In the woods on the third day, Willow abandoned all propriety to spy from a treetop upon the viscount and his wife in their gazebo. Master Thornton had lined the floor with magnolias so thick they looked like snow. The couple stood in the center, face to face, holding one another. First, Master Thornton took down his wife’s hair, removing the pins. When it shimmered like a fine satin curtain, his hands skimmed its length to her waist. Without a word spoken aloud, their lips moved in synchrony. Willow—having heard about their winter wedding in that very gazebo years ago—had no doubt they renewed their vows.
Willow hiccupped and wriggled in the carriage seat. Be it the residual effect of the wine or the image of Master Thornton and Miss Juliet’s sensual kiss following their silent ceremony—a whorl of warmth descended to Willow’s lower abdomen. Her hand skated involuntarily beneath her cape, as if an invisible string tied her fingers to the hot, prickly sensation all along the tight curve of her stomach.
Provocative shadows swirled in her mind and stitched her eyes closed. She leaned back and allowed herself to relax, drifted away from the thumping rain, popping candles, and the voices of the footmen outside. In the tableaux of her dreamscape, she became the bride while Julian played the role of the groom. Entranced, Willow gave herself to this man she knew so well beneath their gazebo—his lips and hands unfamiliar in their masterful possession of her. And as he guided her to lie upon a cushion of magnolias and peeled away her clothes, Julian ceased being the traitor, and became her lover.
Seven
Vaguely, Willow heard the soft clack of beads … felt the pingat slip from around her shoulders and catch on the rise of her breasts. Then, the hazy spread of heat at her forehead roused her enough to realize the carriage was moving.
When she opened her eyes, she found Julian perched over her, his opened lips mere inches from her brow, intense in his concentration on his fingers where they fidgeted on either side of her shoulders, trying to catch the beaded cape. His right knee was propped beside her left hip and his golden hair swung on either side of his face with the carriage’s rough motions.
Her body grew warmer, flushed from his kisses and caresses in the gazebo of her dream. Was she still sleeping?
“Julian…?”
Meeting her gaze, Julian jerked his arms behind him at the same moment the berline took a curve much too fast. He and Willow both toppled to the floor with her landing on top of him. Loose papers shuffled from one end of Julian’s empty seat to the other. The jolt in Willow’s elbows when they hit the wooden planks on either side of Julian shattered any illusion of sleep.
“Blast it, Abrams, slow down!” Julian banged his fist against the carriage’s wall.
Sprawled over him in the small space, Willow felt every ripple of her companion’s muscles when he moved—even through her corset, pantalets, and petticoats. One of his thighs ended up trapped between the squab and Willow’s hip. His other thigh was wedged between both of hers, cradling her against his groin. Their chests—in perfect symmetry—rubbed to torturous friction as Julian knocked on the wall again. His jaw angled back and his neck muscles corded as he strained to look out the window, as if in some way it would make the tiger hear him.
Obviously, Julian hadn’t noticed yet that their pose was highly indecent … not to mention intimate. Willow became dizzy, his amber and inky essence weighing in the air all around her.
“Abrams!” Julian yelled again.
“Stop. Moving.” Willow managed on a trembling breath, her palms flat against the vibrating floor on either side of his head.
“Oh, sorry.” Julian propped his head against the wall and trained his gaze on her through the spectacles at the tip of his nose. “Are you hurt?”
“A bit light-headed,” she whispered, disarmed by the depth of his eyes from this shadowy angle. Soft yellow light flickered from the candles on the opposite wall, but too high up to reach the floor.
With Julian’s help, Willow tried to push to her knees, but the carriage turned another sharp corner and she ended up wedged even tighter against him.
In one blink, his shadowed irises no longer looked pewter. They were night-clouds swallowing the moon. His body language changed along with his eyes. His palms cupped her sides where her waist curved into her ribs, far too languid in their stasis to be incidental. Every nerve ending in Willow’s body smoldered.
Strands of hair had escaped her chignon and tangled with the long drop curls Aunt Enya had formed at her temples. The frizzy mess hung over her mouth and fluttered with her breath, drawing Julian’s attention to it. He stroked the hair away, as intent upon her face as she’d ever seen him with his calculations.
“Willomena,” he mumbled.
He was the only person in the world who could make her name sound like poetry. Her body threatened to turn to liquid, all of her righteous indignation—once coiled like a skittish viper ready to strike—dissolving to sinuous desire. Desperate to gain control, she dragged herself awkwardly into her seat in the rattling enclosure, nearly tripping over her petticoats.
“Careful.” Julian’s command was husky. He caught her elbows and eased her back into her squab from a crouched position. As she smoothed her dress, he took his opposing seat and covered his lap with some papers, refusing to look at her.
The carriage ride at last leveled out to a smooth roll. The wet landscape passed through the windows at a reasonable rate—no longer disorienting in its blinding blur.
“What were you doing?” Willow asked, her heart quaking as if still caught in the carriage’s earlier momentum.
“I … was checking to see if you had any … busted ribs.” Several strands of his hair had tangled around the left earpiece of his spectacles and stuck out in a fan-like fray. She considered reaching across to free them, but any such contact would weaken her resolve.
Willow prodded her own fallen strands back into her chignon and repositioned two pins to capture it. “Before that.” She paused, awaiting his attention. When he forced his eyes up, she motioned to her cape, draped like a beaded waterfall half-on and half-off of the squab. “Why were you taking it off of me?”
“No, no.” He swallowed, tucking back his hair behind a reddened ear. “I was trying to place it back on your shoulders. Abram’s erratic driving caused it to slip. I suspect the old man has too much brandy on his empty stomach. He should have eaten breakfast this morn when father offered it.” Julian’s lips formed a grim line as concentrated on his papers again. “You’d been sleeping for over an hour with the most placid smile on your face. I didn’t wish you to get chilled and awaken prematurely.”
Willow bit her tongue. Of course, he was mollycoddling her like a mother hen. For her to have believed for one moment that Julian—of all men—would be led by some carnal fantasy to touch her when he had work to do? How preposterous.
She glared at his papers, wishing she could ignite them with her gaze. She was sure they were the designs to the new ride he had yet to tell her of—the one he’d been so secretive about. In all of their years together, he’d never once shut her out of his plans for the park. Now she had lost that part of him, too.
She sucked on her lower lip, wondering why he had to keep touching his tongue with that blasted pen.
“Willow,” he mumbled, pushing his spectacles in place on the bridge of his nose. “Is there something you need?” He peered at her over his lenses, the papers rattling in his hands.
Willow tightened her mouth against an answer.
“You know I can’t concentrate under someone’s stare. We’ve almost an hour left. Find some way to amuse yourself, hmm?”
Biting back the snarl rising in her throat, Willow began to dig through her gilt-framed silken handbag, hoping to find something to throw at him.
She pushed aside the perfume, velvet choker, and scalloped-edged handkerchief, stopping at the pocket watch. Sighing, she traced the cold face. The gilded hands told her they indeed had over a half hour before they reached Liverpool. She refused to dally
away her final minutes of freedom submitting to Julian’s annoying seclusion. Putting everything back in her bag, she cleared her throat. “Might I borrow a piece of parchment?”
Without looking up at her, Julian rifled through the pages, slid out a blank one, and handed it across to her. He then returned to his work, curling the paper’s upper end so she couldn’t see his scribblings.
Chin set, Willow tore a tiny piece from the paper and crumpled it up—quietly. She followed suit with the rest until she had a small pile of rolled up wads on the squab beside her thigh. She’d managed to throw six of them into Julian’s hair before he even realized it.
“Blast it, Willow.” He finally glanced up at her, his face the color of a cranberry as he dragged the balls out of his hair.
She shrugged. “You said to amuse myself.”
Jaw spasming, Julian tossed the wads to the floor then tucked his work away inside his journal. “Could you, just for today, act the part of a lady?”
Her hands clenched together on her lap so tight her fingernails pitted her skin without her even realizing it. “Oh, but you’re seeing to that. It’s the whole reason for this ride, is it not?”
“Come now, Willow. You know I didn’t mean it that way. Can we please get past this?” Julian leaned forward and tugged on her hands, trying to loosen her clasp. “I cannot stand to see you in such turmoil.”
“Because you know it is you who should be in turmoil. You’re the one who wants me to become someone I’m not.”
His hands released hers and gripped his legs, wrinkling the tweed which encased his muscular thighs. “Not so.”
“You never gave me any reason why you had me sent away. So, I must assume that not only am I lacking as a lady in your eyes, but as a friend, as well.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong.” His chin stiffened upon the statement, an expression of somber chastisement. The sort of look she envisioned him bestowing upon his child one day.
Her stomach fluttered as she fantasized being the mother of said child—an old habit she couldn’t seem to break. “Assurdità. I’m not even worthy of helping you with your park plans anymore.” She waved a hand toward his journal and the papers folded within. “You are hiding them from me.”
“What then? Because I have something I wish to keep private, for whatever reason, that means we are no longer friends?”
“Friends don’t hide things from one another.”
“But you’ve been hiding things about your past for years.”
The tattoo on Willow’s back grew warm and fluttery. “It is not hiding something if you can’t remember it. That’s not the same as keeping intentional secrets. Secrets can ruin friendships.” She spat the words, ignoring the bitter flavor of hypocrisy in each syllable and vowel.
Julian’s expression changed. His eyes sharpened beneath his reflective lenses—a keen inquiry of her features—as if preparing to measure her reaction to his next statement. “Well, then we haven’t been friends for some months now. For you’ve been intentionally withholding my sister’s faculty for writing romance.”
Willow’s mouth gaped as her accusation backfired. She’d never considered he might know. But it made sense. Julian and Emilia had been inseparable over the last several days.
Emilia had wept bitterly the day of Nick’s leaving, not for the postponement of her conservatory, but for his failure to say goodbye in person. His note did little to comfort her, even if he did promise to write as regularly as possible. Had Julian not stepped up to distract her, Emilia might never have swept aside her grief and moved on to other things. Together, the siblings had stayed up into the wee hours of that first night, nursing Bristles and recapturing lost conversations. That must be when she told him of the novel.
“So, you know about Emilia’s alliance with the dowager.” Willow answered, her pinky twisting the curl at her left temple.
Julian watched her finger’s movements. “In fact, she’s given me the first twelve chapters to review on my trip. I’ve already read through five, and am quite impressed by her talent.”
Willow had to admit, it shocked her that Julian didn’t seem the least bit ruffled by his sister’s hobby. It was almost as if he had suspected all along. Could it be he had never bought into Emilia’s explanation of caterpillar research and essays being the sole reason for her affiliation with the Countess? Was it possible he was more perceptive about human nature than she’d given him credit? That he saw more of the world around him than Willow thought … less absorbed in his amusement park and intellectual meanderings than she had once believed?
“I must say, though.” His velvety baritone centered her attention on him. “I would rather have sat with the three of you in the star tower and read it together.”
Guilt stomped upon Willow’s conscience. What a hateful and underhanded tactic—separating sibling hearts, just to protect her own selfish one. Moisture burned behind her eyelids. “I’m so sorry. I never meant for you to feel excluded.”
He shrugged. “I understand. I know I come off as a prude at times.” Leaning forward again, he removed his spectacles, tucked them in his pocket, and stared deep into Willow’s eyes, an atypical rakish smile stirring his lips. “But I vow to you, I’ll never tape mittens on my daughters’ hands simply to keep them pure. A threat of oozing boils should suffice.”
Willow’s tears retreated back, absorbed into her body to douse the sudden flame of mortification in her gut. “Emilia told you that?”
He laughed, and the sincere levity of the sound rushed like cool, refreshing water through Willow’s veins.
“You aren’t angry then?” she asked, taking his hand.
Still grinning, he clasped their fingers. “Not in the least. Sisters are notorious for saying such things about their brothers. Why should Emilia be any different?”
A relieved sigh burst from Willow’s lips. Of course Emilia hadn’t exposed her. She’d always been a faithful friend. She must have used Willow’s joke as her own, to cast some frivolity on an otherwise hurtful and uncomfortable conversation with her wounded brother.
Willow looked down at their entwined hands, admiring Julian’s rough fingertips in contrast to his smooth palms. “Have we irrevocably damaged our friendship through our secrets?”
He paused to consider the answer. “Our relationship has been changing for sometime. But the shift wasn’t due to any prevarications. Rather, I believe the change came upon us first, and caused the secrecy.”
Willow met his gaze. “What sort of change?”
Julian hesitated and smacked his tongue, as if it were swollen in his mouth. His free hand wiped his forehead where tiny beads of sweat had broken out, though the cab remained chilly. “Well, for my part, when I’m with you of late … even when I simply think of you … I am left”—he gulped—“unmoored.” His fingers tightened around hers. “You wish to know why I had you sent away? It was because … because of my confusion over you.”
Willow’s breath hitched. Had she heard him right? Was he at last seeing her as a prospective female? Prospective female … she almost laughed thinking what Emilia the writer would say of such a warped turn of phrase.
But this was not a time for giddiness. This was a time for astonished ruminations, for Julian had brought her hand closer so he could rub the back of her wrist with his thumb. Of its own accord, her palm flipped to curl around the fingertip and hold it.
His jaw muscle bunched in reaction to her forwardness. Their eyes locked. “And what of you, Willow? How do feel about me?”
She sensed a strain of uncertainty in his voice, as if he feared the answer. “Unmoored,” she whispered the borrowed delineation, just loud enough to be audible. The rest she left unsaid: Adrift without anchor—no lighthouse, no compass, no sun, moon, or stars. Nothing to guide me but inconsistent waves of passion and fury. The sweet calm of platonic companionship forever lost at sea. She had waited so long for him to share those feelings. Now, to realize he combated a similar disequilibrium, she fou
nd herself at once terrified and thrilled.
She watched the vulnerability shadowing his face and at last understood why he’d let his defenses down today. Julian had lost Nick who was a part of his own soul, being his twin. Now, he was on his way to a foreign land, leaving all of his family behind. He must feel so lonely. But he didn’t have to be alone; if only she could convince him of that.
They both started as the carriage came to a halt.
Outside the rain-soaked window, Ridley’s groundskeeper opened the wrought-iron gates. On the other side of the nine-foot fence, the four-story rusticated stone building stood out blood red against the late afternoon’s brooding sky. All eighteen shuttered windows stared back from their segmental arches like the stultifying, vapid eyes of some all-seeing monster. The gabled roof made of white verge-boarding, which was intended be charming with its gingerbread effect, appeared more to Willow like gnashing teeth.
Every time she faced this school anew, she had the sense she was to be consumed—chewed up and swallowed—never to be seen again. Surely, now that Julian had confessed having some confusion over their standing, she could convince him that they needed time together to sort things out … that she needn’t be left behind to be eaten alive.
“Do you know what they serve here for breakfast each day, Julian?” She watched the groundskeeper step out of the carriage’s path. “Rice blancmange. A dish of rice molded into a gelatinous mound and served with raisin compote—an oozing sauce of which the prime ingredient appears to be overfed ticks. Blancmange. It even sounds like a parasitic infestation.”
Julian laughed as the berline lurched to a start and eased through the gates. She laughed, too, while still cradling his thumb in her fist.
He coaxed her hand up, opened her fingertips, and pressed his cheek to her palm on a soft rush of heat as he whispered, “Lord, I’m going to miss your laughter. I’m going to miss you.”