The Secret Life of Lady Julia (31 page)

Chapter 56

J
ulia heard the lullaby as she reached the door of the nursery. “Dorothea?” She pushed open the door to find her friend holding Jamie, humming the familiar lullaby to the baby as she waltzed around the room. Dorothea looked up and smiled at her. Jamie was fast asleep in her arms.

“Hello. I sent Mrs. Hawes downstairs for a cup of tea. I hope you don’t mind.”

Julia swallowed. “Was he crying?”

“Oh, no, he’s a perfect angel,” Dorothea said. “All smiles.”

“I didn’t think you . . .” Julia paused, not knowing what to say.

Dorothea’s smile faded. “I know. I couldn’t bear to even look at him. I didn’t think I would ever be able to face seeing another child, Julia. I wasn’t sure, you see, and I had to be sure.” She brushed Jamie’s sleeping face with a kiss. “I’m with child.”

Julia’s jaw dropped. “Doe . . .”

She put Jamie gently into his cot. “I hope you aren’t shocked. When Peter found out, he proposed at once, but I had to know it was right.” She sighed. “I love him. It’s been a secret all these weeks because Stephen doesn’t seem to like him. I thought perhaps if he married you . . . I’ve said yes, Julia.”

Julia hugged her. “How wonderful!”

“It is, isn’t it? I was so afraid when I realized I was pregnant. My little boy was just Jamie’s age when he died. He was so perfect, but so fragile. I couldn’t bear for it to happen again, to lose another child. I started to worry about Jamie. I came to look at him a dozen times a day. Mrs. Hawes watched me like a hawk. But he’s strong. I know that he’ll grow up healthy, and so will this child.” She patted her flat stomach. “Do you think Stephen will mind?”

Julia smiled. “Of course he won’t. He’ll be pleased to see you so happy.”

“I never thought I’d love anyone again the way I loved Matthew. When Mr. Merritt brought my watch back, and I looked into Matthew’s eyes, I realized that I would always love him, but I needed Peter, someone alive to love me back.”

“Peter’s a wonderful man. I’m sure you’ll both be very happy.”

“You’ll make my brother happy too. Does Mr. Merritt mind very much?”

“What?” Julia looked up.

“Jamie is the very image of Thomas Merritt, Julia, but Stephen will be Jamie’s father. When I saw the two of you together, I thought that perhaps you might still—”

“Oh, no, Dorothea. There is nothing between us. Thomas doesn’t even know about Jamie. He isn’t the kind of man who would want—” She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes.

Dorothea made a sound of disbelief. “What man wouldn’t want to know? Do you love him? You don’t have to answer, of course. It’s just that every time you look at Jamie, you will see his father. I know you love Stephen, but I suspect it’s different with Mr. Merritt. You love Stephen because he’s a good man. It’s right to love him. Yet sometimes, passion just happens, and that’s right too. I found that out with Peter. I had not known there could be such passion, though I loved Matthew too, very much. Is that how you feel?”

Julia shook her head. “I hold Stephen in very highest regard. By now, Thomas Merritt has probably left town. I won’t be seeing him again.”

“Not ever?” Dorothea asked, her face clouding.

“Never,” Julia said firmly. “Now, the betrothal party is just three days off and we should make plans.”

“Of course. I think I shall wear yellow . . .”

“I thought you detested yellow,” Julia said, but Dorothea laughed.

“Not at all. It’s Peter’s favorite color in the world.”

Chapter 57

D
onovan was driving him crazy, and he’d only been back for a week. He talked of nothing but prime Irish horses and fine, fat Irish lasses—or was it the other way around? And why not? He was going home, had something to look forward to. Thomas envied him.

Come morning, he would help his limping valet into a hired coach and make sure he got safely to Antwerp. There, he would put him on a boat for England, alone. There was a letter of credit waiting for him at a reputable London bank, and Patrick Donovan wouldn’t need him any longer—nor would he ever need to steal again, even if he was so inclined after his misadventure in Vienna.

They’d hanged Erich and ten of his not-so-merry men the day before, and everyone had breathed a sigh of relief, thinking Vienna would be a much safer place without him. But there were other desperate men, former soldiers like Erich who would do anything to survive.

“I think I’ll buy a roan stallion, just for riding to the village to court the lasses,” Donovan prattled on. “Or do you think a black stallion would be more impressive?”

“I think,” Thomas said, “I will go for a walk.” He left a bottle of schnapps by his valet’s elbow, told him to rest his wounded leg, and hoped he’d be asleep by the time he got back.

It was a fine afternoon, crisp and sunny. Vienna would be beautiful in the spring, but he’d be gone by then. He had no plans past Belgium and bidding Donovan farewell. Egypt, perhaps, or even India. Or America. He could buy land, farm. But he discarded the idea. He didn’t want to do it alone. He had the money to travel for a few years.

“Mr. Merritt!”

Thomas looked up to see Dorothea Hallam coming toward him, following a servant pushing a pram.

He tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, my lady. What a fine afternoon for a walk. Is this the child whose portrait I saw in your watch?”

She looked at him oddly. “No, Mr. Merritt, this is Julia’s son. His name is Jamie.”

He felt as if the path had subsided under his feet. “Julia’s son?” Julia had a child? But David Temberlay had died . . . Stephen then? He frowned.

“Yes. He’s nearly nine months old. Big for his age, isn’t he?”

“Is he?” The child stared up at him with round gray eyes. To Thomas, he looked just like the child in the portrait, but then, most babies did, didn’t they? But he was Julia’s child, and Stephen’s. Or David’s. Envy hit him like a blow to the belly. He looked for signs of her in the child’s plump face. There, in the lift of his brows, the delicate cheekbones. He was as beautiful as his mother.

“I’ve heard you’re leaving town,” Dorothea said. “Will you have time to visit before you go? We’re having a party this evening, and there’s the wedding tomorrow morning, of course, in the church across from the embassy. You would be most welcome.”

Julia was getting married tomorrow? As soon as that? He managed to smile. “I think not, my lady. I’m leaving in the morning, actually.”

She frowned at that. “And what is your destination?”

“India,” he said, trying it out on his tongue, but it sounded wrong. “Belgium first. Perhaps Egypt.”

“I see.”

Did she? She looked baffled, and he had no idea what else to say. He tipped his hat and walked away.

Julia Leighton had a son.

Chapter 58

J
ulia Leighton had a son.

Thomas sat in the window of his lodgings finishing the schnapps Donovan hadn’t touched, since he was too busy making notes about acreages, horses, breeding stock, brood mares, and crops. Oats, or perhaps barley and potatoes, he’d decided. And fruit trees as well, since horses liked apples. He’d hire three strong stable lads, no, four, and train them himself, well, perhaps with a stable master to help out. It would be the best, most prosperous horse farm in all Ireland . . .

“Are you listening?” Donovan asked.

“The best horse farm in all England,” Thomas parroted.

“Ireland!”

What had Dorothea said the boy’s name was? Jamie. James, he supposed. A good name. He recalled that there had been a James Leighton, a captain of dragoons. His portrait held pride of place in Carrindale House, and he remembered seeing it the night of Julia’s betrothal ball, all those months ago.

It struck him like lightning. “How long have we been gone from England?” he asked Donovan.

“Why, do you miss the place?”

“No. We left in the fall, didn’t we?”

“October,” Donovan said. “It was raining buckets in Paris.”

“And it’s February now.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Donovan asked.

Thomas counted back to the day he’d first met her, trying to remember when exactly he had made love to her on the settee in her father’s library. He’d left London a few weeks later— He felt the shock of the truth pass through him. He counted again.

He crossed to the mirror and stared into it. The child had gray eyes like his, and a dimple in his chin, a Merritt family trait. And dark hair, like Julia’s—and his. He stared into his own bloodshot eyes as his stomach dropped into his boots. He swore softly.

He was a father.

It meant that he’d left her pregnant after their brief encounter. He paced the room, ignoring Donovan’s questions.

That’s why she hadn’t married. That’s why she was
Miss
Julia Leighton, far from home, unwed. He felt shame burn through his belly, sear away the schnapps until he was entirely sober. He’d not only taken her virginity, he’d left her pregnant and alone. Her family must have disowned her, and David Temberlay had refused to marry her.

“How the hell did she manage?” he muttered. Donovan was silent now, watching him.

Only Stephen Ives had been there to help her, bloody perfect, honorable, gracious Stephen Ives. No wonder she wanted to marry him.

He looked in the mirror again. Could he be sure? He read the certainty in his own eyes.

“I have to see her,” he said. “I have to know.”

“See who? Know what? You’re scaring me,” Donovan said. But Thomas was looking for his evening clothes in the trunk, making a mess of it. He pulled out his coat and a clean shirt, and began tearing off his old clothes.

“If she loves him, tells me to go, I will, but I have to know, damn it. I have to tell her I love her and I never meant to leave her like that.”

Donovan got up, leaning on his crutch, and came to help. “Here now, you’re making a rat’s nest of everything.” He found a waistcoat and helped Thomas into it, and tied his cravat. He held his evening coat and Thomas shrugged into it. “I’ve never seen you like this,” Donovan said. “Not over a woman. Is it the princess? Kostov will shoot you between the eyes if you show up like this. Wait until morning.”

“It will be too late then,” Thomas said. “She’ll be married.” He looked at the clock. Nine o’clock. The betrothal ball would be starting soon. Ives would lead her out for the first dance—a waltz, no doubt. He would smile into her eyes and twirl her out onto the terrace under the stars and kiss her.

“The hell he will,” Thomas said, and grabbed his cloak.

Chapter 59

T
homas entered the ballroom without waiting to be announced. Julia stood in the crowd, talking with her guests, and he pushed through the crush toward her. She was wearing ice blue tonight, with a simple necklace of pearls. She still took his breath away, just as she had when he’d first seen her from across the room at Carrindale House, and every time he’d set eyes on her since.

Life—and motherhood—had added a luster to her beauty. He felt another stab of guilt. He should have been there. He would have been had he’d known.

The orchestra struck the first notes of a waltz as he reached her. “My dance, I believe,” he said firmly, brooking no argument, and she looked up in surprise, her eyes widening, her polite smile fading, but there was little she could do but set her hand in his and let him lead her out.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, her eyes darting around the room, no doubt to see who was watching them. He hadn’t seen Ives, hadn’t looked for him. He was here for Julia. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He could smell her perfume, feel the heat of her body so close to his. Love, stronger than mere desire, hit him like a brick.

“Do you remember the last time we waltzed?”

She blushed deeply. “Yes, of course. Why are you doing this?”

He ignored the question. “I believe I said then that you were beautiful.”

She swallowed, and he watched the pearl necklace bob in the candlelight. “Thank you.”

“And yet you’re more beautiful now. Motherhood agrees with you.”

She stumbled and he caught her, and lifted her off her feet for a moment, carrying her through the next steps, meeting her startled eyes, inches from his own. He set her on her feet again, but she didn’t move.

“You look flushed, my lady,” he said now, just as he had then. “Perhaps some air?”

“It’s freezing outside!”

“Still, we need to talk before you marry tomorrow, I believe. Perhaps the library?”

“Not the library,” Julia said quickly. Was she remembering her father’s library, or was Ives there?

She led the way to the conservatory instead, fragrant with roses and damp earth. She stood on the stone path between the pots and boxes, a pale ghost in the dim light.

“Is Jamie my son?” he asked, his throat tight as he waited for her answer. She searched his eyes, perhaps looking for the man inside, someone worthy enough. He didn’t smile, or flinch, or look away. Would she see only the thief, the rake, the seducer?

“Yes,” she said. “How did you find out?”

“I saw him with Dorothea in the park today. He’s beautiful. He looks like you.”

She smiled softly, a look of love in her eyes—maternal love. “He has your smile.”

“Do you love Stephen Ives?”

She studied her gloves. “Of course. I love him the same way I loved—” She stopped. “I seem to recall you asked me that about David too. Do you always ask this question when you attend a betrothal ball?”

He shut his eyes for a moment, disappointment cold in his breast, anger too. “Then perhaps I should ask if he makes you feel the way I do? Do you see stars when
he
kisses you?”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He felt her melt against him, fit herself to him, kiss him back. She tasted of champagne, and something infinitely sweeter, that he knew now was the indefinable essence of Julia herself.

He put his hand on her cheek, felt tears, and broke the kiss to look down at her. “Tell me you love him, and I’ll go, Julia. It will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I will.”

“I love him the way I loved David, and my brother. I love him for his goodness, his kindness, his honor.”

She loved Ives.
“He’ll make a good husband, a good—” He choked on the word father. He wanted to be the one to hold his son, to give him brothers and sisters, to wake up next to Julia every morning for the rest of his life.

She shook her head. “I thought I might, that I could grow to love him the way I love you, but I don’t think that’s possible. I could never love anyone else like that. You’re part of my soul, and it would not be fair, or right, to give Stephen only part of me.”

He heard the tears in her voice. “So what do we do now?” he asked her. “I am the cause of breaking yet another of your betrothals, and I strongly suspect that this fiancé will not let you go so easily.”

“I am not betrothed to Stephen, Tom. I told him I couldn’t marry him. I have honor too, and I could never be so cruel, not to myself or to him. He deserves better.”

He felt his knees weaken. “You aren’t getting married in the morning?”

“No.”

“Then why the betrothal ball?”

She smiled gently. “Dorothea is marrying Peter Bowen tomorrow morning. The new ambassador arrives within the week, and they did not want it to interfere with official events to welcome him.”

“Dorothea?” he asked like a ninny, his tongue suddenly knotted around his tonsils.

She looked up at him, her hands at her waist. “Will you marry me, Thomas Merritt? I have some lands, it seems, in Louisiana, and I will do my best to be a good wife—”

He set his finger against her lips and smiled at her. “I’m supposed to ask you, sweetheart.” He took a breath and dropped to one knee, taking her hand in his. “Julia Leighton, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

It sounded right. No, it sounded perfect.

“Yes,” she sighed. “Oh, yes.”

“Am I interrupting?” Stephen Ives stood in the doorway. “I see you arrived after all, Merritt, just as Doe predicted. I had hoped you wouldn’t come. I would have proposed again, you see, and again, until Julia accepted me, but now . . .” He shrugged, remained in the shadows.

Julia crossed to him and kissed his cheek. “I wouldn’t have said yes. I wouldn’t make you happy.”

He gazed down at her. “No, I suppose not. I have never seen you as happy as you look right now. Still, forgive me for hoping.” He shook his head sadly. “First Doe, now you, Julia. Everyone is getting married, it seems. That’s why I came to find you. Will you help me raise a toast to Doe and Peter?”

“Of course,” Julia said, and Thomas took her hand. For a moment Stephen stared at the link between them, his lips pinched.

“What will you do now?” Julia asked Stephen, taking his arm as well.

“There’s still that posting in Spain. Or I could stay here, see if Wellington needs me when he arrives. I will leave, if you are staying in town.”

“We’re going to America,” Thomas said, liking the sound of that. It could be the ends of the earth, as long as he was with Julia.

Stephen glanced at him. “America? A new start in a new land. You’ll do well there, both of you.”

They reached the ballroom, and Stephen let her go and crossed to toast the bride and groom. “I wish you every happiness, and a lifetime of love and joy,” he said, raising his glass.

His words were for Dorothea and Peter, but his eyes were on Thomas and Julia.

“Do you think a lifetime will be long enough?” Thomas asked Julia. “We’re getting a late start.”

She smiled at him with so much love in her eyes his chest ached. To have a woman like Julia, a family—perhaps this was what honor felt like, and pride, and peace. “We shall have to make the most of it. Come and meet your son.”

She led him upstairs to the nursery and placed the child in his arms. The baby looked up at him with wide eyes—his eyes—and raised a chubby hand to touch his cheek. Julia put her arms around his waist and smiled at them both.

“Louisiana,” she sighed as the child cooed, caught hold of Thomas’s finger and squeezed. He drew a breath, felt something open inside him.

“We’ll build a home, give him brothers and sisters.”

Wherever they went, he would be home, as long as he had Julia. He was whole again in her eyes, his honor restored. “I love you,” he said to her, his voice choked with emotion, and she kissed him gently and laid her head on his shoulder.

Thomas Merritt, Julia Merritt, and Master James Merritt.

He liked it. It sounded perfect.