Either way, she couldn’t stay. He hadn’t shared the house with another woman—with the exception of his staff—for over a year and he might have little reputation to protect but he certainly didn’t want to make it any worse. It was already hard to hire staff as it was.
Not to mention, he didn’t want her ruined. As annoyed as he might be with having his leisurely day interrupted, he had grown fond of the woman he’d been writing to and would never wish her harm.
Never.
Another reason she had to leave. He was dangerous to women. So far only his wives, but who knew if that could extend to female friends? He only hoped his mother didn’t get wind of Viola’s arrival. She might think she was another potential bride from him. He didn’t care if he died without an heir. With six younger brothers, there were more than enough Cynfell men to go around. Besides which, once his mother found out she was American, there would be no end of questions and concerns. He wouldn’t put it past the old woman to put a stop to any further correspondence.
He smirked at his reflection. A marquess being bullied by his mother. He wasn’t the first and he wouldn’t be the last. The marchioness had strong ideas of tradition and they certainly didn’t include one of those ‘money-grabbing, uncouth Americans’ charming her son. If she had to intercept his every letter, he knew she would.
Julian ran a comb through his hair and slapped on some cologne. At least his head was a little clearer now, and he could work out the problem that was Viola Thompson. She couldn’t stay in the local inn alone. Christ, he couldn’t believe she didn’t even have a bloody lady’s maid with her. If she was his, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Anything could have happened to her.
Except she wasn’t his. She never would be. He hoped to keep up their letters once his business deal with Mr Thompson was completed. A relationship by letters was something he could manage, for surely even he, as cursed as he was, could do no harm to her if she was on the other side of the ocean.
He turned to eye the tabby cat currently curled up on his pillow. “You shall have to come and meet her. You’ll like her.”
Patches opened one eye, gave his master a disinterested look and closed it again. Julian shook his head. The two things he enjoyed in life were his cat and Viola Thompson’s letters. In the dead of night, when he was at his loneliest, that purring creature and a re-read of her bright, intelligent penmanship usually got him through. And when it didn’t, that was when he turned to the drink. He certainly preferred the after-effects of the letter and the cat though.
“Let us see if we can’t make a better impression and find somewhere for her to stay. Perhaps Mrs Whittleworth will know of someone who can play lady’s maid at the inn.”
The cat buried his head deeper into his tail to indicate his annoyance at having his nap interrupted. Julian gave the cat a brief pet and retreated before Patches got too angry. He would find the housekeeper, ask her about finding someone to employ for however long Viola needed someone and be sure to have dinner arranged. Perhaps he could ensure Miss Thompson wasn’t too angry with him by way of a good hearty meal. He really didn’t want to ruin their friendship with his terrible mood.
Julian made his way down to the bottom of the house and weaved through the corridors to the kitchens. The few maids milling about dipped their heads and one of the footmen stepped aside and greeted him. The aroma of boot polish mingled with that of freshly baked bread. He found the housekeeper in the servants’ dining hall, polishing the cutlery.
She glanced up. “Good afternoon, my lord. I hear we have a visitor.”
“We do indeed. Can you make sure a decent meal is served tonight?”
“Will Miss Thompson be staying long?”
“Only tonight, I hope.” He pressed his hands to the back of a chair and leaned forward. “Mrs Whittleworth, do you know of any girls in the village who are in need of work?”
The slender older lady gave him a look that he knew meant no. Mrs Whittleworth had worked for his father and he still recalled the days when she’d had dark hair instead of salt and pepper locks and her face had been relatively wrinkle-free.
“None of them will come here, my lord, you know that.”
He sighed. Yes, he knew that well. The locals were a superstitious bunch who had never set foot outside of the village let alone the county. He had the touch of death, they said. Those who worked in his house would all meet terrible endings. While he might have a tendency to drink and stay behind closed curtains, he was a fair master and good lord. He did his best to run things well, even when he’d been lost to despair. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered to them was that he had lost three wives.
“What if they only needed to stay at the inn? I need someone to accompany Miss Thompson.”
“Whatever for?” She placed down the fork she was holding and gave him a look. “You have enough space here and Jenny can act as a lady’s maid. There will be no shame in it as long as she has Jenny on hand. Besides, she’s American, is she not? They don’t stand upon ceremony as we do.”
“She needs to leave,” he said tightly, gripping the wooden back of the chair.
The housekeeper’s shoulders rose and fell in a heavy sigh. “Don’t tell me you are starting to believe the rumours too?”
Julian didn’t answer. How could he? What would he say? Yes, I believe it. I’m cursed. I’m no good for women. Hell, half the population of the village had started to believe he’d had a hand in his wives’ deaths which was preposterous, especially considering Mabel had been two counties away when she’d been killed.
Two counties away and in the arms of a lover, he thought bitterly.
If something happened to another woman, he would never forgive himself.
“I’ll send one of the boys down to the village shop to ask.” She picked up another fork and waved it at him. “But be pleasant to this American lady. Don’t scare her away. You’ve spent too long avoiding women—avoiding everyone—and it will do you some good to spend some time with her.”
Julian frowned at her. If it wasn’t for the fact she was like a second mother to him, he’d have thrown her out on her arse. None of the other servants would dare speak to him like that. And what did it matter if he didn’t want company? Did it harm anyone if he avoided social events? Really they should be grateful he spent his time attending to estate matters rather than devoting time to London society or dining with all the local families. Unlike some of his brothers.
He pressed away from the chair and tried not to huff. “Just make sure a decent meal is prepared and I will be as gracious as I can be,” he promised.
Whether his limited manners would be enough to make up for his greeting, he didn’t know. Visitors—even ones with a liking for cats and beautiful hair—made him shudder.
By the time he had paced about the library for quite a while, circled the drawing room several times, checked that no signs of his debauched evening existed any longer and given in to the annoying voice in the back of his head that told him he should put on a necktie and a dinner jacket, it was late evening and dinner was served.
Mrs Whittleworth had managed to create a spread worthy of a large dinner party. He grimaced as he eyed the platters and the large pheasant in the centre. He strongly suspected his housekeeper was guilty of matchmaking. As much as he enjoyed writing to Miss Thompson, he had no intention of doing anything other than continue to write to her. Correspondence—now that was the sort of relationship he could have with a woman. No fear of her coming to harm at a distance.
Julian circled the long table—currently only set for the two of them. It seated twelve normally with himself at the head of the table. The shining walnut piece of furniture hadn’t seen that many guests since his second wife who loved to entertain. A jab of agony shot through him as he recalled her at his side, radiant and laughing. She had always enjoyed company and tried her best to persuade him to enjoy it too. It was an image that was so far from the last memory he had of her.
Now Miss Thompson would take her place. Funny how he could see her there much more easily than he ever pictured his third wife. Drawing in a lengthy breath, he drew out his chair and sat. Hands twined together, Julian ran his gaze over the gilded candelabra in the centre of the table, then up to the chandelier hanging above. No doubt Viola would appreciate the elegance of the room and the extra feminine touches the housekeeper had added. He noted several fresh bouquets scattered about the dining room.
Half-an-hour later, and with dinner getting cold, Miss Thompson had yet to arrive. Arms folded, Julian tapped his foot and glanced at the mantel clock. Where in the devil was she? Damn her, keeping him waiting like this. He had better things to do with his time like... Well, he knew there was something that needed to be done, he just couldn’t think of it at this time.
Jenny had informed her what time dinner was. There was no excusing this. Was this an American thing? Arriving fashionably late? If so, it was a bloody rude thing to do.
Heated anger began to rise under his skin. He tried to inhale a deep breath through his nose and let it abate but it didn’t work. He hadn’t even wanted to eat dinner with her so why was he so incensed?
“Damn this.” Slamming back the chair, he rose and flung down his napkin. “Damn her.”
Julian stalked out of the dining room, through the drawing room and into the hall. He wasn’t even hungry now. He’d go back to the library and she could eat alone if she ever turned up.
But a footstep on the stairs made him pause and swivel. Ideas of eating alone and telling her exactly how he felt about waiting for her dissolved. The cream gown she wore caught the light of the lamps, almost blinding him. When she took a few more steps down and beamed at him, he wasn’t entirely sure his vision would return fully. He opened and closed his eyes in quick succession to ensure he was seeing her properly. He felt as though she had taken a dagger and jabbed him right in the heart.
The neckline was square and low, giving him a perfect view of her high breasts. Her hips swayed naturally from side to side as she descended and the satin gown was cut to highlight that slender waist. Layers and a train enhanced any curves she might have and for some inane reason, the heeled shoes she wore captured his attention. In the same colour as her gown with delicate bows on the front, he found himself imagining drawing off those shoes one at a time and kissing the arches of her feet before slipping down her stockings and lavishing attention higher up.
Julian gritted his teeth. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to shame himself.
It seemed to take an eternity for her to reach the bottom of the stairs. She offered him a shaky smile. Did he make her nervous? She hadn’t appeared one bit intimidated by him earlier. That wasn’t really his intention. But neither was wooing her, as Mrs Whittleworth hoped. Better that he set down some simple rules and let her know that her stay was only going to be brief—just until he could find someone to look after her outside of his house.
“Good evening,” he said hoarsely. If only it was anger making his voice sound as though he’d been gargling sand. No, it was something much, much worse.
Desire.
He’d long admired the Viola Thompson he knew on paper. He enjoyed her strong opinions—a sharp contrast to his wives’—and her passion for England and its history. But now he found himself admiring the reality of her. The rapid rise and fall of her breasts against that neckline... Good God, he found himself silently begging for one of those pert globes to escape the tight confines of her bodice. Never had he been so enraptured by one movement of the body. Up and down. Up and down. His pulse quickened in time with her breaths.
Which were incredibly rapid.
He dragged his gaze back up to her face, bracing himself for a look of disgust at his far too obvious perusal of her. Instead she had a glazed look to her eyes.
“Good... evening...my lord.”
His brow furrowed. Though her hair was elegantly coiled into some hairstyle that seemed to defy gravity and a touch of rouge enhanced her cheeks, her skin appeared sallow. The tremor in her voice and the slight shake of her body made his scowl deepen.
“Is all well?” He held out an arm, half-fearing she would collapse. Was she wearing her corset too tight? His second wife had been a delicate sort and prone to swooning after being bound in too much whalebone.
She nodded and took his proffered arm. If it hadn’t been for his concern, he might have appreciated—or more likely been annoyed at—the way his skin pricked as her delicate arm curled around his. As it was, he felt the slight weight of her lean into him and it convinced him all was not well at all.
“Miss Thompson? Viola?”
She turned to glance up at him and the pull on his arm increased. It happened too quickly for him to react properly. In a crumple of silk and petticoats, she collapsed. He managed to prevent her from hurting herself with his hold on her arm, but he hadn’t been fully prepared for the dead weight she would become, and she ended up slumped against the marbled floor. Half-dragged down by her hold on him, Julian came fully to his knees and turned her over.
“Miss Thompson?”
Her eyes were open but glassy. When he put a hand to her forehead, he found her skin to be clammy. Her eyes fluttered closed and she gave a sigh. The woman was unwell, and he had no idea how sick she might be. Had she contracted some awful disease on the journey here?
Julian pressed an arm underneath her head and legs and lifted her into his arms. Now he was ready for it, she seemed to weigh almost nothing. Viola remained awake but docile, as though something was addling her mind. She burrowed against his chest, resting just above his heart. That very same organ pulsed in response—a deep, sharp spasm that said he enjoyed having a woman in his arms, trusting him.
He took the stairs two at a time and strode through the central part of the house to the west wing. There he installed her in the Sunflower room—so called because of its position over the garden and the sunflowers that grew under the window. Just as he was laying her down on the bed, Jenny scurried in.
She paused at the sight of her master leaning over Viola. “James said something about Miss Thompson swooning, my lord.” She glanced at the bed. “Oh dear.”
The footman was almost right. “Not a swoon as such, but she has collapsed. She is ill.” He eased to standing and eyed her. She gave a slight moan and rolled onto her side. He skimmed his gaze over her body. It was no good, the dress would have to go. Whatever was afflicting her made her breaths harsh and raspy and no corset or tight gown would help that.
Tentatively, he reached out and touched the bodice of her gown.
“Oh no, my lord. You must leave that to me.”
Julian snapped his hand away. Had he really just been scolded by his servant? He glanced at the young girl and saw nothing but concern there. He narrowed his gaze at her and spotted a tiny patch of red on each of her cheeks. He had. And she was right of course.
Fighting down the idiotic disappointment, he swivelled on his heel and went to the door. “I shall send for the doctor.”
“James has gone for him already, I believe, my lord,” Jenny replied patiently, hands clasped in front of her in a demure pose.
He could tell when he wasn’t needed. “Very well. Do all you can.”
The maid nodded and he stole one last glance at the fitful woman. A deep, churning sickness ate into his gut. He couldn’t be responsible for another woman’s death. Please God, don’t let her die.
***
Something warm and fuzzy tickled her face. Viola tried to push it away but it persisted on tickling her. She dragged open her eyes and was immediately seized by a sneeze. She rubbed the end of her nose and pushed at the fuzzy thing once more. It shifted a little, allowing her to move her head from side to side.
“You must be Patches,” she murmured to the cat, immediately regretting it when her throat felt as though someone had pushed rose thorns down it.
The tabby ignored her and did a quick rotation before settling back on her pillow.
She peered around and noted she was back in the Sunflower room. Faint streams of light shimmered in underneath the curtains. It was daytime then. How long had she slept? And when had she gone to bed? Viola scowled. She certainly didn’t remember undressing and climbing onto the soft, worn mattress. Though her aching body very much appreciated the comfort of the bed at present.
A cold. What wonderful timing. At least her brothers weren’t here, teasing her for being a weakling. Her head swirled when she tried to sit and make out the time on the mantel clock. A fire burned in the hearth, releasing fingers of lovely warmth in her direction but a deep chill sat inside her. She sneezed again and fumbled for a handkerchief that she spotted on the table next to the bed.
She swiped her nose with the cotton and noted the embroidery. J.A.R. What did the A stand for? Augustus perhaps? Alexander? How strange that she didn’t know that about the man who could soon be her husband. Viola sighed. She hoped he hadn’t been put off by how unsightly she must be with a runny nose and likely pasty skin.
The door opened sharply, making her jolt. Patches took offence at her sudden movement and darted off the bed to scurry past the intruder. Julian stepped aside and shook his head. “Some doctor you are,” he said to the tabby.
His gaze landed on her and a half-smile stretched his lips. “You’re awake.”
“Yes.” She winced at how awful her voice sounded. “How long have I been asleep?”
“It is early afternoon now. You slept away the entire night and morning. You must have needed it.”
“I must have done. Forgive me.”
He shook his head and approached slowly as though moving toward a horse that might startle at any moment. “Nought to forgive. You are ill.”
“If you send Jenny to me, I am sure I can dress and join you downstairs.” She pushed herself farther up the bed.
A hand came to her shoulder and she stilled. She stared at the hand and it withdrew abruptly. From the look on his face, it seemed he couldn’t quite believe he’d touched her. A slight warm sensation ate through the chill in her body where he had rested his hand all too briefly.
Sinful Confessions (Cynfell Brothers Book 1) Page 3
