DeButy & the Beast (13 page)

"We will discuss that later. I'm sure she'll understand your objections if we present them rationally." His eyes were drawn to the shape of her breasts, the nip of her waist. "Besides, you don't need a corset the way some women do."

"Why not?" She laid her eyes on him, and for a moment he actually forgot that he was sitting on a roof.

"You have a lovely figure," he said, his heart catching in his throat.

"Do I?"

"You know very well that you do." He managed to sound only a little testy.

Her severe expression softened, and she almost smiled. "I still do not want to go. An entire weekend, and I imagine I must remain properly dressed at all times!"

"Of course."

"And I must spend the entire weekend visiting with women who will not like me."

"What makes you think they will not like you? You're utterly charming, and if you use the manners we've worked on and refrain from throwing things when you do not get your way, you will be a smashing hit." He grinned.

She shook her head. "I am different and I will always be different. I might try to be one of them, but women like your Margaret will always be there to remind me that I am not."

He hated hearing Anya refer to that woman as
his
Margaret. "Not everyone is cruel."

She returned her gaze to the far-off sea. He followed her gaze. Ah, yes, the view from there was lovely, and it was as if they sat apart from the world. Higher. Distanced. And all alone. It was not an altogether unpleasant thought.

Everything was smaller from this view, and the rest of the world became insignificant. Beautiful, yes, but unimportant. Julian's heart rate slowed.

"On Puerta Sirena," Anya said, her eyes remaining fixed on some faraway view, "I was also different. For as long as I can remember... different. No one else had red hair, and sometimes people would want to... to touch it just because they had never seen such a thing before I washed onto the beach. Everyone else had families. Parents, sisters and brothers. And I was always dismayed because I got spots on my skin instead of turning a lovely brown."

"Freckles," Julian said.

"What?" She looked up at him.

"They're not spots, they're freckles."

"I know. Grandmother gave me a cream to make them go away, but it is not working."

He pinned his eyes on the light sprinkling across her pert nose. "I rather like your freckles," he said softly.

"You do?"

"Yes. They're... charming."

Anya flipped the hair off one shoulder and presented it to him. "I have freckles here, too."

"I know," he choked.

She laid a hand on her shoulder, pointing at one particular freckle before dropping that hand down. "And here," she said, pointing to the valley between her breasts.

"Yes." His eyes followed the progress of her hand. His mouth went dry and... oh hell, not here! How was he supposed to maneuver off the roof with his manhood erect and his heart about to come through his chest!

From the roof—one of Anya's favorite places, Peter said—very little seemed important. What people thought, what they expected... it was so easy not to care about the rules that other men made and enforced. It all seemed very small, at the moment. Why had he thought that discipline was so damned important?

I have never been kissed. I have never been kissed
. Julian heard the words echoing in his head until they drowned out everything else. In some part of his brain, he knew exactly what was happening. He was losing a battle, perhaps the war itself. His desire was so much more important than his determination not to let a woman touch his heart.

He took Anya's chin in his hand. If he kissed her, she would think it an expression of love. A kiss meant more to her than the body she had offered in the days following their wedding.

But he wanted that kiss at this moment more than he'd ever wanted anything. He wanted it with the summer warmth on his face and the wind in his hair and the sunlight making Anya positively sparkle.

She tipped her head, as if she knew what was coming. Her lips parted slightly, and so did his.

Perhaps he did love her. He had certainly never felt this way about any woman. Margaret didn't hold a candle to Anya, and she never would. There was, truly, no woman in the world quite like his wife.

His lips moved slowly and unerringly toward hers. Her eyes drifted closed. The world closed in, and Julian no longer cared that he was sitting on a roof far off the ground. In fact, he no longer realized where he was. He only knew that Anya had never been kissed, and he was the man to show her how it was done.

"Julian," she whispered when his lips were no more than an inch from hers.

"Yes."

The wind whipped around them. They were miles from anyone, from everyone. Nothing else mattered but...

"There you are!"

His head popped up and around. Valerie stood at the railing that encircled the Captain's Walk, an idiotic smile on her face as she waved enthusiastically. "Julian, you have a visitor."

"A visitor?" he snapped, ready to strangle Anya's cheerful cousin.

"A Mrs. Margaret March. She said she was an old friend."

Anya cursed in French and stood too quickly.

"Be careful."

She glared at him, then dropped the fluttering scarf she'd been holding into his lap. "I believe you need this more than I do, husband. It would be quite embarrassing, I imagine, for your lover to realize that you desire your wife."

"Margaret is not my lover," he hissed.

"Well, she is here for you."

"I didn't invite her," he said as Anya stalked away, moving without care around him and across the sloped roof. "There's no need to be angry at me."

She responded in curtly delivered Spanish. He didn't know what she said, but if her tone was any indication she had just dismissed all his teachings on decorum.

"There's no need to curse."

Anya climbed over the railing to join her cousin. "I cannot believe that you would kiss a woman like that."

"He kissed her?" Valerie asked, raising an outraged hand to her ample breast.

"Yes!" Anya snapped.

"It happened a long time ago." Julian still was not ready to stand and make his way across the roof—which seemed much higher off the ground than it had when he'd crossed it in order to rescue Anya.

Anya, who apparently didn't need to be rescued.

"I will keep her company until you join us," she promised with a demonic smile.

"No!" Julian stood quickly, and Anya's scarf caught the wind and flew away, drifting brightly across the roof and down into the garden.

"Perhaps we can compare spots." With that, she turned and entered the observatory.

Valerie cast an indignant nose-in-the-air glance Julian's way, sniffed, and followed her cousin; and Julian hurried, as fast as he dared, after them.

* * *

Anya had never experienced jealousy. She had not loved Sebastian, so she had never minded that he seemed to prefer his first concubine, Emelda. Until Julian, Sebastian had been the only man in her life, so she had nothing else with which to compare this newfound rage.

For a moment, on the roof, she had actually thought Julian meant to kiss her. Ha! He saved his kiss for women like this one, a tightly corseted, false-faced, tittering
puta
.

If not for Valerie, she would have run straight from the roof to the north parlor, where Margaret waited. Valerie had insisted that Anya don a proper gown and fix her hair. One softly whispered argument had won Anya over.
Don't give her a reason to make fun of you
. Anya had dressed quickly, and Valerie had styled her hair. By the time Anya stepped into the north parlor Julian was already there, talking softly and politely to the hussy he had once kissed.

Margaret's eyes cut Anya's way as she entered the room. The sparkle Anya saw there was not laughter or happiness, it was a jealousy like her own. No, Anya amended as she crossed the room to stand beside Julian. The jealousy she herself felt was fueled by love. Margaret's anger was ugly. No love lurked there.

"Mrs. DeButy," Margaret said, not bothering to rise from her seat in Grandmother's favorite velvet chair. "How lovely to see you again."

Liar
. The word was on Anya's lips, but she did not allow it to escape. Julian had been drilling these blasted manners into her for two months. He would be furious if she forgot them all now. "A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. March."

Julian took a deep breath and let it out slowly, in a sigh of relief, perhaps. Relief that she had taken the time to dress? Or that she had not yet threatened to cut out Margaret's heart?

"What a charming accent you have," their guest said insincerely. "When I told my cousin that I had met you, she shared the story of your homecoming. It's quite fascinating." Margaret wrinkled her nose. "But she did not know how you came to meet and marry Julian. I'm sure that's just as fascinating a story." She waited for a response, eyebrows lifted and ears perked.

"It is not so fascinating," Anya began. "We simply..."

Julian grabbed her arm and pulled her close. "Met and fell instantly in love," he said quickly.

Anya glanced up at her devious husband. He looked down at her and pleaded with his dark eyes. "Yes," she said softly. "Very simple."

When Anya looked at Margaret again, she saw the widow's face had grown harder. Her mouth was set in an unappealing line, her eyes were narrowed. "How charming."

Anya might have spent more of her life on a remote island than off it, but she was no simpleton. Julian was using her to make his old lover jealous. If he really cared for her she might not mind so much, but he did not. This marriage was a task to him, a chore, and she had been a fool to allow herself to fall in love with him.

If she did not love Julian, she would tell Margaret that their marriage was a pretense. That he had never touched her, that in two months he would be gone. But she did love him, so she said nothing.

She did love him, but she would never forgive him.

Margaret began an inane diatribe on the weather. Julian nodded politely, as if he hung on every word.

His eyes were on the odious woman, he nodded and agreed with every word she said.

Anya reached out to grab the figurine that sat on the table by the window. She did not even have to step to the side to reach it, it was simply... there. Before she could cock her arm back, Julian's fingers closed around her wrist. Margaret, studying the portraits in the parlor as she talked about the unbearable heat, did not notice.

With a surge of something that felt like relief, Anya smiled as Julian took the figurine from her and placed it out of reach. So, he had been watching her all along, out of the corner of his eye. He certainly did not want his wife to embarrass him in front of his
puta
.

Anya's eyes fell on the vase of roses that sat on a long table behind the couch. She took a step toward it, but Julian wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close to his side.
This
Margaret did see, but to one who did not know of Anya's penchant for throwing things, it might seem like a gesture of devotion.

"Do come sit with me," Margaret said, her words small and tight. "When you stand before the window that way the sun hurts my eyes when I look at you."

"Certainly." Julian took Anya's arm and led her to the couch, where he sat close beside her.

"Now, what does your cousin's husband do?" Julian asked.

Margaret replied with great vigor, telling them all about the businesses her cousin's husband owned. She could not have said the man was a successful shopkeeper. No. She had to give them endless details of each and every shop.

The more Anya watched and listened to Margaret, the more she hated the woman. Julian had loved her. He must still, if he was so anxious to make her jealous. He likely did not care at all that Anya herself was experiencing the new and unpleasant emotion.

Anya fingered the knife she wore at her thigh, tracing the shape beneath the fine fabric of her gown and thinking of ways she might make use of the weapon. Julian clamped his hand over hers, and Margaret jumped. The harlot actually blushed.

Julian kept his hand there, firmly over hers. Instead of pushing him away, Anya lifted and threaded her fingers through his. And she smiled. Ah, if he wanted to make Margaret jealous, she could be quite accommodating.

When Anya twisted just slightly and reached for the vase behind the couch, Julian tensed and started to pull her back. He relaxed when she plucked a single perfect yellow rose from the vase and twirled it between her fingers.

She brought the flower to her nose and took a deep breath. The scent was lovely, the petals soft. Margaret droned on about imported fabrics.

With the scent of the rose filling her, Anya very casually lowered the bloom and allowed the petals to brush her lips, her chin, and then her throat. The hand that remained clamped over hers stiffened. Julian cleared his throat.

Anya's hand swayed to the side, and she very nonchalantly stroked the petals of the rose against Julian's throat. Up to his chin, then down to the starched white of his collar. To the side and sweeping to brush just beneath his ear.

Margaret stumbled over a difficult word. Anya suspected the word was
and
but could not be sure.

Julian's free hand jerked out and snatched the rose away. His cheeks blushed pink, and he swallowed hard.

Margaret almost regained her composure. At least she did not stumble over her words for a while. She finished the tedious tale of shopkeeping and began to tell them all about her cousin's children.

God above, Anya did not want to sit here and listen to the sweet tales of babies. She would never have her own, so she had no patience for charming stories of other children. It only reminded her that she was, to Julian and to every other man, incomplete as a woman. Imperfect.

She turned her head, reached up to sweep away long strands of Julian's dark, wind-brushed hair, lifted her face, and sucked his earlobe into her mouth.

Julian did not move away. His earlobe remained in her mouth, then caught between her teeth. "Anya," he groaned softly.