by Mary Balogh
He kept his hands in tight fists. He thought his knuckles would crack. “Have you ever heard of a tease?” he asked her. “Women were made to be desired by men, Julia. Thus is the human race perpetuated. A woman who bares her body to a man’s gaze must expect that he will want to put himself inside her.” Color rushed back into her cheeks. “There is nothing shameful in his desire, only in what he does with that desire. You are fortunate that you have been caught this morning by one who can control it.”
“Ah,” she said, “and so you are exonerated. A man to be admired. A man with self-control and a conscience. The blame shifts back to me. So be it, then. But you still owe me an apology.”
“Julia.” He reached out and grasped one of her wrists. Her flesh was cold. “Be more careful. You are no longer a child to be living the life of a hoyden. You are a woman. A lady. Don’t invite this sort of scene with another man. He might be less scrupulous.”
“Like Freddie?” she said. “You denied me a kiss from him last evening. I wanted him to kiss me. I am that much of a wanton, you see, Daniel. I am twenty-one years old and I wanted to be kissed. Dreadful is it not?”
He ought not to have touched her. He could feel warmth from his hand seep into her wrist. He could warm her body too if he held her tightly against him, if he rubbed his hands hard up and down her back, if he first of all peeled off the wet shift, if he gave her the heat of his mouth. His thoughts worked independently of his will. He dropped her wrist.
“You little fool,” he said. “You do not realize how much you play with fire by encouraging Freddie, Julia. Do you think you could be happy with a gambler and a womanizer?”
“Perhaps I can reform him.” She smiled at him.
“Women do not reform men,” he said. “Those who marry in that expectation end up miserably unhappy. Freddie is personable and charming and apparently very attractive to women, Julia. But you would make the biggest mistake of your life if you married him.”
“And do you care?” she asked him. “Why would you, Daniel? If I am not a lady and am without virtue and without—without virginity, why would it matter to you whom I marry?”
“My uncle loved you and treated you like a granddaughter,” he said. “I grew up thinking of you as a cousin. I have to feel the same sort of concern for you as I do for any other member of my family. I feel responsible for you, Julia.”
“Don’t.” She snapped the word. “I am not your responsibility, Daniel, and I thank providence for that. My choices are very limited. I may choose to marry one of four men if they all offer—Freddie already has in so many words. Or I may choose to go to my uncle in the north of England. Or I may choose to seek a post as a governess or teacher or companion. Actually not so limited. I have choices. I will make them myself. Without help from anyone. Least of all you. Do you understand me? You may take your damnable stuffy sense of responsibility and shove it in the lake or any other place of your choice, Daniel. I am cold. Like a block of ice. I would like to dry off and change into my dress if you please. Or do you want to stand and watch?”
He gazed hard at her for several moments and then turned without another word and strode away. He should have been feeling relief. She had just done what she had every right to do. She had spurned his help and absolved him from any sense of family responsibility toward her. She had chosen to carve out her own destiny. Or her own doom.
He should have been able to free his mind and his conscience of her and turn to the prospect of a pleasant, if perhaps slightly tedious, month spent with his family. He should have been able to turn his mind to Blanche again and plan what he would do about her when he was finally free to leave Primrose Park. The thought of Blanche should have made his heart leap with gladness.
But his heart was still beating at not quite normal rate and his groin was still aching. And he could not rid his mind of the image of Freddie finding Julia as he had found her. And of Freddie touching her as he had wanted to touch her. And peeling off her shift and laying her down on the grass and penetrating her body with his and taking pleasure from her. As he had wanted to do.
God but she was beautiful. And desirable. And everything he most despised in a lady. She was no lady. If she were a courtesan, he would employ her. He would keep her as his mistress until he had had his fill of her. Not that he was in the habit of keeping mistresses or even availing himself of the services of a whore with any great frequency. But if Julia were on the market, he would buy.
The direction of his thoughts horrified him. Good God! She might be no lady, but she was very far from being the other. And to think of himself buying and using her services was sickening. He could only despise himself for such thoughts. He turned his steps toward the stables as he came out from among the trees. Perhaps he needed that brisk ride after all.
He remembered suddenly that he had not apologized to her. He had as good as called her a fallen woman and he had not apologized. He felt renewed anger against her for provoking him into such an unpardonable indiscretion.
Julia, he thought. So wild. And so dangerously innocent.
When Julia emerged from her room at a very decorous nine o’clock in the morning, she was relieved to find the breakfast room full of family members. They were in the midst of planning a picnic for the afternoon. Julia fell in with the plans with enthusiasm.
“The lake would be pleasant,” Aunt Millie was saying. “There would be trees to shelter us and grass to sit on. And it is not too far to walk.”
“We can stroll to the lake anytime, though, Millie,” Aunt Roberta said. “How about the hill?”
“Too steep,” Uncle Henry said. “All the food would have to be carried up by foot. We would do better to keep that in mind for a walk or a ride some other day.”
“What about Culver Castle?” Julia suggested. “We always had splendid picnics there when we were children. It was one of Grandpapa’s favorite places.”
Aunt Millie raised a handkerchief to her eyes. “Poor dear Humphrey,” she said. “He would have liked nothing better than to be surrounded by his family and to be going on a picnic.”
“It certainly does not seem right to see everyone dressed in colors again,” Aunt Sarah said. “I must censure Humphrey for having put that in his will. It is not proper.”
“But we would die of the heat today,” Julia said, “if we had to wear black outdoors.”
“We would not even be going out on a picnic,” Aunt Sarah pointed out, “if we were in proper mourning, Julia, dear. Daniel should have used his authority as head of the family and decided against our following Humphrey’s instructions. I am sure he could not have been in his right mind when he wrote that particular part of the will. Mr. Prudholm should have talked him out of it.”
Daniel, Julia had been relieved to see as soon as she had stepped into the breakfast room, was not there.
“Culver Castle sounds wonderful, Jule,” Stella said. “Do you remember how we used to climb up to the battlements? I suppose the stairways are crumbling even more now than they used to.”
“And how we boys used to descend to the dungeons,” Augustus said. “One hundred and thirty-two steps.”
“And me,” Julia said. “I always used to go down too.” Augustus smiled at her a little uncomfortably. “And so you did too, Jule,” he said. “You were always one of the fellows.”
“But she is a lady now,” Aunt Sarah said firmly. “And I think that we all must see the castle only as a picturesque site for a picnic and not as something to be romped over. You are none of you children any longer.”
Augustus pulled a face when Aunt Sarah turned her head away and grinned at Julia. The first natural smile he had exchanged with her since the reading of the will the afternoon before.
“Culver Castle it is, then,” Uncle Raymond said, getting to his feet “I’ll see that the carriages are ordered out for the ladies.”
“And I’ll see Cook about the food,” Aunt Eunice said. “Come with me, Millie?”
“Oh, I suppose s
o, dear,” Aunt Millie said, flustered. “But Cook will be cross to have her day’s plans upset. Oh, I do so hate it when she is cross.” She pushed back her chair reluctantly.
Frederick winked at her. “Go to it Aunt Millie,” he said. “Go and give them hell in the kitchen.”
“Freddie, dear,” Aunt Millie said, shocked.
“Freddie!” his father said sternly.
Frederick chuckled.
Julia traveled in one of the barouches. Normally she would have insisted on riding with the men, and even today she watched them with envy as she sat demurely between Camilla and Aunt Sylvia. Sometimes she wondered what malevolent fate had decided that she would be female at birth since her inclination was for the freedom and uninhibited physical activity that only men enjoyed. But then if she were not female she would be unable to look appreciatively at men without being guilty of some heinous sin.
And men really were splendid creations, she thought. Far more splendid than women. All muscle and hardness instead of feminine softness. At least the better examples were. Like Freddie. And even Gussie. She had never really thought of Gussie as a man before, only as a cousin and close friend. But he was good-looking in his own way—his own very distinctive way. His face would be lined with laugh creases before he was forty, of course, and his very fair hair would be curly and unruly until he began to lose it as he inevitably would within the next ten years or so. Uncle Paul was almost completely bald. Gussie had a graceful man’s body even if he was not very tall.
Of course he could never match Freddie in splendor. Or Daniel either. Daniel was one of the picnickers, of course. She had been a little disappointed when she saw him, but it would have been strange if he had not come. Everyone else had, and Daniel was nothing if not meticulous about family duty.
Yes, he was a very handsome man too, she admitted grudgingly. And attractive, she thought even more grudgingly. She had wanted him that morning. The thought, verbalized in her mind in just those words, shocked her. Wanted him? She had wanted him to kiss her. The trouble with Daniel was that he was always at his most attractive when he was angry. And he had been very angry when he had stridden across the grass to stand in front of her. Angry at himself as much as at her, she had guessed. There had been something rather erotic in the contrast between his immaculately dressed person and her woefully undressed one.
She had wanted more than a kiss. Julia shivered despite the warmth of the day and the press of bodies in the crowded barouche. She had wanted to feel his hands on her. It was a dreadful admission. She had never wanted such a thing before nor ever thought to want more than kisses from a man. Even the desire for kisses had sometimes made her feel sinful. What had he said? His words had shocked her so much—as they had been meant to do—that she had suppressed the memory of them. What were they? Something about any man seeing her like that and wanting to put himself inside her.
Julia could feel her cheeks flame and twirled her parasol. She could feel an uncomfortable ache and throbbing between her legs, as she had felt then. She had wanted him—Oh, dear, she might as well complete the thought since no one but she would know it and she could not hide it from herself anyway. She had wanted him to put himself there.
The marriage act. At least she supposed that was what he had meant and what she had wanted. The joining of two bodies. The type of intimacy that had always made her uneasy before whenever she thought of it and made her shy away from the thought of marriage. She did not want anyone being familiar or intimate with her body—not with more than her lips anyway.
“A penny for them, Jule,” Susan said from the seat opposite.
“You are unnaturally quiet, Julia,” Aunt Sylvia said.
“Oh,” she said. “Nothing. Just dreaming.” Just wondering what it would be like to have Daniel inside me. She could feel color and heat flood her cheeks.
Aunt Roberta, sitting opposite beside Susan, laughed. “She is thinking that she has five strings to her bow,” she said. “And wondering which will make his move at the picnic this afternoon. It is both an exciting and a frightening time when one is marriageable and choosing a husband, is it not, dear? I envy you and pity you.”
“Actually,” Julia said, giving her parasol another twirl, “I was thinking of Grandpapa and wishing he were alive and here with us so that I could lure him up onto the castle battlements and push him over the steepest wall.”
“Oh, goodness,” Aunt Sylvia said, setting a hand over her heart while everyone else laughed.
The earl, who was riding not far off, looked back over his shoulder at the sound of the laughter. She hated him, Julia thought. If he were a gentleman, he would have stolen away as soon as he saw her swimming and left her to her privacy. If he were a gentleman, he would have turned his back at least until she could have got the towel right about herself. If he were a gentleman, he would not have accused her of loose morals merely because she liked to swim at dawn. And he would have apologized. Profusely and abjectly.
A man’s thighs showed to definite advantage, she thought, twirling her parasol absently again, spread on either side of a horse. If they were strong and well-muscled, of course. As Daniel’s were.
She wished he had tried to kiss or touch her. She could have cracked him across the face and been feeling infinitely better now. She should have slapped him anyway when he had said that about her virginity. She had missed a golden opportunity. She would love to slap Daniel’s face. And she would do it too at the first chance. Just let him try prosing on at her about propriety and decorum again. Or about the undesirability of her marrying Freddie. She would marry Freddie if she wanted to. She would do it to spite Daniel— if she wanted to.
“Ah, there it is,” Camilla said, pointing ahead to the ruined Norman castle. “I always forget just how picturesque the setting is until I am back here. It must be a few years since we were here last.”
Julia brought her mind back to the present. Culver Castle had been the scene of many happy childhood romps. Sometimes she wished they could all be young again. How foolish children are, she thought, always to be longing to grow up. Being grown up was not at all a pleasant business.
The uncles handed the ladies out of the carriages. The male cousins held back. Almost as if they were afraid of her, Julia thought or afraid of one another. It made her wish again that they were all still children, that she could look at them as she always had instead of as prospective husbands. She hated seeing them this way. There was not one of them she wanted to marry.
Aunt Sarah had set the picnic site beside the river that formed a natural moat around half the base of the castle hill. There was grass there and a buttercup and daisy-strewn meadow behind with trees beyond it and some late-blooming bluebells. With the castle forming almost a storybook picture at the other side of the river, they had found the perfect setting for a picnic. Or so said Aunt Sarah, directing the placement of the blankets for them to sit on and suggesting several delightful strolls they might care to take to work up an appetite. The picnic baskets were to arrive later by a separate carriage.
But Julia did not feel like strolling or admiring the more delicate beauties of nature.
“Who wants to explore the castle?” she asked, raising her voice defiantly.
“I don’t think, Julia—” Aunt Sarah began.
“I am going up there,” Julia said. “I want to see the view. And I want to climb up onto the battlements. Is anyone coming?” She strode off in the direction of the arched stone bridge that had long ago replaced the original drawbridge, quite prepared to go alone if no one wanted to come or if she must be treated as if she had some particularly nasty infectious disease.
“Bravo, Jule.” Frederick was chuckling. “We are going to storm the castle, are we? Lead the way, then, and your faithful cohorts will follow.”
She threw him a grateful glance over her shoulder. But he was quite right. Others were following—most of the younger generation, that was, despite Aunt Sarah’s frowns. Aunt Sarah had said no more, Jul
ia could see, because Daniel was coming to the castle too. Drat! She wished she were still at an age when she could poke out her tongue. He was coming to spoil the afternoon for her.
“Wonderful idea, Jule,” Lesley was saying. “Too wonderful a castle merely to be gazed at.”
Augustus had caught up to her by the time she had reached the center of the bridge.
“I’ll race, you to the top of the hill, Jule,” he said. “Do you want me to give you a sporting start?”
Julia, conscious of the ghastly change that had occurred in the family during the past day, grasped gratefully at a little bit of nostalgia. She caught her skirt up above her ankles with both hands, shrieked, and was off and running.
“I’ll race you anyway, Gussie,” she yelled. “With feet that size all you can do is trip over them.”
The years fell away with exhilarating speed as she pounded her way up the hill with Augustus panting at her shoulder, waiting to make his move past her at the last possible moment. As he always did, the wretch.
Malcolm did not join the climb up the hill with the other young people. He stood looking after them—a thirty-year-old man caught somehow between the two generations.
Camilla paused, undecided whether to go or to stay. She felt sorry for Malcolm, too shy for his own good, too old to have been a playmate for any except Daniel and Freddie and her. Pushed into the background when the younger, noisier children began devising their own games. And now he was thirty years old, heir to a barony, and undoubtedly under pressure from both his parents and his own sense of duty to choose a wife.
And suddenly feeling trapped by the eligibility of Julia.
“Really, Millie,” Camilla’s mother was saying, “you should have had a talk with that girl a long time ago. At her age she should be married with a few children in the nursery, not rushing up a hill like a hoyden. It is quite unseemly.”
And Camilla felt sorry for Julia too. Julia was very special, with vast amounts of energy and a great capacity to love. But no one to love—yet. The right man had not come along for her. Camilla sighed. Just as in twenty-four years only one man had come along for her—and been snatched away cruelly before she could even have the comfort of being his wife.