In the beginning, he’d assumed some sordid bits were lurking just below the surface of her beauty, sure to trip her up and expose her for the manipulator she must be.
Unfortunately, he had come to see precisely why old Barrowby had chosen her. God, if he ever became the Fox, he would be looking for an apprentice with precisely the combination of qualities that Julia possessed in abundance. Intelligence, deep loyalty, honor—she wouldn’t do more than allow a brief stolen kiss while unofficially engaged to another man!—and twist-minded as all the Four must be.
She worked as hard as anyone in her staff and never let a complaint pass her lips. Her humor never failed her, yet she never lost control of the people she directed. She was clever and thoughtful, gathering all her facts before making an informed decision.
And she was the most beautiful, sensuous woman he had ever seen.
Truly, a woman to tempt the gods.
And yes, he was tempted. Tempted to woo her for himself, to have her as his lady, to keep her forever as his own.
And tempted to let her be the Fox, curious to see where she would take the Four and the nation, intrigued to watch her mow Liverpool’s objections down with the swift blade of her quick mind.
But what of the danger? What of the cost to her as a woman? Why should she be put through that deprivation and toil when she deserved to be cosseted and protected and sheltered from it all?
He was faced with a choice. Complete the seduction, or walk away. He knew he could worm his way beneath her defenses—he’d read every word of those diaries. He knew the one absolute way to fulfill her every dream.
The problem was, could he do that to her? He didn’t have to. He could turn about this moment and ride away.
Yet that would mean leaving her forever.
Julia could not help but watch the hands of the clock, waiting for Marcus to return. After she had seen Elliot off, she had told Marcus what she had done.
He’d nodded thoughtfully and then informed her that he wished to give Elliot a proper farewell.
Julia raised a brow. “You mean, you wish to make sure he actually leaves.”
She received a brief, white-hot glance in return. “Indeed,” he said huskily. “For I would not be so obedient.”
With that nerve-wracking response—dear Lord, she was in deep trouble now!—he’d ridden off to drive his rival most politely from the vicinity.
Men and their territory.
The thing that Julia had learned a long time ago about men—bless ’em, every one—was that they were never the sort to think about why they were thinking about what they were thinking about. A woman might wonder why her mind was preoccupied with a certain thought, but a man was a simpler creature. He merely had the thought and then moved on with things.
That noted, it had become easier for Julia to “think like a man” as Aldus had so often instructed her. Male minds did not indulge in tangents of thought, so neither did hers—or at least not while she was working.
It was only after a long day of sifting through intelligence reports and records of meetings of the House of Lords—a place she would never see the inside of, that was sure, although she held all their lives in her female hands—and newssheets, even the tawdry ones, for one never knew where the next bit of information would come from, that Julia even had time to think of herself as a woman, much less to luxuriate in dreamy ponderings of love and life and lovemaking …
She hadn’t written in her diaries since … since when? Since the night Aldus had his first attack?
Three years. Her secret fancies had lain in the dust for three—
Or had they? Alarm shot through her. The intruder.
Or worse yet … Marcus.
He couldn’t have, yet he always seemed to know, in the garden, in the lake—oh, God! Hadn’t she once written a passage about the lake?
She leaped to her feet and ran down the hall so fast that the wind in the wake of her fluttering wrapper made the candles flicker in their sconces. She ignored the leaping shadows and took the stairs two at a time, not bothering to touch the handrail on the way down. Her bare feet skidded on the marble but nothing slowed her.
The morning room was dark and cold, but Julia didn’t need the light. She dropped to her knees beside her sewing basket and scrabbled beneath the embroidery goods for the false bottom, her fingertips missing the catch the first time. She took a breath and forced her hands to calm. “You won’t know until you open the bloody thing,” she told herself.
The catch moved beneath her searching fingers and the bottom lifted. She ran her hands over the small space beneath—
The key was there, cold and solid to her touch.
Julia let out a great, slow sigh and dropped her head. She ought not to have left such damning material so accessible—in her front parlor yet! What if the Royal Four’s henchman had found those scorching entries—what would they make of her then?
Oh, the things she’d written about, the wicked, seductive things she’d written of herself doing!
She must burn them all, immediately.
She removed the key and let the false bottom fall shut, carelessly pushing the now tangled mass of skeins and needles back into place. Never mind. She hated embroidery, anyway.
Her short journey to the front parlor was slow enough for her to become aware of the chill on her bare feet. She turned back to gather a lit candle from the last sputtering sconce.
She used the candle to start the kindling in the parlor. There was no point in bothering with coals, for she wouldn’t need the fire long. She opened the inlaid box and removed the nursery key, then went quickly up the cold stairs to retrieve the trunk.
Setting it down by the hearth back in the parlor, she pulled out the first of her diaries. In fact, it was not the very first. There had been one other, the one she had begun when Aldus had taken her and her mother in. She’d burned that diary when she’d wed Aldus and left Jilly behind forever.
She closed her eyes, remembering the pages filled with the large looping handwriting and unrepentant misspellings of Jilly Boots. The many hours sitting by her mother’s bedside had caused the words to pour from her young heart.
Pain at her mother’s deterioration, fear of being alone in the world, first impressions of the luxurious Barrowby, descriptions of the mysterious but magnanimous Aldus. One page in particular needed no paper, for it was inscribed in her heart forever.
“Mum died tonight. Like a whisper, she went. It’s good she won’t hurt anymore.” Then, scrawled in deep impressions that had nearly torn the paper, “What am I goin’ to do now?”
Julia sat back and opened her eyes. She’d done what Aldus had instructed her to do, of course. She’d married him in the Barrowby chapel the day she’d turned eighteen, her hands cold and shaking, his not much better. They’d shared a silent dinner and then they’d shared a bed.
Jilly had been curious and willing, although nervous. Aldus had been reluctant and in the end, incapable. They’d made a better success of it later, when they’d come to know each other more, but there had never been any satisfying resolution for her. Aldus had been quick and shamefaced about the whole business, never at ease with the difference in their ages.
Eventually, when his best efforts failed to bring about an heir, he’d let the endeavor go entirely with ill-concealed relief.
Leaving Julia—as she then had begun to think of herself—to expend her considerable sexual drive in her “scribblings.”
Her hands caressed the embossed leather cover of the diary she held in her hands. The most lurid fancies began with this, the second diary. Julia turned resolutely to the now crackling fire. “Sorry, but there’s no getting around it. They must go.”
Her voice was firm enough but her hand didn’t seem so sure. She ought to burn them. It was the only way to make sure someone sent by the Royal Four didn’t get their hands on them.
Then again, she’d been well taught never to ignore any source of information. Along with her lone
ly fancies, these diaries contained insights into herself, something she felt sorely in need of now, with no one to advise her.
Very well, then. She would read them all first.
Then she would burn them.
She turned to the first page of the second diary and began to read. In moments, she was completely absorbed. Heavens, she’d forgotten all about that intriguing scenario!
Marcus returned late and let himself into the kitchen after setting his stallion up in temporary quarters—a stall made of stacked water casks and hay fresh from drying in the field. A bag of grain and a pat on the rump was all that was needed.
Once inside, Marcus ran a hand through his hair. He’d argued with himself on the entire ride to Barrowby, yet he still hadn’t come to a decision. He was unused to such dithering. He was more the sort to make snap decisions and pay the price later, but then, rarely had his options so fought with that place inside him he was beginning to think of as his heart.
At the moment, it was his stomach that was speaking. Meg usually left some provisions available in the larder. Marcus grabbed a hunk of dry bread from the bread bin and poured a mug of milk from the pitcher in the larder. A cheese caught his eye and he grabbed that, too. His hands full, he backed from the larder with the makings for a plain meal.
The unmistakable click of a pistol being readied cut crisply through the silence.
Marcus froze.
“Drop what you’ve stolen,” commanded an imperious voice.
Marcus let out a slow breath. “If I do that, Meg’ll have my hide when he sees the mess tomorrow.” He twisted his head over his shoulder to grin at Julia. “Can’t a bloke have a meal after a hard day of saving lives?”
Julia tipped her pistol up but didn’t relieve the hammer. Her gaze was shockingly cool. He’d thought—
“This is not the first time you’ve wandered my house in the dark, is it, Mr. Blythe-Goodman?”
Oh, hell. Bloody, bloody hell. She’d deduced he’d read her journals. God, he’d shoot him, too! He opened his mouth to save his arse, but his mind failed him. “Er … I …”
Her lips twisted to one side. “Meg told me someone has been raiding his kitchen for days. Now I know who.”
“Ah …” Oh, criminy, was that all? Relief swept him, turning his alarm into a rush of something else altogether as he realized what she was wearing.
Not a great deal. Her shoulders were nearly bared by the tiny cap sleeves of her nightdress. She looked like a goddess, standing there in that flimsy gown that draped enticingly from every curve.
His mouth went entirely dry. He didn’t know what it was made of but he blessed the weaver for allowing the dim light from the hall to frame her body in misty silhouette.
From within the haze of his sudden lust, he felt the round of Camembert slip from where he’d stuck it under his elbow. It rolled across the floor and spiraled to a stop at her bare feet. Marcus swallowed and grimaced weakly. “May I … offer you some cheese?”
She gazed at him somberly. “Is there any gooseberry jam left?”
To his relief, she pushed back the hammer of the pistol and set it upon the heavy worktable. Although the image of her capably holding a pistol while gowned in a translucent nightdress was going to haunt his dreams for a bit, he could tell.
Definitely his sort of girl.
They sat facing each other, tailor-fashion, on the table—”Don’t tell Meg”—and devoured a picnic of bread, cheese, and jam, washed down with a shared mug of milk.
Julia ate with good country appetite, something else Marcus admired in a woman. He couldn’t abide seeing ladies picking at their food as if nothing were good enough for their refined tastes.
“I left Elliot in good health,” he told her. “He’ll be on his way by now.”
She sent him a knowing glance and swallowed. “Are you sure you didn’t speed him along?”
Marcus smiled slowly, letting her see his attraction. “I might have … a bit. I cannot deny that I was glad to see him safely gone.”
Her gaze locked with his, her tongue licking a crumb from her lip. “Marcus …” Her voice was suddenly husky.
It sent a welcome tingle up his spine. “I like the way you say my name,” he said softly. “The way you speak slowly, as if you want to be sure every word is perfect.”
She blinked, breaking the spell. She pulled back and cleared her throat. “What a thing to say.”
Marcus allowed her room to breathe. He’d had enough of manipulation and seduction. His attraction was real enough, but he wasn’t going to use it to win.
From this point on, he would use no weapon against her heart but his own.
He smiled at her, suddenly sure of himself and of her. Whatever might happen, this amazing, valiant, brilliant woman was more than able to hold her own against any man, including him.
“Hold still,” he told her. He reached out with his thumb to caress a smear of jam from the corner of her mouth. He let his thumb linger, then slowly slid it across her lower lip, enjoying the texture of her full mouth.
Her eyes were very wide and she looked as if she might bolt, so Marcus pulled his hand back. He couldn’t resist licking the jam from his thumb, however—an action that made her swallow hard.
Julia couldn’t bring breath into her lungs. His touch—his smile—oh, heavens, those eyes …
Her heart was racing and her body ached with longing. She let her tongue slip out to clean the sticky place on her lip and watched him watch her.
Then she whispered, “Good night, Marcus,” and slipped off the table to flee to the safety of her room.
14
The day that I look into his eyes, I will know him for mine.
Once in her bedchamber, Julia pressed her hands to her heated cheeks. That abrupt departure—very well, escape—from the kitchen hadn’t been prudence, or caution, or anything but naked, panting terror.
Oh, she truly shouldn’t have read every single page of those diaries! She was stimulated almost past bearing, as if her body hummed like a hive of bees!
Yet, for all her fancies and longings, for all her dreams and wicked, sensuous thoughts, Julia had abruptly realized that she was scarcely more practiced than a virgin. Here was this man, this virile, worldly male, who would have expectations of her. She was a full-grown woman, a widow.
What if she fumbled it? What if he laughed? What if she couldn’t please him? What if he expected her to get completely naked? Oh, she wished now she’d resisted her daily enthusiasm for Meg’s iced lemon seed cakes.
What if she couldn’t catch her breath and died of unquenched lust right here and now?
She ran to the balcony doors, hitting the latch with one hand and springing them wide. The cold night air swept into the room, cooling her cheeks but not the heat in her body. She stepped out into the night and leaned both hands on the balustrade, gulping the icy air into her lungs.
She was a fool. Marcus wanted her. He’d made it entirely clear. She wanted him—oh, sweet heaven, she wanted him!—and there truly shouldn’t be such a fuss over the matter. She could take a lover if she wished … and she wished with all her heart.
What if the Three find out?
Bugger the Three, that’s what. The Lion and the Cobra had their brides, the Falcon must have something— a sword collection, or Restoration codpieces, or some such cold-blooded passion—and even Liverpool had his sweet, shy lady whom he was deeply devoted to.
Well, then, she would have Marcus … if she dared.
The cold was finally dimming the glow of her lust and allowing her to think. She wrapped her arms about herself and tipped her head back to stare at the endless night sky. She was sorry she’d left Marcus in the kitchen—he must think her an idiot! Still, when he returned to his room, if she could keep from making a fool of herself again, then perhaps, just perhaps—
She smelled sandalwood.
Can you not sleep, Julia?” His voice was deep and soft in her ear. He was so close she could feel the warmth
of his body behind her.
Without thought, she turned and wrapped her arms about his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers.
If Marcus had thought stealing a kiss from Julia in the garden had been exciting, then being wantonly, abandonedly kissed by her was a revelation! Her supple, delicious figure was pressed fully to his body, her hands were buried in his hair, and her lips and tongue were passionately trying to dismantle his.
Unfortunately, he had something to tell her before he could allow himself to partake. It was time to tell her who he was and why he was here … that is, if he had the courage.
He took her by the shoulders and detached her, inch by inch, though it cost him dearly. “Julia, I—”
“Marcus Blythe-Goodman, make love to me at once,” she panted. “Or I swear I’ll fetch that pistol again!”
He laughed, a lust-hardened bark. “Much as I love your sweet talk, darling, I cannot—”
She reached for him again and he weakened. She was so hungry and he’d wanted her for so long—only days, but it felt like a lifetime. Then he shook off the spell and pressed her back again.
“Julia, I need to—”
She shoved away from him and turned around. With her hands pressed over her face, he couldn’t hear what she said, but it sounded something like, “Idiotidiotidiot …”
He moved behind her and wrapped his arms about her waist, tugging her into the warmth of his body. “Darling, you’re freezing. Come inside and we’ll … talk.”
He felt her shake her head violently.
“Julia, stop being an ass. Come inside.”
Her head came up sharply and she twisted to stare into his face, fury shining through her damp embarrassment. “Did you just call me an ass? How dare you!”
Relieved to see a spark of the Julia he knew, he grinned down at her. “If you don’t like the name, then don’t act the part.”
Her mouth opened and shut, then she pushed past him and stalked back into her bedchamber. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to think quickly. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, he didn’t know what the hell he meant to tell her.
Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 03] Page 14
