by Mira Stables
It was her good fortune that Julian should return before his wife, but once assured of his identity by the sound of his voice speaking to Bailey in the hall, she made haste to set her scene to the best advantage. Taking a rose from a great silver bowl that stood on a low table she snapped off the head lest the wet stem soil her delicate gown and cradled it between her palms, holding it lovingly against her cheek and feigning an admirable start of surprise when Julian addressed her.
“Oh! How you startled me,” she complained sweetly. “I had not heard you come in—or I would not have permitted myself to be caught stealing one of your roses.” She held up the ill-treated bud. “It was so perfect that I could not resist. With me, you must know, it is not so much the colour or the scent as the exquisite velvety texture. I must touch.” She brushed the rose lightly against her cheek and held it to her lips. What man could desire a better opening for a charming compliment? Lady Holroyd could think of several, and waited hopefully to see which would occur to her rather slow-topped admirer. Unfortunately Julian was wholly preoccupied at the moment with the news that he was eager to impart to his wife. He said civilly that there were plenty of roses and that he would ask Bailey to desire the garden boy to pick some for her.
The lady would dearly have liked to slap him for such oafishness. With truly admirable self control she said gently that she would not put him to so much trouble and turned instead to the ostensible reason for her call. Even this she could not approach in a straightforward way—possibly because it was a complete fabrication—but must needs alopogise for trespass, urging prettily that only their long friendship had nerved her to such presumption. The thing was that she had received an enquiry from a prospective tenant, and would be grateful if Julian would let her know as soon as possible whether he proposed to renew the lease.
“For naturally you must have the preference,” she finished, with a smile of languishing sweetness.
This, too, was wasted, for Julian’s thoughts turned at once to the effect that Mr. Morley’s impending marriage was likely to have on his domestic arrangements. If Anna had had her fill of Town life, they could retire peacefully to Wellasford. He for one would be heartily thankful to be rid of the Portman Square house and its saccharine owner, but it must be for Anna to decide. So much had been implicit in his promise. He assured Lady Holroyd that he would discuss the matter with his wife and would certainly let her know as soon as possible.
It was not a very promising opening for a tender love passage, but Lady Holroyd was skilled in the making of bricks without straw. She drew a deep, quivering sigh and announced that she envied him greatly. To his surprised and startled expression she enlarged pensively, “So fortunate! Two of you to confer together, to make decisions, to support each other. It makes my own loneliness seem more bleak by contrast. Do you wonder that I envy you?”
Julian felt more embarrassment than sympathy. He said bracingly that he was sure that Johnnie must be a tower of strength to his sister. “And only think how many friends you have,” he went on, “any one of whom would be only too happy to be of service to you.”
But this well-meant suggestion appeared to plunge the disconsolate widow into deeper gloom. “Friends?” she repeated sorrowfully. “When even the oldest among them cannot remember my birthday?” And her pretty lips quivered and tears seemed imminent.
The threat of tears temporarily confused Julian’s wits, or he might have recalled the fact that the lady’s birthday was in the spring, even if he did not remember the precise date. As it was, he assumed—as she had intended—that the auspicious day was today. He embarked upon a lame apology for his forgetfulness, and as this effected no noticeable diminution in her woe, took her hand in his and, bending down, bestowed a comforting kiss upon her cheek.
This was a mistake. She turned to him, casting herself upon his chest so that he was obliged to put his arms about her, and assuring him mistily that she had known all along that she could perfectly rely upon him. At which inconvenient moment his wife, followed by Sir Aubrey Drysdale, walked into the library.
The speed with which Julian removed his encircling arms should have done much to convince both ladies of his total lack of enthusiasm for the position. He was, in fact, very annoyed. It was bad enough to be caught in such a compromising position, but he could have explained it easily enough to Anna, who was always reasonable. But why must she bring Sir Aubrey into it? Hadn’t she seen enough of the wretched fellow, spending the whole afternoon in his company, that she had to bring him home as well?
Sir Aubrey, who had not seen the kiss, though he had a fair notion that they had walked in upon as pretty a piece of flirtation as ever he had come across, was the first to recover his savoir faire, with the heroine of the charming piece a close second. Anna, who had been aware of a sudden bleak desolation at the sight of Caro Holroyd in her husband’s arms, murmured a mechanical greeting.
“Lady Holroyd called to enquire about the renewal of the lease,” explained Julian, with a composure that sounded unnatural even in his own ears. “She has had an enquiry from a prospective tenant. I have said that we will let her know as soon as we have had an opportunity of discussing it.”
Anna nodded non-committally and launched into an animated account of the impressive scenes of the afternoon. Neither visitor lingered unduly. Sir Aubrey preferred to win his plaudits on a wider stage. Lady Holroyd was well content that she had given that odious little upstart something to think about. Queening it at Almack’s and bosom bows with Lady Penmarston, was she? Not to mention making mocking remarks about older females who tinted their hair. Well—that should teach her the folly of crossing swords with Caroline Holroyd. She only hoped that Sir Aubrey had seen enough to appreciate the pretty play to the full.
Left to themselves the married pair eyed each other warily, Julian wondering just how much his wife had seen and anxious not to commit himself too far, Anna emerging from her first sick shock to a much more healthy anger.
She said evenly, “Don’t waste time teasing yourself as to whether I saw you kiss her. I did. I must beg that in future you will refrain from doing so under my own roof. Or do you regard it as hers? Talk of renewing the lease, indeed! Pretty talk! May I remind you, milord, that when I pledged you my troth, you undertook to refrain from such indulgence in amatory dalliance as must make me a laughing stock.”
That was not exactly how Julian recalled the business, but this was no time to stand upon points. Military instinct urged that in this case counter attack was the best form of defence. He said savagely, “And do you mean to tell me that Sir Aubrey has never claimed the privilege of kissing your cheek? And you, my dear, are not a widow.”
“Nor yet a wife,” she retorted swiftly, before she realised where such answer led her.
There was a tense little silence. Then chivalry won the day. Julian said slowly, “I beg your pardon, Anna. I was wrong to taunt you so. And I beg that you will forgive me. It was—no—not wrong, but silly, to kiss Caro. Which is very much worse. But without sounding the most complete coxcomb I can’t really explain how it came about. And I promise you sincerely that I had very much rather kiss you.”
But that was going very much too fast in her present mood and she warded him off swiftly, exclaiming that she must hurry or she would be late for her theatre party. But he thought there was a warmer look in her eye and counted himself forgiven, spending a happy hour in planning what they would do when they surrendered the lease of this house and with it their ridiculous pretence of marriage.
Chapter Twelve
Anna partook of breakfast in bed next day. Not only had she been late home after her theatre party, having gone on to enjoy supper at the Bath Hotel with a group of friends (including Sir Aubrey Drysdale) but she had not quite decided on the proper attitude for an outraged wife to adopt towards an offending and slightly impenitent husband. To be sure Julian had apologised—but he had not seemed to take the business very seriously. That remark about preferring to kiss her, for
instance. He had never shown the slightest inclination to do so. For the matter of that, neither had Sir Aubrey, though this she did not propose to tell her husband.
She let her coffee go cold while she pondered the various ways in which one might subjugate a husband who showed no disposition to join one’s court, even when so notable a beau as Sir Aubrey had shown the way, and ended by wondering dismally if there was some essentially feminine quality lacking in herself, since none of her admirers showed any disposition to succumb to their much vaunted passions. She certainly did not wish to be ‘mauled and kissed’ as she phrased it by any over-bold aspirant to her favours, but here she was, nearly five and twenty, feted, courted and admired—but unkissed. It was a depressing thought. And if she meekly submitted herself to the matrimonial yoke as she had agreed to do now that her brief butterfly hour was nearly done—well no doubt Julian would kiss and caress her in a dutiful sort of way, because he was kind and, she thought, quite fond of her. When first she had agreed to marry him that was all that she had expected, or indeed wished. But now she faced the fact that she wanted a good deal more than that. The truth was out in the open at last. Certainly since the day when he had driven her from Wayney’s to Pittsfield House—possibly from their very first meeting when he had been so tactful and understanding about her antiquated dress, she had been learning to love him.
She had watched his dealings with his friends, with persons of rank and distinction, with his servants; and in all of them she had found food for glowing pride. Papa both liked and respected him—and that was indeed a compliment. And when she looked back at the weeks of her marriage she realised how completely she had relied on his support. He had left her free to choose her own path but he had always been close at hand. Even in the early days she had never felt shy or awkward because Julian was there and would certainly come to her rescue if she found herself at a loss.
She saw how, inevitably, she had compared all the other gentlemen she met with her ever-growing knowledge of Julian, and realised at last why she had felt only a detached friendliness towards even the most attractive and attentive. All unknowing, she had grown into love with her husband.
But the placid intimacy founded on mutual respect and forbearance that she had thought of as making an ideal marriage was no longer sufficient. She gave a twisted little grimace as she recalled that conversation with Julian about marriage. She had spoken quite frankly of her willingness to bear his children. Well—she was still perfectly willing. Even eager, she admitted to herself, blushing furiously at the mere thought, all alone in the big bed.
But it was not the possible heirs of Wellasford who concerned her at the moment. It was Julian whom she loved and desired. And what she wanted was not a temperate, lukewarm loving but a fierce possessive passion. She wanted him to catch her to his heart and kiss her because he was driven to do so, and in defiance of promises and foolish masculine notions of honourable behaviour. And for the first time she realised how strong a barrier she had erected between them when she rejected wifehood. A barrier that he would not cross and that pride forbade her to lower.
But the day must be got through, whatever her private problems. She sighed briefly, pushed aside the neglected tray, and had just stretched out her hand to ring for Cicely when a brisk tap on the door startled her. Before she could reply the door opened a little way and Julian’s voice, crisp with impatience, enquired if its owner might enter.
It was the first time that he had ever requested this privilege, and although she knew that it was almost certainly some matter of urgency that had brought him to her door, her heart-beats quickened and she could not resist a swift glance in the mirror to ensure that she was reasonably presentable before she called to him to come in.
It was a little annoying at first to discover that he did not appear to set any particular store by the unusual encounter, seating himself on the end of the bed without ceremony and apparently quite oblivious of yesterday’s tiff. “Such news!” he exclaimed. “I wanted to tell you last night, but Randy kept me over-late and I thought you would be asleep when I came home. And then Margaret tells me that you were late home, too, and were breakfasting in bed. I simply couldn’t wait any longer—especially with Margaret sitting there behaving so demure and unconscious. I must have laughed out loud. It was a dashed close-run thing, especially when she asked me if I had found Mr. Morley in good health. Good health! He had shed ten years! But of course, I had forgot that you did not know of my visit to Wellasford yesterday.”
He then took pity on his wife’s bewildered face and poured out the story with reasonable coherence. In her interest and pleasure she quite forgot to be self conscious. She also forgot that she had indulged her taste for rich and delicate fabrics to the full when choosing her night robes, rejecting the modest cambrics and nainsooks of her girlhood completely. The one she was wearing at the moment was of apricot tinted silk mousseline, so fine that even with its matching wrapper it scarcely veiled the beautifully moulded arms and the proud curve of her breasts. And if his wife, in her excitement, was unaware of the enticing picture that she presented, her husband was not. He got up rather abruptly, and walked over to the window, gazing down into the street in an absent minded sort of way as he summed up, “So you are all for an early wedding, as I am myself. Do you really need Margaret’s further attendance? I should have thought that with the Season so near its end, you could probably manage without her, however much we shall both miss her society.”
His wife concurring enthusiastically, he went on, “Then what answer do you wish me to return to Lady Holroyd? About the tenancy. Shall we let it go? We can perfectly well go back to Wellasford—I told you what your father had arranged about that—or we could go down to Pittsfield House. Though that would not be very comfortable at present with only half the alterations completed and hordes of workmen swarming everywhere. I’m sorry that I haven’t devoted more time to the search for a suitable town house, but if you wish it I am perfectly willing to renew the lease on this one. You will scarcely want to go to all the trouble of refurbishing yet another hired house, and from the point of view of accommodation I doubt if we could do better.”
Anna hesitated, finger to lip. However uncomfortable, Pittsfield House would at least permit them to be virtually alone together. Surely, then, they would be able to find a way out of the web that they themselves had woven. And nothing would persuade her to renew the lease on Lady Holroyd’s house.
Julian watched her, fighting back a fierce urge to take her in his arms, delectable as she was in her airy draperies, and kiss her so comprehensively that she would have no breath left for protest. And quite suddenly the hard-held control of the long weeks snapped. He did not give way to his impulse, since honour forbade. Instead he said silkily, “Of course it will make things very difficult for your gallant cicisbeo if we remove into the country. A shockingly long drive for the poor fellow, but I daresay his devotion will be equal to it.”
The shock of this unexpected attack was considerable, the more so for its sharp contrast with the happy plans that they had been discussing so pleasantly two minutes previously. Anna was normally both equable and tolerant, but her own miserable musings had left her particularly sensitive to criticism. She, in her turn, flared up into open temper.
“And you, I suppose, will plead an engagement at one of your several clubs when you wish to visit your languishing lady-love.”
She wished the words unspoken even as they were uttered, but it was too late. Julian’s shocked expression told her so. He said uneasily, “You do not imagine—you cannot seriously believe”—and turned and strode out of the room without further debate, leaving the whole business of their future plans—indeed of their future—hanging in the air.
Anna buried her face in the crook of one elbow. She did not weep, but never had she felt so miserable. Of course she did not think that there was anything serious between Julian and Lady Holroyd, any more than there was a genuine attachment between herself and Sir Aub
rey, but sauce for the goose—
She forced herself to lie still until the quivering of her mouth and the ominous pricking behind her eyelids abated. What was to do now? And as so often in her childish griefs, the answer presented itself swiftly. She would go home to Papa—take counsel of him. A visit of congratulation was his due in any case. A little ingenuity, and surely she could turn the talk to her own affairs.
Margaret, apprised of this plan, made some small demur. Had Anna forgotten that she was engaged to drive out to Kew with Sir Aubrey? Why not delay the visit to Wellasford until next day, when Margaret would be free to accompany her? But Anna, having once decided upon a course of action that promised some relief for her uncertainties, was not to be persuaded. She would go to Wellasford today. If Sir Aubrey chose to stand upon his rights, he could take her to Wellasford instead of to Kew.
“And what will you do with him when you get there?” demanded Margaret pertinently. “You cannot be private with your Papa and leave poor Sir Aubrey to his own devices. Don’t tell me he can occupy himself with a book. I daresay he has never opened one since he left Eton—unless it was a Peerage and Baronetage—and that, I strongly suspect, he has by heart.”
But Anna, usually so reasonable, would have none of it. “Then he may ride beside the carriage,” she said pettishly, “and when he has rested the horse and refreshed himself, he can take himself off wherever he wishes.”
