9 Ways to Fall in Love

by Caroline Clemmons

  A river of desire ran hotly through him. Breaking their kiss was more of a battle than fighting a rip tide. A mighty force had brought them together and it didn’t want to let go. Neither did Will. He craved nothing more than to tenderly make love to Julia, forever.

  With superhuman effort he pulled back. For a millisecond. Then she tilted toward him and he caught her close, her chest rising and falling against his.

  Holding her like this was blissful torture. For a winded moment the only sounds in the attic were their husky breathing and the birdsong trilling outside the windows.

  “It doesn’t matter who you are,” she finally whispered.

  “That’s another thing not to say to a man. He’ll assume he can do as he likes.”

  “You can.”

  Will clenched his teeth in firm resolve. “No. I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

  She looked up at him with a potent blend of yearning and confusion in her expression. “But, Will, I love you.”

  Smoothing strands of reddish-gold hair from the side of her face, he asked, “Do you really, or is it Cole you long for?”

  “Can’t I love both?”

  “Yes. But I can’t be both to fulfill some strange fantasy.”

  “So you truly think I’m addled in the head?”

  He blinked against the stunning effect of her entreating eyes. “You’re the most enchanting girl I’ve ever known.”

  “But a balm pot?”

  “Just obsessed with the past.”

  “Will, don’t you see? We are the past.”

  He fought the urge to devour her tempting mouth and reasoned with her instead. “Where does that leave us now?”

  “To learn from it and rejoice in our happiness.”

  “It’s not that simple, dear heart, even if for a single moment I believed you.”

  Tears welled up in the depths of her green gaze and she pulled away from him. He let her go, following with his eyes as she stumbled blindly across the room. “Julia.”

  “No—” she choked out, and sank down in a corner beside a sheet-covered form where she sat, hugging herself.

  How forlorn she seemed sunk amid the clutter from past centuries, shaking with the sobs she battled to quell. He felt like a total cad. Perhaps he should simply play along with her delusion. It would make her happy and Lord knows he hung on her every heart-wrenching smile. But how, in all good conscience, could he do that?

  Boiling over with frustration and uncertain what to do, Will walked quietly to Julia. He knelt and gathered her, shaking, in his arms. If only he could truly comfort her as every part of him hungered to do. He didn’t dare.

  “I don’t know what’s happening between us, but I won’t walk away.”

  She sniffed, resting her head against his chest, then— “Will, look,” she whispered hoarsely.

  The sheet covering the pale shape beside them was slipping to the floor as if drawn by an unseen hand. There, leaning against the attic wall, was the partially completed portrait of a woman, a highborn lady. Not just any lady.

  Will saw at once that this painting was Cole’s work. But that wasn’t what struck him so forcefully his mouth went dry. It was the woman, her sweet face, wide green eyes, and wealth of copper hair.

  Julia gave a small gasp.

  Will absorbed the image in disbelief. Cole’s masterful strokes had captured Julia perfectly. Her unspoiled loveliness shone forth from the canvas in luxuriant brushwork and rich color, a marvelous blend of movement and light reminiscent of Rembrandt. He’d admired the hounds and horses painted by his remarkable ancestor, but Cole’s greatest achievement was this unfinished jewel.

  “What on earth?” he whispered, shifting his incredulous gaze to Julia’s enormous eyes. How was it possible that this two hundred year old portrait conveyed the essence of the young woman he gripped as if she might somehow tumble into the painting?

  She was rigid in his arms. “Will,” she said, as if squeezing the words from her tight throat, “it must be true. I was here before.”

  His logical mind balked at the irrationality of it all. “Are you Episcopalian or Buddhist, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Definitely Anglican.”

  “Then there must be another explanation.”

  “Such as?”

  A fog of unreality cloaked everything about this unique girl and Will strove to think. “Maybe you’re descended from the original Julia Maury who visited here in 1806...and your family name was changed to Morrow over the years, or she’s from another branch of the tree.”

  “Maybe, though I’ve never heard of her before. At least, my parents never mentioned her to me. And even if I am her descendent, how does that explain my crazy sensations and memories of the past?”

  He snatched at something, anything, the least bit reasonable. “Inherited memory. Animals carry memory from their ancestors. How else do birds know where to migrate? Perhaps people have something similar, only most folks aren’t as attuned to this primal sense as you are.”

  Julia didn’t appear persuaded, but at least she seemed to consider his theory. “I suppose it’s possible. Should I call my parents to ask if there was a Julia Maury in the family who resembled me because my portrait’s hidden away in the attic?”

  “That will land you on the next flight home.”

  “Anything I say will. Especially if I mention the portrait was painted by the very man Julia was supposed to wed.”

  Will shook his head to clear some of the haze. “Hold on. Cole and Julia were engaged?”

  Julia stopped in mid-retort, her eyes deeply pensive. “Yes, though I can’t say how I know they were. I just do.”

  Will ran both hands through his hair. “Does that make us engaged?”

  She stared at him blankly.

  “Just following up on your theory about us being them,” he said.

  “In a way, I suppose it does.”

  He couldn’t resist playing with her a little. “What way might that be? I mean, either we are or we aren’t. And another thing, did Cole ever make love to her? I mean, you.”

  The present day Julia colored the hue of pink pearls. “He never even kissed her, except her hand and cheek. He was a proper gentleman.”

  Will smiled. “I’m relieved to hear that.”

  “But you don’t really believe any of this, do you?”

  “No. But as you do, I’m glad to know you’re still chaste. It’s such a rare quality these days.”

  She opened her pretty mouth in protest. “Stop being cheeky. You still haven’t explained the portrait.”

  Will slid the dusty sheet back up over the painting and tucked it around the sides. “I’ve attempted to. If you don’t accept my supposition, then I suggest a bizarre coincidence between you and Julia Maury.”

  “You sound like a lawyer.”

  “I should. I spent enough time and money in law school, even passed the bar.”

  Her chin jutted out at an adorable angle that badly made him want to kiss her again. “Disallowed, barrister.”

  “My degree or hypothesis?” he asked in mild amusement.

  She crossed both arms over her enticing chest. “Come on, Will. A bizarre coincidence?”

  “Very well, then. You’re psychic. Satisfied?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “It’s the best I can do for now. We’d better get back downstairs before people start talking.”

  “As if they’re not already.” Julia broke off in mid-argument. She paled. Raising a trembling finger, she pointed mutely.

  Will turned his head toward the shrouded painting. Again, the sheet was slipping back off the canvas as if invisible fingers tugged at the cloth. Once more, it lay in a crumpled pile at the base.

  A prickle ran down his spine like scattering ants. The sun still shone, birds sang...all was as it had been before...but some unseen presence was at work. “Good Lord.”

  Julia flung her arms around his neck and clung to him as if for dear life. “I don’t
understand! I don’t understand!”

  He clutched her to him with the urge to protect her from God only knows what. “Neither do I. But if, as you say, I’m the reincarnation of Cole, then how am I pulling that damn cloth off? Or is there some other ghost here with a particular interest in this portrait?”

  “No. It must be Cole.” Julia’s voice was muffled against Will’s shoulder. “Who else?”

  “Just because we can’t answer that doesn’t mean it’s him.”

  “Yes,” she insisted. “Maybe he’s warning us.”

  Will gave a low whistle. “What about?”

  “Perhaps what he did before. To be on our guard.”

  “Against what? Who?”

  “I wish to God I knew.”

  “One thing’s clear. I’m taking that portrait with me. There’s more work to be done and I suspect he wants it finished.”

  “Do you paint?” she asked shakily.

  “I used to.”

  She burrowed into his chest. “Cole—I mean Will. I’m scared.”

  He couldn’t blame Julia for her slip of tongue after all that had happened right before their eyes. “Don’t be afraid. It’ll be all right.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure, but it will. I’ll make damn certain,” he swore, his own fear making him both angry and determined.

  A high-pitched yapping carried up from downstairs boisterous enough to blare through the span of time. The canine alarm could only mean one thing, worse than all the spirits of Foxleigh combined.

  “Heaven help us. It’s Jasper, Grandmother’s bratty little Jack Russell terrier. As strange as our situation is now, matters are about to take a turn for the worse. Brace yourself, Julia. The Queen Mother has arrived for a royal visit.”

  Chapter 7

  Jasper barked a continuous summons as grating to Julia’s ears as a clanging gong. Uncertain what to do regarding the ‘royal visit,’ she stood hesitantly while Will hurriedly hung his coat on the costume rack. Rubbing a hand over his chin, he ran his eyes down the length of her. She shied back from the critical light in his dark gaze.

  He shook his head. “Leave your sandals and sundress behind. We’ll get them later. Heaven forbid Grandmother Nora should think I was up here while you changed. What a time for her to come.” He rolled his eyes then fixed them again on Julia with a compelling glint. “Deep breath, girl. Gird your loins.”

  She twisted her borrowed gown between clammy fingers. “I don’t have loins.”

  “Everyone has. Except action figures.” He picked up the portrait, turning the face toward his chest.

  “Do you think your Grandmother will like me?”

  Giving Julia a sideways glance, he said, “She doesn’t like anybody. The question is will she approve you? I’ll stash this painting in my room. Don’t feel up to explaining the resemblance between you just now.”

  Will headed to the attic door. Julia caught up her long blue skirts and followed nervously at his heels. Feeling as though she really were meeting the queen, she descended the steep stairs.

  The instant Will’s feet hit the second floor landing he bolted down the hall and into his bedroom. A moment later he reappeared without the painting and dashed back to Julia. “That’s the only place in this world she doesn’t go. Might catch me in a state of undress.”

  “William! I’m waiting! Where are you, sir?” the old lady called from the first floor, her commanding tone punctuated by the incessant yapping.

  Eyes narrowed, he muttered, “Am I twenty-eight or twelve?” then called out, “Coming, Ma’am!”

  Good heavens. Will even called her ma’am. She was bloody royalty. “Maybe I should just wait in your room?” Julia attempted.

  A dry smile accompanied the shake of his head. “Chin up. Stiff upper lip. You Brits excel at that.”

  “Only when faced with dire calamity, like the Blitz. This is worse, somehow.”

  “Tell me about it.” He took her arm in a no-nonsense grip and marched her down the hall.

  Julia trailed at his side, biting her lower lip.

  “Smile,” he said under his breath. “Victims have gone to the gallows with more cheer than you.”

  Summoning the semblance of gaiety to her quivering mouth, Julia lifted her head as they walked down the staircase. By heaven, she would meet her fate with regal courage. Oh, for pity’s sake, she wasn’t Mary Queen of Scots being led to her execution. Or was she? She surely felt the part.

  In the great hall, seated on one of the gold brocade Queen Anne chairs, was an imperial figure. The elderly lady held a gilt-headed cane like a scepter in a bony hand heavily marked by age. Nora Wentworth might be old but she emanated authority like a true monarch of the realm. She could have been Elizabeth the First, only her hair wasn’t flaming red. A bluish halo permed in carefully set waves wreathed her head beneath the navy pillbox hat. Her equally antiquated navy and white suit was finely tailored and hung on her thin frame. Tall for an elderly woman, she hadn’t shrunk like most.

  Mrs. Wentworth turned her head at their approach and fixed them with hooded watery eyes; not dark brown, like Will’s, but blue. A web of wrinkles lined her face like ancient parchment and obscured any resemblance to him, but they shared the strength evident in her, though Will was a more benevolent ruler.

  Jasper’s eyes bugged out at the sight of Julia and he barked so forcefully his paws lifted off the polished floor. The sound was deafening.

  His mistress rapped her cane on the wood with an echoing tap. “Jasper. Be silent, sir.”

  The noise ceased and the little brown and white terrier groveled at her feet. Julia heard Charlotte’s voice droning in the next room as she conducted the tour.

  Mrs. Wentworth fingered the pearls roped around her sagging neck. “I do weary of these interminable guests. Much preferred it when the place was alive with hounds and horses.” Her watery gaze brightened as if in memory, and then the spark faded. “Jasper. Sit down this instant.”

  The small dog obediently lowered his wagging rear end. Julia stood where she was as Will hastened to the waiting matriarch. He bent to kiss her papery thin cheek and gently embraced her frail shoulders.

  “Grandmother Nora, I’m so glad to see you.”

  She seemed pleased, but the type of woman determined not to show it, and gave a slight nod. “Took me ages to convince that fool doctor the outing would do me good.”

  Will’s brow creased. “Are you unwell?”

  “Nothing the grave won’t cure.”

  “Is the staff looking after you properly? I’ll make phone calls, check round more often.”

  She waved a blue-veined hand at him. Gold bracelets jangled and her fingers sparkled with diamonds. “The cooks can’t poach a proper egg and I despair of the toast ever arriving warm, but my biggest complaint is my age. You can’t fix that with a phone call. I’m old, boy.” Her thin lips curved in a half smile. “And when I’m gone you’ll inherit Jasper and not a penny more if you aren’t worthy.”

  Upon hearing his name, the little dog raised his head and smiled ingratiatingly. Mrs. Wentworth cocked a rheumy eye at Julia. And it immediately became clear that she was in the presence of a force of nature, the kind that swept you up in a vortex and swirled you away. She wanted to latch onto Will but didn’t dare under his grandmother’s quizzical regard.

  The matriarch arched a pale gray eyebrow. “Well, sir, introduce this young lady to me. Quiet sort, isn’t she?”

  “Respectful,” Will amended.

  “An improvement over most young people these days.”

  “A vast improvement. Nora Wentworth, this is Miss Julia Morrow.” He gestured at Julia. “Our assistant guide and heirloom plant expert.”

  Julia tottered to the grand dame like a debutante attending her first ball. Somehow, the curtsy just came naturally and she extended her hand. Words tumbled from her mouth. “I’m honored to meet you, Mrs. Wentworth, and delighted to be in your gracious home. Foxleigh is an historic treasure, truly,
a treasure.”

  “So you said.” The faint smile flickered again at her narrow lips and she took Julia’s fingers in her bony hand. “British, eh? And been to court, by the looks of you. Yes, well, do sit down, Miss Morrow before your knees give way. You too, William.” She waved him off. “Don’t hover about.”

  Shooting Julia a bemused look, Will pulled up a chair for her at his grandmother’s right. He sat on the chair at the old woman’s left. She formed a barrier between them that her physical stature alone didn’t account for.

  “I’ve instructed Charlotte to keep the gathering at bay while we discuss Midsummer’s Eve festivities,” Mrs. Wentworth said, blotting her neck with an embroidered handkerchief. “There’s much to be done.”

  Will leaned in toward his grandmother. “Yes, Ma’am. I’m overseeing the restoration of the wall and the grounds will be spotless. I’ve ordered lanterns for the paths. Foxleigh will be at all aglow, just as you wanted.”

  Julia widened her eyes at him. This was exactly how she’d envisioned Foxleigh in her dream of Cole, if it had only been a dream.

  Mrs. Wentworth looked hard at her. “What’s so surprising about these preparations, girl?”

  Julia didn’t know what to reply.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Wentworth moved on to another subject. “It’s overly warm in here, William. Where is Jon with those lemonades? Jon?” she said, raising her voice. “There are three of us to serve now!”

  “I hear you!” he called back.

  “Let’s see you, then.”

  A middle-aged man with an ample paunch and diminishing hairline puffed into the room bearing a tray with three tall beaded glasses. Like his wife, Charlotte, he’d donned Williamsburg-style clothes, a white colonial shirt, olive green waistcoat and knee breeches with stockings and black buckled shoes.

  His round face bore the same good-natured smile as his wife. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m coming.”

  “My knickers are none of your business,” Mrs. Wentworth said, but the reproof didn’t reach all the way to her eyes.

  He grinned more broadly. “Now, Nora, you and I go back a long way, to the time when you were a young thing shinnying up the apple tree with your bloomers on display.”