Smuggler's Moon

by Cynthia Wright

  She wished he would at least show a little shame or guilt for the situation in which they found themselves. Instead, he was respectful. That alone wouldn’t get Turbans back for the Faircloths.

  “Does your mother continue to be indisposed?” Sebastian inquired.

  “I fear so.” Julia seized on this, pointing to Polly’s closed door as they approached. “She has been inconsolable. I truly do not know how we shall persuade Mama to leave her room, let alone move away from Turbans. But, you mustn’t give that a moment’s thought. Perhaps, when the time comes for us to leave, your manservant can cart her into the street. As you have pointed out to me, you are not to blame for our sorry situation.”

  His dark brows lifted slightly. “It is gratifying to hear you say that you no longer resent me for being the person to whom your father lost Turbans.”

  “Have you noticed the broken places on the bannister?” she asked through clenched teeth. “And you know we have had terrible problems with voles in the garden. It’s useless to try to grow anything.”

  “If this house is so riddled with flaws, you must be secretly relieved to be moving out.”

  How maddening he was, like a cat toying with a mouse! Halfway up the stairs, Julia whirled around and found herself staring into his compellingly masculine eyes. She had intended to tell him off, but her wits deserted her. “You—you are—”

  “Yes?”

  Julia was swept up by an unexpected wave of sensation, the likes of which she’d never felt before. She had an urge, both powerful and puzzling, to touch Sebastian’s wide chest and cravat, which was snow-white in contrast to his sun-darkened face. His mouth and nose were suddenly fascinating; as finely chiseled as any Roman statue. His strong, elegant fingers drew her gaze, and his raven hair gleamed in the pale golden sunlight that streamed through the window on the landing.

  “Miss Faircloth, are you unwell?”

  She blinked, swaying slightly, and he caught her arm. Wondering herself if she were going mad, Julia tried to think of an excuse, and then she looked at him and saw the knowing glint in his eyes. He knew perfectly well what had come over her. It doubtless happened to him regularly. Blood rushed to her face as she contemplated the revolting prospect of becoming one more in a long line of females who swooned over Lord Sebastian Trevarre.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, my lord. I was daydreaming for a moment, about my suitor, Mr. Lynton.” She hoped her flushed cheeks didn’t give away the lie. “He’s been such a comfort to me during the entire ordeal of Papa’s death.”

  “Ah, of course.” An ironic smile touched his mouth. “Adolphus Lynton. We have met.”

  She’d rather that they were not acquainted. How could he believe that she could be enamored of such a man? And what if Adolphus had told him of her rejections? “Do you know him well?” she inquired softly.

  “No—”

  “I thought not!” Relief drenched her voice.

  “I was about to add that Mr. Lynton and I met on the last day of your father’s life. He was there when Mr. Faircloth and I were playing piquet. I am quite certain that, when I encouraged your father to stop play, your ardent suitor urged him to continue.”

  “That’s ludicrous. You have a way of misunderstanding situations and people in the worst ways possible!” Julia swept past him with all the dignity she could muster. “Let us have tea. I am famished!”

  * * *

  He made no reply, but followed her into the sitting room, where refreshments were being laid out on a delicate table. For a moment, as Julia stood consulting with the maid, Sebastian studied her. She closely resembled her sister, but her style was direct and artless. She truly didn’t appear to be vain about her appearance, or concerned with the judgments of others. In a society where young ladies spent hours each day, fussing to be certain they had the perfect clothing, accessories, jewelry, hairstyles, and even the right gossip to exchange during conversation at the Pump Room, Julia was quite refreshing.

  Yet, would not a woman like that be pure hell to live with? She was stronger-willed than most men he knew, and her disdain for the opinions of others might create endless problems.

  “Do join me,” she called to him, adding a wide, radiant smile. “Cook makes the best scones in Bath, or so I believe.”

  Why was she suddenly smiling at him? It occurred to Sebastian, as he walked toward her, that he would need all his wits to deal with Julia. “Does Cook serve her scones with clotted cream?”

  She nodded. “And raspberry jam, made from our own berries.”

  “So you were able to keep the voles out of some bits of the garden? That’s encouraging news.”

  Julia seemed to ignore him as she poured the tea, still smiling. “Shall I invite Mr. Keswick to join us, or have a cup of tea taken to him in the library?”

  “Don’t give Keswick another thought. He’s a servant, after all.” He saw her glance toward the door that connected them to the library. “Ah, I see. Let me close this to ensure our privacy.”

  When Sebastian rose, Julia couldn’t help noticing again how splendidly made he was. His shoulders were straight and wide, his legs were long and hard-muscled, and he moved with casual grace. Giving herself a mental shake, she forced her attention back to the tea.

  “Do you take milk, my lord?”

  “A bit, yes.”

  When they had both sampled the strong, hot tea, she said, “We really know very little about you, my lord, beyond what was said in Mr. Bradstreet’s office about your years in America with the Royal Navy. Won’t you tell me what has brought you to Bath?”

  “My parents died, and my brother George, the new marquess, visited Bath and began to gamble to excess,” he said abruptly. “I came here to look into the matter.”

  “Why, that means that you do understand how insidious a problem gambling can be, and how deeply it can divide families!”

  “I do indeed.”

  Julia saw that the light had gone from his eyes. This was the moment that she had meant to pretend to be helpless and appeal to his sympathies. However, when she began to speak, she realized that her emotions were real. Memories of her father and his tragic end brought tears welling up from her throat. “I can only hope then, that given your own brother’s experience, you will find it in your heart to take pity on us. My papa was better than you think.”

  “As was George,” he replied coolly. “Unfortunately neither of our relatives had the good sense to walk away from the gaming tables when they realized that they were taking ill-considered risks.”

  “But if you came to Bath to avenge your brother’s losses, why turn on us? My father didn’t win his lordship’s money!”

  “Even if I knew who had beaten George, I would not expect him to reverse the outcome and give me back his losses.” His expression turned angry as tears spilled onto her cheeks. “For God’s sake, stop looking at me like that! It was your father who behaved like a damned fool and lost Turbans. It was his mistake, not mine!”

  “Don’t you dare call Papa names!” Sniffling, she covered her face with her hands.

  Sebastian stared hard at her for a long moment, seeming to realize why she had clearly tried to soften his mood, and how she had wanted the doors closed. He leaned over to proffer a starched white handkerchief before remarking, “Clearly you haven’t had much practice with sympathy tears, Miss Faircloth. This really isn’t your style.”

  She peered at him, bleary-eyed, over the handkerchief. “Do you think that I am pretending?” The fact that she had planned to pretend only made her angrier. “What sort of person do you take me for?”

  “I think that you are a fighter, which is quite admirable.”

  “My lord, I can assure you that my pain for my poor papa is very real!” To her chagrin, more tears spilled forth. “And—and my anguished concern for the welfare of my family is also very real.”

  “Perhaps, but this scene between us was planned, wasn’t it?” He gave her a knowing sidelong glance. “You simply aren’t the
sort of woman who cries on the shoulder of a man, particularly the man whom you perceive to be the cause of all your family’s troubles.”

  “A self-absorbed person like you would not have the smallest ability to judge my character. Why, I have more character in one hair on my head than you possess in your entire heartless being!”

  Sebastian began to laugh, then held up an open hand to beg her pardon. “I’m sorry. Only a cad would laugh at a weeping woman, but you do say the most amusing things.”

  “Do I?” Julia turned frosty. “My lord, you do not know me in the least.”

  “I think I may know more about you than you’d like.”

  “You are spouting fustian, as usual.”

  “I know that you have never been kissed.” His tone was offhand, but his gray-green eyes were provocative.

  “You are not only rude, but quite wrong!” She could feel the traitorous blood rushing to her face.

  “Now you have challenged me to provide proof.” In one easy movement, Sebastian had risen, reached down, and lifted Julia into his strong embrace. He bent her backward and kissed her bare throat, then the base of her neck, and she could feel her pulse leaping there. Then, smiling into her stricken eyes, he said, “You’re past twenty, aren’t you? You shouldn’t remain unkissed. If you’re going to begin weeping on men’s shirtfronts, you ought to know what you’re letting yourself in for.”

  To her horror, Julia discovered that she was shaky and filled with hot excitement. She knew she ought to struggle, and the mischief in his eyes told her he knew it too, but she couldn’t bear to deprive herself of this singular experience. When he drew her completely into his arms so that she felt every thrilling inch of his male body pressing against her, she surrendered to the moment. Now that her family had lost everything she would doubtless die a spinster, but at least she would have shared a kiss with this magnificent rogue.

  Sebastian’s mouth, firm and hot and commanding, covered hers. Shocking waves of bliss flooded Julia so that she could scarcely breathe. His kiss was intoxicating beyond anything she had imagined. The feeling of his strong arms embracing her, his hands caressing her back, her breasts seeming to swell against the hard expanse of his chest, combined to unravel all her defenses. Just as she was about to wrap her arms around his neck and touch the crisp dark hair that curled over his collar, he released her. Touching her shoulders with his fingertips to steady her, he smiled.

  Julia pressed a hand to each of her burning cheeks. “I—I—”

  “You’re about to admit that I was clearly right.”

  “Right?” Her breasts were tingling and she felt unable to form coherent speech. “What do you mean?”

  “You have just received your first kiss.”

  Julia’s wits came rushing back. “Oh the contrary, I was about to say that you are a scoundrel, Lord Sa—” She stopped herself just in time. “That is, Lord Sebastian. How could you make such remarks about my age, then force yourself on me in my own home?”

  “Force myself? My dear Miss Faircloth, I waited to hear a word of protest, before our kiss, and you were as docile as a lamb.”

  “A lamb going to the slaughter!” Gripping the back of her chair, she was relieved to feel her wits returning. “I was in shock, my lord! By the time I found my voice, it was too late!”

  Sebastian finished his tea and smiled. “Well, there was no harm done, was there? It was just an amusing duel between two friendly adversaries, and I would say each of us won. I proved my point, and you have crossed one of life’s great societal barriers.” He folded his napkin. “Perhaps the next time a man kisses you, you won’t be paralyzed by rapture.”

  “Rapture! You jest, my lord!”

  “Well, perhaps rapture won’t be the issue if it’s Adolphus Lynton who kisses you next.” Their eyes met as he added, “Why not admit the truth? Now that you know what you’ve been missing, aren’t you the least bit grateful to me?”

  “You are demented!”

  Just then, the door swung open and Sarah and Keswick stood together on the threshold.

  “I was worried,” Sarah said hesitantly. “So much time had passed…”

  “We hope we are not interrupting a serious discussion,” Keswick muttered, taking in the situation with a shrewd look.

  “You couldn’t have come at a better time,” Julia assured him. “His lordship was just saying that he must leave now.”

  “Is there any—good news?” wondered Sarah in tremulous tones. With her porcelain skin, burnished curls, and damp eyes, she resembled the subject of a romantic painting. “I know it is very bold of me to ask…”

  “There, there,” said Julia, putting an arm around her. “My poor sister has had a terrible time lately. She was so very attached to our father, and to Turbans.”

  “I cannot believe we are going to lose our home,” Sarah rejoined brokenly. “Dear Mama can scarcely get out of bed, so profound is her grief. When Papa inherited Turbans, we believed that at long last we had a home for life.” Nervously, she addressed Sebastian. “It was security we had always dreamed of.”

  “Miss Faircloth, I regret that your father wagered and lost this estate, and I shall do everything possible to ease the situation for your family.”

  Keswick took a step forward and cleared his throat. “Miss Faircloth has confided her worries about locating a suitable house to rent, and then moving from Turbans. Given her mother’s current state, tasks such as sorting and packing a lifetime’s worth of possessions may be especially difficult.”

  “I do not desire to contribute to further tears being shed by Miss Faircloth,” Sebastian said. As if sensing Julia’s outrage, he added, “Of course, I am referring to both Misses Faircloth! You ladies must look after your mother, and take as much time as you need to resettle your family.”

  Sarah smiled at him through her tears. “You are kinder than I expected you to be, my lord.”

  “That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me today.” Gently clasping her hand, he made his farewells.

  Julia felt blindsided. When he reached next for her hand, she said, “We’ll keep you apprised of our progress, my lord.”

  “Oh, Miss Faircloth, I am certain that we’ll be in close touch over the coming weeks. Thank you for showing me around Turbans, and thank you for sharing your teatime with me. It was most enlightening. Don’t you agree?”

  She snatched her hand back and saw the laughter in his eyes. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  * * *

  Minutes later, Sebastian and his manservant were back outside in the spring air, climbing up to the phaeton’s high perch.

  “Keswick, when we are back in the Crescent, I’d like you to send a note round to Lady Barrowminster. I believe I might like to see her again after all. An intimate supper, perhaps?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Keswick pressed his lips together in disapproval.

  Sebastian surveyed the lush lawns and gardens as he took the reins. “Do you see any sign of voles?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Voles. The enchanting elder Miss Faircloth insists that the grounds are infested with them.”

  “We don’t see any, my lord.”

  A moment passed as they picked up speed, then Sebastian remarked, “Do you not find Miss Sarah Faircloth to be lovely in the purest sense of the word? One would never tire of gazing upon her.”

  “Just so, my lord. We have additionally observed that she and her older sister have very similar looks.”

  “Have you indeed? I suppose there is a superficial resemblance.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I must tell you that I feel the younger Miss Faircloth’s beauty is more remarkable because she is so agreeably docile. Not at all opinionated and argumentative like her sister.”

  “We surmise that your lordship and the elder Miss Faircloth don’t get on very well?”

  Urging his horses to an even greater speed, Sebastian laughed. “That’s putting it kindly, Keswick. I’d sooner have tea with a hedgehog. It couldn’t be any
pricklier than Miss Julia Faircloth!”

  Chapter 7

  All three Faircloth women were sipping morning chocolate in the Turbans garden when a liveried footman arrived with a letter for Sarah.

  “My dear Charles is so romantic,” she murmured, watching the gilt-edged footman depart. “He’s pretending that we are nobility!”

  Julia spread honey on her puffy Sally Lunn roll and smiled. On such a fragrant and glorious morning, she could imagine that all was well. For three days, since returning into the fold of the family, Polly had been pretending that very thing. She didn’t mention her husband’s tragic end; she behaved as if he were off in Bath as usual. The subject of losing Turbans never was broached. Julia and Sarah had taken to reading rental listings while their mother was resting in the afternoon.

  “It’s such a shame that Mr. Whimple isn’t wealthy,” said Julia, watching as Sarah broke the seal on the letter. “He could rescue us from our predicament.”

  “I wish you would not use such unpleasant words,” Polly exclaimed. “I can’t bear gloomy conversation.”

  “What does he say?” Julia asked her sister. “Is it a poem?”

  Sarah’s face had gone white. “No. No, it’s not a poem. In fact, it’s not from Charles at all!” She pressed a hand to her heart. “This letter is from Lord Sebastian Trevarre!”

  “It must be a mistake.” Julia felt very dizzy. “The footman delivered it to the wrong Miss Faircloth!”

  “You appear awfully emotional for someone who dislikes the man so vehemently,” Sarah said, giving her a thoughtful look.

  “I don’t trust him, that’s all. I’ll wager he’s playing a trick on you.” She leaned forward. “What does it say?”

  “He expresses several very civil sentiments, then asks if he may visit me here at Turbans, at our earliest convenience.” Paling, she looked up. “He wonders if tomorrow would be too soon!”