“Delia,” Julian said patiently.
“You’re not interested, dear.”
“You’re right, my love.”
“You’ve no manners whatsoever, Julian. No consideration for your elders, either. You can put everyone to sleep with interminable talk about your favorite subject—and no one cares, dear, I may as well enlighten you—but when someone else wants to discuss—”
Julian sighed wearily, looking quite sulky, and Delia sighed, too, shaking her head in fond disgust. Delia might scold and nag and sweetly put him in his place, but she clearly believed her large, often lethargic nephew hung the moon and would have gone to the stake in his defense. He gave her hand a little pat and she smiled in contentment.
“It was a successful evening, though,” she observed. “Particularly for you, Dana dear. Why—you danced and danced. There wasn’t another girl there who received such a rush.”
I made no comment. Delia brushed her pale opal satin skirt, giving another sigh.
“A pity Charles couldn’t have come home a few days earlier. He’ll be sorry he missed it.”
“Charles thinks just about as much of these affairs as I do,” Julian told her.
“Dear, you do know how to put a damper on things. I really can’t imagine how I’ve managed to abide you all these years.”
Julian grinned and gave her hand another pat. When we arrived home, Delia stiffled a yawn, declared she could hardly keep her eyes open and, after giving us both a hug, wandered off to her room. Julian and I stood in the foyer, soft candlelight bathing the walls. He looked slightly rumpled, his handsome black frock coat creased, his white silk neckcloth askew, but he had never looked any more appealing. His hair gleamed rich and dark in the candlelight, a bit unruly now, and a faint, thoughtful smile curled on his lips as he gazed down at me with those warm brown eyes.
“Tired?” he asked.
I nodded.
“I’m not surprised. You did receive quite a rush tonight. Oh yes, I saw, even if I was busy talking. Every randy young buck at the ball had to have his turn with you. I suppose they all made advances?”
I nodded again.
“Young scoundrels! Any of them start trying to hang around you, I’ll take a horsewhip to him.”
“Would you?”
“Believe it.”
“Most of them are quite eligible,” I informed him. “Almost any one would be considered a fine catch.”
“It isn’t marriage they’re interested in,” he informed me.
I smiled. “I know,” I said.
“Did any of them make—”
“They all extended invitations. You’ll be happy to know I refused all of them.”
“Good,” he said gruffly.
I smiled again, feeling unreasonably pleased. Could he possibly be jealous of all the attention I had received? Could he possibly be seeing me as the woman I was instead of the girl he believed me to be? I looked at him and felt warm, wonderful feelings inside and longed to touch his cheek and have him fold me in his arms. I didn’t know if it was merely affection or gratitude or something altogether different, but the urges I felt were extremely hard to resist. Looking into his eyes, I sensed he felt similar urges and was finding them just as difficult to control.
“I—I’d better get to bed,” I said.
“I’ll walk you to your room.”
There was a husky catch in his voice I hadn’t noticed before. He took my elbow and guided me slowly up the stairs. My skirt rustled quietly in the silence. Julian sighed when we reached the landing and casually slipped his arm around my waist. Only a few candles were burning in the wall sconces, and they cast flickering gold patterns that only intensified the shadows. I was acutely aware of his strong arm holding me, of the bulk of him beside me, the warmth of his body, his smell. I felt weak, and my feet hardly seemed able to work properly. I was glad of the support of that arm.
“Here,” he said, stopping in front of my door.
“I—I really am tired,” I murmured. “I suppose it was all that dancing, or—or maybe it was the champagne.”
Julian released me. I stood with my back to the door and Julian stood in front of me. So close. So large. So warm. I loved him, but I wasn’t sure of the nature of that love. There was so much hunger inside me, so many feelings pent up and longing for release. Raoul had aroused them, even Raoul, whom I detested. Julian looked at me with dark eyes full of affection … or was it something else?
“I’ve been neglecting you,” he drawled.
“Neglecting me?”
“So bloody wrapped up in my work I haven’t paid the least bit of attention to—to the changes going on right under my eyes.”
“Changes?”
“You’ve developed into a—into a very lovely young woman.”
“Thank you, Julian.”
“I’m very proud of you,” he said.
“I—I’m glad.”
“Very proud,” he repeated.
I leaned against the door, feeling weak and confused, waiting. The house was so silent, so still. Everything seemed to be suspended. Several long moments passed as he continued to look into my eyes, his own glowing darkly, full of conflict now. He reached for me, his big hands curling around my upper arms and drawing me to him. He started to say something, hesitated, frowned, and my knees trembled. Our eyes held for perhaps a moment more, his frown deepening, and then Julian shook his head.
He released me. He kissed me on the brow.
“Good night, Dana,” he said quietly.
He turned then and walked down the hall, and I listened to the sound of his footsteps, leaning back against the door, too weak to turn the doorknob and go inside. The sound receded and finally there was silence again, broken only by the rapid beating of my heart. I closed my eyes, the prey of a dozen different emotions. I heard a door shutting in the distance as Julian went into his bedroom, but it was a long time before I stepped into my own.
Chapter Nine
DELIA WAS IN A FLUTTER. It wasn’t often that she went out socially, and having lunch with her friend Natalie Aumont was a big occasion. Several other ladies were going to be there as well and they would spend a delightful afternoon continuing the gossip-fest begun at the ball three nights ago. Wearing a gown of watered gray silk accentuated with mauve silk bows, she fussed and fidgeted as the carriage was brought round. Where was her mauve silk reticule? Should she carry her smelling salts? Really, it was just too much trouble, she would stay home. It was going to rain, anyway. I fetched her reticule and saw to it that her smelling salts were put in. and told her that she was going to have a wonderful time. Delia sighed, lifted her eyes heavenward and wrapped a purple lace shawl around her arms, informing me that she had no idea when she would be back but it was bound to be late.
“When those old biddies start telling family tales and tearing reputations asunder, there’s no stopping them.”
“And you’ll love every minute of it,” I told her.
“Of course I never gossip, but I may as well confess it, I do love listening. It’s so amusing. And what are you going to do today, dear?”
“I’ve no lessons, thank goodness. Mister Howard has taken ill and won’t be coming to drill me in math. I thought I might explore the east wing. I’d like to see those Boulle cabinets you told me about.”
“They’re covered with dustcloths, alas, along with everything else.”
“Julian said there were two Fragonards, a Watteau, too, I believe.”
“Shrouded in sheets. They’d fetch a fortune at Etienne’s, but they’ve been in the family for decades and I wouldn’t allow Charles to take them to the shop. One has to hold on to something.”
“I’m very eager to see them.”
“You’ve taken an immense interest in such things.” Delia remarked, fussing with her shawl. “You already know more about furniture and paintings and porcelain—the things we sell at Etienne’s—than most people I know. You’ve spent hours poring over those weighty old volum
es, studying the plates. Raoul couldn’t tell the difference between a Sevres vase and a Meissen if his life depended on it, and he works at the shop.”
“When there isn’t something better to do,” I said dryly.
“I fear Raoul isn’t the most reliable employee—Julian’s always in a rage about it—but he is family. We can hardly toss him out on his ear, although I must admit Charles has been tempted to do just that any number of times.”
“I’d love to see the shop sometime,” I confessed.
“Yes,” she said vaguely. “Perhaps Charles can show it to you when he returns. Oh dear, here’s Pompey. Is the carriage waiting? It is? This is a bad idea—I’m beginning to get one of my headaches. Do I look all right, dear?”
“You look enchanting, Delia.”
“At least I’ve kept my waistline, which is more than I can say for the rest of them. They do envy me for it. Have a pleasant time, dear.” she said as I stepped out onto the portico with her, “and don’t get too dusty. Gracious! It is going to rain—look how dark the sky is. I’d better not go.”
“You wouldn’t miss it for the earth,” I told her.
Delia denied it vehemently, and she made protesting noises as Pompey opened the carriage door, but her step was as light as a girl’s as she climbed into the carriage and she couldn’t quite conceal her excitement. Eager to feast on macaroons and the gossip she adored, she gave me a merry wave as the carriage pulled away. I lingered on the front steps a few moments, looking at the sky. It was indeed dark, an ugly pewter-gray tinged with purple and heavily laden with swollen rain clouds, but nothing short of a hurricane could have deterred Delia from her visit. Thunder rumbled in the distance as I stepped back inside. Kayla met me at the foot of the stairs, an exasperated expression on her face.
“Jezebel’s havin’ another one of her spells,” she told me. “She’s already broken a cup and two plates and chunked a perfectly good rice pudding out of the back window.”
“Whatever set her off?”
“You all,” Kayla informed me. “She had a lovely lunch planned for today, clear soup, lobster salad, them little finger sandwiches Miz Delia likes so much an’ first Miz Delia tells her she won’t be lunchin’ today an’ then Mister Julian goes gallivantin’ off an’ says he won’t be lunchin’ either, an’ Jezebel says you don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.”
“Lord,” I said.
“The rice pudding was gonna be you all’s dessert,” Kayla added.
“I guess I’ll have to go speak to her.”
“Guess so. Me, I ain’t goin’ near the kitchen till she simmers down.”
“You—you say Mister Julian went out?”
Kayla nodded. “He said he was goin’ to go talk to some printer man about plates, though what a printer’d know about plates beats me. Said he’d probably be gone all day as they were going to test inks or somethin’. First time he’s left his study in months.”
“It would be a wonderful opportunity for us to clean it.”
“No, ma’am. Mister Julian don’t want no one in his study no time. If even a paper’s outta place he throws a tantrum.”
I didn’t doubt it, but I longed to snoop about nevertheless. Good judgment prevailed, however, and I bypassed Julian’s study and went into the kitchen to pacify the distraught Jezebel. I assured her that she was the best cook in the city and said that Miss Delia wouldn’t be having anything nearly as delicious as her lobster salad and finger sandwiches and added that Julian would be terribly upset when he discovered he’d missed her famous rice pudding. Jezebel calmed down considerably but wouldn’t let me leave the kitchen until I had eaten a luncheon large enough to satisfy any field hand.
It finally began to rain as I started to the east wing, huge drops pelting down on me as I crossed the courtyard. I darted under the overhanging gallery and unlocked the French doors with the key Delia had given me earlier. As I opened them, there was a loud blast of thunder, a blinding flash of lightning, and the rain began in earnest, splashing noisily on the tiles in the courtyard, pounding on plants and leaves. Closing the doors behind me, I gazed around at the gloom, hardly knowing where to begin. Everything was murky and gray, dustcloths covering the furniture and making ghostly shapes that seemed to hover in the semidarkness, ready to leap on the unwary. I had recently read one of Mrs. Ann Radcliffe’s scary gothic novels, but I wasn’t at all unnerved. Spooks and goblins held no terror for me, never had.
I found a candelabra under one of the dustcloths, several candle stubs in the holders, and once I had lighted these a golden glow slowly began to diffuse the gloom. There was dust everywhere, cobwebs in profusion and the unmistakable smell of mildew. I’ll have to get a fleet of servants in here, I thought. Closed up or no, the east wing should be thoroughly cleaned and the dustcloths washed. Some of the furniture under them was undoubtedly valuable and shouldn’t be allowed to ruin for lack of polish. I welcomed the idea of the project. It would give me something to occupy myself with besides reading and the interminable lessons, and it would also help keep my mind off other things.
I had hardly seen Julian since he said good night to me at my bedroom door. He had been closed up in his study during the day, and during the evening meals he had been preoccupied and distracted, paying no attention to Delia or me, returning to his study as soon as dessert was finished. I sensed that it was deliberate. I sensed that he had been as disturbed by those few minutes in front of the door as I had myself. During the meal last night, as Delia chattered on about nothing in particular, I had looked up from my plate to find him studying me intently, his brown eyes bothered. He looked away quickly and I gave no indication that I had noticed, but I felt certain I knew what was bothering him—the same thing that was bothering me.
Holding the candelabra high, I started down the hall toward the small parlor where, I knew, the Watteau and one of the Boulle cabinets were kept. Shadows flickered on the walls, and the sound of the pouring rain echoed strangely here inside, creating a muted, monotonous background. Cobwebs floated from the ceiling like ghostly silken threads. The sour smell of mildew and dust was almost overwhelming. Yes, I would have to get the servants in here. It was in a shocking condition. Good hard physical work would help me sort things out in my mind.
Julian was an extremely attractive man, warm and appealing, and I did love him. There could be no denying that. I loved him! but … but did I really want to sleep with him? Was it that kind of love? No, I decided. I was eighteen years old and I knew the facts of life and knew about the needs blossoming inside me, but Julian wasn’t the one to relieve them. I admired him, respected him, wanted to please him and make him proud of me, but, even though I might be attracted to him in a purely physical sense, I didn’t want things to change. I wanted to love him as I loved him now, as my savior, as my mentor, as the man I could always rely on for warmth and wry teasing and protection. That would all change were I to become his mistress.
And Julian … He had considered me a child, had treated me as he might treat a bothersome, amusing kitten. This had irritated me, and from the first I had endeavored to make him see me as a woman. Three nights ago, I had finally had my wish … only to discover that it really wasn’t what I wanted at all. I felt I had unleashed something that could easily get out of control. Julian saw me as a woman now, all right, a highly desirable woman, and it was going to be difficult to keep things the way they had been. There was a new tension between us. Never again would there be that playful badinage, that give and take such fun for both of us. The jaunty camaraderie was gone, I knew. Never again would either of us be completely at ease with the other.
It was all so bewildering and confusing, and it was all my fault. It was as though … as though I had been carelessly playing with some weapon I wasn’t even aware of as such. Now I had spoiled things and upset Julian and made him feel things he didn’t want to feel, couldn’t help feeling now. Maybe they were right after all. Maybe I really was wicked. I loved Julian in a special way, would
always love him, and I wouldn’t have him hurt for the world. Where would it all end? I had a lot of thinking to do and, I realized, several decisions I must make. Time. I needed time, but right now I just wanted to put it out of my mind.
Finally reaching the parlor Delia had described to me, I set the candelabra down in the center of the dusty hardwood floor. The carpets had been rolled up and stored away, I was glad to see, but a set of heavy golden brocade drapes hung over the small room’s one set of windows. Clouds of dust flew in the air when I pushed the drapes apart, revealing a set of deplorably dirty French windows overlooking the narrow strip of garden and high stone wall on this side of the property. It was raining furiously, waves of it slashing against the windows, and the constant flashes of lightning made the candelabra almost superfluous.
I waved my hand in front of me, coughing at the dust and thankful I had on the simple pink and tan striped cotton frock instead of something nicer. I was already dusty, my face undoubtedly smudged, and the rain had done little to lessen the sultry heat. I could feel the perspiration running down my spine and moistening my armpits. Oh well, it made no matter. No one was going to see me. I began taking off the once white cloths, causing more clouds of dust to fly in the air. Maybe I wouldn’t have to worry at all, I thought wryly as the dust billowed around me. Maybe I would simply die of asphyxiation here in the east wing. When the dust finally settled, I gazed around at the pieces I had uncovered and, oh yes, they were superb, much too lovely, much too valuable, to be drying up and gathering dust in this abandoned room.
There was a lovely, delicate sofa of intricately carved rosewood, upholstered in faded wine-colored brocade richly embroidered in a deeper wine. Running my hand along the top, I saw the royal sunflower motif carved in the wood and knew from my studies that the sofa must be Louis XIV. The rich red-brown gloss of the varnish was there beneath the dust, begging for polish. I longed to give it the attention it needed here and now. Beside it stood a small table, also of rosewood, inlaid with floral patterns in different woods and lavishly festooned with brass garlands, sadly tarnished now. Although I couldn’t properly date it, I guessed that it was Louis XIV, too. And there across the room was the Boulle cabinet, incredibly beautiful with its intricate brown and gold marquetry and its smooth, graceful lines. From my reading I knew Boulle had died in 1732, and his pieces had never been equaled in beauty and craftsmanship.
They Call Her Dana Page 20
