Eventually they both stopped, almost at the same time. Now she felt awkward, and there were other emotions too, skulking beneath the surface, and she needed to be alone to examine them more closely. Juliet knew that meant escaping as quickly as possible.
He was watching her, waiting to see what she would say. She wondered what his thoughts were—did he think she had changed too?—and then decided she didn’t want to know. It was Ashley who had abandoned her without a backward glance, and he did not deserve to have any opinions on the matter whatsoever.
“Can you hand me my gown?” she asked him, nodding at the pile of clothing behind him. When he climbed out to find it, as she’d known he would—Ash was nothing if not a gentleman—she quickly exited the lake after him. Her swift departure seemed to amuse him, one eyebrow lifted at the sight of her with the jacket swallowing her up, wriggling her bare toes to stay warm, and from sheer nerves.
She took the wrap and clutched it against herself, aware of the drip, drip of her sodden hair, and feeling terribly exposed.
“If you would turn your back,” she said politely, pretending there was nothing odd about the situation. It would do no good to acknowledge that this was one of the stranger moments in her life.
He did so, bending down to take off his shoes and tip out the water, before replacing them. At the same time, he said, “I guessed it was you.” His voice was deep and measured, familiar and yet different. “Only you would do something so outrageous, Juliet.”
Unfair!
“You could be rather outrageous yourself, if I remember,” she said calmly when she was feeling anything but. It was as if their moment of laughter had never been. She began to dress, quickly, very aware of his broad back beneath his sodden white shirt and the tight fit of his breeches over his buttocks and thighs. Everything was clinging to him very nicely but she refused to let her eyes linger. Dwelling on him, and their shared past, would do her no good. She felt off kilter, and as if to make matters worse, being with him, looking at him, was heating her blood and causing her body to ache in places she had forgotten existed.
Although that wasn’t entirely true. She remembered very well, too well, it was just that she was trying to put such awkward memories out of her mind.
Just as he had put her out of his mind, all those years ago.
The spurt of anger sobered her. He had left her, abandoned her, without even a note of regret or explanation. Without even a vague promise to give her hope. All his declarations of love had turned to ashes and despite all their years apart she had not forgotten nor forgiven. And yet, to be fair, hadn’t he been a victim of her father and his uncle, just as she had? Well, perhaps, she thought grudgingly, but no one had forced him into a marriage that at the time had felt like the end of her life.
There! She was as dressed as she could be in the circumstances. With trembling hands, she twisted her long hair and wrung it out so that the water dripped away from her feet. Any other repairs would have to wait, she thought, as she slid on her slippers.
“You can look now,” she said quietly.
He turned swiftly, which might have made her smile, but then their eyes met and she no longer felt like smiling. The warm sensation inside her was growing, as if someone had lit a fire and she was standing too close. It seemed ridiculous to be so aroused by a man she had not seen in so long. As if her body had missed him and was reminding her of how many nights she had lain alone in her bed.
She wondered what he felt. Confusion? Similar emotions to hers? She thought she had seen something bright and painful in his face, before he closed his emotions down. Ash had finally learned to hide his feelings, something he had struggled to do eight years ago.
She handed him back his jacket, preparing to take her leave.
“I will walk with you,” he said, firmly, as if he thought she would refuse him.
“Of course,” she replied, more to surprise him than because she wanted to prolong this uncomfortable meeting.
He fell into step beside her, and she thought it was just as well the evening was balmy, because they were both still very wet from the lake. He wrung the water from his jacket, glancing at her with that raised eyebrow, but she bit her lip and wouldn’t laugh.
Up in the treetops the last birds were settling down for the night, while the stars were peeping at them through the branches. It was, she thought, a night made for love. Eight years ago they would have run, hand in hand, stopping to kiss, and then running again. And now here they were, strangers, walking in this sedate manner.
“Simon told me your husband was dead,” he said. People rarely spoke so bluntly, but then she remembered that was another thing about Ash she had always liked. It was good to know at least one of his old character traits had survived.
“A year ago. He was very ill.” She glanced sideways at him. He was tall, more than a head taller than her, and again she admired those broad shoulders. She wondered how many women had been in his life in the years since they were lovers. A dozen, two? The question caused her to feel uncomfortable, and she pushed it away, to be examined later, when she was alone.
“Are you married?” she asked, although she knew he was not. If the heir to Crevitch had been wed, the news would have spread through the village and the church bells would have been ringing.
“Not yet,” he said easily.
“That seems to suggest you are about to marry.”
He didn’t answer, so she supposed she could make of that what she willed.
They were silent for a time, following the path they had followed all those years ago. She wondered idly if he was tempted to lead her to the summerhouse and take her in his arms. Well, she told herself, if he dared try she would slap his face and call him names. Juliet had learned quite a few names since the old days.
“Simon told me you were volunteering at the cottage hospital,” he said at last.
She turned to look at him but it was now so dark in the woods that she couldn’t see more than a shadow.
“I volunteer when I can. Doctor Knowles is grateful for my help, and it passes the time.” That sounded rather pathetic, she thought, but it was too late to take it back. “I suppose you are too busy in London to need to pass time?” she said sweetly, with a sting.
His shoulders moved in a shrug. “I am busy, yes, but I’m not sure I do anything quite so worthy as volunteer in a hospital.”
That surprised her. Was he flattering her, or genuinely impressed? She thought of asking, but the gate to her garden was just ahead and she did not want him to go through it. Suddenly she very much wanted him to go away.
And yet despite herself she was curious, and her steps slowed.
“You are no longer in the army then?” she asked him, although she knew he was not.
“I left a long time ago.” He hesitated as if he wanted to say more, and then contented himself with, “A soldier’s life wasn’t for me.”
So he had no excuse for not coming back to her! Juliet struggled with a sense of outrage mingled with a wave of sadness. It was too late for these feelings. She needed to say goodbye in a way that left him in no doubt she was no longer interested in pursuing this conversation with him.
She turned and held out her hand. “Goodbye,” she said. “Thank you for the escort.”
He seemed surprised, and then glanced past her into the shadowy garden and the faint lights of the house beyond. “I don’t think it is goodbye,” he said in a perplexed voice. “Not yet.”
She felt his warm, strong fingers close over hers. “What is it then?” she demanded. “Surely polite conversation over tea and cake is not for us? What would we talk about? Neither of us would wish to rake over old times.”
But still he hesitated.
“You would not like what I have to say.” There was a lump in her throat, but she lifted her chin and made her voice a warning.
“Perhaps not,” he said quietly, “and yet I want to hear it.”
And with that he turned and left her, starin
g after him.
Ash was trying to understand his own emotions as he made his way back to the castle. The sight of her in the water, and the feel of her, the weight of her in his arms, had seemed so familiar and yet so new and exciting. The moment had affected him far more than he could ever have imagined. He’d tried to hide his emotion from her, but perhaps not entirely successfully.
He picked up a stick from the path and used it to slap aside overgrown branches and foliage. Juliet’s reactions confused him. One moment she’d seemed pleased to see him, and then she’d been distant and cold. Maybe that was because he had said the wrong thing, or presumed too much? The truth was, he’d forgotten how to read her.
One thing he was determined on. He was going to see her again. He was going to talk about the past and listen to her answers. No matter what she might think, this was not goodbye.
Chapter Seven
Summer, 1816, Mockingbird Square, Mayfair, London
Simon made his way into the garden at the centre of Mockingbird Square. Christina had told him that the ‘Mockingbird’ was an American bird, known for its ability to imitate.
“The Monksteads came from a family of thieves and raiders, or so the earl says,” she went on, with a wry smile. “They grew wealthy and great through nefarious means, and then they had to pretend they were as good as everyone else. So they imitated their betters.”
“I see.”
She had giggled at his puzzled face. “The name of the square is a family joke known only to us, and now you know it, too!”
It was a fine day but there were clouds on the horizon. Rather like a mirror image of his current situation, he told himself wryly. He had had time overnight to begin to worry about the future. What if, when he told Christina about his brother’s proposal, she was glad of it? What if, despite what he thought to the contrary, she actually preferred the heir to the crippled younger brother?
And then all thought left him as he saw her waiting for him in their usual spot. The fact that they had a ‘usual spot’ seemed precious, although there had been many times recently when he had wondered how much longer they could go on meeting like this.
Christina spotted him and smiled, her anxious expression changing to joy and her eyes lighting up with pleasure. He wondered if his face looked the same and knew it did. Any stranger coming upon them now would know in an instant that they were in love, and yet he couldn’t hide it. He didn’t want to.
“Your leg seems so much stronger,” she said shyly. “Soon you will be able to burn your cane.”
It was the joke he had made when they first met and she had never forgotten.
“Miss Beale . . . Christina . . .” he glanced around until he spotted a seat with no one close by. “Will you sit with me for a while?”
She smiled and followed him to the seat. She’d slipped out without her maid again and even Miss Willoughby wasn’t about—she was becoming very adept at losing her chaperones.
Simon launched into speech. “My brother has asked your uncle permission to marry you.”
Her eyes widened and then colour flooded her cheeks. She shook her head a little wildly. “I-I have not heard of such a thing. Your brother?” she repeated as if she couldn’t believe that was right.
“He told me so himself. I don’t know what your uncle said. Ash has gone to Crevitch for a visit. My brother was behaving a little strangely, but I am assuming one of his reasons is to tell our mother of his plans.”
Again she shook her head. She looked bewildered. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I have barely spoken to Lord Linholm! Why would he want to marry me?”
“He thinks you’re suitable.”
“I don’t want to be suitable! I don’t want to marry your brother,” she said decisively. A moment later her lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears as she met his gaze. “I-I want to marry you,” she said.
His heart beat hard as he reached to grasp her hands. If they had been entirely alone he would have kissed her. He’d been wanting to kiss her for weeks now.
“I want to marry you, too,” he declared.
The words were spoken. No going back. He was no longer the amenable younger brother. Simon was going to fight for the woman he loved and be damned to the consequences.
Chapter Eight
Summer, 1816, Montgomery House, Crevitch, Somerset
Juliet stared into the looking glass as Yvette brushed her hair. Earlier there had been an invitation to an intimate supper at Major Hardcastle’s house, which Juliet had refused. The Major had a reputation for allowing his hands to stray where they weren’t wanted, and Juliet had no intention of putting herself in the way of them. From the maid’s silence, it seemed she was displeased with her mistress—Yvette liked her to socialize—but Juliet didn't take any notice. Her own thoughts were occupied with Ash Linholm.
She had said goodbye to him at the gate, but she didn't really believe he was going to accept that. The Ash she had once known was not inclined to do anything he didn't want to. Which reinforced her belief that when he was sent away into the army it was exactly what he had wanted.
Excitement, adventure . . . it would have suited him down to the ground, whereas for Juliet things had been very different. She had been bundled into marriage with an old man who, kind as he was, was a very different prospect to Ash.
She had been very unhappy for a time, until she realised she was only making herself miserable. The Baron was willing to spoil her with pretty dresses and a house in Taunton which, although not London, was lively enough in comparison to their Somerset village.
They had had some good years until he grew too ill, and by then she had been very fond of him. She had nursed him faithfully until the end. The Baron’s debts she hadn’t known about and felt some guilt in respect to—he had spent money on her he couldn’t afford. Perhaps this was her punishment, to live quietly and alone, here in her childhood home.
One thing she knew. As fond as she was of the Baron, she would never again marry a man she didn’t love.
"Thank you, Yvette,” she said, as her maid set down the brush.
It was no use dwelling on the past, Juliet told herself firmly, as she climbed into bed. What was done was done, and to believe it could be altered was only to cause more anguish to herself. She closed her eyes, weary from the swim and her encounter with Ash, and slept.
In the morning there was a note from Crevitch Castle, which Yvette handed to her silently, her eyes curious. Juliet waited until the other woman had left the room before she broke the seal and read it.
Meet me in the summerhouse at noon, it said. And Juliet didn’t need a signature to know who it was from.
Ash allowed Truscott to smooth the shoulders of his jacket. The man was obsessed with imaginary wrinkles, but Ash bore it as best he could. It was the valet who made the master, or so he had been told. At least he had stopped harping on about the tear in the sleeve, and the water soaked clothing from last night. Ash had made some excuse about rescuing one of the swans from a fox, but he didn’t think Truscott believed him. His valet might have asked more questions, but by then he had seen his master’s shoes and was speechless.
“When will we be returning to London, sir?” he asked, and glanced about him with barely concealed distaste.
Ash wasn’t sure whether to laugh or reprimand him. “I’m not sure,” he said instead. “You do realize, Truscott, that I will be living here more or less permanently, once I am married?”
The valet looked appalled. He tried to disguise his emotion but without much success. He cleared his throat a number of times, while Ash awaited his response.
“But don’t you find it rather, eh, tame here, my lord?” he ventured at last, his eyes a little wild.
“Crevitch Castle is my family home. There have been Linholms here for generations, all the way back to Lord Radulf and Lady Lily. I consider it a privilege to live here, Truscott.”
The valet was silent after that. Thoughtful. Ash wondered with interest wh
at his next move would be. Quite possibly handing in his notice.
Downstairs the Dowager Lady Linholm was waiting for him. She looked agitated and her first words were anything but friendly.
“Simon has sent me a letter. It arrived this morning, post haste.”
“Is he unwell?” Ash asked swiftly, thinking that must be it. His brother’s leg was infected again.
“He is unhappy,” she retorted. She was twisting a paper between her fingers, and, guessing this was the letter, he reached for it. His mother placed it behind her back.
“Mother, what is wrong?” he asked her sharply. “What has happened?”
She seemed to come to her senses then, and her voice turned more wheedling. “Ash, I know you think you have the right to do whatever you want to. But it is time you thought of others. Your brother for instance.”
No, he still didn’t understand.
Lady Linholm must have seen his exasperation because, with an impatient huff, she pushed the letter into his hands and bid him, “Read it!”Bewildered, Ash unfolded the crumpled sheet. The writing was his brother’s, but it looked as if he had been in a hurry. Or in the grip of some strong emotion. As he knew, Simon did tend to get het up about things.
‘Dear Mama, I am coming to Crevitch, and I am bringing the girl I hope to marry. You may be surprised to hear this but I have been thinking of marriage for some time.’
Ash looked up with a tentative smile. “But this is good news, surely?”
His mother made an impatient gesture at the letter, and Ash read on.
‘My future wife’s name is Miss Christina Beales and there is a problem. Ash has already decided to marry her. I did think of allowing him to, Ash is my brother and the head of our family, but in this I feel I must stand strong, and Miss Beales has given me cause to believe she will not marry Ash and loves me. You see my dilemma, Mama. That is why I am coming to Crevitch, to have it out with my brother.’
Unforgettable (Mockingbird Square Book 1) Page 4