"I wouldn't miss it either," said Sarah. "Of course, convincing Matthew to allow me out of his sight for an entire evening will present a challenge. He thinks that because I'm expecting I've turned into delicate spun glass—although I can't deny that his constant attention is flattering and quite, um, titillating." She turned to Carolyn. "I imagine your bridegroom won't be anxious to spend an evening without you."
"Hopefully not." An impish grin touched the corners of Carolyn's mouth. "But I'm certain Daniel and Matthew won't object to spending a few hours together at their club. It will be good for them to miss us."
A wave of pent-up emotions washed over Julianne, and she looked down. The gloomy shadows swallowing her feet in the dimly lit room seemed the personification of the future looming before her.
"You're both so fortunate to have husbands who love you so much," she whispered, unable to keep the hitch of wistfulness from her voice.
"Are you all right, Julianne?"
Carolyn's question, along with her gentle touch on Julianne's sleeve, pulled her gaze upward. "I'm fine," she said, offering what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
Emily frowned. "I don't believe you. You seem out of sorts. And preoccupied."
I am. By the same thing that has haunted me for weeks … thoughts of something, someone, I can never have.
Yet she couldn't admit the truth, not even to her closest friends. They'd be shocked and warn her to turn her romantic inclinations toward someone suitable. Advice anyone would give an earl's daughter harboring an impossible fascination for a man whose circumstances were so far removed from her own.
"Has your mother said something to upset you?" asked Sarah.
Julianne grasped onto the excuse and shot her conscience an inward frown. After all, when didn't her formidable mother say something upsetting? Indeed, she'd done so only a few hours ago, and on a topic she could discuss with her friends. And one that brought reality back with a thump.
"Actually, yes," Julianne admitted. "I overheard her and Father talking earlier this evening about their plans for my future. Apparently the Duke of Eastling expressed interest in me."
"The Duke of Eastling?" repeated Emily, her expression reflecting the same wide-eyed dismay Julianne felt at the name. "But he's … so … so … not young."
"He's only just turned forty," Carolyn said.
"Which is only several years younger than my father," Emily retorted. "Besides, His Grace has already been married. And what did he do? Dragged his wife off to Cornwall, that's what. Which is no doubt where he'd want to drag Julianne as well." She turned distressed eyes toward Julianne. "Heavens, you cannot live in Cornwall. We'd never see you!"
"His wife died," Julianne said, "a year and a half ago. He's ready to remarry."
"I thought something like this might be in the wind when I saw your mother speaking to him just before he asked you to waltz," Sarah said.
"As did I," Carolyn agreed. "He's very eligible. And rich. And handsome."
"Yes," Julianne agreed. Indeed, most women found the duke, with his blond hair and light blue eyes, very attractive. But to Julianne, his good looks didn't matter. Not when he exuded the same icy, remote, uncompromising demeanor she'd been subjected to her entire life from her father. A shudder ran through her at the thought, and her father's stern voice seemed to echo in her ears, the mantra she'd heard countless times: The only thing a worthless daughter can do is marry to the advantage of her family. She longed for warmth and passion. Not chilly politeness and indifference.
"You are one of the loveliest, most sought-after young women in the ton," Carolyn said in a soothing tone, giving her hand a squeeze. "Your father will be entertaining many offers for you. I noted you shared a dance with Lord Haverly. He's a decent gentleman."
"And as exciting as beige spots on a beige wall," Julianne said with a sigh. "He bears the same expression whether he's ecstatic or livid. Indeed, the only way to tell which one he might be is if he's forthcoming enough to say, 'I'm ecstatic' or 'I'm livid.' He spoke of nothing but the new cutaway jacket he just purchased. He waxed poetic about every stitch. I thought I would doze off during our waltz. Besides which, he's bald."
"Not completely," said Emily. "He's just rather thin on top."
"What about Lord Penniwick?" Sarah asked. "You danced with him as well, and he's quite handsome. And he has a full head of hair."
"Yes. But unfortunately his full head of hair only comes up to my chin. He doesn't speak to me—he speaks to my bosom."
"An affliction that affects many men, I'm afraid, regardless of their height," said Carolyn.
"Yes, but there is a lasciviousness to Penniwick's expression that makes my skin crawl. Every time he looks at me, I fear he's about to lick his chops. Then drool."
"Drooling is definitely bad," Emily said, wrinkling her nose. "What about Lord Beechmore? He's extremely handsome and tall."
Julianne shrugged. "And is very well aware of his exceptional looks. I cannot see him falling in love with any woman when he is so completely enamored of himself. He's also very aloof."
"People have said you're aloof, Julianne," Emily pointed out with her usual brutal honesty, "when you're actually just shy. Perhaps the same can be said about Lord Beechmore."
"Perhaps," Julianne conceded. "But there is no mistaking his conceit."
"Don't forget Logan Jennsen," Sarah interjected. "You spoke with him as well. He's incredibly handsome, incredibly tall, and not the least bit aloof. And he's fabulously wealthy."
Julianne shook her head. "I agree Mr. Jennsen is all those things, but it doesn't matter. Father would never consider him as he's a commoner, not to mention an American."
"Lord Walston has called upon you several times," Carolyn reminded her. "He's attractive and seems quite nice."
"I suppose. But he's just so…" She searched for a word to adequately describe the viscount who was, as Carolyn said, quite nice. They'd shared a pleasant conversation, but in spite of his obvious intelligence and kindness, he hadn't lit the slightest spark of interest within her.
"Dry," she finally finished. "He's like unbuttered toast."
"Well, he's the best of the lot, so slather a bit of butter and jam on him," Emily said with a hint of impatience in her voice. "Unless…" Her eyes narrowed and filled with speculation, an expression that snaked a fissure of unease through Julianne. "You're finding fault with gentlemen who, while perhaps not perfect, are certainly acceptable—and certainly far preferable to drag-you-off-to-Cornwall Eastling. The only reason I can fathom why you would do that is because your interest lies elsewhere."
A flaming flush scorched her cheeks, and she gave a silent prayer of thanks for the dim lighting. How had their conversation floated into this perilous water?
"My interest lies in conducting a séance," she said firmly.
"I meant that your interest lies in a different man," Emily stated just as firmly. "One we haven't mentioned."
Botheration! Of course Emily, whom she'd known since childhood, would see through her diversionary tactic.
"Who is it?" Sarah asked, her face alight with curiosity.
Someone I can never, ever have. Someone who made every other gentleman mentioned pale in comparison. "No one." No one I can discuss with you. "I'm just feeling unsettled because I suspect Father will be making his decision within the next year, and all the gentlemen he's considering are so very … civil." The word seemed to burst from her, opening the floodgates to her frustrations. "I'm so tired of polite and restrained civility. I want a man who is interested in what I have to say and who will discuss more than fashion, the weather, and other trivialities with me. I don't want to merely exist—I want to live. I want passion. Feelings. Fire." Her words sounded desperate, even to her own ears, yet how could they not when desperation was all she felt?
Sarah reached out and clasped Julianne's hand. Behind her spectacles, Sarah's eyes brimmed with a combination of sympathy and concern. "As someone who is extremely fortunate to have those th
ings you want, I completely understand your desire. You deserve that happiness—every happiness—and I dearly hope it comes your way."
"I agree," seconded Emily, and Carolyn nodded.
Tears pooled behind Julianne's eyes. For the show of compassion and loyalty. And because she knew the things she truly wanted were, by virtue of her circumstances, out of her reach.
Not wanting to dwell on such a depressing subject, Julianne said, "Thank you. Perhaps all of us hoping will insure a favorable result. As for tomorrow night, shall we say nine o'clock?"
"Perfect," Sarah agreed, while Carolyn and Emily nodded. "But now I think we'd best return to the party. Matthew is no doubt craning his neck about, looking for me, worried that something's amiss. Good heavens, by the time the baby is actually due to arrive, I fear his hair will be standing up straight on end—all of it that he hasn't yanked out—and he'll teeter on the edge of panic."
Julianne smiled briefly at the picture Sarah's words painted of her normally calm, levelheaded husband. Clearly love could make one act in very uncharacteristic ways.
Just then she heard a soft click. She turned quickly and stared at the closed door. "Did you hear that?" she asked in an undertone.
"What?" responded a trio of whispers.
"It sounded like a door being softly shut." She hurried over to the door and opened it a crack. Peeked into the corridor. And found it empty. Relieved, she drew a deep breath, and detected a hint of … something. Something elusive she couldn't place other than to know it pleased her.
She turned back to her friends. "Clearly I'm imagining things."
"Or perhaps my aunt's ghost is flitting about," Emily said with a grin. "Regardless, it's time we returned to the party."
Julianne again peeked into the corridor, and upon finding it empty, she silently motioned for her friends to follow her. They made their way back to the party, the sounds of merriment increasing as they approached, and Julianne prayed no one had noted their departure.
Chapter 2
Gideon watched Lady Julianne leave the crowded drawing room. She'd timed her exit well; no one else appeared to notice her slip away from the party. Except him. But then, he'd noticed everything she had done since the moment she'd arrived at Lord and Lady Daltry's soiree.
Keeping close to the wall, he unobtrusively made his way to the curved archway through which she'd escaped. A few of the guests looked his way, but with that inborn, innate ability the aristocracy possessed, they clearly recognized that he wasn't one of them, and their gazes didn't linger. No doubt they thought he was one of the hired help. Which he was. Hired to catch a murdering thief.
Could Lady Julianne somehow be connected to the criminal?
His instincts, which had served him well through the years, told him no, yet based on her furtive departure, she was clearly up to something. And he was determined to find out what that something was. For investigative purposes only. Because his training and commitment to his task demanded he leave no avenue unexplored. Certainly not because he was compelled by an irritating curiosity and need to know what she was up to.
He entered the corridor and found it empty. His gaze swept the area, detecting no changes from his earlier scouting. After turning the corner, he noted the four doors. In his mind's eye he pictured the layout of the house he'd committed to memory during his inspection before the party began, when he ascertained all the windows were securely locked.
Slowing his pace, he strained his ears for any sound but heard nothing save the muted hum of conversation from the party.
He silently opened the first door. A swift perusal of Lady Daltry's femininely appointed sitting room proved it empty. He continued on to the second door, behind which was Lord Daltry's private study, and silently entered the room. And instantly knew he wasn't alone. With his back pressed against the paneling, his gaze swept the deeply shadowed chamber. The oversized desk. Hunting trophies mounted on the walls. Tall bookcases flanking the windows.
A low, guttural groan came from the corner. Gideon's gaze shifted. Narrowed. And then he saw them. A woman, whose white blond hair rendered her instantly recognizable as Lady Daltry. She was bent over the arm of a leather settee, her fine gown gathered up about her waist, her bare arse hoisted in the air. And a man. Standing behind her, with his breeches open.
"Spread your legs wider."
The man's impatient demand was met by a rustle of material and a querulous female whisper. "Don't you dare leave me hanging as you did last time, Eastling."
Eastling? Gideon grimaced at the name and focused his attention on the man. Though he could only see his profile, Gideon indeed recognized the duke. His lips were pulled back from his teeth in a grimace of pleasure. Gideon couldn't tell if Lady Daltry was receiving any pleasure, but based on her words, His Grace had fallen short in providing it during their last tryst. As best Gideon could tell, the duke was currently more interested in his own pleasure than that of his partner. Not surprising, based on what he knew of the man. He briefly wondered if Lord Daltry knew or cared about this tryst. Apparently marriage vows meant little to the peerage. But he'd already known that.
Neither the duke nor his partner noticed him, and he quickly exited the room. Bloody hell, now that unappetizing image of the duke's fingers pressing into Lady Daltry's buttocks was burned into his brain. A shudder rolled over him as he approached the third door, which led to the library. With his hand curved around the brass knob, he paused to listen and heard the unmistakable murmur of muted whispers. He opened the door a crack.
"It was extremely sensual as well…" The words trailed off into a sigh, and Gideon froze. He'd recognize Lady Julianne's voice anywhere. But sensual certainly wasn't a word he'd have expected to pass her lips.
"Nothing stopped Maxwell's seduction."
Seduction? Maxwell? A sensation that felt precisely like jealousy but couldn't possibly have been seared Gideon. Who the bloody hell was Maxwell? And who the bloody hell had he seduced? Surely not Lady Julianne—
"Lady Elaine. Over and over again. In some very inventive ways."
Gideon frowned, annoyed at his immense relief that Maxwell, whoever the hell he was, had apparently seduced Lady Elaine, whoever the hell she was.
"Passionate." Lady Julianne uttered that single word, and an image rose unbidden in his mind. Of him. And her. Locked in a passionate embrace. Her hands on him. His hands on her. His mouth on her. Everywhere.
He briefly squeezed his eyes shut to banish the vivid mental picture. Damn it, she wasn't supposed to be talking about such things. She should be discussing the weather. Fashion. The latest gossip.
He continued to listen, trying to decipher what they were talking about. The word ghost caught his attention. It seemed Lady Julianne and her friends thought they knew a ghost named Gregory? He situated his ear closer to the crack. And barely refrained from looking toward the ceiling. Good God, 'twas clear one of their friends, this Lady Elaine, had performed some sort of séance and conjured herself a ghostly lover and now Lady Julianne and her friends were taken with the idea. Only instead, they wished to summon the ghost criminal and solve the crimes everyone was talking about. Bloody ridiculous. He was half tempted to appear at their séance and—
"Are you all right, Julianne?"
Gideon recognized Lady Surbrooke's voice, and he strained to hear the reply. When he did, his entire body tensed. Eastling? Lady Julianne's father would entertain an offer from that bastard? An image flashed through Gideon's mind … of the duke bending Lady Julianne over a leather settee as he had Lady Daltry. His fingers gripping Julianne's bare flesh. Thrusting between her legs.
A red haze seemed to dull his vision. The thought of that reprobate touching her… He clenched his jaw and tried to banish the image. And succeeded—only to have it replaced with one of himself. Bending Lady Julianne over a settee. Thrusting into her.
Bloody hell.
He continued to listen, his tension mounting as her friends named a veritable stable of purebred lords
who would make an acceptable match for Lady Julianne. Haverly? Good God, the man was nothing but a bald bore. As for Penniwick, Gideon considered it a testament to his self-control that he hadn't poked out the viscount's eyeballs after the way he'd ogled Lady Julianne's breasts while they'd danced. Beechmore wasn't shy; he was a cold, aloof bastard with a nasty temper.
As for Jennsen, Gideon suspected there was much more to the man than he presented to the world. And he found himself greatly relieved when Julianne said her father wouldn't consider a commoner. Somehow the thought of Julianne with Jennsen—a powerful man who women obviously found attractive—suffused him an uncomfortable sensation that felt like a cramp. As for Walston—his lips twitched when he heard Julianne's "dry" assessment.
"Your interest lies in a different man. One we haven't mentioned … who is it?"
Gideon strained to hear Lady Julianne's reply. She denied there was another man, but he suspected from her hesitation and her voice that she wasn't being truthful.
So there was someone she desired. Obviously one of those fancy-pants titled bastards. An odd sensation invaded his chest. One that felt like a toxic mixture of envy and yearning and jealousy.
"We'd best return to the party…"
The words broke through the fog that had engulfed him. He quickly closed the door, then froze as he heard it click into place. A soft, barely audible sound, but one that seemed to him to reverberate off the walls.
Had the ladies within heard it?
"Did you hear that?" came Lady Julianne's voice.
Damn it all to hell and back again. Cursing his uncharacteristic carelessness, he looked for the nearest escape. With the second door out of the question thanks to the duke and Lady Daltry, and the first too far away, he dashed toward the fourth door and quickly entered. Just as he closed the door behind him—taking extra care not to repeat his error—he heard the third door open.
He swiftly scanned the chamber, relieved to find it empty. Another sitting room of some sort. Bloody hell, how many sitting rooms did these aristocrats require? A body only had but one arse to plop into a chair.
SEDUCED AT MIDNIGHT Page 2
