by Tracy Sumner
But, oh lord, was he a gorgeous brooder.
“You have the look of a silk stocking found dangling from a chandelier,” he muttered in a charmless tone.
Truthfully, she had never found Julian Alexander charming, nor had anyone else he’d run across. Honest, intelligent, principled, compassionate, so handsome it made her eyes burn, he made no effort to beguile—and she loved him more for it.
He was, quite simply, the least frivolous person she knew.
When she was the most.
She checked her sigh and smoothed her hair to find a jumbled mess she and Minnie would be unable to salvage. She blew a lock of it out of her eye with a gusty breath. Silk stocking, indeed. “If I do, you were the one who tossed me high enough to reach it.”
“Inevitable,” was all he said as if the word carried such consequence.
“Isn’t it always?” she asked. Making love with him had been as instinctive as defending oneself from a blow.
“No.”
Leaning over the side of the bed, she rooted around for her shift but came up with his shirt instead. His eyes followed the movement, his back straightening as he retreated from his measured slouch. Lifting the wrinkled fabric to her nose, she inhaled the enticing scent she would never let slip from memory. Defenseless, her lids fluttered as his harsh exhalation settled like a barricade between them.
She had two options.
Make this easy on him by obeying his guidance.
Or follow her own counsel.
Decided, she let the sheet fall to her waist. With his gaze scorching every part of her it touched, his aura flooded fierce cobalt. While she—with the most leisurely undertaking unsteady hands could take—slipped his sleeve up one arm and then the other, the material dancing over her wrists, elbows, shoulders, trailing fingers of delight. An evocative caress. His scent enveloped her as she closed the buttons along the front, her nipples doing no one any kindness by pebbling beneath brushed linen in a way she couldn’t hope to conceal.
Still, she covered them, thank you very much.
Her gaze shifted to the mahogany side table and the pistol resting there. She raised a brow. “Is this part of your plan to force me back to the house?”
The sketch lay forgotten on his lap, charcoal dangling from his fingers. A tiny crease she had never noticed before popped in between his brows. “I called off the guards for the night.”
Ah, the reason for his uncertainty was becoming apparent.
His struggle was evident in his expression and his aura. Vulnerability and strength, apprehension and exultation. Patience, she told herself. He had to work out this shift in their relationship and what it might mean by himself.
He slid forward in the chair, and she found her eyes helplessly drawn to his thighs. Thin cotton did little to hide the taut muscle that had trapped her so effectively during the night. Or his hard length, which was rising to the occasion. “I seem to take things from you. Which is not my intent.”
“My father was a spineless wastrel, Julian. His death left me beholden to a befuddled man more interested in ferreting out the details of my gift than assisting me with it.” She laughed, pleating the sheet between her finger and thumb. “He expected a society marriage, can you imagine? With a meager dowry, an impossible reputation, and a frightening ability, he must have put great stock in my beauty.”
“Your beauty has never been in question.”
“This conversation is pointless—as I’ve told you more than once. I’m not marrying someone in the ton. I cannot. They wouldn’t understand.” She rolled the sleeves of his shirt high, ire pulsing fervently behind her eyes. Julian was not backing her into a marital corner out of a misplaced sense of propriety. And she couldn’t tell him the truth; that she’d never love anyone else. That would go over like a boulder dropped upon them. “You took nothing. I gave.”
Julian shook his head, a stock of dark hair tumbling in his face. He dragged his fingers through it with a sigh, creating further disorder.
“Think of who has cared for me in this world. You, Finn, Humphrey. You have been my savior.”
He was out of the chair in two strides, his weight denting the mattress and sending her into him. “I don’t want to be your bloody savior,” he snapped, his hands going to her shoulders and giving her a gentle shake.
“What do you want?” she whispered, head tipping until their gazes locked. His eyes were turbulent storm clouds, a blustery, troubled slate. His aura bubbled around him, his breath rushing forth as he studied her. In the distance, a blackbird issued a countdown on the time they had left, and her heart squeezed. “What do you want?”
“Who cares what I want, Yank?”
She cupped his jaw, stubble dusting her palm. “I do.”
Powerless, his gaze swept her as his lids lowered. “I want you to be safe. Safe with a partner who can love you and give you a family. We have a timeline, Yank. You’re visiting a family friend this summer, fully chaperoned by a prostitute’s daughter posing as the most experienced maid in England. A country tradition abided by all. But…after? The disgrace, even for Scandalous Scott, would be ruinous. We need a plan; you need a husband.”
Tapping her finger on her bottom lip, she smiled as his gaze tracked the action like he was preparing for target practice. “I see how this goes. Oh, darling, your aura is a lovely shade of cerulean this morning. What is an aura? Gads, how long do you have?”
“Relationships are complicated, I agree, but your gift does not preclude you having one.”
“Yet it does for you?”
He shoved off the bed. “I promised myself no child should suffer as I did. Ever. This gift could be inherited. And the first time, I didn’t—”
“Withdraw, I know. I begged you not to.” Her menses were regular, and she had a fair idea of safe timing, but she guessed this information would not be well taken. “Good news is, the other two times you did.”
He kicked a canvas that had so impolitely gotten in his way as he strode back to the window, where he knocked aside the drape and peered into the darkness. “You have to be back before dawn. I realize the cat is out of the damned bag, but let’s pretend for the lower house staff, at least.”
“And then?” she asked and gave the sheet a hard twist. Their agreement had only been for one night, but she’d requested it include breakfast.
“And then I force myself to look at you as something other than a delectable treat I pour over my waffle.”
A laugh burst from her. “What?”
He studied her without comment, the silence split only by a log in the hearth disintegrating with a snap. Oh, those eyes of his; they were her absolute weakness. As she observed, his aura shifted in her favor. She tried to keep the delight from her face but, then, his lips curved. He pressed them together, but the smile grew, spreading across his face like the most recalcitrant ray of sunlight. “Idiocy,” he whispered.
At last, he moved toward her, his expression a multi-faceted jewel, too many emotional edges to count. This. This revelation, this tenderness, was more intimate than anything they had shared. This was knowing him.
The enormity frightened her even as she ran toward it.
Julian reached hesitantly, his fingers sliding along her jaw and into her hair. The smell of his skin sent need surging through her body. Her lids drifted on a sigh of recognition.
He made no move to deepen the caress, only laid his lips on her brow as her mind teemed with impassioned images.
It was as if the kiss signaled a farewell.
And then she knew…
He didn’t love her enough, and she loved him too much.
Julian survived fifty-two hours without a decision being forced on him.
Fifty-two hours comprised of two sleepless nights in the lodge, his refuge, where Piper lingered like one of Simon’s ghosts. Her likeness resided on a hundred sketches and more than one incomplete canvas—as if the scent of her clinging to his sheets were not enough. The smell of lavender was making
him wonder if he was losing his mind and his senses.
Consequently, when she burst into his study in the main house two days later, it was no surprise he lost all thought.
She halted in the doorway, her cheeks gaining color in a rapid manner spelling disaster any way you read it. With a glance at the group assembled in the room, Julian struggled to compose a rationale for a meeting of the League, impromptu though it may be, without her. As he’d promised to alert her to the next one, etcetera, etcetera. But his voice departed, his throat going dry. Her hair was down, the ragged ends trailing her shoulder, and he could only recall brushing it for her before they’d left the lodge.
As intimate a thing as he’d ever done in his life.
The memory sent a blisteringly poignant rejoinder through him, one that burned any defense he might construct to a crisp.
Humphrey coughed beneath his breath, one brow winging high. Finn slouched in his chair until the cracked leather had to be pressed against his spine, his grin graceful and cunning.
Julian shook his head, clearing it. Waffle, he imagined them thinking.
“This isn’t exactly what it looks like,” he confessed, ignoring Humphrey’s sigh and Finn’s snort. Dear God, that isn’t how he should have started.
Piper stepped into the study, and Julian swore the smell of cheroots and brandy disappeared to be replaced by the honeyed scent of lilacs. Cut grass. Earth. She’d been in the garden. He kept his gaze trained on her darkening-to-emerald eyes, ignoring the urge to check her skirt for stray bits of straw he could brush away for her.
She closed the door with a snap and leaned against it. “Your Grace,” she said with a wispy curtsy for the Duke of Ashcroft, who’d requested the spontaneous meeting upon his arrival. Hence the damned gathering, thrown together in minutes, Julian would love to tell her.
Ashcroft turned from his study of the bookcase and a row of leather-bound volumes on the occult, popping the one in his hand back in its slot with a fragile smile. The dark slashes beneath his eyes attested to his inner turmoil, something Julian was sure Piper would notice. He hoped the sight of her did not elicit a ball of flame from the man’s fingers.
As every breath in the room held suspended, the Duke bowed with all the crispness of his station, as if they stood in a crowded ballroom. “Lady Scott, again, a pleasure.” Then he must have appreciated the ludicrousness of the entire episode as he threw himself in the lyre chair by the bookcase, the brass casters sending it into a wild spin.
Piper’s gaze lit on her maid, sitting in the corner with a mildly abashed expression. Edward loomed next to Minnie, his regard wandering the room like an eager puppy trying to figure out who was taking him for a walk. Finally, Piper noticed Simon, on the floor by Finn’s feet, managing a deck of cards like a sharper of the first order. The boy glanced to his side too frequently for it to mean anything other than one of his apparitions was with him. Even Henry was in the room, licking his privates without a hint of concern.
Julian tensed, preparing for the blow before it hit. Hmm, I really should have found the courage to round her up for this.
Fury darkened her eyes, her lips tightening to contain the vitriol that would have come spewing out if not for the oddity of a person one notch below a prince being in their presence. Julian rubbed at a streak of yellow paint on his wrist and sought to ignore the speaking glance that action got him.
Piper made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Don’t mind me. Please, continue.”
“Where were we?” Julian asked, gaze shifting to Humphrey with desperation he knew said, please save me.
Humphrey rolled his eyes, his cheroot hanging so low it almost touched his collar. “Laundry cottage. Not fit for royalty, but it’ll be hard to burn down.”
All eyes turned to Ashcroft to gauge his reaction. Julian released an inward sigh of relief. At least Humphrey had not called him fireball again.
The Duke took the casualness of the entire scene—cheroots and open collars in front of ladies was not de rigueur—in with mildly arrested surprise. Studied the room like a painting hanging in the National Gallery, as if he struggled to find his place within the flowing lines. He rubbed fingertips together Julian would bet a hundred pounds had gotten hot. “It’s more than adequate. Charming, in truth. And I’m sure,” he added, struggling to conclude the account, “there are country amusements to be found. Hunting, fishing, the like.”
Finn snorted, and Julian shot him a lethal look.
“We have a gamekeeper arriving any day.” Julian fidgeted, trying to ignore Piper’s gaze traveling from his crossed ankles to his face in a measured assessment. Tried to ignore the heat that swept his body just after.
“Next week,” Minnie supplied with a little wiggle of her pinkie in Piper’s direction, which possibly served as some sort of girlish apology.
Piper steepled her hands and rested her chin on her fingertips. Anyone else would consider the posture angelic, but he knew better. “A gamekeeper with no prior experience as a gamekeeper, am I correct?”
An unexpected burst of ire settled in Julian’s gut. He would apologize for mismanaging the situation if she’d allow a private arena in which to do so. But, no, she had to trot the League’s baggage out for all to see. “The lad has years of experience managing a pack of stray dogs in Whitechapel. Is that sufficient?”
“And his gift?” Her probing gaze nailed him to the spot.
He raised his glass, letting brandy provide a moment’s respite. As a healer, Piper deserved to know this and more. Bloody hell, her grandfather had created the League, in part, for her. Julian was letting his personal feelings impair his life’s work, like he’d known he would if he became involved with her. “It appears he can communicate, send thoughts, without speaking.”
“Any control?”
Julian shook his head. “He’s talking to everyone. On the street. In the market. And when the thoughts point to being his, he's being savagely beaten for it. A family member of someone in the League let us know.”
“Then he’ll need me,” she said, driving a splinter of guilt beneath his skin.
“Yes.”
“Him, too,” she added and nodded to Ashcroft, who followed the conversation with the zeal of one watching a vigorous fencing match. Julian hated to tell him, but these were the only country amusements to be had. “My roster is growing. Without my involvement. Or advisement.”
Julian thumped his glass to the desk with a blatant display of impatience. “Should I provide a whip so you can draw blood from this interview?”
She exhaled on a whispered oath, which only sought to raise her breasts—marvelous ones, by the by—beneath her simple silk day dress. A lock of hair he knew was soft to the touch slipped loose from its clip to brush her face. The woman would look stunning in a corn sack. And this sour consideration, more than any other released since she stepped in the room, elevated his temper and his cock until he questioned if he’d be forced to hide behind the desk after all.
“I’m sorry,” was all he managed. “I didn’t think.”
She palmed the door with a slap. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Your Grace.” A glance over her shoulder aimed like a dart at Julian. “With my chaperone and at least two guards in tow.”
She exited the room as imposingly as she’d entered it, and he was halfway to the door himself before realizing he’d revealed his hand. He might have even surprised Humphrey and Finn this time. It was just too damn easy to forget his close connection to Piper.
Frightening, but with every day that passed, he felt less need to hide it.
How peculiar his obsession must look to others, he thought, as he went after her like a hound after a fox.
When it was entirely reasonable to him.
“Welcome to Harbingdon, Ashcroft,” he heard Finn murmur as the study door clicked shut behind him.
Chapter 18
Speaking silence, dumb confession. Passion’s birth and infants’ play.
~Robert Burns
> Piper bolted down the arched hallway, her footfalls echoing off marble, the sting of tears a hot lick behind her lids. Sunlight shot through beveled panes in a brilliant display when she wished for rain and clouds the color of Julian’s eyes.
Not here, not here, Piper.
She would not cry, she vowed and pressed her hand to her stomach. Her father had always said tears were to be hidden.
Tears are for commoners, for the weak.
Behind her, the study door closed, and Julian’s heavy tread registered. Oh, God. She couldn’t let him see her like this. He would never understand why such a simple gesture, or lack of one, had destroyed her. She passed a narrow door under the servants’ staircase. A perfect place to hide until Julian left the house, as he surely thought she’d head to the gardens. She had to face him, of course.
Just not now. Not yet.
The door was unlocked, the darkness inside so complete it swallowed her whole. Reaching blindly, she encountered shelves, crisp sheets, cool plaster—the scent of lemon and starch. Pressing against the wall, she slid until her bottom hit pitted wood. Please, she prayed, dropping her brow to her drawn knees.
The silence in the confined chamber was absolute, the house in a peaceful lull between meals, not even the tick of a clock penetrating the space. She curled into herself, tears trailing her face and soaking her dress, an unattractive affair. As would likely be expected, she didn’t cry with restraint. Gulping, airless breaths bringing the taste of salt to her mouth and stinging her cheeks.
Damn you, Julian.
The hair on the back of her neck lifted as the door opened. She peered through the fractured light to find him silhouetted by a circle of luminosity that made him look positively saintly. Her heartbeat skipped, and she recoiled, bumping her head on the wall.
“Hey, stop,” he whispered, bringing the door within an inch of closing, the slender strip of light running over her slipper and his thigh as he kneeled before her. He approached as he would an animal in distress, cupping her chin and gently raising her face into the hushed glow. Mercifully, the pitch concealed his glorious eyes, though his scent was pointed and sweet, one she’d have known anywhere. His breath was coming quickly, and his hand trembled where it held her.
