by Regina Scott
And as she did so, the tears that had threatened before now spilled over. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to look pleasant and somewhat indifferent. Julian clearly did not believe her act, as he stepped closer and fully encircled her in his arms. The gesture only made her love him more, which made her that much more miserable—if she could only stop loving him, rather than feeling her love increase by the minute . . .
Despite herself, she relaxed into his embrace, allowing herself this one brief moment of having him to herself. She cried thus for a minute or two, mostly sniffling—somehow, she reined in the threatening sobs—then evened her breathing and dried her tears. Only then did she lift her head from his silky shirt but didn’t look up, not yet. She noted several tear spots left on Julian’s cravat and smiled sheepishly as she wiped them, though that didn’t fix them, of course.
Julian’s hand came up and pinned hers to his chest. “Eleanor, what is it?” he asked again, oh-so-gently.
His touch sent fire up her arm. If she didn’t take care, she would collapse in a heap, for her knees wouldn’t hold her up much longer. She lifted her chin and looked at him, took a deep breath, and tried to speak. “It’s—it’s nothing,” she said as she stepped backward, away from his embrace.
He tilted his head forward and raised his brows, clearly unbelieving and wanting to know the truth.
Such a good man. And he knows me too well, even after all these years.
She gestured about the room. “Preparing for a large event can be daunting. I’m rather fatigued.”
He surveyed the room and then worked his jaw as if highly displeased. “I wanted to discuss the ball with you.”
Did he not approve of her efforts? Julian had never been a dandy. She couldn’t imagine him caring two shillings about ribbons or anything else about the ball.
“What about it did you wish to discuss?” She turned her head to examine the room, partly to look at the place as he might see it and partly to avoid his deep, piercing eyes.
“Let’s take a turn.” He put his hands behind his back and began to walk, indicating that she should follow. His relaxed tone set her at ease as they slowly traced the perimeter of the room together. Still, she didn’t speak, waiting for him to broach the subject and whatever grievance he wished to air about the ball
“The fact of the matter is . . .” Julian’s voice trailed off before he finally said, “I don’t want the ball to happen at all.”
“You—you don’t?” Eleanor asked in surprise. He hadn’t seemed against the idea when Henry proposed it, not really. “You do enjoy dancing, if I recall. At least, you used to.”
“I do.” He took a couple of steps and then sighed heavily. “But I’m not particularly keen on being expected to find a . . . a match in a single evening.”
Eleanor couldn’t help but notice how he forced out the word match, as if the very idea of marriage was utterly distasteful to him. Perhaps he had no interest in women and would never marry. If that was the case, Eleanor could remain at Willowsmeade, and the two of them could continue to be friends.
Yet I will never stop loving him. Friendship with Julian will never make me content.
She found her eyes welling up again, so she looked away and blinked, pretending to inspect some of the fireplace and Yule log as they continued to walk, so slowly. At this rate, a full circuit would take a quarter of an hour. The two of them had what felt like a cavernous room all to themselves. Where were the other servants? Shouldn’t someone have returned from an errand by now?
Eleanor finally found her voice. “I confess I’m surprised to hear you have no wish to find . . . a match.” She used the same word, as she couldn’t bear to say wife.
“A match formed in another manner would be more to my liking.” Julian kept walking forward, chin up, lips pressed together—all of which Eleanor noted from a sidelong look, not wanting to give away her curiosity by turning to look at him.
“Oh?” Her throat dried right up, so she swallowed to moisten it. “You are not opposed to matrimony, then?”
Julian shook his head and chuckled, but when he answered, something husky had entered his voice. “Rather to the contrary.”
Her middle fluttered and warmed. What were his true feelings and thoughts? How would this conversation end? She hadn’t predicted his words so far, and she couldn’t imagine what he would say next.
But he did oppose the ball. Why? Because he had a certain lady already in mind? If so, likely one he’d met on his many sea voyages—perhaps a Spanish maid or a French mademoiselle.
I should have suspected as much.
His purpose speaking with her now was in her capacity as a friend who would listen. Henry and Mrs. Brunson most certainly would not.
She lowered her eyes to her hands, which she clasped to mask their trembling. She’d buried her emotions for Julian so long that she’d believed them dead. Apparently, they’d only slept, and they’d awakened stronger than ever.
“If you’d like,” Eleanor ventured, “I could extend an invitation to any particular young lady you have in mind.” She forced herself to take a breath. “If Henry knew you have already found a lady, he’d be quite content to invite her, or perhaps cancel the ball altog—”
“Eleanor.”
Her name was all he needed to say; her speech stopped mid-word, and her feet stilled. He stepped in front of her and took her hands—her cold, trembling hands—in his and drew her near. The warm look in his eyes was almost more than she could bear. She wanted to bury her head in his chest once more, if only to feel that nearness one more time. If only to keep herself from seeing him wax poetic as he proclaimed his love for another woman. A burning temptation told her to embrace him quickly to stop him from talking and then flee the room.
Resisting the impulse, she instead looked into his dear face, tightened her fingers around his, and steeled herself for whatever he said next.
Julian didn’t speak right away. He glanced up and around them, then stepped backward, holding her hands as he went, leading her. He wore a smile she could make neither heads nor tails of. He almost looked like the mischievous boy who’d slipped a toad into Henry’s bed years hence.
A few more steps backward and a final upward glance and then Julian stopped and planted his feet before her. He smiled and quirked an eyebrow before looking up once more, this time very slowly, as if telling her that she should follow his gaze.
Comprehension dawned on her like the sun at noonday. Right above them hung the mistletoe. She suddenly had difficulty breathing. She hadn’t noticed where he was leading her, because her emotions had been in such a muddle that she hadn’t noticed much of anything.
Am I asleep and dreaming?
He drew nearer and nearer still, until Eleanor could feel the warmth of his breath on the curl on her temple. “Plenty of berries on it yet,” he said, his voice low but filled with meaning.
Heat flared in her chest and spread throughout her body, setting her heart beating as fast as a galloping horse. Clearly, this was no dream. She stood still, half afraid that any movement or sound would shatter this beautiful moment, half disbelieving that he had any intention of kissing her. Or that if he did, he’d kiss her hand or her forehead as a friend.
She could not hope for more, because hopes of fancy brought brokenheartedness when they were dashed. Eleanor Hadfield could not hope for anything at all, until the moment Captain Julian Stephens lowered his face to hers and gently—hesitantly—pressed his lips to hers.
Chapter Six
As Julian kissed her, he prayed Eleanor wouldn’t pull away or—worse—merely tolerate his touch like a statue. To his joy, she returned his kiss. The realization draped him with warmth from crown to toe. This kiss outranked their first from so long ago, like a captain outranked the lowliest cabin boy. This kiss burned brighter and hotter, eclipsing their first like the brightness of the sun eclipsed a weak candle.
It ended with both of them breathing shakily, unsure of what to say or do
next. Julian wanted to yell with a cry of triumph, but one’s voice carrying over the vast waters of the ocean was quite a different thing from attempting the same within the echoing walls of one’s childhood home.
He leaned closer to Eleanor’s ear and whispered, “Shall we take a turn about the gardens?”
“Yes . . . please,” she said, then slipped an arm through his.
He placed his hand over hers, and together they left the ballroom and walked through the house until they reached a door leading to the gardens. After what felt like far too long, they found themselves alone along the manicured garden paths, colder than the last time, but not yet covered with snow. Their steps crunched gravel beneath their feet in what was otherwise a burning silence between them that waited to be broken.
As a gentleman, speaking first was his duty. But what to say? Eleanor had returned his kiss, but he could not assume that such a moment would necessarily mean she cared for him in the way he loved her or that she would ever want to leave her home at Willowsmeade, along with the life she’d created here with Henry’s family. No matter how eagerly she’d welcomed his kiss, it mightn’t have meant what he wished it to. If she yet loved him, why hadn’t she shown it before?
“You’ve done well for yourself,” Julian said, then mentally berated himself for sounding stiff and formal.
“I suppose I have,” Eleanor said in an even tone that left him at a loss to interpret her meaning.
“Are you . . . happy at Willowsmeade?” he ventured.
She glanced over warily, then looked away. “I am, yes. The Brunsons have been most generous, and I adore the children. The life of a governess isn’t one of permanence, so I’ve come to accept that my duties include saying goodbye to children when a certain time comes. That is the hardest part, I admit.”
“You aren’t anticipating parting from the Brunson children anytime soon, are you?” Julian worried he’d overstepped his bounds. “I, er, apologize for my presumption. I assumed your position here was of a permanent nature. Is it not?”
“This is the understanding with Mr. Brunson . . .”
“But?” Julian offered. When she didn’t answer, he stopped walking and faced her, taking her hands in his as he had in the ballroom.
She didn’t look up and instead studied their clasped hands. Oh, how he wanted her to lift her face and meet his eyes.
“Eleanor.”
“Mm?” Her gaze remained on their hands.
He stroked the back of one hand with his thumb. Such smooth, soft skin. “You have a home at Willowsmeade for as long as you wish. Henry has told me so. You needn’t work as a governess any longer. You needn’t say goodbye to Henry’s children.”
She nodded, making ringlets bob at the sides of her face. Her stubborn Brunson pride, inherited from her mother, kept from accepting supposed charity by not working for her keep, even though she could take her place as a family member at any time.
Eleanor swallowed hard as she listened, then said, “I am unsure what you expect me to say.” She seemed on the verge of adding a Mr. Stephens or Captain Stephens, and he was most grateful she left them off.
He tried again. “You have your future assured if you stay here. I know you have no need to seek a suitable match of your own. But . . .”
Her fingers grew cold, her grip stiffening. Before she could refuse him, he hurried to say his piece. “I’m only the son of a gardener, but I’ve raised my station to a naval captain. I am not and never will be a wealthy, landed gentleman. My life, and that of my wife-to-be, will not be as secure as Henry’s. Any woman who takes my hand in marriage will face a somewhat uncertain future. Odds of a comfortable existence are good, but not a grand life, not one such as Willowsmeade can provide.” Following this speech, which to his ears came from him in halting, awkward phrases, he paused and waited for her to reply. Surely she’d understand his intent.
He watched her fanned lashes blink once, twice, before she spoke. “Any woman should find herself fortunate to marry you.”
“Do you mean that in earnest?” Julian waited with bated breath.
“Of course, Captain St—”
He quickly pressed a finger to her lips to stop the name. “Please, don’t call me that.”
She closed her eyes and then slowly reached up and took his finger from her lips. She finally looked at him in a manner he could only describe as wary. “What would you have me say?” Her voice wobbled.
Julian curled his fingers about hers and narrowed the distance between them even more. “Say whether you love me still as you said in this very garden when we parted so long ago.” He pressed a kiss to her palm. “If your feelings have changed over the many years, please say so, and I will be the one to depart. You needn’t leave the children or your home. Say the word, and I will stay away, never to speak of this again. But you must know that my feelings have not changed except to grow stronger. I love you, Eleanor, as much as ever.”
“You do?” Her eyes closed tightly, and a tear fell, streaking down her right cheek. But the tear was followed by her lips slowly curling into a smile. Her eyes opened, and she gazed up at him, aglow with happiness.
He cupped her face in his hand and ran his thumb along her jawline. “I do,” he said insistently. “More than ever.”
Eleanor leaned in as he stroked her chin. “And I you. Always.”
Their second kiss of the day was better than the first. Julian felt as if he could fly, defeat Napoleon single-handedly, vanquish any enemy, all because Eleanor loved him still.
The kiss ended with several small ones, and then he rested his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes and breathed, then quietly, so as not to shatter the moment, said, “Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“With all my heart.” Eleanor squeezed his hands, and he squeezed back, hoping to convey his joy through his touch. He opened his lips to speak, but a single word escaped her lips first, one that would have dashed his dreams, had it not been in the playful tone he knew from a lifetime of loving her: “However . . .”
The tone, as well as the fact that she’d just declared her reciprocal love, set at ease any worries Julian might have had. For that moment, they were not an aged bachelor and spinster, but people in love, with stars in their eyes, and perhaps a penchant for entering into mischief together, such as the time they put syrup in Henry’s boots.
“However what?” he asked, gazing into her eyes, certain he’d never tire of the sight.
“We’ll have to inform Henry that the dreadful ball is not necessary.”
Julian clucked his tongue. “Tragic, that.” He smiled, and the two of them broke into laughter. He drew her hand through the crook of his elbow and led her along the garden path back toward the house. “However . . .”
Upon hearing his repetition of her protest, she leveled a playful gaze at him from the corner of her eye. “However?”
“Before we inform Henry of our recent understanding, I believe we—that is to say, you and I—should return to the ballroom posthaste.”
“May I ask to what end? Do you plan to remove the decorations prior to having an audience with Henry?”
“No, nothing like that.” He paused in his step and gave her a knowing smile. “Our errand is much more practical—and necessary. You see, we must ensure the mistletoe is rendered useless.” He spoke in such a serious tone that a light chuckle escaped Eleanor, a sound that bore witness of the young spirit still within her.
She leaned in, pressed onto her toes, and kissed his cheek. Then she spoke, tickling his ear with her words. “That, my dear Julian, is a most excellent idea.”
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Annette Lyon is a USA Today bestselling author, a four-time recipient of Utah’s Best of State medal for fiction, a Whitney Award winner, and a five-time publication award winner from the League of Utah Writers. She’s the author of more than a dozen novels, even more novellas, and several nonfiction books. When she’s not w
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Chapter One
Mr. Forbes sat across from Arabelle in the drawing room of Hybrigge House, studying the paintings above the fireplace, running his hand along the carved arm of the settee, and patting the upholstery as if assessing the value of a racehorse he wasn’t quite impressed with. He’d been here two hours already, and Arabelle wondered if she should ask him to dine with them. Out of hospitality, not desire.
He set his tea down and crossed his long legs. A grin stretched across his handsome face. “I was surprised to find you indoors today, Miss Hyatt.”
“I assure you, I had every intention to be out of doors.” Her mother coughed. “But when I learned you were coming I canceled my morning walk to the river. All that dreadful fresh air and dirt and rush of water. What is that compared to your company, Mr. Forbes?”
“Knowing how you feel about nature, I will take that as a compliment, though I’ve never compared myself to the ‘rush of water.’ Or dirt.”
Arabelle stifled a laugh. “Do you not like the out of doors?”
“Not in December.”
“I suppose I learned to love the winterscape from my brother. George was always rambling about on some adventure with me in tow.”
Indeed, the chill of December had descended upon their valley. Christmas was coming. She and Mama had put away the black dresses of mourning for George and his wife, Jane, both lost to consumption a year ago. George had just enough time to contact their father’s cousin’s estate, as Hybrigge was entailed to that distant family. Mr. Hewitt Forbes’s family.