if it was inconsequential, added sugar to her tea, stirred it, and handed the cup and saucer to her across the desk. “What food would you like?”
She glanced over the various refreshments Lambert had brought them. “A scone, please, with cream and jam. Oh, and one of those cucumber sandwiches. I love those.”
“Do you, really?” he asked as he filled her plate.
“You seem surprised,” she said, a bit puzzled, setting aside her teacup to take the plate of food he offered. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t like cucumber sandwiches?”
“We had them in Cornwall.” He paused, then added, “In hindsight, I thought all the food on that picnic was for my benefit, that you picked my favorite things only because . . .” He paused again and met her eyes across the desk. “Only because you wanted to entice me.”
“Well, that was the main reason,” she confessed, wincing a little at her own mercenary motives that day. “I mainly chose foods you would prefer, I admit, but I certainly wasn’t going to pick foods I don’t like. Pâté, for example. You love the stuff, but I didn’t include it in the picnic basket. Sorry, Aidan, but even you aren’t worth choking down goose liver.”
He chuckled at that. “Hate pâté, do you?”
She shuddered, an indication of her soul-deep loathing for that particular food, and reached for a knife, putting any revolting thoughts of liver out of her mind by slathering cream and strawberry jam
on her scone and taking a hefty bite. As she did so, she glanced at him from beneath her lashes to find he was smiling at her. “What are you smiling about?” she asked around a mouthful of scone.
“You have cream on your face.” He leaned forward, reaching across the desk to slide his thumb over one corner of her lips. “Right there.”
At the contact, Julia’s stomach dipped with a strange weightless sensation, and she didn’t know quite what to do. A minute ago she’d have thought Aidan touching her was about as likely as unicorns cavorting in Trafalgar Square.
He pulled back, taking the dab of cream with him, sucking it from his thumb as he lowered his gaze to the desk and picked up an invitation. His manner seemed so natural, so nonchalant, but she felt all at sixes and sevens.
Her face felt as if it burned where he’d touched her so casually, and she looked away as memories of that day at her cottage came roaring back to her, memories of how they’d stood in her kitchen, of how he’d unbuttoned her dress and caressed her bare skin. It was all so vivid in her mind it might have happened yesterday—his fingers pushing tendrils of hair out of her face, skimming across her cheekbones, caressing the nape of her neck. His warm palms cupping her cheeks, gliding down her arms, toying with her breasts. She lifted her gaze to his face, and when she did, she remembered his mouth on hers.
Suddenly, it was there: desire, flowing over her like warm honey, physical and fleshly and luscious. Desire was something she never thought to feel again, and she was stunned by the unexpected sensations suddenly flowing through her.
Had she felt this way that day with him at her cottage? she wondered. Probably not, she was forced to conclude. That day, she’d been in the grip of other, darker emotions. But now, there was no desperation or panic to stifle desire, and as it spread slowly through her limbs, it felt so gloriously warm, she actually leaned closer to him, like a plant in a window leaned toward sunlight.
He looked up, and she jerked back in her seat, lowering her gaze to the papers in her lap, her body flushed with heat. Oh God, she thought, chagrined, agitated, and thoroughly embarrassed.
“About the Horbury dinner party on the fourteenth,” he said, tapping the invitation in his hand with one finger, not seeming to notice her discomfiture. “Would that be the Hertfordshire Horburys or the Derbyshire Horburys?”
Julia could not answer his question. In fact, she couldn’t even think. “Umm . . . that would be . . . umm . . .” She paused, staring down into her lap, not daring to look at him as she struggled to come to her senses. For the life of her, she could not recall which set of Horburys had sent him the blasted invitation. She took a deep breath and guessed. “Hertfordshire.”
She lifted her gaze a notch, but he wasn’t even looking at her. His attention was on the invitation in his hand, and she let out her breath in a silent sigh of relief. Aidan needed a wife, not a mistress. And she needed an honorable job, not a lover. Harboring any feelings of desire for him or any notions of picking up where they’d left off last August was idiotic. She didn’t want to awaken things inside her that were better left asleep.
In any case, she doubted he was interested in bedding her now. He’d wanted her then, but there was no reason for him to want her now. And if all that wasn’t enough to discourage her suddenly amorous inclinations, becoming his lover would make the truth of what had really happened last August much more likely to come tumbling out of her mouth. If that happened, not only would she be out of a job, but any chance to gain his respect would be irretrievably lost. In fact, if he ever discovered the truth, he would hate her.
Just why the possibility of losing what little respect Aidan might have for her bothered Julia, she couldn’t say, for she’d never been the sort who set much store by other people’s opinions of her. Strangely though, she cared what Aidan thought of her. The idea of losing the rapport that was beginning between them, of never having a chance at the friendship she’d told him all those years ago they would have one day, was something she didn’t want to contemplate. Besides, the last thing she needed now was an amorous intrigue. Desire and romance were about as useful to her as wings were to a fish. Julia picked up her pencil and brought her mind back to what was important.
“I was mistaken,” she told him. “It was the Derbyshire Horburys. Lady Susan Horbury is a lovely girl,” she added, pushing aside all the delicious, tingly feelings of a moment before. “Do you wish to meet her?”
Giving Julia a position in his employ, Aidan knew, was akin to bringing matches into proximity with gunpowder. Spending time with her, having her close to him, would be torture, a delicious but agonizing torture that could explode into chaos if he didn’t keep tight rein over his desire.
Ah, but that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Aidan leaned back in his chair, staring at the now-empty chair opposite. Wasn’t that how he intended to conquer this? By once again pitting his will against his desire, by testing the discipline of mind and body he’d always been so proud of against the lust Julia always managed to evoke in him was the only way to conquer this and put it behind him.
He’d known that all along. He’d known it last August, which was why he’d gone to her cottage that day. The last time he’d tested himself this way, he’d failed. This time, he was determined that the outcome would be different.
If all he’d wanted was to satiate his desire, he could have offered to make her his mistress. He almost had. Standing there with her at the Savoy the other night, he’d imagined what it would be like to have her again, and again, any time he wanted, anywhere he wanted, over and over, until this mad desire fizzled and died of its own accord and he was free of her spell. He’d imagined it again in his office as she’d sat across from him, fighting the base and wholly dishonorable notion to suggest she pay off her debts to him with her body.
He didn’t know if she would have agreed to such an arrangement, but if she had, it would not have been because she wanted him. And despite his indulgence in a fantasy or two about her as his mistress, he couldn’t act on it. A woman who had already chosen the profession of being a courtesan was one thing; a woman made into a courtesan because of him was another. However much he wanted her, that was a line he just couldn’t cross. And the only thing about his own character it would prove was that despite all his strong moral principles, he was a cad. So, instead of making her his mistress, he’d offered her a job.
If he were a hypocritical sort of man, he’d have told himself it was the chivalry she insisted upon imposing on his character that inspired his action. He’d have flattered himself that he’d been noble to offer her respectable employment—the hero rescuing the beauty in distress. But though Julia had suspected him of that motive, he was not so self-deceiving as that.
No, he was being completely selfish. Every bit of his cooperation in her efforts to rebuild her life were for one purpose: helping him conquer his lust for her. Asking about her financial situation to determine how desperate she was and what other options she might have, offering to take her loan, keeping cool and hiding what he felt—all meant to prove to him and to her that he was master of his emotions. Even his requirement that she stop smoking was part of it, for it would make her even more luscious and tempting than ever, raising the stakes even higher, testing him to the maximum degree. When he stopped being tempted, he would be over her.
He was playing a dangerous game, he knew, one that would put his character, his honor, and his self-control to the ultimate test, a test he had already failed with disastrous results. This time, he was resolved to succeed, but however it unfolded, one thing was clear. Having her in his employ would either make him stronger or break him utterly. Just now, Aidan didn’t know which was a more likely possibility.
Despite her misgivings about working for Aidan, during the two weeks that followed, Julia discovered that although being the social secretary to a duke was a post that suited her down to the ground, it was no walk in the park.
It was quite a challenge to manage a duke’s engagement
s, for there were many rules of etiquette and social nuances to consider. Every choice made for every hour of the day was a snub or an indication of favor to someone, one wrong word in a letter she wrote on his behalf could have serious repercussions, and during her first fortnight in his employ, Julia often felt so exasperated by the complicated juggling, she wanted to give it all up in despair, a feeling compounded by the fact that she did not have cigarette smoking as an outlet for her tension. She’d never realized how dependent—addicted, really—she’d become to smoking until she made a true and serious effort to give it up, and the pangs of withdrawal from the habit proved difficult to conquer. Painful as it was, however, Julia persevered.
She met with Aidan three times each week as they had arranged, going over his social calendar, reviewing his correspondence, and discussing which connections were worth his time and which were not. He listened to her assessments and usually accepted her conclusions. He was courteous, polite, and seemed thoroughly indifferent to her as anything but his employee.
Julia, adept by this point at shielding herself from unwanted feelings, was able to shut out any silly twinges of desire she might have felt for Aidan that first day on the job. When he asked her opinion about various young ladies of the ton, she was able to give it honestly and without a qualm. Though her private opinion was that not a single one of the young ladies he asked her about was worthy of him, she kept that opinion to herself. He met many women during the two weeks that followed, and though she told herself she shouldn’t care either way, she couldn’t help feeling a bit relieved that none seemed to garner his particular interest.
Mrs. Boodle began to be mentioned in the society columns as the Duke of Trathen’s secretary, and it was Aidan’s turn to tease her for a change when he commented on the perspicacity of the press, who seemed to know the Duke of Trathen’s secretary was a stout, middle-aged widow, and therefore seemed to take no further interest in her. Julia, who had conveyed that bit of information about Mrs. Boodle to the various society columns via the Marchioness of Kayne, merely gave him an innocent look in reply and moved on to the next invitation that had come in the post the previous afternoon.
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