Tempting Juliana (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 2)

by Royal, Lauren

  Thank goodness she was making chocolate cream.

  "Oh, you dear, dear child." She dashed the tears off her cheeks and wrapped Emily in a hug. "I'm supposed to be helping you, but you're helping me instead."

  "Are you going to go see Lord Stafford now?"

  "Not right now. I sent notes asking all the ladies to come sew today even though I've never held any parties on a Tuesday before. They'll be here in less than an hour, and I cannot get to the Institute and back in that short time." Dear heavens, James would be at Parliament by the time her sewing session was finished. "I shall have to go see him tomorrow. You'll stay for the sewing party, won't you?"

  "Is there any more cutting to be done?"

  "No. The cutting is all finished."

  "Then I'm going to play with Jane, Susan, and Kate." When Juliana opened her mouth to protest, Emily held up one of her small hands—the one that wasn't stroking her snake. "You don't really want me to sew, do you? I'm sure to end up bleeding."

  No, Juliana didn't want Emily to bleed. The mere thought of that made her feel sick. And the last thing she needed now was to spew a stomachful of chocolate over a stack of her hard-won baby clothes.

  "Go ahead and play with the Lambourne girls. You have my blessing."

  "Can I eat some chocolate cream before I leave?"

  "I need to put it on ice first to make it cold. I'll bring you some tomorrow."

  Emily helped her transfer the sweet pudding into three dozen cups before she departed to visit her friends across the square. After that, Juliana had just enough time to steal upstairs to her bedroom and wash her blotchy face before her guests arrived. She brushed on a little powder and went down to seat herself in the drawing room. As she picked up her sewing and Corinna kept painting without comment, she congratulated herself on how calm and composed she must seem.

  Rachael was still ill, and now Claire and Elizabeth were, too. As were Lady Stafford and Lady Balmforth. Lady Avonleigh was feeling better, though, and she arrived first.

  "Oh, my dear," she cried, "I'm so sorry." And she rushed across the room to enfold Juliana in her arms.

  Juliana rose from the sofa and let herself be comforted by James's aunt. Except the embrace wasn't comforting. The harder Lady Avonleigh hugged her, the harder she had to fight to keep the tears from falling again.

  "I wanted you to marry my nephew," Lady A murmured, tears in her voice, too. "I wanted you to be my niece."

  "I wanted you to be my aunt. I wanted Lady Stafford to be my mother." It seemed forever since she'd had a mother, and Juliana knew no one warmer or more motherly than Lady Stafford. She shuddered in Lady A's arms, inhaling camphor and gardenias. "There has to be something we can do."

  "Our James doesn't believe there's anything to be done. But if anyone can think of something, it's you, my dear." Lady Avonleigh pulled back and wiped the moisture from Juliana's cheeks with gentle fingers. "You keep thinking, and I will, too."

  "Thank you," Juliana said wanly.

  She was about to say something more, but then Aunt Frances came downstairs, and Alexandra arrived, and Corinna reluctantly abandoned her painting and came over to join them all and sew. And the talk turned to Frances's pending marriage and Alexandra's burgeoning belly. Not that Alexandra's belly was actually protruding yet, but she kept rubbing the dratted thing as though she could feel the baby inside, which made Juliana insanely jealous.

  Yes, jealous.

  James had been wrong when he'd said she was jealous before—when she'd first learned of Alexandra's pregnancy—but she was jealous now, because God only knew when she'd have a child of her own…the way things were going, probably never. And now Aunt Frances was talking about having a child. In her mid-forties! While Juliana doubted that would actually happen, she had to admit it was a possibility, since Frances still complained about her monthlies on a regular basis. She wondered if she'd have a child before forty. Probably not. But all the talk around her was happy talk, so she gritted her teeth and forced another smile and kept sewing, because they all had been kind enough to help her make baby clothes, and there was nothing more she wanted than for everyone to be happy.

  But the smile wasn't just forced, it was downright rigid.

  She rang for chocolate cream, but eating it didn't seem to help. The conversation flowed around her. Lady Avonleigh got up and wandered over to Corinna's easel, admiring her latest painting. "Very impressive, my dear."

  "Thank you," Corinna said.

  Alexandra smiled as she plied her needle. "Did you know Corinna plans to submit a painting to the Royal Academy next year?"

  "Several," Corinna corrected. "I'm hoping one will be accepted for the Summer Exhibition."

  "Really?" Lady A mused. "I did tell you my younger daughter was artistic, yes? Though it seemed unlikely, she always hoped to see one of her paintings in the Summer Exhibition, too. But her real dream was to be elected to the Royal Academy."

  "That's my dream as well," Corinna said. "I know it won't be a simple matter, but I'm willing to work hard for the honor."

  The older woman measured her for a moment, then returned to sit beside her. "I want to help you," she announced. "My daughter never attained her dream—I want to see you attain yours."

  Aunt Frances knotted and snipped off a thread. "How can you help her?"

  "I don't know, but I'll think of a way." Lady A picked up the little cap she was making and smiled at Juliana. "You're good at coming up with ideas. If you wouldn't mind helping, maybe together we can see that your sister becomes the next female member of the Academy."

  That would be wonderful for Corinna. And of course Juliana wouldn't mind helping. She needed another project. It would be a lengthy project—it would likely take years—but keeping busy would make it easier to bear her and James's despair.

  Well, not really. But she'd find a solution for their despair soon. She would talk to James tomorrow.

  Damnation—make that dear heavens—she was not going to cry.

  FORTY-SIX

  THERE WERE different ways of dealing with the blows life randomly chucked at some people. James's method—perfected during the years he mourned his brother, father, wife, and newborn child—was to bury himself in work.

  Since Sunday he'd been operating in a blur—a dark, painful, all too familiar haze. The miasma had lifted momentarily on Monday, when it had seemed Juliana's plan might succeed. But since learning the truth of Castleton's birth, the dark had closed in again.

  James couldn't say that what he faced now was worse than coping with death. Of course it wasn't worse. But it didn't seem better, either. Like loving Juliana compared to loving Anne, it was different.

  Death was final. One mourned, one grieved, one eventually moved on. But what he faced now…it wasn't final—it was forever. It was a life sentence. It seemed so arbitrary, so accidental, so damned unfair.

  And so bloody damned inescapable.

  And so he'd worked. Because it seemed there was nothing else he could do.

  He knew what he couldn't do. He couldn't abandon a fine young lady to a life of utter disgrace. He couldn't condemn himself to a future devoid of all honor. He couldn't make sense of anything in his irrational, haphazard world.

  But he could work.

  He could work at the Institute to save the world from smallpox. He could work in Parliament to better his country. He could work on his estate to improve the lives of those who depended on him.

  He couldn't help himself, and he couldn't help Juliana. But there were other people he could help. Right here, right now, his work was the only thing that seemed to make sense.

  One thing James knew—probably the only thing he knew for sure—was how to bury himself in his work to the exclusion of everything else. To the exclusion of everything painful. And so on Tuesday he'd risen at dawn and spent the entire day at the Institute. And the entire evening in Parliament. And then he'd gone back to the Institute and stayed there until the wee hours, finding things to do, until he could go
home and fall into bed and get up and start all over again.

  Today he'd risen at dawn and returned to the Institute, even though he had two physicians scheduled and wasn't really needed. There was no Parliament tonight, so he'd stay here until the wee hours, finding things to do, until he could go home and fall into bed and get up and start all over again.

  He'd do the same tomorrow and Friday. Saturday would be a little different—there would be an interlude in the middle for his wedding. But then he'd come back here to the Institute and repeat the pattern again.

  It wasn't an unbearable life. At least he had a purpose. And he was keeping himself so busy he didn't have time to think. Thinking threatened his mental health, and the busyness was a sort of medicine—a medicinal ointment he could smear all over everything to obscure the ills infecting his world.

  The medicine, sadly, was an imperfect cure. As the Bible said—Ecclesiastes, if he remembered right—"Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savor." Despite countless Sundays in church, he'd never quite understood what "stinking savor" was supposed to mean. But to put it another way, in simpler words, there was a fly in the ointment.

  And the fly was women.

  Women always—always, always—wanted to talk. Not the superficial talk of men—talk of news and the weather and horses—which didn't make one think. Men's talk could substitute for busyness. But women's talk was different. Because women didn't just talk.

  Women wanted to discuss things. And discussions required him to think. Which in turn sent forth that stinking savor he was striving so hard to avoid.

  If only he could avoid women.

  Unfortunately, that was impossible, since approximately half the world's population was female. There was his mother, always wanting to discuss things. There were his assistants, always wanting to discuss things. The stinking savor was everywhere, threatening to make him think, bombarding him with stinking thoughts.

  Since Aurelia was his only healthy relation, she was this morning's assistant and therefore his current threat.

  "There must be something that can be done, James, something we haven't considered."

  "There's nothing, Auntie. Would you hand me that box of sugar sticks?"

  "Certainly." She reached to the shelves behind the counter. "But there must be something," she said, handing him the box. "We need to talk."

  "I've got an Institute to run. I don't have time for a discussion."

  "We'll have to talk later, then. I've promised to help Lady Juliana sew this afternoon, and then I was planning to stay home and nurse Bedelia this evening. But I suppose I can sneak out and meet you at Almack's."

  "I won't be attending Almack's." If there was a place in London where the stinking savor was most prevalent, it had to be Almack's. And besides, the last thing he needed was a marriage mart. In three short days he'd be married.

  Damnation, his pending marriage was the worst thought of all. He wasn't even really having a discussion, and yet Aurelia was making him think stinking thoughts.

  Gritting his teeth, he turned from the counter. "Fifty-two! Follow me, please." A mother rose with her three little girls. Four more talking females. He led them to a treatment room as quickly as possible.

  He walked another set of patients to the door and brought more patients to the room they'd just vacated. He restocked sugar sticks in all three treatment rooms. He unwrapped lancets and other supplies. He scribbled in his account books and revised next week's schedule. He returned to the reception room to fetch more patients.

  "You're not needed here," Aurelia said. "You're not leaving me anything to do."

  "Just keep handing out numbers. And smiling at patients. They appreciate the reassurance."

  "You should go home, James. You've got dark circles under your eyes. Before you need a physician yourself, you should go home and rest."

  Home? Where Cornelia was languishing in bed waiting to discuss things? "I think not." The door opened, and two people went out past another person waiting to come in. "Here comes another patient. You can give her a number." In fact, maybe he'd do that himself. Handing out numbers didn't require one to think. Turning away, he reached over the counter for one of the worn paper squares.

  "You're number sixty-seven," he said as he turned back. "I'll call you when…Juliana…"

  His voice trailed off, sinking along with his heart.

  "James." Walking closer, she offered him a tentative smile, a sad smile, a smile that made his heart keep sinking until it dropped clear down to his toes. "We need to talk."

  Oh, no. "Have you thought of a solution?"

  "Not yet. We need to think together. We need to discuss—"

  "There's nothing to discuss. Nothing will come of it, Juliana. What's the point?" It would make him think. It would make him think stinking thoughts.

  "Can we go somewhere private?"

  "I don't want to talk."

  "Please, James." Her eyes were green, deep green, green and pleading. "Please, let's just go to a treatment room."

  "James," Aurelia said softly, "your patients are staring. Take her to a treatment room."

  Women. If only he could avoid women. "The treatment rooms are all in use."

  "Take her to your office, then," Aurelia pressed.

  "Don't you think that would be improper?" he asked his aunt, and to Juliana he added, "Don't you think Lady Frances would disapprove?"

  "Bosh," they said in unison.

  "We've been together in private before," Juliana reminded him, no doubt referring to not only a treatment room here at the Institute but also a secluded, lantern-lit pocket garden, a secret hideaway under a staircase, a warm cubby inside a greenhouse. "I didn't hear you protest then."

  He hadn't been trying to avoid thinking then.

  "It's not as though you're likely to ravish her," Aurelia pointed out. "You're marrying another woman."

  There it was. That word marrying. A stinking thought. And he wasn't even having a discussion.

  He gave up. "Very well," he said, "but there's nothing to discuss."

  He hurried Juliana into the back, determined to avoid a discussion. There was only one way he knew of to do that. One way to avoid stinking thoughts.

  He tugged her into his office, shut the door, and crushed her mouth with his.

  It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a kiss born of frustration, of disillusion, of fury and pent-up lust. It was a kiss meant to distract, a kiss meant to devour. It was a kiss full of hurt and regret and indelible, immeasurable emotion.

  A kiss that consumed them both.

  Juliana's arms went around him. Her lips parted under his assault, her mouth warm and sweet and tasting of passion and promise. She smelled not of a stinking savor but of sunshine and flowers and everything he desired. He didn't think; he just felt. He just felt Juliana, and she felt impossibly wonderful.

  Bodies straining, they fell together to the desktop that filled most of the tiny office. Papers flew. Buttons unbuttoned. Fingers skimmed, hearts pounded, skin prickled with delicious heat. He wanted her more than he wanted life, needed her more than he needed to breathe.

  "Juliana," he choked on a shuddered sigh.

  She sat up. "We cannot do this."

  "We cannot not do this." He sat up, too, and brushed silky strands from her troubled eyes. "We cannot keep our hands off each other."

  "You're right, but it's wrong." She slid from the desk, suddenly pale, her fingers shaking as she reached behind herself to fasten buttons. "We must talk—we must figure out—"

  "We cannot change anything." Still sitting on the desk, he turned her around so he could button her dress for her. Between his spread knees, her hips felt warm through her thin dress, her back like silk beneath his fingers. "We cannot talk, not without touching, and we cannot touch, because that's wrong, and—" He swore under his breath and buttoned faster. "This is why I didn't want to see you until after Saturday."

  "You were right." He heard tears in her voic
e, those blasted tears that seemed to rip him up inside. "I cannot see you again until after you're married, until after—"

  "Don't say it." He couldn't stand that word married. After he was married, he'd never feel her warm body again. "I cannot bear to hear it."

  "I'll go home," she said, trembling. "I have to make fifty-two more items of baby clothes by the day after tomorrow." Her voice wobbled. "Your mother is still ill, and so are Lady Balmforth and Rachael and Claire and Elizabeth." Her tone rose in pitch. "That leaves only Alexandra and Lady Avonleigh to help me, Corinna, and Frances, and of all of us, your aunt is the only decent seamstress."

  He turned her to face him. "You're going to kill yourself, Juliana." Her chin was wobbling, too. Tears trickled down her cheeks. "You cannot sew in the state you're in. The Foundling Hospital can make do with a few less clothes."

  "I promised. A Chase promise is never broken—have I ever told you that before, James? It's been our family motto for centuries. I have to make fifty-two items of baby clothes, even though I'll never have a baby."

  "Is that what you're thinking?" He didn't know which ripped him up more, her tears or her line of thought. "You'll have a baby, Juliana." He pulled her close and felt the warm tears dampen his half-buttoned shirt. "You'll have a baby with another man."

  "I don't want another man's baby," she whispered.

  "You say that now, but you will." Another man would love her. Another man would make her his. Another man would join his body with hers and give her a child.

  Those were among the most stinking thoughts he'd ever had, ever.

  He'd known he shouldn't think.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FOR TWO DAYS, Juliana had done little but sew baby clothes morning, noon, and night, but she still needed to complete thirty-three more pieces by the end of the day.

  She didn't know how she was going to do it. Her sisters and Aunt Frances were sewing almost as much as she was, but none of them were very speedy or talented. Lady Avonleigh had helped them all morning, but James had needed her this afternoon at the Institute. And everyone else was still ill. Recovering—and thank heavens for that—but not yet strong enough to spend hours plying a needle.