Edith Layton (18 page)

“Oh, no!” she said. “Just the reverse. I find this all fascinating.”

“Not supposed to say so, you know. Or rather, you don’t. Someone should show you how to go on. I’d be delighted to. The baron Hawthorne, at your service.” He bowed, but not low, only far enough to be able to stare down into her gown, not bothering to hide that he was doing so.

He might be handsome, and a baron, and from London, but Julianne relaxed even as she grew annoyed because she knew his sort too well.

“I know how to go on, thank you,” she said coolly, drawing back. “If I don’t hide my enthusiasm it’s because I don’t chose to do so.”

“As candid as she’s beautiful. Even more interesting,” he said, with a twisted smile that bordered on insolence. “And Lord knows I find you interesting enough. Do you know what a relief it is to meet someone so fresh and sweet in this jaded company?”

“How could I? That’s illogical. Look,” she said, deciding to make short work of him, “sorry to disappoint you, but being from the countryside doesn’t make me uncivilized, or inexperienced.”

“Fascinating,” he said, moving closer. “A girl who admits it!”

“Do excuse me,” she said. “I see Sir Maurice wishes to speak to me.”

It was a lie, but the old gentleman had been looking her way, and she was glad of an excuse to leave.

“How delightful this party is,” she said, when she
reached the baronet’s side, so the leering lord she’d left could see her in conversation.

“Was that fellow bothering you?” he asked. “I’ll have him shown the door if he was.”

“Oh no, nothing so drastic,” she said, smiling. “I just didn’t choose to pass any more time with him. Not that I’m using this encounter just as an excuse!” she added hurriedly. “I’m having the best time, and I wanted to thank you.”

He took her hand in his cool, dry one and patted it. “That pleases me. Now, shall we go in to dinner?”

She hesitated, wide-eyed. Going in to dinner with a gentleman showed a preference in companionship. Then she relaxed, embarrassed by her own foolishness. Sophie and Christian had indeed muddied the waters with their speculations. After all, whom else should he ask? The baronet was not known in London anymore, and of his two female cousins here, one was married and the other, engaged. Julianne was the only single female of his acquaintance, as well as being a guest in his house.

And whom else could she go to dinner with, when the one man she wanted to sit with, talk with, and be with, was the last man on earth who’d be allowed to set foot in this place?

Julianne smiled at the baronet, put her hand on his arm, and went in to dinner. And silently promised herself that if he didn’t turn up soon, she’d think of a way to find that other man here in London, and soon. Because though she hadn’t seen him in two weeks, not a day passed when she didn’t wish she could.

H
e isn’t here. He must have decided not to come to London after all
, Julianne thought in despair. Because she never once caught a glimpse of Christian. She didn’t see him at the opera or the theater, though dozens of gentlemen of the
ton
were always there. She never saw him at any of the many soirees and musicales, levees and balls where she went with her cousins almost every night. She didn’t even glimpse anyone who looked like him in the fashionable shops or restaurants they frequented.

Of course she couldn’t go where the gentlemen went, their clubs and boxing salons. She couldn’t go to places like Tattersall’s to buy horses either. She certainly couldn’t visit gaming hells or bawdy houses, or cockfights and boxing matches where gentlemen lost their money in fashionable but less mentionable ways. Still, she’d been in London for three weeks, and hadn’t seen or, more ominously, heard a word about him.

The baronet’s thin nostrils no longer pinched together at the sound of his name, because no one
spoke it. Nor did the squire’s color rise at the mention of his prospective son-in-law’s rival. His wife had no reason to frown, and Hammond and Sophie were April and May together again. No one any longer mentioned even the possibility that Sophie wouldn’t be mistress of Egremont.

It was as if Christian had disappeared, as though he’d never been.

And though Julianne yearned to ask her cousins about him, she didn’t dare. Her interest in him would be taken as rude or threatening; or worse, she feared, it might be taken for what it was. She missed him. She wanted to see him, hear his voice and his laughter. She needed to know what had happened to him—although, as time began to pass, she didn’t want to know. Because she was afraid he’d done the right thing, and cut and run. And never told her. But then, why should he? He owed her nothing, really, after all.

That would mean he’d been a liar and had no part in her past or future, and she’d never see him again. Or kiss him, or touch him, or see the look in his eyes that told her he wanted the same.

She might despair for him, but she didn’t lack company. Nor did she lack suitors, only any interest in them.

Her cousins had made good on their promise. Julianne now had a wardrobe they thought suitable for London, though privately she thought it would suit a princess. Tonight she was dressed in a gown of gold cloth, with a sheer pink overnet on the skirt. Her hair was dressed with fresh rosebuds, and she knew she’d never looked better. But though the ballroom was
crowded with the
ton
’s most fashionable ladies and gentlemen, there was only one man she yearned to have see her in her splendor. She began to believe he never would. She realized she was a fool and had been played for one, and yet, though she knew it all, she ached to see that cool, handsome face one more time.

“Know it’s probably been said before,” the gentleman standing next to her said, interrupting her train of thought, “but not by me. You look very well tonight.” He laughed. “Like saying the Coliseum’s a nice building, aint it? But I’m no poet. Accept my compliment on your great good looks, Miss Lowell. You outshine all the ladies tonight, if not the moon.”

She smiled. “Why, that’s very poetical, Mr. Winthrop. And thank you. Might I say you’re looking radiant tonight, too?”

He gave a bark of a laugh. “There you are,” he said. “You’re an original, Miss Lowell. Face, form, and format. And though a lady ain’t supposed to congratulate a fellow on his looks, I thank you.”

She smiled at him. It wasn’t hard to do. George Winthrop was a charming fellow. Tall, fair, with pale straight hair and light blue eyes, he was handsome enough in an unspectacular, but pleasant way, and very socially adept. That was also the problem.

He was so very fashionable she didn’t know who he really was. He might be clever or stupid, it was hard to tell because he’d been educated, and his manners were so good. But it wasn’t the fashion for a gentleman in his circle to appear too cultured, so his conversation, like that of the other men in his set, was
sprinkled with the latest cant. He spoke like all the other dandified gentlemen, too, in accents just short of a yawn. The more she tried to shake him to see what his normal reaction would be to something she said that was outrageous, the more she pleased him. It wasn’t what she set out to do.

But now she remembered her original mission: to find a husband for herself and another son for her parents. George Winthrop was pleasant enough, that would please her mama; and he was horse-mad, that might please Papa. If only she could find something to please herself—as least half so well as that liar and cheat she couldn’t stop thinking about.

“Hot as blazes in here,” George said. “Care to go for a stroll? Nice garden out back.”

“Is that done?” she asked curiously. “It is hot. I’d like some fresh air. But you and I, strolling in the garden. Is that permissible?”

“No,” he said, “but it ain’t social suicide neither. Anyway, I’m shocked to find the unshockable Miss Lowell not game for any romp.”

She grinned. “I had an older brother, Mr. Winthrop. That makes me unshockable, I suppose. But I won’t be taken for an easy mark.”

He laughed again. “Wise as an owl, ain’t you, little Miss? So then?” he asked, offering her his arm. “Out to the balcony?”

She shrugged. “Why not?”

There were other couples out on the terrace behind the town house, and more she glimpsed as they strolled though the garden. It was damp, with rain coming on, but it felt deliciously cool in contrast to
the stuffy ballroom. Julianne took George’s arm, and they went out on the terrace, then down the little stair into the garden. They walked a few paces and paused under a tree. There was a fountain nearby; she heard it splashing, and she lifted her head and breathed in the sweet damp night air.

He lowered his head and kissed her.

It wasn’t much of a kiss. Just a fleeting touch of his lips, neither pleasant or unpleasant; they felt cool and dry against her own. But she hadn’t expected it, and drew back at once, flustered. He didn’t pursue her.

“Your pardon,” he said calmly. “Couldn’t resist. Forgive me?”

What for?
She wanted to say, but stayed silent. Because she was too busy being appalled at her reaction. She was disappointed! She’d been kissed, and it hadn’t mattered. Where was the tingling, the sudden electric sting, the heat on her lips that coiled in her stomach and made her shivery with pleasure and anticipation? She hadn’t wanted to throw her arms around this man’s neck and drink deep at his mouth, or press her body against his. She didn’t want this man in a darkened garden. She wanted Christian—or at least the man who called himself Christian Sauvage.

But this man seemed very pleased with the kiss, as well as with her obvious confusion.

He patted her hand. “Don’t think I compromised you, Miss Lowell. But, tell you what. If you think I did, I’ll be happy to make an offer.”

“Oh, Lord no!” she gasped, and then, to spare his feelings, quickly added, “We hardly know each other. That wouldn’t be right…or sporting.” She gave a
shaky laugh. “We’d better go back, before we are well and truly compromised by gossip.”

“Heart of oak,” he said with approval. “You’re a brick, Miss Lowell.”

She knew she’d been given high praise and saw his admiration for her in his eyes after he’d led her back into the house. She couldn’t get away from him fast enough once she got there. She fled, leaving him with a smile as soon as she could, grateful that she’d already danced with him twice and didn’t have to again.

Julianne danced with every eligible gentleman in the room that night, or so it seemed to her. But she only thought about the one man who wasn’t there, and began to wonder if she’d been carried off by the Gypsy rover even though she’d never left with him.

“You were wildly successful,” Sophie told her, as they went up the stair together when they came home from the ball. “Congratulations! Mark my words, you’ll have an offer from Georgie Winthrop before another day passes.”

“Well, I hope not,” Julianne said crossly, “because that would be ridiculous. I hardly know him.”

“You know enough, silly,” Sophie said. “He’s rich, decent, nice-looking, and he’ll have a title one day.”

“None of that matters,” Julianne said wistfully, thinking of the man she’d yearned to dance with tonight. “Well, I suppose the decency does, but it’s not enough to build a life upon. As for the rest, it’s the man, not the money or the title that a woman must live with.”

“Fiddle,” Sophie began to say, but was cut off by a cool, dry voice that came from behind her.

“Such wisdom in one so young is admirable,” Sir Maurice said. “What shall I say if young Winthrop comes to me, Miss Lowell?”

Julianne paused on the stair. Sir Maurice stood a step below her, but as he was so tall their eyes were on a level. She blinked hers in confusion. “Come to you?” she asked. “Why should he?”

“To ask to pay his addresses,” Sir Maurice said.

“But I hardly think he will, sir,” she said. “You’re my host, to be sure, and head of Hammond’s family, but you are not
my
family.”

“Ah,” he said, smiling. “Right, just so. One forgets. I’m pleased you didn’t.”

They went on up the stair in silence. Sophie waited until he’d bid them good night and gone down the hall to his rooms. Then she poked Julianne in the ribs. “Sly puss!” she whispered. “Just the right answer. There’s no end to your cleverness!”

“What?”

“No, he’s not a member of your family, but he could be, and you let him know it.”

“Oh, Lord!” Julianne said, looking down the empty hall in the direction of the baronet. “You don’t think I was trying to…? Oh…blather! Not that again!”

But with a giggle, her cousin was gone, dancing down the hallway to her own room.

Julianne had a hard time getting to sleep, especially since it was so late there wasn’t much darkness left to the night. But it wasn’t the dawn stealing into
her room that kept her tossing in her bed, or even the thought of her new young suitor, or the old gentleman she doubted was a suitor. It was the thought of the man who wasn’t there. The thought and the vision of his face, and the remembrance of his kiss, and the vivid memory of the way his taut body had felt against her own.

When the sun rose, she slept at last. Because by then she’d decided memory wasn’t enough. She had to know where he was and why she hadn’t seen him, even if the knowledge was hurtful. Because she knew too well that longing was never enough.

“Bow Street. There it is, Miss,” the coachman said, pointing with his whip.

“Oh,” Julianne said. “Could you stop a minute?”

The coachman obliged. He stopped their carriage across the street from the plain gray house that was home to the Bow Street runners.

“Whatever do you want to see Bow Street for?” Sophie asked curiously. “No! Don’t tell me!” She put a hand on her heart. “You’ve formed a passion that must be satisfied. You’ve lost your heart to an unsuitable man and can’t bear not to see him.”

It was a good thing Julianne was sitting. Otherwise, she thought she’d have fallen. All the blood felt like it drained from her head as well as her legs. She felt cold and weak and dizzy as she stared at her cousin.

“You’ve formed a passion for Mr. Murchison!” Sophie went on, now laughing so hard she didn’t see
the horrified expression on her cousin’s face.

Julianne recovered quickly. “So I have. I’ve always liked older men.”

“So I thought!” Sophie said shrewdly.

“Oh, bother!” Julianne said. “Will you learn a new song? I’m only joking. I scarcely remember Murchison—was that his name? All I wanted was to see a bit more of the real London, so I could tell them at home about it. Balls and parties are all very well, but there’s more to the city than that. You may drive on,” she told the coachman.

She sat back and took a deep breath. Her faint hope of somehow getting into Bow Street, finding the runner, and asking him about Christian, was dashed. She couldn’t go alone. Not only was the place too open and visible, but a young woman of breeding couldn’t go anywhere by herself in London. And she couldn’t dream up a good enough excuse to go in with Sophie, because her cousin was all eyes and ears and speculations.

And though Mr. Murchison had seemed like a kind and reasonable man, the truth was she couldn’t trust the runner not to go right back to the squire and tell him what she wanted to know. It had been a foolish futile fancy altogether, and Julianne was angry with herself.

“Don’t sulk,” Sophie said. “After the dressmaker’s appointment, we’ll go to the Tower again, and you can see the sights to your heart’s content.”

Julianne forced a smile. “Thank you,” she said, and hoped she’d have some solitude there. Because she had to think of something else.

“Annie,” Julianne asked, as her maid tidied up her room after her bath that evening before dinner, “do you know if any of the servants here ever go back to squire’s house for supplies?”

“They do,” Annie said. “And they’re that eager to be the ones chosen, too. Because their families are there, and not all enjoy London like we do. Squire sends for supplies all the time; there’s nothing like food from his own gardens, he says. And he’s always sending instructions and getting reports from home, because he’s a good manager of his land, and so say all.”

Julianne tapped her fingers against the desk where she was sitting. Annie was her own maid. She’d known her for years, she trusted her as much as she trusted anyone in this world. “Is there anyone here, who goes there, that you would trust, entirely?” she asked softly.

Her maid stopped working and lifted her head as though she heard a far-off sound. Then she looked at her mistress, and nodded, slowly. “Aye, there is one.”

Julianne took a deep breath. “If I sent a note, a very personal note, is that person one you could trust to deliver it, safely, unopened, to someone staying at the White Hart, the inn in the village near the squire’s house?”

She held her breath. She didn’t dare trust such a note to the post, not even in the care of His Majesty’s Mail. The innkeeper could open it, it might be bribed out of the coachman’s hands, who knew who might intercept it? Julianne had read a great many Minerva
Press novels and enough newspapers to know that truth was stranger than fiction, and the best fiction was often based on the truth.