“I cannot believe that dangerous man attacked Edmund in such a brash fashion.” Maddie handed a fresh handkerchief to her nephew before locking her gaze on Julia. “There’s no help for it. I had planned on launching you at the Seftons’ ball, but I see we need to speed things up a bit. We will use the Bastions’ rout instead.”
“But that’s only a week from now,” echoed Julia, a hint of concern in her voice.
“It will be perfect.” Maddie sniffed the air and grimaced. “Julia, the next time you decide to rescue an urchin, pray choose one who is better washed. This one reeks of a water closet.” She bent to pick up Ephram, who sat wheezing by her feet. “Put that child up with Jeffers and help me get Edmund into the carriage. He cannot stand the sight of his own blood and is likely to faint at any moment.”
Nick wasn’t sure what he had just done, but watching Julia assist the ugly child onto the perch with the ancient retainer, he thought that perhaps his impulsive gesture had been the right thing after all. He only wished he could be a witness to Alec’s dismay on discovering the newest member of Hunterston House.
Within minutes the carriage rumbled off, Maddie’s loud voice still audible as she instructed Edmund on the various ways he could have protected himself from the sweep. Perched on the top of the coach, a bright silk shawl wrapped around his ragged brown clothes, sat Julia’s urchin.
Though he hadn’t thought of it in years, Nick remembered a time when he had believed love could indeed produce miracles. Watching his beautiful, depraved mother slowly descend into the pit of madness, daily growing more virulent and spiteful, Nick had hoped with every ounce of his adolescent soul that God would see fit to send her the love she needed, for his was plainly not enough. But no love had come, and one fateful night his mother had thrown herself from the roof. If he listened closely enough, he could still hear the echo of her scream as she tumbled through the air.
Nick watched the coach as it disappeared from sight. It was just possible, he reflected dispassionately, that a woman with Julia’s ability to love might indeed save his lost soul…had he one to save. With an easy shrug, he turned and made his way back to his lodgings.
He might not have a soul, but he did have debts. Mounds of them, all run up at the expectation of receiving an inheritance that should have been his for the taking. It would take far more than a dab of a woman with an unexpectedly beautiful smile and a punishing left hook to turn him from his ultimate goal.
Whistling a jaunty tune, Nick began to plan his next encounter with the intriguing Lady Hunterston.
Chapter 12
Alec blinked fuzzily at Burroughs’ long white nightrail. “Why in thunder are you dressed like that? You look like a damned ghost.”
“It is four o’clock in the morning, my lord. Most respectable people are to bed by now.” Reproof lingered in the cultured tone.
“Not true. You are one of the most respectable persons I know, but you haven’t gone to bed yet.” Pleased with his masterful logic, Alec crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. Even filled to the gills with Lucien’s best brandy, he was capable of clear, concise thinking.
Burroughs set the silver tray bearing a glass of milk aside and assisted Alec in removing his greatcoat. “I always wait up for you, my lord. It is a tradition for us.”
Alec slung an arm around Burroughs’ thin shoulders. “Yes, by God, that’s exactly what it is. A tradition. Like…like Christmas.” He might be a wastrel and a laggard, but he could handle his liquor with the best of ’em.
Burroughs gently disengaged himself. “Allow me to escort you to bed, sir.”
Alec waved him off. “No, no, no. Need a little something to calm my nerves. Something to give me pleasant dreams.” Or at least, better dreams than the disturbing ones that had haunted him the last fortnight. Between disreputable visions involving his prim, untouched wife, and nightmares where pocketwatches, teapots, and other mundane household items tangled about his neck like iron shackles, sleep had become little more than an elusive memory.
He had attempted to amuse himself with a variety of activities, including boxing, fencing, and riding, in the hope that sheer weariness would cause him to drop into a restful slumber. Even those diversions had proved unsuccessful.
Worse yet, as he descended into this sleepless hell, his wife had begun to blossom before his very astonished eyes. Fashionably dressed and coifed, she appeared to his weary brain as alluring as any siren from an ancient Greek myth.
He sighed heavily. All he wanted from life were simple joys: wine, women, and a little mirth. Yet he was married to a woman who thought only of the suffering of strangers and had no interest in anything pleasurable.
Alec turned his blurry gaze on the impassive butler. “Tell me, Burroughs. Do you ever laugh?”
“Yes, sir. Quite frequently.” The butler took Alec’s arm and led him to the stairs. “But I have trained myself to refrain until you have left the room.”
“I’m glad you—” Alec halted, one foot on the bottom step. “That was a joke.”
“A small one, my lord. Shall I attempt another?”
“By God! You are quite the fellow, Burroughs! Damned if you aren’t.”
“Thank you, my lord. Shall we proceed to your room? Her ladyship has been quite worried.”
Alec’s grin faded. His freedom was gone. Nevermore would he be able to seek any kind of enjoyment from life without the nagging thought that Julia would not approve.
Though he told himself there was no reason why he should care, he couldn’t stop imagining how her gaze would change from breathless admiration to condemnation. And for some reason, he wanted to keep that admiration all to himself.
Yet he could not deny that she was a passionate woman; he’d seen it in her gaze, tasted it on her lips. But it was an innocent passion, chaste and pure, rendered by a lifetime of denied affection. He would be foolish to think her reaction solely for him. Had any other man possessed the audacity to kiss her, she would have responded in the same sensual way.
The thought hurt like the constant dig of a splinter. Alec shrugged from the butler’s hold and headed for the library. “One more drink.”
Burroughs sighed and retrieved his tray. He followed Alec into the library and strategically placed the milk glass beside the brandy decanter.
Alec ignored the glass and crossed to the fireplace, where the dull glow of ashes flickered restlessly. He added another log and straightened, his boot crunching on something on the hearth. The light from the newly banked fire flickered over a shard of glass. Alec picked it up and held it toward the light. Milk white, with a touch of blue, the thin sliver gleamed with the unmistakable texture of fine porcelain.
Burroughs was beside him in an instant. “I’ll take that, my lord.”
Before he knew what the butler was about, Burroughs plucked the shard from his hand, cast a quick glance across the hearth, and left the room with a murmured goodnight.
Alec stared at the closed door. What was that all about? He searched the hearth for other pieces of porcelain, but none came into view.
Dizzy from bending, he straightened and crossed to the sideboard. This was what his life had been reduced to—looking for stray pieces of broken glassware in his own home. He sighed and pushed the glass of milk aside.
The truth was, he was bored. Nothing amused him anymore, and while he tried to tell himself it was because he had been forbidden his usual pursuits, he knew it was untrue. The restlessness that stirred inside him had been there for as long as he could remember. He had managed to subdue it with mindless pleasures, but now the darkness had been stirred to life by dreams of Julia, half-clothed, her wide, sensual mouth opening to him, her arms clasping him closer as she….
“I need a drink.” Alec poured a measure of brandy and silently toasted the gaming hells and painted women of his past. Thanks to that blasted will and Julia’s strident rules, even those poor diversions were gone. He was alone once more—only now he was plagued with a wife he c
ould never touch. Why had he ever agreed to such an impossible stipulation?
“Because you were desperate and she knew it,” he muttered, finishing off the brandy. He set the glass down and untied his cravat, tossing it to the floor. Then he loosened his shirt until it hung open and he could once again breathe.
He poured himself another drink and crossed to his favorite chair. Sighing deeply, he dropped onto the cushioned seat with the ease of long familiarity.
And promptly fell onto the floor.
He lay there staring at the ceiling, as brandy soaked across the carpet in an ever-widening stain. By Jove, he was drunk, but not that drunk.
He lifted his head to regard the chair with a suspicious glare. Louis XV in style, with rocaille ornamentation, it had once held a position of honor beside the fireplace in his grandfather’s library. Alec liked it because the stripped velvet seat was thick and cushiony. With its high back and carved arms, it was easily the most comfortable chair in the—
“Damnation,” he muttered and struggled to sit upright. Bleary-eyed, he squinted at the chair. The arms were missing.
“What happened to you?” Alec climbed to his feet and tilted the mangled chair to one side. He was still examining the broken, splintered wood when the door opened and Julia stepped in. Alec dropped the chair into place and stared.
She appeared nothing like the half-nude wanton who had visited his dreams of late; her lithe, supple body was covered from neck to foot in yards and yards of hideously ruffled cotton.
Through the shadowy opening of the robe he could just detect the lace nightgown he had purchased for her during their first shopping venture. It was scandalously sheer and he had thought to tease her into a reaction, but Julia had been too busy thinking of her charity work to pay any heed. Now, she added further injury by covering the costly garment with a monstrosity of a robe.
Alec told himself that his sigh was one of relief.
Her myopic gaze drifted from him to the chair and back, stopping to note his undone shirt. Her cheeks flushed warmly. “I’m sorry to bother you. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better time.” She turned to the door, the robe trailing on the floor.
Alec wondered if she had borrowed it from Mrs. Winston. “Wait. I suppose you know what happened to my chair?”
She halted and turned. “Oh, that.”
The light caught the shine of her hair, plaited into a thick rope. The honey strands flickered gold and red, as alive and warm as a fire. The silken end of the braid curled around the slope of her breast.
He should send her away now, before his growing lust took control. Yet he found himself waving to the chair opposite his. “Pray have a seat. Unless, of course, that one has been demolished, too.”
Julia made no move toward the chair. “No, it was just that one. I hope it was not a favorite.” She bit her lip and looked at him, seeking reassurance.
Alec was too enthralled with the sight of her white teeth worrying her full lower lip to do more than nod. He burned at the sight. He wanted to release that tortured morsel and lave the wounded lip with a kiss. He wanted to find her curves, hidden in those frustrating yards and yards of material, and caress her into mindless pleasure.
But it was not to be. Though Julia was more than willing to take his money, she wanted nothing whatsoever to do with him. She had made that abundantly clear in setting her terms for their marriage. In her own way, she was just like the rest of polite society, accepting him only for the sake of his fortune. The thought rankled, sparking a flame of discontent.
She peered at the chair as if to ascertain the damage herself. “Burroughs seems to think it cannot be fixed, but I believe a bit of glue will repair it well enough.”
Alec looked at the raw, broken edge and instantly sympathized with it. “It is probably ruined.”
“Then we will get you another.”
“Of course,” he agreed, wondering sourly if she thought to replace him as easily, once this year was done.
She rewarded him with a blinding smile that caused his breeches to tighten even more uncomfortably. He ground his teeth into a semblance of a smile. For the rest of his life, he was doomed to suffer the torments of hell at the hands of an innocent.
“Alec, I came to tell you about the chair…and one other matter.” Julia walked toward the closest chair, the multitudinous folds of her robe flowing like water over a statue, alternately hiding and emphasizing the curves beneath. With each step, the outline of her leg would appear, deliciously long and slender against the white fabric before melting back into the obscurity of the graceful folds. Even in a gown comprised of more material than any six he had seen, she looked delectable.
Alec watched as she took her seat and arranged the folds about her until she sat in a pool of white ruffles. He managed to sit in his wounded chair without falling in the floor. What in hell was he thinking? She was in his care, his trust. He had made a promise, and he would keep it or die.
Unaware of his turmoil, Julia smiled, all chaste flesh and sultry eyes. “Lady Birlington, Edmund, and I went to the lending library today.”
“Oh?” The word came out like the warbled cry of some lovesick canary. Alec scowled and hoped she hadn’t noticed.
“Do you remember when you said I might hire some new servants?” She grasped her chair and pulled it to face him more directly. The chair leg caught at the folds of her gown, and for an agonizing instant, one sweetly rounded hip was outlined in stark relief.
Alec clamped his hands onto his knees, beads of sweat gathering on his lip and brow. Unperturbed, Julia perched primly on her seat. The layers of cotton drifted back into a sea of complex folds, once more concealing all. Alec had to swallow twice before he could even speak. “Well?” he snapped. “Did you hire someone?”
“Not quite. It was more in the way of a purchase.”
He must have looked as confused as he felt for she added, “Actually, Nick did the purchasing. I wouldn’t have sanctioned it at all, except that appalling man refused to relinquish the boy without—”
“Nick?” In the wavering light, Alec thought he detected a faint blush.
“He was outside of Hookham’s circulating library. We met him quite by chance.”
Nick. At a library. And his own wife, defending the bastard. “My cousin has never been to a library a day in his life.”
She raised her brows. “Well, he was there today. And it was a fortunate thing, too. Edmund didn’t want to fight, but Lady Birlington was in an uproar over—”
“Wait.” Alec rubbed his temple where a small throb beat out a steady pulse. “Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
“Lady Birlington and Edmund were in the library when a small boy darted into the street. He overturned a cart. Cabbages rolled everywhere and stopped traffic and caused quite a ruckus. The sweep….”
Alec watched, mesmerized, as her lips formed each word. He liked the way she spoke, so firmly and matter-of-factly, as if she stored up her words for a time when they would really matter. His pragmatic Julia. But where on earth had she gotten such a sensual mouth? Was it a reflection of the wanton Frant blood? He wished his chair still had arms so he could find a place to put his hands. With a concerted effort, he made himself listen.
“…And then the sweep insulted Lady Birlington and she demanded that Edmund call him out—”
“Lady Birlington insisted Edmund call out a sweep.” Surely his brandy-numbed ears had misheard that bit of information.
“The sweep called her an old crow.” Julia tilted her head to one side, her braid swinging gently, the feathered end splayed like fingers against the white material. “Lady Birlington was very angry. I can’t say as I blame her; it would have made me angry, too.”
“All this occurred in front of a library? In Bond Street?”
She suddenly became immersed in threading her fingers through the end of her braid. “Yes.”
“Damn it, Maddie is supposed to keep this exact sort of thing from happening. And as
for Edmund! I shall have a few choice words to say to him, the fool.”
Julia’s eyes flashed. “Edmund attempted to dissuade Lady Birlington.” She faltered and frowned. “But Nick overruled his objections.”
“I’m sure he did,” Alec returned shortly. “I take it Edmund is meeting this sweep at dawn like a crack-brained idiot?”
“No, the sweep drew Edmund’s cork and knocked him head over heels.”
He shut his eyes for a moment, imagining Nick’s amusement. “Who, besides Nick, witnessed this debacle?”
“Aunt Maddie said she recognized Amelia Cornwall.”
“It’ll be all over town before morning. That woman is a known gabster.” He rubbed his neck, wishing some of his earlier drink-induced euphoria remained.
Julia folded her hands in her lap, momentarily distracting him. Her hands, slender and white, nestled in the gathered material. He wanted to be a bird and nest in the curls those folds hid. He wanted to—
“There’s more,” she blurted out. “I hit him.”
Alec blinked. “Who?”
“The sweep. But only once,” she said with evident regret. “I should have followed with a knock to the chin, but I didn’t think of it in time.”
“Oh, my God.” Alec’s head began to pound. “Oh, my God. You hit a sweep in front of the lending library.”
“You should be thankful Nick was there. Despite his improper behavior in urging Edmund to fight, he dispensed with the sweep. It could have been much worse.”
“How?”
She flushed, the rosy color sweeping across her cheeks to her forehead. “The man could have pressed charges. Edmund did hit him first. But Nick bought him off.” She sighed. “I should have thought of that myself, but I didn’t. I was much too angry by then.” Her dark gaze settled on him. “So you see, your cousin was not to blame for this incident.”
The hell he wasn’t, Alec thought viciously. Nick had stood aside and waited until the little drama had produced a sufficient amount of attention before riding in and saving the day like a knight on a white horse.