The Perfect Bride (12 page)

“Cannot
a man have both?” Simon rejoined lightly. Damned if he wasn’t weary of fielding
queries about his nuptials. Miss Fitzhugh was clearly motivated by concern for
her cousin’s welfare, but Julian’s interest was hard to fathom.

"Certainly.
And you will, because you believe duty and personal happiness go hand in hand,”
Julian said. “I am willing to stake my life on the fact that you have chosen
your future countess as carefully as you mapped any battle plan and that you
will do your duty to the family line by having a heir running amok in the
castle in a year or so."

Simon
stiffened. Julian had come unerringly close to the truth. "The breeding
possibilities of the future countess are not open for discussion," he
said.

"The
truth is, I have always envied you, Simon. You never veer from the righteous path,
nor do you question your duty. You inherit an earldom, and six months later you
have assured your family's future.”

Julian
shrugged. “Whereas I inherit a dukedom and cannot find any use for females
except the usual ones — and those do not include bearing my sons. The last
thing in the world I wish to do is perpetuate a line like mine."

Draining
his glass, Simon contemplated the other man. Men of Julian's stripe made him
uneasy, because they lived  without the iron controls and discipline that had served
as  Simon’s compass since youth. Julian was reputed to possess unquenchable
thirsts for wine, women, gambling, and any activity that involved unbridled
pleasure. Noted for his exploits with the female sex, he exuded an arrogance
that demanded constant female adoration. Simon did not understand such a need.

But
for all Julian’s excesses, he had been of great service to his country during
the war, something few knew. With his knowledge of the French language and
culture, he had been invaluable behind the lines and at Waterloo. In the world
of women he took without apology, but in the world of men he gave unstintingly and
fearlessly of himself. He seemed not to fear death, perhaps because he had exhaustively
sampled life and found it wanting.

Simon
wondered what had left Julian so cynical and why the arms of death had been
easier to face than those of any wife. But he never pressed the man on the
point. Julian LeFevre would ever go his own way.

"Perhaps
now you will tell me how I may be of service,” Simon said. “Your letter did not
say what you wished to see in the castle. I warn you, some parts of it are in
serious disrepair."

Julian
walked to the hearth and appeared to study the roaring fire. "I am searching
for some papers.”

"Papers?"

"The
late countess may have had some documents that belonged to my mother. It may be
that during the Terror she sent them here, to her cousin, for safekeeping. I
have not found them in France.”

Julian’s
expressionless tone, and his obvious reluctance to provide details, raised a
wealth of questions, but Simon asked none of them. "I have come across no
papers here, although I have not explored all of the castle."

"They
may be hidden. Perhaps in the tunnels."

Simon
knew that tunnels under the castle led to caves deep in the cliffs. Smugglers
were reputed to have used them to store their loot. He’d never heard of
documents being hidden there.

"You
are free to inspect them." Simon rose. "And now it is time for us to
join my fiancée and her family."

Preoccupied
with Julian's strange quest, Simon did not immediately notice anything amiss as
they entered the parlor where the others had gathered.

Before
he could make introductions, however, a sharp gasp followed by an unnatural
silence told him something was terribly wrong. Sir Thomas looked outraged. Miss
Biddle looked stunned. But it was Miss Fitzhugh's condition that truly caused
alarm.

She
was staring at Julian as if she had seen a ghost. Behind him, Simon heard
Julian's softly muttered oath. 

Miss
Fitzhugh’s shock instantly transformed into a look that plainly consigned Julian
to the devil.

"Mr.
LeFevre," she acknowledged in a chilly voice that could easily have frozen
the fires of hell.

Simon
frowned. Miss Fitzhugh might be blunt-spoken, but she had never struck him as
rude.

"Good
evening, Miss Fitzhugh," Julian drawled in an intimate tone that took them
all aback. "It seems I have been cursed with a dukedom since last we met.
I am Claridge now."

***

Amanda
had not seen him in eight years. She waited for the old feelings of shame,
humiliation, and anger to wash over her at the sight of the man who had tried
to bring about her ruin and very nearly accomplished it.

He
was the same. The same cruel slash of a mouth, the same contemptuous dark eyes,
the same undercurrent of amusement at her expense. And yet he was not. His face
bore deep lines of dissipation. His gaze was more tormented, his sharply planed
features more harsh. The frankly seductive air she remembered was tinged with something
that on another man she might have called desperation.

Julian
had aged, but she sensed that it was not age that had changed him. Perhaps it
was his own inner devils, the ones that made her realize years ago he was
incapable of giving, only of taking.

What
struck her most of all, however, was the manner in which standing in Lord
Sommersby's shadow diminished him. She had not expected that. No one had ever
cast Julian LeFevre in the shade.

Physically,
the two had much in common. Both were tall and imposing, their large frames
easily dominating any room. Both men filled out jackets with their broad
shoulders and trim, muscular forms. The earl was half a head taller, but it was
not that which gave him the edge. Rather, it was the cool authority, the unshakable
control, the keenly assessing air he radiated, as if he was prepared for any
eventuality. There was something solidly comforting about Lord Sommersby's
effortless mastery of himself, something intriguing about the unruly red mane
that suggested inner fire beneath the steely discipline.

Strangely,
those feelings of shame and humiliation Julian's presence should have
engendered did not come. Amanda was startled to notice instead only a deepening
awareness of Lord Sommersby, who regarded her curiously as it became clear that
introductions were quite unnecessary.

Julian's
mouth curved into a grim smile. "I’m afraid our meeting is a bit of a
shock for your guests, Simon. We have not enjoyed one another’s company for a
number of years. Indeed, it seems that I have come at an inopportune time.
Please accept my excuses. I will depart within the hour."

"No."
All eyes turned toward Amanda. "I would not dream of forcing a change in
your plans," she said, surprised to realize that she meant it, surprised
that her initial flash of anger at his presence had given way to only a rueful recollection
of her own foolishness so long ago.

Sir
Thomas, meanwhile, moved to her side. “Amanda?”

“The
past is in the past, uncle,” she said quietly.

Still,
he scowled at Julian. "My niece is a grown woman who knows her own mind. If
she agrees to your remaining here, Claridge, I will not demand otherwise. If
you give her cause to regret her decision, of course, I will have to kill you.”

Amanda
shot her uncle an amused look. She was glad he had respected her wishes. It was
best to forget the embarrassing episode in her past, especially now, when the
atmosphere in the castle should be one of celebrating Felicity's betrothal.

“I
would expect no less, sir,” Julian said. “My errand here should keep me out of the
way of civilized company. For now, please excuse me. I am rather dusty from my
travels.”

He
didn’t look dusty in the least, thought Amanda, but a sense of relief as he
left the room was inescapable.

Lord
Sommersby had the good manners not to inquire publicly about the mysterious
conversation that had occurred, and for that Amanda was thankful. But some time
later, as he ushered them in to dinner, Amanda felt the burning speculation in
that crystalline gaze.

***

Jeffers's
ungainly backswing generated too large an action, leaving the batman
off-balance and, as usual, exposed. Simon took full advantage of his
vulnerability to move in and, in a swift attack, thrust the tip of his foil
against the base of Jeffers's throat.

"My
lord," Jeffers croaked, "I believe I have had quite enough."

The
batman's pale features fueled Simon's guilt, as he had subjected Jeffers to a
particularly savage workout. Somewhat sheepishly, Simon withdrew his blade.
"My apologies. My mind has been elsewhere. As always, I am grateful for
your tolerance."

Shooting
his employer a speaking look, Jeffers gathered his things. Simon could not
blame him for being out of sorts. He himself had been in a foul mood all
evening, thanks to the effect of Julian's arrival on the company and, most
especially, upon Miss Fitzhugh.

That
Julian and Miss Fitzhugh were acquainted, and that it was an acquaintance that
caused her awkwardness, suggested — nay, could only mean — that it also
involved more than passing familiarity. The atmosphere in the dining room
tonight had been rich with undercurrents of emotion, none of it reflected in
the very polite discourse occurring at the table.

When
the ladies had retired, leaving the men to their port, Sir Thomas abruptly
absented himself as well, evidently having no inclination to linger in the same
room with Claridge. Julian bore the disapprobation as if accustomed to such
reactions, which, Simon suspected, he was. Simon wondered how Miss Fitzhugh had
become involved with the man and what, precisely, the extent of that
involvement had been.

Had
Julian been responsible for the fact that she "did not take," as she
had put it, during her Season? Had he been the reason she had abandoned the
social whirl for a more solitary life? If so, that could only mean one thing.

Miss
Fitzhugh had been one of Julian's conquests.

Had
he seduced her? Had he found it necessary to use all of the wiles at his
disposal? Or had she fallen into his arms like a ripe plum ready for the
picking?

Neither
possibility fit with the image he had of her as a strong, independent woman
impervious to the wiles of a confirmed rake like Julian. But perhaps strength
had come afterward. Perhaps it had been forged in the aftermath of whatever
Julian had wrought. Men who had known battle developed an inner toughness that
separated them from others. Perhaps it was like that for Miss Fitzhugh as well.

Dispassionately,
Simon examined the tip of his foil. The button was intact, but he had beat
blades with Jeffers so ferociously that his own blade had a small crack and
would have to be replaced. The notion that Miss Fitzhugh was herself damaged
goods, rather like that tiny crack in his blade, did something odd to his notion
of her. His mind’s eye gave him a rather vivid image of Miss Fitzhugh writhing
in ecstasy on the bedsheets, her hair tumbled about her shoulders in disarray,
her clothing strewn about the floor, carelessly abandoned in the dictates of
passion. Had she experienced such passion with Julian?

To
be sure, Miss Fitzhugh did not seem the sort to become a man's mistress. Surely
her pride and independence would not allow such a thing.   But perhaps the
encounter with Julian had been spontaneous, a brief and quickly regretted
interlude in a closed carriage on the way home from the theater or during a
walk in a dark lane at Vauxhall. Perhaps it had been a quick, frantic fumbling
of hands and flesh and urgent need. She did not strike him as the frantic sort,
either, but who could tell? How well did any man know a woman until he had made
love to her?

The
image of Miss Fitzhugh's noble features enslaved to passion unsettled him, and
Simon frowned as he put his sword away. He had no such thoughts about Miss
Biddle, whose violet eyes were truly lovely to behold but which he had scarcely
bothered to look at.

Doubtless
it was the impatient state in which he found himself — betrothed, but unable to
claim his bride until the tedious ritual of the Season ended — that steered his
thoughts away from his future bride and to the only other woman in the castle.

Certainly,
it was none of his business if Miss Biddle's prim chaperon had once engaged in
a carnal relationship with Julian. Such liaisons were commonplace in some
circles, though undoubtedly not in the company to which Miss Fitzhugh was
accustomed, which made any interlude with Justin all the more startling. In
truth, Simon did not see how any relationship with Miss Fitzhugh could be
commonplace.

Perhaps,
then, there had been more than mere desire between them. Perhaps there had been
an exchange of those delicate emotions of which she had spoken so forcefully
this afternoon in questioning him about his feelings for Miss Biddle.

That
thought proved the most unsettling of all. For if there had been such feeling
between Miss Fitzhugh and Julian, might not renewed contact between them, such
as that likely over the next few days, bring it to the fore again?