Probably her wedding to Trathen, he thought, hoping that splash of cold reality would dampen the desire for her that was now coursing through his body, but instead it only piled resentment he had no right to feel onto the fire of lust blazing inside him.
With a smothered sound, he moved, thinking to go back the way he’d come, but she caught the movement out the corner of her eye, and turned her head with a smile of greeting as if she’d been expecting someone. Not him, he knew, and stopped, speared through the chest by that smile, awash in hot desire and inexplicable frustration, and sure that what he felt was as obvious to her as an elephant in the drawing room.
Her smile faded, reminding him more forcefully than any words that he was not the man she’d been expecting to see and that smile was not for him.
Stupid to stand here, he thought. Stupid to have come back. Stupid to think it wouldn’t matter and he was over her and he could pretend to be an indifferent acquaintance for the next four weeks. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if to blot him out, and he told himself he didn’t care, but he knew that no matter how many times he told himself that, it was a lie. He cared damnably. He always had, he always would, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it, because they moved in different worlds and she belonged to someone else who could give her the life she wanted better than he ever could.
She opened her eyes—those big, soft, dark eyes—and looked into his face. He stood there, helpless, as the past six years fell away and the layers of indifference he’d built to protect himself crumbled to dust.
Walk away, he told himself. For the love of God, walk away. But he couldn’t. It was too late. She’d seen him. There might be other people who’d seen as well, for the windows of the saloon were directly to his left. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket, wrapping the generous folds of the double-breasted reefer forward to conceal from any curious gazes the most obvious sign of his present feelings.
Still, he couldn’t just stand here looking like an idiot. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen her when it was so clear that he had. And he couldn’t turn his back and walk away. If he did that, he’d be giving her the cut direct, the greatest social snub one person could give another, and he couldn’t do that, either. Not to her.
He resumed walking toward her, pasting on another artificial, devil-may-care smile. She did the same, turning toward him, her lips tipping up just enough to show anyone who might be watching that they were on friendly, yet wholly indifferent terms. If people believed that, it might avert gossip, but Will didn’t think anyone they knew was that big a fool. He paused before her and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, painfully aware that his desire was hidden only by the generous cut of a double-breasted jacket.
He opened his mouth to offer her a good-day greeting so that he could step around her and move on, but the door to the observation saloon swung open and an elegantly dressed man came out with a plate of food in one hand and a glass of lemonade in the other. “My dear, I’ve brought you—”
The man stopped just long enough to glance at him, a quick, assessing glance, before he came forward to join them where they stood by the rail. “I’ve brought you some refreshments, Beatrix.”
She took the offered plate and glass. “Thank you, darling,” she said, causing Will to frown, not because he’d already heard that endearment to Trathen often enough in the bookshop to last a lifetime, but because he was staring in disbelief at what the other man had brought her. Lemonade? For Trix? When there was sure to be champagne on board? And what was that topping the slices of toast Melba on her plate? Caviar? Trix hated caviar, and always had.
He began to appreciate the oppressive silence, and he forced himself to look up. He cocked an eyebrow at her, daring her to snub him by failing to perform introductions.
Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink at this social faux pas, and she remedied it at once. “Aidan, would you allow me to introduce the Duke of Sunderland to you? Sunderland, this is the Duke of Trathen.”
“Trathen.”
“Sunderland.”
They shook hands, they both smiled politely, but Will was looking into the other man’s eyes and knew he wasn’t the only one playing the gentlemanly role expected of him.
There was another awkward pause, and it was clearly up to him to step into the breach by offering his congratulations. His innate hatred for hypocrisy urged him to rebel, but Trathen was about to be a guest in Marlowe’s home, and since Will was going to spend the coming weeks beggaring funds from Marlowe, he couldn’t afford to antagonize anyone. No, he had to put on the show of British good-sportsmanship, no hard feelings, best man won, stiff upper lip, and all that, when what he wanted to do was crush something, preferably his own skull. He should have walked away from her, social civility be damned in favor of self-preservation.
“I understand,” he said, trying not to choke on the words, “that congratulations are in order, that you two are to be married?”
“We are,” Trathen said, but though Will could feel the other man’s eyes taking his measure, he didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze on Beatrix. He watched her take a bite of caviar, and his mood lightened a bit at the grimace of distaste she couldn’t quite hide.
“What’s wrong, Trix?” he asked with a grin. “Caviar not to your liking?”
She swallowed, and he didn’t miss the tiny shiver she gave. “On the contrary,” she said, her gaze meeting his head-on. “It’s lovely stuff.”
“Beatrix adores caviar as much as I do,” Trathen said, obviously feeling the need to prove he had some knowledge of her that Will lacked.
“Does she?” he drawled. “Since when?”
The pink in her cheeks deepened, but her gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve developed a taste for it over the years,” she said.
“So, Sunderland,” Trathen put in, forcing him to give his attention to the other man, “you are attending Marlowe’s house party, I take it?”
“I have a standing invitation to Pixy Cove every August. The Marlowes are like family to me.”
“Quite. And are you staying in England long?”
Worried, old chap? The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t say them. He wanted to, wanted to say them with an arrogant smirk and a triumphant wink and a bravado that he didn’t feel in the least. But saying something like that would be ungentlemanly, and despite Trix’s words to the contrary, he did know how to be a gentleman.
“Alas, no. I’m only home a month or so, and then I return to Egypt.”
Trathen’s stance relaxed, but only a bit. “What a pity.”
“Yes, a great pity,” he lied. “I’d prefer to linger a bit longer, see some old friends in the north, do a bit of fishing . . .” He let his voice trail off, and he gave a shrug.
“But Tutankhamen awaits discovery?” Trathen finished for him with a laugh, and Will wondered if he’d only imagined a hint of ridicule beneath the words. But he laughed, too, being that he was so civilized and all. “Exactly so.”
“I wish you good luck with it.” Trathen turned to Beatrix. “My dear, I observed your aunt and cousins sitting with Lady Debenham. Shall we join them? That is,” he added with a dismissive glance at Will, “if you’ve finished here?”
“Yes, of course.”
When Trathen took her plate, she slipped her free arm through his, they both bid Will a polite farewell, and turned to go.
Will let out a long, slow breath as he watched them walk away arm in arm, and felt his earlier optimism dissolving. “Welcome to hell, Will,” he murmured under his breath. “Welcome to hell.”
He rejoined Sir George, and fortunately he was allowed to guide the Maria Lisa the remainder of the way to Marlowe’s slip in Pixy Cove without having to beg for the opportunity. Not that he’d have been above begging at this point. Sailing the yacht was a distraction, and he felt in desperate need of distractions just now.
When they docked, he lingered behind, happ
y to assist Sir George in supervising the hands with the cleaning of the ship, thereby saving himself the awkwardness of walking to the house with Beatrix and her fiancé. But even a meticulous captain like Sir George was eventually satisfied with the condition of his ship, and when Lady Debenham called down to them from the gazebo above that Lady Marlowe had tea waiting, Will had no choice but to follow Sir George.
Pixy Cove, Viscount Marlowe’s seaside villa, was a low, prim, sprawling cottage of yellow stucco, white bargeboards, and red brick. It was perched on a wooded headland overlooking the sea, and a sturdy set of steps led down to the boat dock and the bathing beach, where two clapboard bathing huts provided dressing arrangements for the ladies and the nearby caves sufficed for the men. The house had sixteen bedrooms, four baths with hot and cold laid on, a lawn for tennis and another for croquet, and a beautiful gazebo on the north side where the Marlowe family and their guests could take tea in the afternoon and enjoy the magnificent view.
The tea things had been set out, and a maid in striped gray dress and white apron and cap stood by ready to assist should they need anything for tea. Their hosts, however, were nowhere in sight, and Beatrix’s Aunt Eugenia sat with the teapot in hand. “Aunt Gennie,” he greeted her with the same impudent familiarity he always had, but she cast him a wary glance from beneath her bonnet as she reached for a teacup, making him want to give her a wolfish smile and assure her he wasn’t going to bite her.
Instead, he prayed for a diversion.
Even a sinner’s prayers could sometimes be answered, it seemed, for he had barely expressed his silent wish for divine assistance when it came, and from a most unexpected quarter.
The loud drone of a motorcar was heard in the distance, a sound that Will recognized quite well from his painful encounter with Beatrix and her white Daimler ten days ago. It was not the Daimler that appeared moments later, however, but a different model of vehicle, similar in style but painted a deep ruby red and boasting a black interior.
“Oh, look!” Beatrix cried as the motorcar roared into the drive, spitting gravel and dust due to the alarming speed of the driver. “Julie’s come after all. She’d written to me that she wouldn’t be coming this year. She must have changed her mind at the last minute. Oh, how lovely!”
“Yes, lovely,” Trathen echoed in a dry murmur that was polite, but unenthusiastic.
Will couldn’t help a grin. No surprise, really, that someone like Julia would rub someone like Trathen the wrong way.
The motorcar came to an abrupt stop about forty feet from the gazebo where they sat, the brake lever was pulled, the engine was silenced, and a slim woman dressed in motoring attire similar to the kit Beatrix had been wearing the day he arrived home gave them a wave as she stepped down from the driver’s seat. With her was a brown-and-white bulldog that jumped down from the passenger seat and followed her as she circled to the back of the vehicle. “Hullo, everyone!” she called as she began unbuttoning her motoring coat.
“I see she’s brought Spike with her,” Paul said with a groan. “Couldn’t she have left him somewhere else?”
“Spike?” Will glanced at Paul, surprised by his friend’s lack of enthusiasm. “I take it Spike is the bulldog?”
Paul nodded. “And a mean one he is, too.”
“He’s not,” Beatrix contradicted. “He’s a bit skittish around men, that’s all.”
Trathen spoke up. “But, my dear Beatrix, a skittish dog must have training and discipline, or it can become a danger. Unfortunately, given Lady Yardley’s rather . . .” There was a momentary pause. “ . . . free-spirited character, she will probably do little to check the animal. One day it will bite someone, mark my words.”
“Not here,” Paul put in. “Marlowe will put his foot down the first time that animal growls at him. She’ll have to keep it outside and tied up most of the time.”
Her ill-mannered dog aside, Will decided he needed to thank Julia for her timely arrival and for being just the distraction he’d been praying for. “I think I’ll give Julie a bit of help with her kit,” he said, rose to his feet, and started down the steps of the gazebo.
“Careful,” Geoff called him. “Get too close to Julie and you’ll find Spike’s teeth in your arm.”
Will, who wasn’t afraid of dogs, walked toward the automobile in the drive. Spike heralded his approach with a series of barks that caused him to stop about a dozen feet away as Julia looked up.
At the sight of him, her piquant pixy face took on a look of utter stupefaction. “Will?” she cried. “Heavens above! Will?”
He started toward her again, earning a warning growl from the animal.
“Wait,” Julia ordered, tossing her motoring coat and goggles into the boot and pulling out a leather leash. “Stay right there while I tie up this beast of mine.”
She looped the leash around one of the motorcar’s wheel spokes, hooked the other end to the bulldog’s collar, grabbed her straw boater hat, and came running. “By God, it is you!” she cried, laughing. “I thought I was seeing ghosts of Augusts past.”
“Hullo, Julie,” he said, smiling.
“I had no idea you were in England!” She dropped the hat, grasped him by the shoulders, and pulled him close, and as he leaned down, she rose on her toes to plant a kiss soundly on each of his cheeks with all the joie de vivre he remembered. Then she leaned back to give him a more thorough study.
He did the same. He’d always had a special fondness for Beatrix’s cousin, whose adventurous streak matched his own. But as his gaze scanned her face, his pleasure was tinged with a hint of concern, for there were dark circles under her violet-blue eyes. “Are you all right?” he found himself asking.
“Right as rain,” she answered at once, her voice airy and light, but somehow Will wasn’t convinced. Even in Egypt he’d heard gossip, but he didn’t pursue the matter. Julia, he knew, was a law unto herself.
“You seem well enough,” she said, and reached up, ruffling his hair with her fingers. “Handsome as ever, you pirate. Tanned skin suits you.” She clasped his hands in hers. “Oh, Will, I am so glad to see you! Why, it’s just like old days, isn’t it? All of us coming to Pixy Cove for August.”
She glanced past him, taking note of the people gathered in the gazebo. “Well, almost like old days,” she added wryly under her breath as she bent to reach for the straw boater she’d dropped. “Bit awkward, what?”
“Not at all,” he murmured, keeping his smile firmly in place, but he suspected he wasn’t fooling Julia for a second.
“Don’t worry,” she said with a wink as she donned her hat. “I make a wonderful buffer. Darling!” she added, smiling past Will.
He glanced over his shoulder to find Beatrix approaching. He stepped back to allow the two women to exchange greetings, then he followed as they walked toward the others.
“Hullo, Aunt Gennie,” Julia greeted, bending to press an affectionate kiss on Eugenia’s forehead. “Sir George, Lady Debenham, so good to see you. Geoff, Paul . . .” She paused, and her face lit with a sudden, devilish grin. “Ah, and Aidan, too, of course. How delightful.”
If her impudent use of his Christian name offended Trathen, he didn’t show it. “Baroness,” he murmured with a stiff, formal bow.
“I say, Julie, is that a new motorcar?” Geoff asked, eyeing the vehicle in the drive.
“It is. The Mercedes, they call it. I ordered it last year after I gave the Daimler to Trix.”
“How fast does it run? Did you calculate the speed?”
“No need to,” she answered. “It has a gauge on it that does that for you—a speedometer, they call it. It measured forty-two miles an hour on the straightaway at Nice during Race Week.”
“Forty-two!” Geoff whistled, impressed. “Ripping!”
“I don’t see the point of traveling at such an unsafe rate of speed,” Trathen commented.
“That’s because you’ve never done it, old chap,” Paul told him, laughing. “It’s deuced good fun. Care for a sp
ot of tea, Julie?”
“No, no,” she said, waving a demurring hand as Eugenia reached for the teapot. “I must greet our hosts. Are they anywhere about?”
“Both of them are in the house seeing to some of the other guests,” Eugenia offered, waving a hand vaguely behind her. “Marlowe’s mother and sisters arrived just after we did. Lord and Lady Weston came with us on Sir George’s yacht. We shall be quite a merry party this week,” she added, then gave Will a dubious glance, as if he threatened to be a possible fly in the ointment there.
“Excellent.” Julia turned to Will. “Walk me there, old thing?”
“With pleasure,” he said, offering her his arm, grateful for the escape. “I like the motorcar, but I’m not so sure about the dog, Julie. When did you obtain him?”
“Spike? Oh, I got him two years ago. He’s my constant companion these days. He’s a bit hostile to men, but that’s all right.” She grinned. “Keeps Yardley away. He’s terrified of that dog. I had no idea you were home,” she added, changing the subject as they walked toward the house. “Are you back for good?”
“No. I’m only here a month or so. I’m trying to raise funds for the excavation.”
“Ah. When I first saw you, I thought—”
She broke off, glancing over her shoulder, and he finished for her in a low voice. “You thought I’d come back to stop Beatrix from marrying another man?”
“Something like that. You’re not, I take it?”
“No. Should I?”
“I don’t know. Should you?”
“Definitely not.” He kept his gaze on the house straight ahead, but he could feel her shrewd, thoughtful gaze on him, and he felt impelled to add, “It wasn’t meant to be, Julie. Seems she’s made a much more sensible choice this time around.”
“Oh yes, very sensible.” There was an odd inflection in her voice that might have been sarcasm, but before he could take up the point, she steered him away from the side door and around to the back of the house.
“Let’s sit back here for a bit,” she said, gesturing to a wrought-iron bench overlooking the sea. “I’m dying for a cigarette, but Emma hates the smell, and I always try to avoid offending my hostess until I’ve stayed at least one night.”
Wedding of the Season: Abandoned at the Altar Page 9