Dear Julia: A Jazz Age Romance

by Romy Sommer

“I never believed I’d see the day Commander Cavendish would be back in our social circle again. I’m so pleased he’s finally over Julia,” said Lady Preston.

  “He’s really dashing, isn’t he?” Deidre giggled. Her eyes sparkled. She really was very pretty.

  “I suppose so,” Rosalie said. This time the surge of jealousy wasn’t entirely unexpected.

  “And who would have thought he’d turn out to be so charming?” gushed Lady Preston. “I remember him as such a serious young man.” She sighed. “There really is truth in the saying that some things improve with age.”

  Penelope Ferncroft sat quietly in the corner, too shy to add her voice to the conversation. Rosalie couldn’t imagine how she’d ever thought Penelope would interest a man like William. Nor could she fathom why he’d spent such a large part of the evening engaged in charming her out of her shell.

  “And you can hardly tell he was so badly injured,” said Deidre.

  Rosalie’s eyes widened, but before she could ask what Deidre meant, the men re-joined them.

  Rosalie was too restless to sit. She fluttered among her guests, pouring coffee and handing out imported Italian biscuits. The sight of William, wedged in once again between the young ladies on the sofa, with Deidre Preston pressing her thigh against his, was more than she could stomach.

  Mr. Ferncroft was the first to rise. “We must leave,” he apologised. “We have the furthest to travel.”

  With overwhelming relief that the end of the evening was at last in sight, Rosalie rang the bell for their carriage.

  Then it was the Prestons’ turn, Sir Robert showing off his automobile, a black sedan car without a roof that didn’t look much different from the carriage the Ferncrofts had departed in moments before. While the men stood around the car, admiring it as if they’d never seen one before, Rosalie took her leave of Lady Preston and Deidre.

  “Thank you so much for inviting us, my dear,” said Lady Preston, clasping her hands. “Next weekend we’re throwing a little luncheon party. I wonder, do you think Commander Cavendish would come?”

  “You’ll have to ask him yourself, ma’am.”

  Lady Preston beamed, casting a sideways glance at her young sister-in-law. “I will. You’re invited too, naturally.”

  Invited, but not welcomed. The coldness in Deidre’s eyes assured that.

  Rosalie swallowed the lump in her throat. She couldn’t endure another party like this one, watching William move ever further away from her. Knowing she had no one to blame for this terrible pain but herself. She’d pushed him away, right into Deidre Preston’s more than willing arms.

  She did her best to smile. “That’s very kind of you, Lady Preston, but I rather think I’ll be back in London before then.”

  “But then you’ll miss the harvest festival!”

  Rosalie shrugged.

  “What a pity,” the older woman said, meaning it. “After all the hard work you’ve put into it. Oh well, you’ll be back to visit your father soon of course?”

  “Of course.”

  Though in less than a day the attractions of London had palled somewhat against the attractions of Somerset, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d be able to bear returning either. Not without pain or without a flood of memories.

  The easy friendship she’d shared with William was no longer possible. Not the way she felt now.

  And what if he really did follow her advice, and married? No, she’d be better off in London, piecing her life back together.

  Deidre Preston dutifully kissed Rosalie’s cheek and murmured a goodbye before climbing in the back door of the automobile which William held open for her. She batted her eyelashes at him as she took her seat. Rosalie turned away, sickened.

  As the Prestons’ automobile pulled off, her father and the vicar followed it down the drive, waving. William came to stand beside her. His heat pricked her skin through the thin fabric of her party dress. She drew her Chinese silk shawl closer around her shoulders.

  “So how did I do?” His voice was low in her ear. The automobile turned the corner and disappeared out of sight.

  “Sorry?” She turned to him.

  Shadows masked half his face. The other half, illuminated by the spill of newly installed electric light from the house, twisted in a wry grin. “Did I charm the fair maidens sufficiently to win your approval?”

  She sniffed. “It’s not my approval you should be looking for.”

  “Oh, Rosalie, you really have no idea, have you?”

  She looked up at him, astonishment burning a startling discovery through her. She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her.

  “Mr. Hemmings is also leaving, Rosie.” Her father’s voice brought her back to the present with a rude bump.

  William broke eye contact and looked at the two men striding back up the drive towards them. “I’ll walk with you, John.”

  “Thank you for a delightful evening, Miss Stanton.” The vicar raised her hand to his lips in a gallant, old-fashioned gesture, then bowed to her father.

  “Thank you for coming this evening.” Her father clapped William on the shoulder. “Don’t know how we would have entertained that passel of women all evening without you.”

  “It was my pleasure,” William replied. In the moonless night, his eyes were too dark for her to read his expression. But she caught the amusement in his voice.

  At last he turned to her, holding out his hand for a formal handshake. She held out hers, steeling herself against the wave of emotion she knew now she’d feel at his touch. At the last moment he wrapped both his hands around hers, infusing her with the warmth and strength she’d come to love.

  “Will you ride with me in the morning?”

  Her stomach did a somersault. “I’d love to.”

  He released her hand. “You’re cold. You should get inside. To bed.”

  Was it just her fevered imagination that he placed a lingering emphasis on that final word? She stood rooted until long after he’d disappeared from sight, before she finally regained control of her limbs and walked back into the house. By then, she really was cold.

  Chapter Ten

  The torrential downpour began at dawn. Rosalie lay in bed and listened to the rain pummelling the roof tiles, until she could bear it no longer and pulled the pillow over her head. Not riding weather. Not even walking weather.

  If she believed in Fate, she’d have to believe Fate didn’t want her to see William this morning. Luckily, she didn’t believe in it.

  In the kitchen, Anna sang as she packed away the cleaned dishes from last night’s dinner party. “That was a grand party,” she said as Rosalie entered the kitchen. “And which one of the prospective young brides did the Commander appear most interested in?”

  Laughter bubbled up. “Was it that obvious?”

  “I’ve known you long enough. Was your plan a success?”

  “I think so.” Though exactly which young woman at the party William preferred, she couldn’t guess. All night she’d tossed and turned, alternately hoping beyond hope that his parting comments might mean he cared more for her than for any other. Then wondering if perhaps it was still Julia he loved, and she had no hope at all.

  She plucked an apple from the fruit bowl and took a bite. “Not Penelope Ferncroft.” Of that she was certain.

  “And Sir Robert’s sister, the poor widow?”

  “Not poor at all, and certainly not playing the demure widow as she did the other times I’ve met her. I’m pretty sure she had her hand on his knee through most of the main course.”

  How the other woman had managed to eat with only one hand was beyond her. Rosalie forced a smile. “But whether William was taken with her, I won’t know until I speak to him.” Please, please don’t let him be interested in Deidre.

  Anna peered out the window at the dark sky, barely visible through the rivulets running down the window panes. “That won’t be today. There’s no chance of this lot clearing any time soon.”

  Rosalie
couldn’t wait that long. She planned to show Fate who was boss and take action. As soon as breakfast was over, as Anna carried her father’s tray upstairs, she fetched her raincoat and wellingtons from the cupboard under the stairs and sneaked out the back door.

  Her boots squelched in the slimy mud as she headed down the garden. She jumped across the swollen stream, misjudging her steps and splashing instead into the shallows. Icy water welled up over the tops of her boots to soak her feet. She cut off an expletive learned in a military camp as a child, and ploughed on.

  The rain-slick grass slid beneath her feet as she climbed the bank and headed towards the footpath that cut through the woods to William’s house.

  The sensible thing to do would be to take the longer way, along the lane that wound through the village and out the other side to William’s house. But she wasn’t feeling sensible today. She felt delirious.

  She started to run. Beneath the trees, the rain was nothing more than a fine drizzle, but as she ran, the hood of her raincoat flew back, and droplets spattered her face and plastered her hair to her face. She didn’t care.

  She heard him before she saw him. A familiar whistle, his favourite tune. Her heart turned over.

  She slowed to a walk, chest heaving and breath searing her lungs. Then the path curved, and there he was. “William!” She threw herself at him. “What are you doing here?”

  He caught her around the waist and pulled her roughly against him. “You’re soaked.”

  She looked down at herself. In her haste, she’d neglected to fasten the front of her raincoat. Her pale blouse clung to her curves; the Belgian lace of her chemise visible through the now transparent fabric. “Yes, I am.”

  “You make rather a habit of it.”

  “It’s not intentional.” She met his laughing gaze. “At least not all the time.”

  His eyes turned suddenly serious, dark pools of heat and fire. “What are you doing out here in the rain?”

  She jutted out her chin. “I asked you first.”

  “I wanted to talk to you, and since this weather isn’t conducive to horse riding, I figured I’d have to come to you, instead.”

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “We didn’t finish our conversation last night.”

  “No, we didn’t. You said I have no idea. Are you going to explain to me what you meant?”

  He sighed and let her go. Not exactly the reaction she’d hoped for. She rather liked having his arms around her. In spite of the droplets filtering down between the boughs, and the feel of winter chill in the air, she’d felt warm and safe there.

  “I shouldn’t have said that.” His brow furrowed. “You didn’t enjoy your dinner party. You’re having second thoughts about your grand plan to match-make me. You believe you want me, too.” He took a step back. “You’re wrong.”

  “When we met, you told me you wouldn’t under-estimate me again. But you have. You think I’m a green girl who doesn’t know her own mind?” Anger fired her words. “Well you’re wrong. I’ve been ‘out’ in society for four years now. I’m older than you were when you wanted to marry Julia.”

  His expression turned thunderous. “And look how well that ended.”

  Rosalie dropped her voice, willing herself to stay calm. “She never got your letter.”

  He nodded slowly, but his expression hadn’t changed. He didn’t get it. But he hadn’t braved the storm to tell her she was wrong about her feelings. He’d come to convince himself. And she wasn’t going to let him.

  She took a step towards him. “I’m glad she didn’t.”

  “Oh?”

  “Because if she’d received that letter, you might have married her. And if you had, I wouldn’t be able to do this.” She leaned forward, closing the space between them, and touched her lips to his.

  For a moment, he resisted, then the flames scorching through her veins seemed to rouse him, too. He kissed her back, with all the passion she’d known he was capable of. She opened her mouth to him, and he thrust in, invading, plundering. She moaned, and he slid an arm around her, pulling her against him. Her body melted against his as she surrendered to his kiss.

  Her hand rose of its own accord, sliding up the gloriously hard muscle of his bicep, evident beneath his rain-soaked jacket, to rest on his broad shoulder.

  When at last he broke the kiss, he didn’t let her go. He stroked her face, the rough pads of his fingers brushing down her cheek as he held her gaze. “Do you have any idea how old I am?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I know exactly how old you are. You’re changing the subject.”

  “Which is?”

  “You want me. I know you do. As much as I want you. So why do you keep pushing me away?”

  He sighed. “I’m not the man you think I am.”

  “What do I think you are?”

  He broke eye contact. “I’m damaged.”

  Her hand slid down his chest, to the place where so often his hand unconsciously pressed. Beneath the fine silk of his shirt, her fingers felt the raised ridges of scar tissue. She tugged at his shirt, pulling it out of his waistband. He flinched as her hand touched flesh, and wrenched away from her. “No!”

  “I want to see,” she said, her voice soft. “Please don’t hide from me.”

  His back was to her, his head down. For a long moment he stood still, completely unmoving, only the rise and fall of his breath giving away his strain. Then without turning to look at her, he removed his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt.

  When he turned back, her gaze dropped to his chest, and she sucked in a breath. He made to pull the shirt closed over his chest. He still would not meet her gaze.

  Her hand stilled his. Jagged weals, healed to a delicate pinkish white, cut across his flesh, running over his shoulder, down his chest, stopping just above his heart. She ran light fingers over the multiple scars. She could only imagine how painful the wound must have been when fresh. Her splayed fingers came to rest over his heart.

  When she raised her gaze, he was looking at her at last. His eyes were bleak, so dark they were bottomless pits. He broke the silence. “My ship was torpedoed in the Adriatic.”

  She remembered. It was all anyone could talk about for weeks, as the HMS Dartmouth had limped back to port. There’d been casualties.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Yet you waste this great gift of life. You live as though you’d died.” She shook her head, unable to understand.

  “I’m not a whole man.” His voice sounded strained.

  “The wounds you carry aren’t physical.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “These are scars, not wounds. These have healed. But you haven’t allowed your heart to heal. What kind of paragon was Julia, that you’re unable to love anyone else, even yourself?”

  She didn’t recognise the expression in his eyes. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t anger. Whatever the unknown emotion, it ran deep. He held her gaze. “Now that you’ve seen, do you still want?”

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat against the emotions welling up: love, desire, and stubbornness. “You are beautiful.” And she meant it. His body was perfect, all solid muscle and strength beneath the scars. They only made that power more breathtaking. She bent her head to place a kiss on his chest, above his heart. He stiffened.

  With her tongue, she traced the edge of the scar. He moaned, a soft, suppressed sound.

  She raised her head to look at him. The bleakness was gone, replaced by a wildness that echoed the wildness inside her.

  His arm snaked around her, and with all that bunched up power and strength he lifted her off her feet, pressing her up against the massive trunk of an ancient oak tree beside the path. He leaned up against the tree, his other palm flat on the trunk above her shoulder. He had her completely encircled, trapped within his arms. Her breath hitched.

  Slowly, giving her a chance to push him away, he dropped his mouth to hers. His touch was pure
fire, scorching her, setting her whole body alight, even in places she hadn’t known existed until the day she’d met him.

  Her ecru satin-and-lace slip pulled taut over her breasts, rubbing over the sensitive peaks with every breath.

  William moaned, a soft, low sound full of the same desperate longing she felt. Then his hand slid from her waist, up and over the curves of her torso. She gasped as his fingers slid across her breast, teasing, tantalising. Through the layers of her clothing, he gently pinched her nipple, and her body arched against his touch.

  He broke their kiss, his lips moving to her throat, to chase a line of tender kisses over the sensitive skin. His fingers burned a path of torturous desire across her skin as he unbuttoned the neat mother-of-pearl buttons of her blouse. When the shirt fell open, his hand slid to the edges of her chemise, pulling it free of her skirt. She sighed her pleasure as his palm cupped her breast, the first true touch of flesh on flesh.

  Leaning her head back against the tree, she closed her eyes. Soft rain fell like mist on her face. As William’s rough fingertips stroked over the tender, exposed skin, his mouth closed over her other breast, pulling her nipple taut. Pure desire shot through her, and she cried out.

  “Tell me to stop.” His voice was a growl against her skin; his erection strained against her stomach.

  She shook her head, unable to speak.

  When his hand left her breast, she whimpered in protest. Then he hitched up her skirt, his palm skating over the flesh of her inner thigh to the tops of her stockings and up to the junction between her thighs. Her step-in knickers were already soaked with need, crying out for his touch. His fingers rubbed across the swollen heat of her core.

  Bliss beyond anything she’d imagined.

  She rocked with the movement, in a dance as old as time. He curled a finger beneath the lace edge of her step-ins. She arched against his touch, pushing into his hand, and he laughed, soft and low, his breath warm against the cold, moist peak of her nipple. Sensation swamped her; every part of her alive and stirred by what he was doing to her body.

  His finger slid inside her, its intrusion a welcome relief to the relentless pressure building in her body. The inexorable slide of his fingers over her womanhood, driving in and out of her, brought her to the pinnacle of madness so divine that when he added another finger her body did not fight him.