She lay on her stomach, her face to one side and her arms pushed up under the pillow. It had been late by the time they had returned last night, but he was surprised by how soundly she still slept. Her hair glowed like polished copper in the light of dawn, and a dappled skein of sunlight fell across her nose, illuminating the scattering of freckles there.
He was reminded of the moment he had discovered those freckles, at the Blue Gander. Then, he’d seen only the evidence of her vanity. Now he held a deeper appreciation for her myriad, maddening layers. He’d made a study of her in coaches and rail cars these past few days, and understood that while she ruthlessly denied those flaws egress by day, they were apt to slip out in private moments. She might have a well-earned reputation for giving people the cut across a crowded ballroom, but it was likely because she couldn’t actually see them. She was flighty and steadfast, cold and passionate.
Predictable in her unpredictability.
He wrapped a long red curl around one finger, lingering over the pleasure of it against his skin. Her deep, steady breaths lulled him right up to the abyss of hope. Last night had been a revelation, but had it changed things between them? He wanted a future with this woman, beyond the lies and the conundrum of a likely murder charge. He wanted her in his bed every night. And, if he was honest with himself, he wanted to visit that folly again, but this time with an armful of blankets.
As the sound of the servants’ exit reached his ears, he leaned in to press a kiss to Julianne’s nose, tracing the path of those freckles with his mouth. The warmth of her body beneath his lips told him this was no lovely, transient dream, and the soft, satisfied sound she made further told him she might be amenable to more.
She stirred. Opened her eyes. Smiled.
“Good morning,” he told her, his heart stretched taut by those upcurved lips. And it was a good morning. The press of grief he felt over the loss of his brother and father had not been completely assuaged. He suspected it would be months, if not years, before he felt whole again. But last night’s moon-soaked coupling had dissolved the last five days of frustration. It had been something he had not planned, and an understanding he had not dared hope for. She had given him a staggering gift, far more poignant than the mere offering of her body. She had given him hope for the future, and that was something he had not had in eleven hard months.
As he stared down at her, Julianne lifted a hesitant hand to her nose. Her smile faltered, ever so slightly. “You are staring.”
“You are beautiful.”
“Then you are deranged,” she scoffed, a husky sound that sent his body stirring. She sat up and her hands lifted to comb through her hair, but taming those wild tresses was a hopeless cause, and they both knew it. “I must look a fright.”
Patrick nodded solemnly. “Better to lie back down and let me muss it up some more.”
“Both dogs probably need to be turned out. I’d prefer not to contend with a puddle on the floor.” She lifted a brow, and certain parts of his body lifted right along with it. “We haven’t missed breakfast, have we?”
“I think it is likely we will be late.” And yet, he lingered, his mind refusing to focus on words like “puddles” or “breakfast.” He was far too interested in the bunched neckline of her night rail. The freckles on her nose had unearthed an unholy curiosity in what other breathtaking discoveries she kept hidden. When they’d returned to their room last night, they’d undressed in darkness, forced by the cold night air and utter exhaustion. Sleep had demanded a place of priority. But now it occurred to him he’d never properly seen Julianne’s body.
That was a damned tragedy for a married man to claim.
Gemmy chose that inopportune moment to jump up on the mattress. “Gemmy, no,” he commanded, remembering her earlier concerns about fleas and such.
But Julianne only laughed and patted the mattress. “Let him come, Patrick. The poor dog had a devil of an arrival yesterday.”
Gemmy crawled toward her, his tail a pitiful thump against the bedclothes. Julianne bent a kiss to the terrier’s nose, which caused Constance to stalk up from the foot of the bed and nose in between them with stiff-legged suspicion. “Behave,” Julianne warned her pet, and miraculously, Constance lay down with a soft huff.
He took a moment to inspect the shoulder Gemmy had laid open on the little dog. “You did an excellent job cleaning her wound,” he observed.
“Being obsessive over cleanliness has its advantages.” Julianne cupped both dog’s muzzles in her palms and murmured nonsense to each one in turn, and Patrick’s chest tightened against the irony of his fastidious wife offering these admittedly smelly beasts good morning kisses. He felt a bit like the dogs, desperate for a kind word, a touch.
A kiss.
Patrick pointed to the floor. “Down,” he commanded. “It is my turn.”
The dogs’ tails beat a muffled rhythm against the blankets.
“Down,” he tried again, but the dogs did no more than grin happily up at him.
“Get down,” Julianne’s voice rang out. That, finally, sent both dogs jumping to the floor.
Patrick glared down at them. Impertinent beasts. “Gemmy listens far better to you than he does to me,” he groused.
“That is because you are not animated enough with your delivery.”
He inched closer to her. “I was not aware dogs preferred nuanced orders.”
“Dogs require a master with some enthusiasm. You tend to hide yours.”
He reached out a hand, grasping the edge of the ribbon that beckoned at her neckline. “I have plenty of enthusiasm, Julianne. And I would show you a taste of it this morning.”
“How enthusiastic, precisely?” Her words teased his ears, and made his fingers itch to touch more than just the ribbon on her night rail.
“Enthusiastic enough to think we should ring for a tray to be sent up,” he murmured, unwilling to relinquish the prize of Julianne in his arms for anything as trite as mere sustenance. He found himself wanting to make each second he had with her stretch into ten.
She gasped as he nipped at her newly exposed neckline with his teeth. “But . . . everyone will be waiting for us. They will imagine we are . . . well, that we are . . . too busy for breakfast.”
He could feel her teetering on the edge of acquiescence, and her indecision merely fueled his desire. “I would like to be too busy for breakfast,” he whispered against her skin, wondering if he ought to silence her objections the proper way: with a long, heated kiss. “And what better way to convince the cynics downstairs that this is a love match?”
She stiffened, and he felt the motion all through his body, a harbinger of looming disappointment. He drew back, searching her eyes for the source of her sudden shift in mood, unsure of exactly what he had said to break the spell of the moment.
“Julianne—” he started, but she halted his protest by pulling her night rail closed and retying the ribbon firmly.
“I would like to avoid speculation among the guests and staff on our first day here,” she said, her earlier interest deflating before his eyes. “And have you forgotten the dogs need to be let out? Constance will happily relieve herself on your shoes if she happens upon them on the floor, which seems a certainty given your slovenly habits.”
He tried once more. Lifted a finger to her chin and raised it up. Her eyes met his, a beautiful sun-splashed green. “Are you so sure you won’t regret the loss of the morning?”
“Your family and guests will surely be waiting for our appearance.” She pulled gently from his touch. “You are the earl now, with responsibilities waiting for you. And I have not yet met your sisters. Your mother said I would have a chance at breakfast.”
Patrick’s hand dropped to his side. She was right. Mary and Eleanor would be unleashed from the nursery this morning to show off their blossoming manners to their new sister-in-law. And his mother would expect them, if for no reason other than protocol. In the end, it was his sense of familial duty, rather than the thought o
f Constance piddling in his shoes, that had him pulling back the sheets. He dressed quickly, and the dogs responded with a clatter of nails, vying for a position of supremacy to be the first one out. “I’ll only be a moment,” he told her as he reached for the door. “Shall I meet you downstairs for breakfast?”
Her lips curved higher, and he was struck by their wistful arch. “That sounds lovely. And perhaps, because you have conceded me this, I can promise you tomorrow’s breakfast as forfeit.”
Her words chased him from the room with a smile on his own face, but he was also left with a sense of loss. She might comfort herself with the thought that tomorrow would bring another breakfast, another kiss.
But Patrick was reluctant to take a single second of their time for granted.
A white-capped maid arrived before Julianne could even locate the bellpull and began bustling about the room, opening curtains and such. Julianne lifted a hand and blinked against the sun, scarcely able to believe that not only was she up at the yawning mouth of dawn, she was about to be dressed and ready for battle.
Though by London standards it was several hours too early, Julianne indulged in her usual morning ritual, making up the bed with sharp, efficient movements. Such a thing might be less than befitting a countess, but she didn’t trust anyone else to do it according to her specifications. Shrugging off the maid’s wide-eyed protests, she moved on to pick Patrick’s discarded clothing up off the floor. Only then, when she could look around the room without her chest going tight, did she turn herself over to the business of washing.
Patrick’s earlier words stayed snarled in her thoughts as she padded on bare feet to the washbasin. She retained a delicious soreness in places that made her breath catch, but it was not a painful sort of feeling. Indeed, it had hurt far more to hear him encourage the façade of a love match—as if the real possibility of it was so foreign an idea.
Last night’s lovemaking had been a revelation for her, a splintering of her preconceived notions of marriage and intimacy. She’d awakened to the pleasure of a husband’s touch, and she wanted his love in truth. But while he certainly seemed willing to tumble her, the degree of his regard remained uncertain. She was not too proud to admit to herself that she was well and truly smitten. But she was far too proud to be willing to risk it alone.
“Shall I lay out your gray silk?” The maid held up a dreadfully dull frock, pulled from the depths of Julianne’s bag. “It seems to be most suitable for mourning.”
Julianne sighed at the reminder. She didn’t want to spend her first six months of marriage clad in somber tones, no matter that propriety called for that very thing. She’d packed her gray silk two weeks ago in London with no thought other than what a fashionable young woman might wear to an earl’s funeral, but at the time, she’d not anticipated coming back to Summersby as Patrick’s wife. “I suppose it will have to do,” she was forced to agree. “Perhaps you could hang up the rest of my gowns while I am at breakfast? They are becoming terribly wrinkled.”
“Of course, miss.”
Julianne gave herself over to the servant’s ministrations, knowing this single dress would not serve until her things could be fetched from London. A solution came without warning, and the inquiry was out of her mouth before she could even consider what she was asking. “There was a maid who served me during the November house party who was handy with a needle. Her name was Prudence Smith. Is she perchance still employed at Summersby? I would talk to her about possibly making over some of my gowns into something more appropriate for the family’s state of mourning.”
The maid shook her head. “The name is not familiar to me, Lady Haversham.”
Though Julianne knew she should not, she itched to ask more. Surely it was important to establish whether Prudence was lurking somewhere on the estate, waiting to pop out from a corner like a veritable bogeyman. But she was quite sure Patrick wouldn’t see it the same way, and so she reluctantly tucked the instinct to ask more questions away for a later time.
He was waiting for her in the foyer. His hair was mussed and he’d needed to shave days ago, but her stomach skittered with heat as his eyes met hers and held. “Are you sure you would not wish to return to our room?” His voice was a delicious rumble over the distant clink of cutlery and the low laughter that echoed down the hallway. When he reached for her hand, the brush of his fingers against her wrist made the fine hairs on her arms stand at attention.
“I . . . that is . . .” she stammered, trying to remember why they were not already dashing up the stairs.
“From the sounds of things, they are already seated, and will presume we are abed anyway,” he coaxed.
She shivered against the feelings he seemed able to pull from her skin with a mere touch. “We must face them.” Missing breakfast, she knew, would be a tactical misstep. She gently tugged her hand away. “There will be time enough for that later, Patrick. I refused to provide the guests with anything more to speculate about.” Including what wicked things might have kept her abed with the new Earl of Haversham—even if a part of her wanted nothing more than to return to bed and speculate on those things herself.
Patrick offered her his arm, and together they stepped into the dining room. Julianne normally enjoyed a well-timed entrance, but the rush of eyes felt like a scald of heated water, and her smile faltered. Conversations fell apart and chairs everywhere scraped as the men gained their feet.
Greetings were murmured, introductions hastily made. She spied her father as she made her way to her seat. She caught the ghost of his frown, and mentally sorted through the long list of his likely disapprovals, starting with her inappropriate wardrobe and ending with the fact she had married a man who most of those in attendance suspected of murder.
As she sat down, two young girls watched with openly curious faces. They showed promise of maturing into future beauties, but for now they were still coltish and unrefined. These must be Patrick’s sisters, Julianne realized, trying to refrain from squinting in their direction. They’d run rampant during last year’s house party, but they had grown in the eleven months since she had last seen them, and were sitting perfectly still, hands folded neatly in their laps. She found herself surprised by their maturity. Then again, much else had changed. It should not surprise her that two little girls might change too.
As the gentlemen sat down, Julianne put on her paste smile, the one she adopted when dancing with gentlemen whose hands seemed to sweat through their gloves. She turned herself over to the ghastly business of trying to enjoy herself.
Or at least, appearing to enjoy herself.
Apparently, the guests’ lingering grief was to be fed on coddled eggs and pastries, because the table almost groaned under the weight of the food. As she fumbled her way through a plate of a smoked herring, Mr. Blythe, Patrick’s cousin, leaned closer to address her directly.
“Lady Haversham, I find myself curious about the circumstances of your arrival. Has the magistrate been informed?” His voice brimmed with faint hostility. “Given that you’ve been summoned to provide a statement at the inquest, I feel sure he will want to know you have returned.”
Julianne examined her plate as she considered how to respond. She remembered meeting Mr. Blythe during the November house party, and had presumed him a rather uninspiring young man. Her impression had not improved with time. “By all means, you should feel free to share the news with the magistrate,” she finally offered, addressing him with the full force of her disapproval. “Although you should also tell him I will not be providing the statement he seeks. A wife cannot be compelled to testify against her husband.” She could hear the hushed whispers, flowing up and down the table in response to her announcement.
Mr. Blythe, however, appeared to have no use for whispers. “What vile subversion of justice is this?” he demanded. “You were happy enough to accuse the man of murder eleven months ago.” His venomous gaze darted to Patrick. “Has he forced you to it, then?”
“No one has been f
orced into anything,” Julianne retorted. “But if my decision makes you uncomfortable, you are welcome to leave.”
Next to Mr. Blythe, a heavyset woman in a black turban set down her fork. She addressed Patrick in a familiar manner, her mouth fixed into a straight line. “My brother always welcomed us at Summersby. Are you implying that will now change, Haversham?”
Patrick’s expression remained difficult to read. “Nothing has changed in that regard, Aunt Margaret. You and Jonathon are of course welcome to stay here, as you always have been. My wife, I am sure, speaks only of wanting our guests to be comfortable.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Aunt Margaret said stiffly. “I’d hate to think you’d abandoned your family on account of your wife’s ill manners.”
Julianne gripped her fork, scarcely able to believe that not only had Patrick just openly contradicted her, but that Mr. Blythe’s mother, of all people, had accused her of being ill-mannered. And that was when Julianne realized that this was one of those times her mouth was going to quite run ahead of her good sense.
She offered her new aunt a tight smile, three Seasons’ worth of experience coalescing into the oft-practiced gesture. “Perhaps, if my manners are so ill, Aunt Margaret, you might feel more comfortable eating elsewhere. Your own dining room in London, perhaps?”
Patrick’s sisters—who, despite their tender age, were clearly scholars of sarcasm—dissolved into giggles. Aunt Margaret’s mouth opened wide enough to catch a three-tined fork. As it were, Julianne felt as though she were being quite magnanimous to hurl only a well-timed insult instead of the cutlery.
The older woman abruptly stood up. Chairs scraped as gentlemen up and down the long table were forced to once again abandon their plates. “I find I’ve quite lost my appetite,” Aunt Margaret said archly.
“Oh dear,” Julianne said with feigned politeness. She, of all people, could recognize a theatrical bid for attention when she saw it. And judging by Aunt Margaret’s girth, she doubted the woman would stay afflicted for long. “I hope you are not taking ill. Why, that might force a premature leave-taking, and I can assure you we would all be quite devastated for the loss of your company.”
Moonlight on My Mind Page 17
