“Sophie,” several of them corrected together.
Fitzgelder shrugged and turned to Julia. His eyes narrowed. “Of course you are most eager to have the girl returned safely, Clemmons.”
Julia nodded.
“Odd that she never mentioned anything about having a child, though,” Fitzgelder went on. “Seems the sort of thing a husband ought to know, doesn’t it? But then again”—here he turned to Rastmoor—“I suppose every couple has their little secrets. I know my wife—God rest her—certainly hid a few things from me. For a while.”
It was something like pure hate that Julia saw in his eyes. Oh, but Fitzgelder must have raged when he realized Kitty had duped him, that they had all duped him. He’d made Kitty pay for it, too, just as he’d make Papa pay, if he ever found him. Lord, but Julia prayed she’d find a way to get her letter to him in time.
Fitzgelder turned his attention back to Julia. “Maybe you’re not the sort to be bothered by such things, Clemmons, but most men don’t enjoy being lied to by their wives. Then again, you don’t appear to be like most men, do you? But I suppose my cousin, here, counts that a positive. Just exactly how have you been passing the time while your darling wife has been missing?”
The fool was purposely baiting them. Did he hope to push Julia into revealing herself? Or was he simply reveling in the thrill of humiliating Rastmoor in front of his friends? Likely that. She wouldn’t entirely blame Rastmoor if he did defend himself by explaining things, though she truly hoped he wouldn’t.
She doubted she’d be so well received by the lord and lady if they learned the truth. She was lucky they were tolerating her even now, after discovering her ruse as Nancini. What must they think of her, of her relationship with Rastmoor?
Surely they’d already had some unpleasant suspicions; now Fitzgelder’s words were just fuel on the fire. Indeed, Rastmoor seemed fairly ready to murder the man. His jaw, however, was set, and Julia knew he forced himself to keep quiet. He would not expose their subterfuge, though he must be aching to do so. Did any part of that owe to his concern for her? She was probably a fool for wishing it. He had much at stake on his own; he didn’t need to keep quiet simply to protect her.
Either way, though, she was glad he did.
“If there is nothing you can tell us about Sophie,” Rastmoor said after drawing a long, calming breath, “then we have no reason to keep you from that borrowed luxurious bed you are so keen to employ.”
Dashford took the hint and summoned his butler. “Indeed. I’m sure we are all ready to retire for the evening. I’ll have someone take you to your room immediately, Mr. Fitzgelder. And don’t worry that you might be disturbed during your rest. I’ll see to it my best footmen are placed to keep watch over you. All night.”
The butler appeared and was instructed to look after Mr. Fitzgelder. He seemed to quite understand that Dashford’s instructions involved more than simply seeing to the man’s comfort. Good. Julia would rest easier knowing someone was to guard his every movement. If she found herself able to rest at all.
Dashford also made certain his butler understood that word should be sent to him immediately if any messenger arrived for Fitzgelder. That was also a good thing. The two viscounts would learn anything about Sophie before Fitzgelder did. The unwilling prisoner, of course, grumbled over such treatment, but there was nothing he could do. He’d made it plain he was not interested in being civil, so why should the others waste any further time with him tonight? The footmen appeared, ready to escort him away.
“Your hospitality is too much, my lord,” Fitzgelder drawled.
Dashford allowed him a gracious bow. “Oh, but it is the least I can do for such a guest as yourself, Mr. Fitzgelder. Let us hope it is enough.”
“For your sake, Fitzgelder,” Rastmoor added, “let’s hope Mrs. Clemmons is being treated nicely—wherever she is.”
Fitzgelder was able to smile at that. “Oh, don’t worry on her account. I assure you she’s been in very good hands. And so has that lovely little locket.”
“That locket—and whatever is inside it—belongs to me,” Rastmoor reminded him.
“You have no idea the value of that little bauble, do you?” Fitzgelder said. “None of you do, I’ll wager. Ironic. All these years, it’s been right under your nose . . . Well, after tomorrow, Rastmoor, if you ask me very nicely, perhaps I’ll let you have the bloody thing back. I’ll have no need for it.”
Nothing more was said as Fitzgelder took his smug leave and let the footmen show him to his room. Julia thought the air in the room was suddenly a bit easier to breathe. Rastmoor, however, seemed little eased at his cousin’s exit.
Just what did Fitzgelder mean by all that ramble about the locket’s value sitting right under Rastmoor’s nose? Nothing, quite likely. Words from Fitzgelder were nothing more than a waste of syllables. It was useless to give credit to anything coming from that man’s mouth. She’d be better off to forget him and just be thankful Lord Dashford had such healthy—and menacing—servants.
Lady Dashford seemed to be of the same mind. She glared after Fitzgelder when he left, then turned back to her guests and sighed. She declared herself fatigued and suggested they all make an early evening. Julia could hardly blame her. The poor woman was wed only a matter of days, and yet she’d been invaded by this houseful of troubled strangers. It was a wonder she was putting up with any of them.
Rastmoor readily agreed with his hostess’s sentiment and urged Dashford to see to his wife. Dashford, Julia noted, didn’t need a second invitation. He bade a good night to Rastmoor and “Mr. Clemmons,” tucked his wife’s hand in his, and led her away. At the doorway she paused for one quick look back at Julia, and for a moment it seemed she would speak. She didn’t, though, and with a silent nod, Lady Dashford followed her husband into the hall.
Julia was relieved. She knew she must be playing a very poor husband indeed to show so little concern for Sophie in the face of Fitzgelder’s offensive tone, but she just didn’t have it in her to put forth her best performance. She was tired, and the strain of it all was taking a toll.
The sounds of footsteps and human activity faded in the hallway. Once again, she and Rastmoor were alone. Oddly enough, the tension in the room only increased.
“I can’t believe no one’s separated him from his vitals,” Rastmoor said through tightly clenched teeth. “Damn him for what he’s done!”
“To your sister? Did he . . . did he hurt her?”
He shook his head. “She claims he’s done nothing but court her, although I find that difficult to believe. She’s not acting herself.”
“Yes, when she found me in the garden she was acting a bit, er, strange.”
“Oh? You did nothing to instigate that?”
“Certainly not!”
Rastmoor chuckled at her. “I know. Your tastes lie elsewhere, don’t they?” he said, moving to wrap her into his arms.
She wanted to melt into his comforting warmth, but how could she? Fitzgelder was here. He was scheming, plotting, and at any moment he could realize who she was. He could find Papa. She pried herself away.
“I’m worried for what people will think of your tastes,” she said, glancing around the room, letting her eyes linger on anything but him.
“There’s nothing at all wrong with my tastes,” he said, not letting her escape him so easily. “How about if we see how you taste tonight?”
He pulled her back into his arms and nuzzled her neck. She felt the warmth of his tongue tracing the edge of her earlobe. She shuddered and desperately tried to remember why she should not be doing this.
“But what if Dashford should find us this way?” she said in feeble argument.
“Dashford is escorting his wife to bed. I highly doubt we’ll see either of them until morning.”
Yes, he was probably right about that. But what of Papa? She still hadn’t sent word to Papa that Fitzgelder was here and had men roaming about. Oh, but she couldn’t let herself get so distracted
she forgot about Papa, could she?
Then Rastmoor’s hands were sliding her coat aside, slipping beneath it to skim the thin fabric of her shirt. His thumb brushed across her nipple, and she felt her body strain against the binding fabric she used to disguise herself. Oh, how she longed to be out of this disguise! But she couldn’t . . . not now, not while Papa might be in danger.
“My, but how ancient some of the furnishings are in here,” she said, desperate for a distraction that might keep her from being so distracted.
“And how soft the skin is here, just below your ear,” Rastmoor was saying as he kissed that very spot.
Oh, bother. However could she think straight while he was doing this to her? She blinked furiously to keep her eyes from sinking shut. Fortunately, her gaze caught on something that did manage to keep her attention.
“Look, that appears to be an old map of the entire estate.”
Rastmoor mumbled something but didn’t bother to take himself away from the task that occupied him. At this present moment, it seemed he was working his way past her cravat. She swallowed, sighed, and forced her eyes to focus on the map.
“And is that Loveland?” she said, realizing that it, indeed, was.
Yes, the finely drawn map that Dashford had hanging beside his desk showed quite clearly the lay of Hartwood estate. The road to Loveland seemed quite prominent.
“I’ll show you far better things than Loveland, my dear,” Rastmoor said in a low, rumbling tone. She knew he could very well make good on his promise, too.
Her cravat was askew, and her shirt gaped open. Rastmoor pulled her tightly to him, then hoisted her up to seat her trousered bottom on Dashford’s desk. He leaned forward to brush kisses on the heated skin of her chest. She drew a long breath and cursed the tight binding cloth.
“I’m surprised it is so close,” she said, her words coming out slurred. “At dinner I assumed it was much farther.”
He made no reply to this and seemed to be ignoring her completely. He’d managed to push the tight fabric aside, and at last his lips found the tip of her eager breast. She couldn’t help but lean into him, arching her back to present an easier target.
She sighed and was easily lost in the sensation Rastmoor’s touch always brought her. His hands moved over her body, and she allowed hers to do the same to him, tugging and untucking his shirt so she could contact his heated skin beneath. He nipped her lightly, and she moaned, gloriously mindless. She reached for his trousers.
He stopped her there, though.
“Careful, my dear. We should save some things for upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” she asked.
“Of course. You don’t think I mean to tumble you here on Dashford’s desk and be done with it, do you?”
“You don’t?”
He smiled and gave her a sweet, gentle kiss on her lips. “No. You deserve so much more than that, Julia. I’m going to take you to your bed and keep you there until they send someone to find us.”
Oh, but his words reminded her what she ought to be focused on. She didn’t want anyone to find them! And indeed, if she didn’t do something, Papa would soon turn up here to be found by Fitzgelder. Drat, but she could not afford to spend her night wrapped up with Rastmoor in the soft, expansive bed upstairs. She had to save Papa.
And now that she’d found this map, she stood a chance of doing just that. It was far too late to hope to get her note carried there by Dashford’s grooms, but she could find the way herself now. All it would cost her was this one last night with Rastmoor.
Oh, but she hated that. If only they could work around it . . .
“But how can you get into my room upstairs, Anthony?” she said, reaching to toy with the fastenings on his trousers again. “Dashford put guards to keep watch over Fitzgelder. Someone would surely see you.”
“Let them. The truth will eventually come out, Julia.”
That’s what she was afraid of! “It doesn’t have to come out, Anthony. No one need ever know about us. We can be discreet. In fact, I’ve got an idea you might like.”
She slid from the desk and went down onto her knees. She’d seen this in that amazing little book she’d found in the library. Indeed, if Sir Cocksure could be believed, this was something highly favored by most gentlemen. She unfastened one side of his fly.
Again, he stopped her. “Good God, Julia!”
She stared up at him, confused by what she heard in his voice. Had she shocked him? Was he disgusted, even?
“Is this what you think I want? You servicing me like some paid-for whore?”
“Shh! Keep your voice low,” she said. “You don’t want this? But I thought most men—”
And now he was furious. He pulled her up to her feet and glared at her. “What do you know of most men?”
“Well, I, er . . .”
She didn’t know what to say. Had she done something wrong? Apparently so. Her gaze flicked back to the map—a reminder of what she should have been doing instead of getting carried away.
Rastmoor was watching her. He growled and stepped away.
“You’re right,” he said. “We can’t be found out. You’d better just get on up to your room. We’ve got a lot to sort out tomorrow. You need your sleep.”
“But we could—”
“No, we can’t. This was a bad idea, Julia. Go to your room.”
She tried to think of something to say but couldn’t. What did one say when something ended that never really existed at all?
“Good night, Anthony.”
She gave the map one last look and left the dark, masculine study. Rastmoor said nothing more. She wondered if he realized he’d never see her again. She refused to let herself wonder if he’d care.
HE WATCHED HER GO. DAMN, BUT HE WANTED TO call her back so badly he physically hurt. And not just because what had started out as a passionate moment had ended. He ached because he knew deep down that what he wanted with Julia could never be. She was making love to him, but her mind was elsewhere. He hadn’t known where until he saw that map.
It wasn’t just a map of Dashford’s estate, but it showed Loveland, as well. Those damn actors were there—that Giuseppe person who brought such a smile to her face. Was he Julia’s current lover? No wonder she was so curious about Loveland. Her body might be here, but her heart was there.
She’d made a valiant attempt to cover it, but he’d seen through it. She’d been simply going through the motions with him, hesitant to commit to a night in his arms. Her hopes rested elsewhere, apparently.
Oh, he had no doubt she’d enjoyed their energetic trysts, but tonight’s display had been proof that she thought of him as nothing more than just one man in a string of many. Sadly, he had no one to blame but himself. He could have married her three years ago and made sure she belonged to him alone. Now it was too late. Julia had moved on.
But she’d left something behind. Not just the heartbreak and painful memories, but a thin, folded paper. It lay before him on the floor, just where Julia had been. He bent to retrieve it.
God, he wished he hadn’t. There, in Julia’s own hand, was a note. Addressed to Giuseppe. The words were cryptic, but he could make out the meaning. Julia was warning her love—in French, no less—that she was here and that she was with the “troublesome gentleman from London.” He supposed that must refer to him. Did she think by stating it that way her lover would not be jealous?
Well, this lover was very jealous. And troublesome, indeed. He decided to go right after Julia and spend the rest of the night wiping that damn Italian actor out of her mind. But he didn’t. What would it gain him? He’d already been with Julia for three days, and still her eyes sparkled when Dashford announced Giuseppe was close by.
If he really did care about her at all, he’d let her sleep tonight. Alone.
“Giuseppe, you damn well better deserve her,” he muttered as his eyes fell on the collection of decanters Dashford kept prominently on the table behind the desk.
Thank
God for good, stiff libations.
IT WAS FAR TOO BRIGHT THIS MORNING. RASTMOOR’S head ached and his legs felt none too steady. Coming down here to the breakfast room had been a mistake. What on earth made him think food might help? His stomach turned at the mere sight of it there, laid out on the buffet table. No, miserable or not, he should have stayed in bed.
Or better yet, he should never have finished off that bottle of whiskey—all of it. But what else could he do to numb that gnawing agony inside him last night? It had been more than he could bear. He’d as much as declared himself to Julia, and she’d rejected him.
And the worst of it, he couldn’t blame her. After the way he’d doubted her, left her, treated her badly, it was no wonder she found it impossible to care for him as she once had. Hell, despite the throbbing in his head and the squinting, blurred vision, he could see it all so clearly. She had loved him once, and he’d betrayed her—by listening to Fitzgelder, of all people! Damn. He deserved the way he felt this morning.
“Good heavens, Anthony,” Penelope shouted, stomping into the breakfast room and pounding over to the window. “It’s so dark in here! Heavens, I feel like a mole. Let’s open these drapes, for goodness’ sake.”
She actually seemed prepared to do just that. He risked splitting his head in two by speaking to her.
“Do it, and I’ll give you the whipping you desperately deserve.”
Despite his valiant effort, Penelope was less than deterred. She continued in her goal, and the drapes were rudely pushed aside, sunlight streaming in. Rastmoor groaned.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Anthony,” she said, tsking and clicking her tongue loudly. “You’ve made yourself bog-headed today, haven’t you? Stayed up drinking half the night, no doubt. Likely you dragged poor Mr. Nan . . . er, Clemmons, into your debauchery, too. Shame on you, leading the poor, injured man into your vices, and after you assured him you’d turned over a new leaf! Well, perhaps that explains why there was no answer when I tapped at his door.”
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