Now she knew he had died not because he was careless enough to play with a wild creature, but because he’d been intent on saving his brother. She placed her hand on his effigy. “I finished reading your journal. You thought of me every day as I thought of you. I still think of you every day. I wake up and think—he’s already gone down to breakfast. Only you haven’t. You never will again, and I have to keep reminding myself of that.
“It’s difficult to believe that it’s been a little over seven months since we parted, since I last kissed you or held you or spoke to you or looked at your beloved face. The grief over losing you hasn’t lessened. I don’t know if it ever will. It’s a fact of my life now, no matter how much I wish it otherwise.
“I don’t know if you knew that you weren’t going to come back, but I do believe, with all my heart, that you would understand everything I’m feeling right now without my having to tell you. Everything I feel for you. And everything I feel for Edward. I think you would approve. I think that’s what you were trying to tell me, why you wrote to me. So I would know that you cared for my happiness above all else.”
She stroked her hand over the marble, wishing she could touch him one last time. “I love you, Albert. Always I shall love and miss you.”
She remained only a few minutes more before walking back to the residence. She hadn’t seen Edward since his fever had broken. It was time she did.
He was lounging on the sofa in the sitting area in front of the window. The draperies were pulled aside, allowing the sunlight to stream in. Based on reports from the servants, she knew he had yet to venture out of this room, but as he came to his feet, wearing only trousers and a loose fitting linen shirt, she knew he was on the cusp of feeling well enough to go about his business.
“You don’t have to get up,” she said.
“Of course, I do.”
Making her way around the sofa, she went to the chair that rested between it and the window. “You look as though you’re feeling much better,” she said, dropping into the chair.
“You look tired.” He returned to his place on the far end, as though he feared he might spook her if he got too close.
“I’m rested. Feeling well. So far no one else in the residence has taken ill.”
“I pray everyone else is spared.”
“I’m remaining optimistic.” She glanced at the clock, the fireplace, the perfectly made bed. “It appears we’re going to have a lovely day.”
“Winter should be behind us soon.”
She nodded, not really here to discuss the weather.
“Would you care for some tea?” he asked, and only then did she notice the tea service in the center of the table, the cup and saucer resting on the corner near his knee.
What she really craved was some brandy, except it was far too early for that. She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally he said, “I’m glad you came by. I’ve not had a chance to thank you for tending to me.”
“My parents died of influenza.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”
“It was some years back.”
“Still, it must have been difficult for you to be in here.”
“It would have been more so not to be here. I’m sorry that you didn’t feel you could let me know.”
“I didn’t want you to worry.” He gave his head a little shake, his smile self-effacing. “To be honest, I think I was more afraid that you wouldn’t worry, that you would rejoice, consider it deserved.”
“I’m sorry for that as well. That you would think I’d take pleasure in your suffering.” She hated this inconsequential prattle. “Do you have any brandy?”
One of his eyebrows arched up. “Within this room, no. But I can have some brought up.”
She shook her head, waved her hand. “Not necessary, but can you give me a moment?”
“Of course.”
Although she was studying her gloved hands clutched tightly in her lap, she could feel Edward’s gaze on her. The words had spilled forth so much easier when she was walking back from the mausoleum. “I think I knew.”
“That I had no brandy?”
She delivered a pointed glare that had him sitting back as though she’d punched him.
“I see.”
“I’m not certain you truly do.” Taking a deep breath, she squeezed her hands until the bones ached with the danger of cracking. “I knew something was different. I convinced myself that Albert and I had both changed during the months that we were apart. That it was natural for someone who wasn’t in another’s company every day to forget exactly what the other person was like. That our memories become faulty with absence. But I know he would never have approved of my reading Madame Bovary.”
“He may have.”
“No, he would not have. He was quite prim in his beliefs regarding what was proper. He would not have welcomed my advances when he was taking a bath.”
“I think you’re wrong there.”
“No, you knew him as a brother. I knew him as a husband. I assure you he would have been shocked had I insisted upon pleasuring him during his bath. He was good to me. Kind. I never regretted marrying him. Never. I never didn’t want to be married to him. But sometimes—” She inhaled deeply, let the air siphon out slowly. “Sometimes, I remembered a long-ago kiss in a faraway garden. And I would wonder things a married woman shouldn’t wonder. So I told my husband that I didn’t like his brother with all his bad habits staying with us. It was easier than acknowledging that his brother caused a whirlwind of confusing feelings within me.
“When you returned from Africa as Albert, the way I felt around you was very different. I loved Albert. Love him still. I didn’t want him to be dead. It was easier to ignore the nagging doubts. And by being too weak to face the truth, I betrayed him.”
“You didn’t—”
“I did. I have spent hours at the mausoleum talking to him, explaining myself, sorting out my thoughts and my feelings. You must never doubt that I love him.”
“I don’t. I never have.”
She nodded. This was so damned hard. “The problem, you see, is that I fell more deeply in love with the man who recently shared my bed, helped me bring my daughter into the world. So to be completely fair and honest, I have to subtract the depth of my love for Albert when he left and acknowledge that what remains is yours.”
“Jules—”
She held up her hand. “Please don’t say anything yet.”
He bowed his head slightly, acquiescing to her request. That should have made things easier. It didn’t. “When you were ill, so dreadfully ill, when Dr. Warren told me to prepare myself, that my husband would probably die, because of course he believes you to be Albert . . . I thought, ‘How will I possibly go on if he dies?’ There was a part of me that wasn’t sure I would want to, and yet I knew I must for Allie.”
“I promised I wouldn’t leave you.”
Tears burned her eyes. “But I’d hurt you. I made you think I didn’t want you.”
“Still, I’ve yet to fall out of love with you.”
A horrendous sob escaped. She covered her mouth, looking at him through the veil of tears. “What are we going to do?”
Moving to the other end of the sofa so he was nearer to her, he held out his hand. She should get up now and leave, she told herself, end this madness. Instead she intertwined her fingers with his.
“I am the Earl of Greyling,” he said. “To the servants, lords, and ladies, that’s all that matters. The title. Whether it is held by Albert or Edward, they don’t care. You are the Countess of Greyling married to the Earl of Greyling.” He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t see that we need to tell anyone that it wasn’t my hand that guided the pen that signed the marriage contract.”
“That seems sordid, unfair to
you.”
He squeezed her fingers. “If we acknowledge that Albert is dead, British law will not let me marry you.”
She breathed in a deep sigh. “Yes, I’m aware.”
“Any children we have will be bastards. I’ll never acquire an heir.”
Pulling her hand free of his grip, she folded her hands in her lap. “We need to end this now. You need to send an announcement to the Times explaining what has occurred.”
“And your reputation?”
“Doesn’t matter. You need your heir.”
A corner of his mouth tilted up. “I’m never going to marry, Julia. It would be unfair to her when my heart will always belong elsewhere.”
“So we live a lie?”
“Within that lie is the truth. I love you. I want to be your husband.”
She shook her head. “I need time, Edward, to be sure. If we take this path, we can never leave it. Already we risk Allie’s future by delaying the truth.”
“We have until the Season, until we go to London. But if we present ourselves as man and wife there, we will have to carry on.”
“When were you thinking of going to Town?”
“Sometime in May. We can delay until June. After all, I’m mourning the loss of my brother.”
And she was mourning the loss of her husband. How could she possibly consider pretending otherwise? She felt a great deal for this man; she simply didn’t know if it was enough or if what she felt was prompted by believing for two months that he was her husband. “You should remain in this wing so I am not unduly influenced by your nearness.”
“You want to be courted.”
“I want to be sure.”
“Know this, Julia. If you feel for me even a thimbleful of what you felt for Albert, I would be content. For the sake of propriety, to the world, I am willing to pretend to be Albert. But never again will I pretend to you.”
Chapter 19
Julia didn’t feel quite comfortable not wearing black, but neither did she want to go down to dinner wearing the austere bombazine, with buttons secured up to her throat and at her wrists. So she chose a gown of black silk and lace, an off-the-shoulder style that was at once elegant and respectful, and if she were honest with herself, also seductive.
She saw the approval in Edward’s eyes when she joined him in the library before dinner, was very much aware of it during dinner. In the small dining room, she sat at the foot of the table that would accommodate eight, so she could look at him head-on, rather than his profile.
She wanted—needed—whatever it was they might be moving toward to be different from what it was they were edging away from.
“I was thinking of rearranging the family wing,” she announced during their third course.
Studying her over his glass of red wine, he nodded. “Rearrange the entire residence if you like.”
“Not the furniture so much as the people. I thought to move into another set of suites.”
Where she had no memories of being with Albert, where everything would be fresh and new and different.
His gaze never wavered from hers. “Splendid. But I also want you to feel free to replace any furniture, any art, anything that isn’t to your taste. Neither my brother nor I ever had any sentimental attachment to anything here. We never knew much of the history behind the items. A consequence of not living here in our youth.”
“I’ve always found the residence welcoming. I want only to move to another set of suites for a bit of a change.”
“As you wish.”
She hadn’t expected that he would deny her; she didn’t think he would deny her anything she asked.
Their conversation during dinner wasn’t as lively as it had once been. They were both treading lightly. She worried now about revealing something to the servants she shouldn’t, slipping up. She couldn’t call him Albert. She knew differently now. Although she knew wives who referred to their husbands by their title, she’d always found it a bit odd, Grey being so formal and distant.
When they were finished with their desserts, he invited her to join him in the library. As she walked into the room that no longer reminded her of Albert, but rather of Edward, she strolled over to the shelves, studied the volumes lined up like well-disciplined soldiers. “I thought I might read aloud tonight.”
Having some form of planned entertainment would remove a little of the strain of striving to come up with conversation.
She was suddenly acutely aware of him at her back, the heat radiating from his body warming her exposed flesh. Her breath held, she waited, even as her heart pumped with a madness that made her light-headed. He reached up toward a bookshelf, the opening of his jacket barely floating over the curve of her shoulder, as light as a butterfly’s fluttering wings just before it landed on a petal. Inhaling deeply, she took in his purely masculine fragrance, wondering why she had ever thought his scent was the same as Albert’s. His was more tart, more bold. He was not one for subtlety.
“This one would prove interesting,” he said, his voice low, provocative, hypnotic.
She wanted to turn into him, press her cheek against the center of his chest, have his arms close around her. But it was too soon for such intimacy. She needed to be more certain of her feelings, that they were not influenced by grief and the prospect of loneliness. So she stayed as she was, watching as he slowly tipped back the leather-bound book, brought it down and placed it in her hands.
He stepped away. “Brandy?”
“Yes, please.” Why did she have to sound breathless, why was it that he always managed to so easily send her nerve endings rioting?
Cursing the unsteadiness of her legs, she made her way to a chair near the fireplace. He handed her a snifter, and she studied the reflection of the flames in the glass, in the amber.
“To new beginnings,” he said, raising his own snifter.
She looked over at him, lounging back in the chair, so causal, so comfortable. Always at ease with himself, always confident as to his place, even when that place had been as second son, younger brother. Even when that place had been pretending to be Albert.
After taking a sip of her drink, she set it aside, turned her attention to the book resting in her lap—and burst out laughing. “The Husbandry of Sheep?”
“There’s an excellent chapter on breeding, quite titillating.”
“You’ve read it?” She didn’t bother to hide her skepticism.
“At Havisham Hall it was the most risqué reading we could find. I was quite good at embellishing the narrative whenever I read it to the others.” He held out his hand. “Would you care for me to demonstrate?”
Smiling, she shook her head. “How did I ever believe for a single second that you were Albert?”
“Because the alternative was unthinkable, and that’s what I was counting on.”
And now the thought of him being dead was unthinkable. She set the book aside, picked up her glass, took another sip. “What if Allie is the only child, healthy and strong, I shall ever bring into the world?”
“I don’t want you for your breeding capabilities.”
But he should. Now that they knew the troubles that plagued her, she was an awful choice for him, for a man who needed an heir.
“That said,” he began slowly, “I very much want you for the act that leads to breeding.”
He spoke of mating as though it wasn’t something that should be limited to beds and darkness. Her face warmed with the thought of them finishing what they had merely begun. “You’re a bad influence.”
“You like that about me.”
She did, but it was more than that. “There are aspects to myself that cause me to experience a sense of shame. I am left with the impression that in a similar circumstance, you would experience no humiliation.”
Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his thi
ghs, his hands cupping the bowl of the snifter as though it were an offering. “I’ve always been of the opinion that what people do in private is of no one else’s concern.”
His gaze was so intense, practically boring into her, and she had to fight to hold it. “What if I wanted to do something that you found disgusting?”
“Such as?”
Why had she traveled here? “You are already quite familiar with my penchant for whispering naughty words.”
“Based on my reaction that unfortunate night, I should think you would be well aware that I have no objections to any words you would utter. Some of my favorites are naughty ones. Words should bring you no shame. What else?”
Taking another sip, she realized she hadn’t really considered his reaction that night. She’d been angered by his deceit, mortified that he’d heard her words, but it was her own shame that had prompted her reaction. He’d never given her any cause to experience a sense of degradation. He’d never teased, chastised, nor tormented her for the folly of her actions. She circled her finger around the rim of the glass. “Sometimes, I think about putting my mouth where I shouldn’t.”
“Where exactly?”
“Your—” She nodded toward his lap, or tried to.
“My cock?”
She glowered at him. “You say the word with such ease.”
“It’s a good word. Trust me, I would not take offense if you put your mouth there.”
“I’m not talking about putting it on the word, but on the object. And I don’t know why you make me think such wicked things.”
“Look at me.”
It was much easier to stare at the fire. Mayhap she should leap into it.
“Julia,” he prodded far too insistently.
She shifted her gaze over. He was sitting back, his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin on his hand, one finger slowly stroking just below his lower lip. She wanted to kiss him there.
“There is no place upon my person against which you could press your lips, your tongue, that I would find fault.”
“It’s not proper.”
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