by Bee Ridgway
Clare regarded him coolly, then turned to Arkady. “Do you know, Count, I think he is in danger of falling in love with our imperiled Miss Percy.”
Arkady crossed his arms. “I think you are right.” He, too, favored Nick with a long, serious look. “And I don’t like it.”
Nick slammed out of the room.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Julia on her horse. Julia dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, curled up by the fire in the Vermont house. Julia bent back over his arm. . . . Nick flipped over, pulling a pillow onto his head. It was three in the morning and he was wracked by lust. His body and soul were on fire with it.
Yesterday on the hillside the marquess had managed to gain the upper hand, and his idea was simple. Marry her. Settle down and raise little marquesses. The marquess was living in a comedy. Nick Davenant was tied to the Guild and therefore he was living in a tragedy. But this scene, in which the hero is tormented by desire, was the same in both scripts.
It was the thought of her waist. Of how it had felt in his hands when he had lifted her into the saddle. How she might strain upward to kiss him, if she were to kiss him. How his hands might drift down from her waist . . .
Good grief.
She is a gentlewoman, he told himself. A lady. Bred to save her virginity and even her kisses until marriage.
Even her kisses, Nick, he told himself from under the pillow. You can’t kiss her if she comes to meet you in the morning. You shouldn’t even hold her hand. Those are the rules and you know them through and through.
“Through and through,” he said out loud. “Shoe and glue. Brew and blue. Tutu.”
He groaned. The last time he had tried the rhyming game it had ended with his thinking of Julia. Way back in the twenty-first century, when the thought of Julia used to calm him down. Now she inflamed him.
She probably thought he was marriage material. Maybe she even wanted to tempt his kisses. That was how it worked. A kiss and then a proposal. A girl in her position expected to get married, to dutifully offer up her virginity on her wedding night, to have children and be a respected lady. Getting herself married off to the boy next door might seem like the perfect happy ending to her. Goddamn it, it was the perfect happy ending.
Nick groaned again as the wedding-night scenario unrolled its luxurious details, like Cleopatra out of a carpet.
He would stay home tomorrow morning. He would stay home tomorrow morning. He would stay home. . . .
* * *
Morning found him walking toward the woods, rain dripping from his curly-brimmed beaver hat and from the capes of his greatcoat. Gore-Tex, he thought to himself. Wicking fabric. He had high-tech rain gear in his hall closet in Vermont. Yet here he was, dressed in clothes that smelled when they got wet. Wool and linen and leather and fur and cotton. Animals and vegetables. Natural dyes. Hand stitching. He breathed the clean air in through his mouth. The rain tasted pure on his tongue. Perhaps Julia would stay home and solve his problem for him. She hadn’t said she would come. She certainly shouldn’t come. If she was a good girl, a lady . . .
She wasn’t a good girl or a lady. She was Julia.
She would come.
He looked up, almost expecting to see her up at the edge of the wood, waiting for him. But the line of trees, black in the rain, cut blankly across the horizon like a wall.
* * *
Julia hung back under the boughs, watching him come toward her. He looked severe in his hat and greatcoat, and he was walking with deliberate purpose, as if striding across the field to a duel. Or perhaps he was coming to tell her that he now believed the rumors.
She took a step or two back into the trees. She wasn’t sure she could bear to hear those recriminations on his lips. There was still time to turn around and walk away. But he was making short work of the distance. She saw him look up and wondered whether he’d seen her. She was wearing her red cloak, for she had no black one. But if he did see her he gave no sign and simply marched inexorably forward.
* * *
God, he was a fool. No fool like an old fool. He was only supposed to be a few years her senior, and if you counted by birth year, that was true enough. But in another way he was nearly twelve years older, and in yet another way he was unfathomably older—so old, in fact, that he shouldn’t even have been born yet. Yet, in spite of it all, here he was, squelching through the fields like some pastoral swain off to meet his shepherdess. Fortunately she wasn’t there, and he was later than he had been yesterday. Maybe she had some sense. It would be good if one of them did. In spite of the cold rain wilting his cravat and spotting his boots, in spite of the knowledge that he was a damned idiot, and in spite of the fact that he was clearly stomping up the high road to supreme folly, he burned for her.
“Damn.” He cursed aloud. Then he looked up again, and there she was, her red cape like an ensign against the black bark of the trees, her face lifted to the rain. She was so beautiful that he stopped in his tracks. Then he couldn’t help it. He frowned, but he stepped forward, and his hand was reaching out for hers.
* * *
She could sense his foul mood as he came closer, and perversely, it drew her out of the trees. She put her chin up, and her hood fell back. She didn’t replace it. The cool rain on her face felt good. She didn’t know why he was coming toward her looking so ferocious, but if he thought he could scare her he could think again. Then he looked up and his eyes fastened on hers and his frown deepened. But he closed the space between them in a few short strides and his hand in its brown glove reached for hers. “Julia,” he said, and his voice was rough.
She put her black-gloved hand in his and curtsied, her back straight. “My lord.”
He looked down at her, holding her hand lightly in his. Now that he was close she could tell that he was angry with himself and not with her. He said nothing.
“You are thinking you should not have come,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You invited me. It was for me to accept or decline. If you had not come, and I had, you would have been breaking every rule of good society.”
He smiled grimly. “By inviting you I broke every rule of good society, and you know it.”
“Yes, I do know it,” she said. They stood for a moment, looking at their entwined hands, his brown fingers holding her black. She could feel the banked energy in his fingers, even as they held hers as gently as a bone china teacup. She lifted her eyes. She intended to say that she knew he was here only to make plans, but instead she said, “I am glad you came. I—”
* * *
Suddenly he was kissing her. Perhaps he could not have helped it. Her rain-wet mouth, her red cloak, the dark trees, the smell of the earth, and most of all her dark eyes looking so candidly into his, those eyes that had haunted him for centuries . . . Before she could finish what she was saying, he gathered her into his arms, his lips found hers.
At first it felt innocent, if only because of the cool rainwater on their faces. Her lips, fresh with rain, trembled beneath his like the leaves trembling above their heads. Her nose tucked perfectly against his, and he pulled her still more tightly against him. Even through their layers of wet clothing he thought he could feel her heart fluttering, but perhaps it was his own heart, or simply his own blood singing in his ears.
Then he pulled back, just a little. Her sweet breath washed warm over his face, and nothing was innocent anymore. They were back among the trees, and she was up against the smooth trunk of an ancient beech, her arms around his neck as he kissed her open mouth and reached into the opening of her cloak and around to pull her narrow waist closer to him. His hat was knocked from his head; her dark hair was half spilling down her shoulders. He kissed her face, her closed eyes, her chin, and down her neck. She cried his name, and it sounded so perfect on her lips—Nicholas. “Say that again,” he breathed in her ear, feeling her shiver and arch more firmly against him. “Nicholas,” she whispered. He flicked his tongue lightly around her ear, and she swayed and seemed to lose
her balance. He caught her delicious bottom in his hands and brought her gasping against his thighs. She pulled his head down for another kiss.
Then, as if by mutual agreement, it slowly began to end. Perhaps it was the change in the light as the rain stopped. Or perhaps it was that there were only two choices, and one of them was unthinkable. In any case, like sleepers slowly waking, they pulled clingingly apart until they stood facing each other again, her black-gloved hand in his brown-gloved hand, gazing down together at their fingers.
“Julia.”
She didn’t look up but pulled her hand from his. “Say nothing.”
“How do you know what I would say?”
She brushed her hands down her cloak, and it fell closed again across her black dress. “I just do not want you to say anything.” She looked up. “Let it be.”
“I am not free,” he said.
The shock came to her eyes immediately, and he stumbled to explain. “I don’t mean—”
She held her hand up and turned away. “I asked you to say nothing.”
Nick reached for her and managed to capture the edge of her cloak. She looked back over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“You are right. You asked me to be silent and I was not able to keep from trying to explain. For that I apologize.”
“I accept your apology.”
“I do not, however, apologize for kissing you, Julia. That, I had to do. I don’t regret it.”
She wheeled and faced him fully, twitching her cloak from his fingers. “If you had apologized for that, Nicholas Falcott,” she said, “you would at this moment be sporting a black eye.”
That made all his desire come surging back. “You are gallant, Julia,” he said roughly. “A champion. I fully intend to kiss you again one day.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I do.”
She stared at him for a moment, and when she spoke her voice was low and vibrant. “The road to hell is paved with such intentions, my lord. It will be a cold day in that place when you kiss me again.” She turned and stalked away.
“Wait,” he called. “I must inform you of another matter.”
She stopped without turning. “Yes?”
“I am sorry to detain you, but I thought you should be warned. My sister and I have devised a plan for your release from Castle Dar. Clare, my friend Count Lebedev, and I will be arriving this afternoon at four to confront your cousin. We intend to be disgustingly imperious. I shall be the grand marquess, and Clare shall be the outraged lady of virtue. Lebedev will fill in as necessary. The intention is to shame your cousin into releasing you.”
She turned her head and showed him one haughty eye. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, stiffly formal. “I shall be ready.” She snapped her head back around and walked away, her red cloak brilliant against the wet green leaves.
Nick watched her go, half expecting her to turn again, but of course she did not. When she disappeared around a bend in the dripping tunnel of trees, he retrieved his hat from the ground and absentmindedly brushed its pile into place before jamming it on his head. Well, he’d gone ahead and kissed her. Because it was the only thing to do. Because rules are made to be broken.
There was a rustle in the tree above him, then something fell, ricocheting off his hat. He watched as the small missile bounced once and came to rest near his toe. Nick bent and picked it up. It was a perfect little acorn, still with its jaunty cap. One of last season’s. It must have held on until this spring rain knocked it down. It was like Julia. Small, brown, and lovely. Filled with a compact, passionate promise. He tucked it in his pocket.
He set off toward home, kicking at the ground and cursing the dragoon whose raised saber had sent him crashing into the twenty-first century. He doubly cursed the Guild, which had first made it impossible for him to return and now made it impossible for him to stay. If, instead of jumping, he had somehow survived the war and returned home, he might at this moment be safely buckled to Julia, well on the way to the smug, fat contentment that was his birthright. Instead he had been hurled forward, out of Julia’s life, and then back into her life like a bloody bolt from the blue. He had just this moment bruised her pride, if not her heart, and he might well have destroyed his own chances for happiness into the bargain.
He kicked a clod of mud and cursed when it proved to be a cowpat. “I hate myself,” he muttered, hopping on one foot while trying to wipe the toe of his boot on the grass. “Sometimes I just hate myself.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
At three forty-five Julia was waiting upstairs in the Yellow Saloon, where callers were usually received. She alternated sitting with pacing back and forth in front of the windows, looking for the first sign of the carriage. Would they come? He’d said they would, but that had been in the wake of him kissing her. Perhaps he had gone away and thought better of it. After all, she had stolen away to meet him, she had recklessly kissed him back . . . when they were supposed to be planning how to save her reputation. How stood her reputation now? Julia closed her eyes. The world was very small, and it was easy to trip over things, easy to close doors forever. Easy to trap yourself.
That was why she hadn’t wanted him to say anything afterward. She hadn’t wanted the kiss to resolve immediately into debts, duties . . . or awkward explanations of why he couldn’t, why he wouldn’t. She had just wanted him to be silent. Just wanted the kiss to be a kiss, a floating moment in time without repercussions.
Instead, he’d spoken. “I am not free.” It was strange, but his saying that had made the notion of freedom seem suddenly sordid. It had made her feel like he was perfectly free and it was she who was tainted, guilty, unfree. And perhaps now he did finally believe that she was no better than her reputation. A loose woman.
Well. Best not to borrow trouble from earlier today, either. Julia sighed and turned her mind to more immediate problems. If he did come, it was important that the plan should work, and she wasn’t sure strategic snobbery and appeals to propriety would do the trick. Eamon was currently obsessed with the lacquered box and much less interested in Julia than he had been. He might already be willing to let her go. Or he might be enraged by the pomposity of his neighbors and refuse.
She heard a sound and went to the window. She couldn’t yet see the carriage, but she could hear the horses’ hooves and the wheels on the gravel. She turned and looked somewhat wildly around the room. Soon Nicholas would be here, in this room. The man she had kissed in the rain. Desire had held her in its hand today, and she had yielded, as a ripe peach yields to the teeth. She wanted to be back with him in the woods, she wanted to feel his rough cheek against hers, his hair tangling in her hands, his hot kisses on her throat.
Julia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her temper had always been her besetting sin. Now she knew that anger and desire were drawn from the same well. He had gripped her strongly, kissed her harshly, and she had met him with equal strength. Then he’d made her angry, and her anger had felt good, as good as the passion.
The sound of the approaching carriage grew louder and Julia opened her eyes. For a moment she simply stared, and then she laughed; an ostentatious red-bodied coach was bowling out from under the trees, a gilded coat of arms on its doors. The coachman was in full Blackdown livery, and he was driving a perfectly matched four of chestnuts. It was all very splendid, and utterly ridiculous for an afternoon visit among near neighbors. She laughed again as the coachman deftly avoided the bump in the drive. But her laughter died in her throat as the horses swept the coach up in front of the house, and she was biting her lip by the time the coachman climbed down, opened the door, and lowered the step with a flourish.
Clare’s foot emerged first, clad in a satin shoe, and then the rest of her, her gloved hand grasping the coachman’s for support, her calm face tilted to look up at the house. She wore an elaborately ruched chocolate-brown spencer over a dress of rust-red net, its deep hem richly embroidered in browns and blues and golds. Her red turban sported a
glorious dark blue ostrich feather affixed with a golden brooch. She looked so magnificent as to appear slightly theatrical, which Julia knew to be the goal.
Next to emerge was a tall, older man with a full head of wild white hair. This had to be Count Lebedev. He stood beside Clare and looked at the house with a slight sneer, one hand on his hip, the other clasping his black beaver hat, which Julia could see had a garish red lining.
Finally, after what seemed like a year, Blackdown climbed out of the coach. He was a few inches shorter than the Russian but dressed identically, in a blue superfine coat with bright buttons, buff pantaloons, and tasseled Hessian boots. The men’s snowy cravats were even tied in the same stiff and intricate oriental style.
She reached out and put her hand against the glass, covering the party of visitors with her fingers for just a moment. She let her hand drop, and the three callers reappeared. As if he sensed her, Nick turned his head and looked straight up at her window. She held her chin high. He nodded to her curtly.
The trio paused together and gazed at the house, rather like three generals surveying a battlefield, Clare with unruffled certitude, the Russian with contempt, and the marquess with impassive determination. Without speaking to one another, they moved toward the door and out of Julia’s line of sight. She now simply had to wait, and hope that Eamon would receive his guests in the Yellow Saloon.
* * *
Pringle tried to turn them away at the door, as he had been instructed. But his obedience to his master was suitably overawed by the sight of Nicholas Falcott, returned so gloriously and miraculously from the war. The young marquess was sadly weathered by his years spent in the hot sun, but he was so finely dressed, and his elegant Russian friend was a true dandy, Pringle could tell. After some debate, he agreed that the earl might be persuaded into receiving his guests.
Five minutes later he returned. The earl would see them in the Blue Drawing Room. “Which is in and of itself a miracle, my lords and lady. But not Miss Julia. He orders that she must wait upstairs. She will not be permitted to join you.”