by Sharon Page
“The whole house does now,” Julia said.
“Is your grandmother furious?”
Julia’s brow rose as if she hadn’t expected the question. “Grandmama will surprise you, Zoe.”
“Do you mean take me by surprise? Jump out and get me with her cane?”
Lady Julia—Julia—giggled. “I mean Grandmama is very, very practical. Now, Miss Gifford, do you want to gallop? We’ll go down past the lake, cross the bridge at the stream then take the higher trail into the woods.”
Julia amazed Zoe—the talented horsewoman could take jumps in a side saddle that she didn’t dare attempt. Julia was charming, but there were moments as they cantered along when Julia’s mouth turned grim and her eyes looked haunted.
She looked like a woman in grief. Was it over her younger brother? Mother had learned more details from the dowager. William Hazelton had died of the Spanish flu at fifteen. It would have been after the duke returned, scarred and wounded, when war was done and everyone thought the worst was over.
She remembered the day the telegram had come about Billy. Up until then, the War had been a distant thing, about loss and sacrifice, but not for her. For her it was about dances with young officers in uniform, about passionate kisses with passionate men who were pressed for time and eager to go all the way before they shipped out. A sensible girl always said no—though the girls hadn’t really understood they might never see their men again.
She’d never dreamed she wouldn’t see Billy again.
“Zoe, are you all right?”
Julia’s voice, filled with worry, snapped Zoe back to where she was. “I was just thinking about my brother,” Zoe said. But no amount of thinking would bring him back. “Let’s gallop again,” she called to Julia, and she spurred her horse to run. She leaned along her horse’s neck like a jockey, tearing along the gravel path that encircled the house. She laughed with the exhilaration, even if she didn’t really feel joy.
When she reined in on the long front drive that led to the house, Julia caught up.
“Your hat hasn’t moved, Julia,” Zoe said. “If I’d worn one, it would have sailed into the lake by now.”
Julia fixed the veil. “Oh, it’s practically nailed to my head with pins.”
From there, they had a clear view of Brideswell; of the enormous house that had stood there for over three hundred years. Her father would have been so proud of her marriage—but if he had been living, she wouldn’t have to marry to save Mother from scandal or prison. “You have a beautiful home.”
Julia shook her head. “It’s not my home—not anymore. Now it is a house in which I stay because I have not yet married and taken over management of my husband’s house.”
It was the first time Julia had sounded bitter, had sounded like anything other than a perfect lady. “Of course it’s your home,” Zoe said. “You grew up here.”
“Eventually another woman will rule the house, and she may not wish to have me under her roof. She will want to give preference to her own family. Sometimes spinsters live on the estate—if there’s a spare cottage that doesn’t cost much to run. Whoever Nigel marries will have more rights to a home on the estate than I would.”
“A woman who is only here by marriage would have more rights than you? That’s shockingly unfair. But you’ll have an inheritance—”
“Very little. I do have a dowry, which is only if I marry.”
Zoe could always buy her own house. Never had she really understood what power that gave her until now. “Then you must marry.”
The shadow darkened Julia’s eyes. “I do not think that’s possible. My fiancé, Anthony, was killed at the Somme. It is years ago now, but the loss...has not gone away. I do not think I could ever fall in love again. My mother and grandmother think me foolish, but I cannot marry without love.”
“My fiancé was killed in a plane crash. He was lost over the Atlantic Ocean. I do understand what you mean. I can’t—” But of course, she couldn’t tell Julia she understood it was impossible to fall in love again—Julia thought she loved Sebastian.
Women did survive—they did get over loss. Zoe knew it was possible. Just not for her. But it had to be so for Julia.
“I think you can open your heart again,” she said, making it sound like the gospel truth. “I did, after all. I met your brother Sebastian.”
“I do not think it will be that way for me.”
“Julia, do you do things for fun?”
“I have not felt very much like having fun.”
Zoe would not have survived losing Richmond at all if she hadn’t at least grabbed hold of life, rather than lock herself away to mourn.
Julia deserved to be happy. And after Zoe and Sebastian divorced, Julia would not listen to her scandalous former sister-in-law. If she wished to help Julia, she must do it now. “After your Women’s Institute meeting, Julia, we are going to drive down to London. It’s time you begin to have fun again.”
“I don’t think I could.”
“You can. Do you think the man who loved you would want to see you wither away in sorrow? The best way to make his sacrifice mean something is to live the life he was fighting for.”
* * *
“Where do you think she took her?”
Horns blared as Sebastian, dressed in a duster and driving goggles, took a corner wide and crossed into oncoming London traffic. Nigel’s heart jumped into his throat. Despite the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears, he said, with forced sangfroid, “Bloody hell, Sebastian. You have to stay on the left side of the road.”
“This is the left side of the road.”
“Not in England, it’s not. Move over.”
“Spoilsport. It’s a lot easier to get through traffic when people are fighting to get out of your way. I’ll head for the 400 Club.”
Nigel did not doubt Miss Gifford had been able to ferret out the most popular dancing club in London. “No. Try Murray’s,” he growled. “On Beak Street.”
“Murray’s?” As usual, Sebastian took his gaze off the road to embark on a conversation. “How do you know about the jazz clubs in town, brother? You never leave Brideswell.”
“I know about Murray’s. Turn here.” He’d heard about it in letters from friends. From war comrades who didn’t understand why he was hiding away at Brideswell.
Sebastian swung the wheel, cut across traffic and made a hazardous left turn that aged Nigel by a decade. Having been shot at for four years, Nigel had no intention of dying in an automobile crash. “Pull over and let me drive.”
“You don’t drive,” Sebastian protested. “You’d be worse than me.”
“That would be impossible. Watch where you are going.”
Nigel had never been in a London dance club. The only club he frequented in town was White’s, which had been favored by the Dukes of Langford for almost one hundred and fifty years. Murray’s had the staid, imposing facade of a bank. Sebastian located the curb by hitting it with the tires. Nigel jumped out, and within moments, he stood at the bottom of the stairs in the massive ballroom, straining to spot Julia.
“There is my beloved.” At his side, Sebastian smoothed his slicked-back hair.
Nigel stared. “What in blazes is she doing? It looks like she is having a seizure.”
“Dancing, brother.”
Nigel watched Sebastian claim Miss Gifford. Her legs jerked behind her, kicking like a mule, and her hands waved wildly around her head like a drowning woman begging for rescue. Tall feathers showed every contorted motion of her head. Hundreds of beads jumped off from her indigo dress as her hips moved in a vulgar swing.
The dress shifted as she moved, giving him a glimpse of the garment beneath it. White fabric and lace banded her back, but below the one small strip there was nothing but bare skin. No corset. No shift.
He blinked. Miss Gifford sported a lot of bare skin. Her upper arms were bare, as were her thighs—in the gap between her short skirt and her rolled-down stockings. Underneath the dress, much of her must be naked.
Heat washed over him and he moved behind a potted palm to hide what must be a blindingly obvious erection in his trousers. Anger and embarrassment hit him. She was his brother’s fiancée—albeit his convenient one—and he had no business feeling anything about her skin.
On the dance floor, Sebastian rushed Miss Gifford through the crowd in a waltz that looked like his brother was racing to find a bathroom.
Where was Julia? Nigel’s gaze scoured the small round tables at the far side of the large room. Egyptian-style pillars separated that section from the dance floor, and couples lounged in the shadows. Nigel did not see any woman who looked like Julia—black hair in a neat bun, elegant and understated.
“Nigel!” At the edge of the dance floor, a woman with bobbed dark hair waved wildly at him. He could see the tops of her stockings below her short skirt, rolled down just below her knees like Miss Gifford’s.
He had no idea who she was, though she’d addressed him intimately. Her partner’s legs appeared to be made of India rubber, wobbling back and forth as the man passed his hands over his knees. Making wild gyrations, the girl moved toward the floor’s edge.
“Nigel, come and dance,” she called.
Her lips were a vivid scarlet, her eyes darkened with kohl. Some cosmetic, thick and black, was clumped on her eyelashes. There was something familiar about her, something that got under his skin...
“Julia!” Her name came out in a roar of shock.
The creature in front of Nigel was nothing like the demure English lady who had climbed into Zoe Gifford’s motorcar that morning. Several feet of her dark hair had been cut. Her face was made up like an actress on Drury Lane. As for her dress—
It revealed so much of his sister’s legs that his hands clenched into fists. Julia’s entire body moved with the jazz beat, her hips flowing back and forth in shocking invitation.
Nigel grasped her wrist and hauled her off the floor. “Did she do this to you?”
Tugging against his iron grip, Julia’s expression became one he readily recognized. She glared. “If by ‘she,’ you mean Miss Gifford, then yes. And if by ‘this,’ you mean that she is trying to coax me to have fun, then yes. This is fun, Nigel.”
“Fun.” He spat the word. “You are barely dressed.”
“This dress is fashionable. And not quite shocking if every other woman in the room is wearing the same thing.”
Someone tapped on his shoulder. It was Julia’s partner—a pasty-looking young man who was obviously at university. “Look here,” the lad began. “She’s my partner.”
“Bugger off,” Nigel snarled.
Quaking, the boy retreated. Nigel rounded on Julia. “You were giving him ideas.”
She burst out laughing.
“What is so funny?” he barked.
“Nigel, he is a sweet young man. We were simply dancing. You think my behavior is shocking? That young man is the son of Viscount Hardley and, to quote, you just told him to—”
“Never mind what I told him.” This was Zoe Gifford’s fault. He refused to lose control due to her—even control over his language. “That is not what I would call dancing. Married people have less contact during their private relations.”
This made Julia double over, helpless with laughter. It was good to see her enjoying herself. Irritating to have it at his expense.
“What has she done to you?” Two days. That was all the time Miss Gifford had spent under his roof, yet Julia’s hair was now gone, her demure face was painted, and she was making rude gyrations in a public place. He hauled off his coat and threw it around Julia’s shoulders. It reached her knees and engulfed her in an envelope of decency. “We are returning home.”
“I am not leaving, Nigel. I want to dance.”
A slender hand landed on his arm, and the scent of exotic roses surrounded him. As he jerked around, Miss Gifford, the culprit, smiled up at him.
“You are making a scene, Your Grace,” she said. “Why don’t we discuss this at our table?”
“I am making a scene?” The words came out with all the calm that pervaded the atmosphere before men rushed out of a trench with rifles. “My sister is cavorting half-naked on a public dance floor.”
“Which is perfectly natural in a dance club,” Miss Gifford pointed out. “Dragging her off the floor and throwing your coat over her is more fitting to the last century. If you are so concerned about appearances, look around you, Duke. You are creating the scandal here.”
Dimly, he became aware of the stares. Hundreds of them. Grunting with anger—how dare she be in the right?—Nigel watched Miss Gifford lead Julia to a table. Sebastian was there, along with a group of rainbow-colored drinks. Two glasses in front of his brother were already empty.
Miss Gifford handed him a full one in a revolting shade of yellow-green. Nigel put it down. He didn’t drink things the color of urine. “What in hell were you thinking?” he growled at her. “Julia is in mourning.”
Julia threw off his coat so it landed on the back of the chair and sipped a pink drink.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miss Gifford said. “Lady Julia can’t be mourning for the rest of her life.”
Julia set down her drink and Sebastian whisked her onto the dance floor. Damn his brother.
Miss Gifford jumped to her feet and stood in front of him. From this view, he could see a considerable amount of her smooth, bare thighs. He grabbed his drink, downed it and sputtered. “Sweet,” he choked.
“You certainly are not. Dance with me.”
“I do not dance.”
“I can teach you.”
“Leave me alone, Miss Gifford.”
“I won’t. Not until you have one dance with me.”
The loud, raucous music pounded in his head. It grew louder, slamming through his skull like relentless explosions. The thunderous beat became the burst of shells. It was engulfing him. Nigel shut his eyes—a fatal mistake. With every screech of the music, he could see the endless showers of flying mud and men. Roaring filled his ears and sweat trickled down his back.
“Dance with me, Your Grace. Surely you can’t be afraid of attempting to dance.”
His hands were shaking hard now. He had to get out—
He jolted to his feet. Turning his back on Miss Gifford, he ran to the stairs and took them three at a time. The dining room was a roar of noise. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like fog, like the ash-filled air of no-man’s-land.
He shoved past the doorman, slammed open the door and stalked out into the night.
A car horn sounded and Nigel plastered his body against a brick wall beside him. His entire body shook. His mind was like Pandora’s box—demons poured out and he couldn’t jam them back in.
“Nigel, what is wrong?”
He whirled. Miss Gifford came up to him and put her hands on his arm. “Nigel—”
“Langford. The appropriate form of address is to refer to me by my title,” he snapped, turning his back to her. What in hell would she see in his face? Why had she come after him? “Go dance with my brother,” he barked.
“No.” Her hand skimmed up his arm and rested on his shoulder. “You are shaking and are pale as a ghost. You ran out of the club as if someone was chasing you.”
“Stop touching me.”
But she did not listen. Her body moved closer until he could feel her softness pressing against his side. He felt the warmth of her bare skin through his clothes. Her breath brushed over the back of his neck.
He needed distance. Grasping her hands, he propelled her back. He had to face her to do it.
“What happened
to you?” Her large violet eyes searched his face.
He fumbled for a cigarette. A mistake, for it revealed how much his hand still shook. It would take a long time for the physical reaction to subside. But he got the damned smoke out and stuck it between his lips. “I was upset at the sight of my sister.”
Miss Gifford shook her head. “No, this is not anger. This is panic. I understand now. You’re suffering from shell shock.”
“I am not. There is nothing wrong with me.”
“There are many things wrong with you, Langford, and this explains them all. No wonder you didn’t want to talk about war. I apologize for everything I said. You’re obviously suffering.”
“I am not suffering.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of—”
“I am not ashamed. And I am not weak.”
Her plucked brow arched. “You’re afraid to admit there is anything wrong with you. Good heavens, how could there not be? My brother died in France. He wrote letters home. He tried to be strong and stoic for a long time. Then he began to fall apart. He wrote about how he couldn’t stand the shooting and the shelling, the mud, the wet trenches, the sickness any longer—”
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with me, Miss Gifford. The only things I brought back with me from the War are the scars on my face and on my soul. My mind is completely intact.”
She shook her head. He despised sympathy, but her soft, sad expression ladled it over him by the bucketful. “You can’t deny what you feel. You may actually have to face your emotions—”
“I do not have emotions. Now, return inside. Dance in whatever shocking way you want with Sebastian. But send Julia out to me. I am taking her home.”
Her look of concern hardened to iron-strong determination. “Why? So she can be alone, with nothing to do but think of the man she lost? That is not going to help her get over grief. That will force her to wallow in it. She needs dancing and excitement and fun, Langford.”
“You cut her hair, for God’s sake.”
“Even you can’t be afraid of a woman’s haircut.”
