Moonlight on My Mind

by Jennifer McQuiston

  “I would like to pen the dinner party invitations this afternoon,” Julianne said, working her fingers over a row of front-facing buttons that—regrettably—needed no help at all from the male quarter. “With your approval, of course,” she added as a murmured afterthought.

  Truly, did it even matter whether he offered his approval or not? He could not envision a world in which Julianne would fall into line like a typical English wife. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised to find she’d already put pen to paper. “I agree that perhaps you need a new gown or two for this party. There is a seamstress in Shippington, if memory serves. My mother or the housekeeper should be able to point you toward her.”

  Her fingers paused over the buttons, and Patrick congratulated himself on his deft handling of the situation. This was where she was supposed to thank him. Instead, she pursed her lips. “I would prefer to find a seamstress in Leeds.”

  “Shippington is closer. Leeds would require an overnight trip, and my presence is needed here.” His eyes lingered over his wife’s face, noting the faint flush of . . . something there. What was she up to? And why this mulish insistence on Leeds?

  He could see it then, in the tilt of her chin, and the pull of those expressive brows.

  Trouble.

  “Prudence mentioned she had once worked for a seamstress in Leeds before coming to Summersby, and the girl was brilliant with a needle. I am rather particular about such things,” she added, as if that was all the explanation needed.

  Patrick’s jacket suddenly felt three sizes too small. While she seemed to have a point to make here, he was quite sure it had little to do with either a needle or a new dress. He met his wife’s innocent-eyed gaze with a darker one of his own, even as his fingers returned to what was fast becoming a perpetual clenched state. “What is this really about?”

  Julianne struggled to think of a rational argument that might nudge this conversation in the direction she needed it to go. Rational arguments were not often her forte. Still, while she knew she could be impulsive at times, there was nothing rash about this latest idea.

  Why, she’d thought about it for at least a good hour or so.

  “Knowing the location of one’s enemy is the key to a strategic defense,” she said determinedly as she slipped the lace redingote over her shoulders. “I learned that lesson on the battlefields of London’s drawing rooms.”

  “This isn’t a bloody musicale, Julianne. You are talking about tracking down a woman whose testimony could hang me.”

  “I don’t think we should find her for the purposes of having her testify,” she qualified. “But we should know where she is.”

  His eyes flashed an ominous warning. “It is too dangerous.”

  “I would argue that not finding her is too dangerous. Surely it makes more sense to determine if she is lurking about, waiting to point her finger at you. I’ve ascertained she isn’t at Summersby, at least. I think we ought to look for her in Leeds.”

  She held her breath. Patrick had handled her request for a dinner party surprisingly well. Indeed, he had handled the entirety of the morning—from the slights she had lobbed at his family across the breakfast table, to the suggestion of a new wardrobe—far more agreeably than she would have predicted. Perhaps she was overthinking it, and her new husband was actually a malleable spouse who would let her carry on however she pleased.

  And perhaps kittens might sprout wings and fly.

  “No.” He issued the single word as though it were a verdict, instead of something they might discuss reasonably.

  “Why won’t you even consider the idea?” she protested.

  “Because there is no guarantee that finding her will go the way you think.”

  “I would not say anything to endanger your defense—”

  “My worry, Julianne, is that you often say and do things without thinking. Finding Prudence could well seal my fate.” He hesitated. “Or is that your intention?”

  She sucked in a startled breath. “No!” How could he even think such a thing? She was determined to save him. Hadn’t she promised him she wouldn’t testify? But the dark question in his eyes was punishing. If she meddled, he believed she would tighten the noose around his neck.

  “I am trying to help, Patrick.” She cringed to hear her voice ring with the faintest edge of desperation. “I’ve just discovered you. It might be selfish of me, but I am loath to sacrifice you to things we might control.”

  “There is nothing for you to do. MacKenzie will come to Yorkshire as soon as he is finished with my legal affairs in London. We let Prudence stay hidden, wherever she is.” His eyes softened a small degree. “And if I am arrested ahead of MacKenzie’s arrival, you must wait here at Summersby, and try to stay out of trouble.”

  Julianne choked back a cry of surprise. Arrested. The very word sounded like the vilest of curses, slipping darkly in her ear. “Could that happen? I thought you would be safe from such an outcome, given that I am no longer going to provide a statement.”

  He waited a fraction of a second too long to answer. “I do not think you should worry overmuch. If your testimony is removed, it stands to reason they will lack evidence to recommend me to trial. MacKenzie’s efforts in London are purely cautionary. He wants to be prepared, just in case.”

  Julianne felt a faint stirring of unease. Why had MacKenzie presumed his legal machinations in London were cautionary? When he’d boarded the train to London, they’d not yet even discussed the removal of her testimony. But her thoughts were too unformed to resist the distraction of her husband, who was taking a determined step toward her. Her world narrowed down to nothing beyond the warmth in his eyes.

  “Julianne.” His voice dropped to that low, delicious rumble, the one that made pleasure swim drunkenly in her chest. “I am glad to hear you do not wish to lose me.”

  “Don’t do that,” she warned. “You are trying to distract me.”

  “The way you distracted me last night?” His mouth spread in a languid smile, the one that made her stomach stamp its feet and turn in confused circles. “You have proven yourself quite adept at distractions. Surely you can see that turnabout is fair play.”

  “There is nothing fair about the way I feel about you,” she bit out. But her petulant words only made that smile stretch higher. Infuriating man. Almost as though he was enjoying her upset over the thought of his possible arrest.

  When he at last spoke, it was with measured care. “I know you wish to correct past wrongs. Your desire to make things right is an admirable sentiment. But if you care for me at all, surely you can see this way is better.”

  That made her blink. “I do care for you,” she told him, the words too hoarse, and too quick, to be anything but honest. “Last night was . . .” Her voice trailed off, trembling on its downward trajectory, until she found the right sentiment. “Far too short.”

  “And cold,” he pointed out, stepping even closer. “For example, it was too cold to take the time to undress. We could rectify that now. In fact, I’ve a mind to undo those buttons you just worked so hard over, and to muss up that beautifully made bed.”

  She slid precariously on the thought. How easy it would be to close her mind to the more sinister possibility of their future, and just enjoy the moment. How much kinder it would be to surrender to his ideas for how they ought to spend the day. She felt as if there was a string between them, and he was slowly, expertly pulling it taut.

  But that string could choke her, so easily. He’d not even been home a day, and he was already calmly discussing his looming arrest. But he was here with her now, and in the end her thoughts and objections were too easily shoved deep.

  Patrick’s hands lifted to her face, and his fingers were nearly a searing pleasure against her skin. She closed her eyes and leaned into his hand. She couldn’t help it. When he touched her like this, it was though he was setting a torch to her reservations.

  Not that she’d ever had any around him.

  “I suppose I could make t
he bed up again,” she breathed, and was rewarded by the touch of his lips on hers. The kiss chased the unpleasant conversation to quieter corners of her mind. There was only this moment, and her husband, working some sort of black magic on her emotions. She tried to remember what they were arguing about, truly she did. It was important, she sensed. But she was loath to jerk her thoughts away from the lush distraction he was posing.

  And as he took what she offered and deepened the kiss, she forgot how to breathe, much less how to speak.

  Chapter 19

  Julianne grasped the coachman’s hand and stepped down onto Shippington’s dusty streets, wondering if her husband yet realized where she had gone.

  She hadn’t set out to deceive him, exactly. But when she’d spied Patrick with his head bent over a mountain of paperwork in his father’s study, agitated and cross and cursing under his breath, she’d realized that asking him to accompany her to town today would serve no good purpose. He had been thoroughly distracted by estate matters, and seemed none too happy about it.

  Well, she was thoroughly distracted by her dwindling wardrobe. All week she’d struggled with the decision of which dress to wear, settling for which was the least objectionable, rather than which was most suitable. She’d worn her gray silk nearly every day, a nod toward propriety over cleanliness that had her cringing each time the maid buttoned her up the back. She had not been exaggerating when she’d said she needed new clothing. While Patrick had not disapproved her insistence on having some new gowns made, neither had he called up the coach and taken her into town.

  Still, they’d only been married for two weeks. He’d learn the way of it, soon enough.

  And she could forgive his obtuseness for the simple fact that despite her dwindling wardrobe choices, her new role as Patrick’s wife was proving far more pleasurable than she’d imagined, especially after their inauspicious start. The past week had been filled with small, joyous discoveries. Such as the fact that his feet were ticklish. Or that he awakened in a state of readiness each morning that ensured they were nearly always late to breakfast.

  But while he had been unfailingly attentive, seeing to her every pleasure, he remained maddeningly silent on the matter of their marriage of convenience. Which, to Julianne’s mind, really wasn’t proving very convenient at all, at least in matters relating to her heart. When she’d agreed to marry him, she’d thought—naïvely, perhaps—that feeling such strong attraction toward the man who would be her husband could only be a harbinger of their future happiness. She’d believed that she could convince him of her regard, and earn his in return.

  But two weeks of marriage had shown her that happiness was not a simple thing one plucked from a vine. It was sharp-edged and shifting and had layers she had not anticipated. Despite the pleasure to be found in their bed, Julianne was beginning to wonder if such sensual attraction was enough. She wanted more than his passionate kisses and his willing hands on her body. She wanted him to open his heart. And while he had been unfailingly generous in other things, he kept that piece of himself under lock and key.

  But such thoughts had no place in her day’s mission. So she shook off her worries and set off at a brisk walk, searching for the seamstress’s shop Patrick’s mother had recommended. She pasted a sunny mask on her face as she stepped into the shop, and reminded herself that with this first proper foray into town, she must strive to neither call undue attention to herself, nor offend the natives.

  The little bell on the inside of the door tinkled merrily as she pushed inside, but its hopeful sound could not improve the circumstances of its sorry existence. The seamstress’s shop was exactly what Julianne had feared finding in Shippington. At most, there were a dozen or so bolts of fabric lining the shelves on the wall, only one of which—a coarse black cotton that seemed more of the sort to grace one’s settee than one’s shoulder—might be considered to emulate a status of mourning. The walls of the shop were decorated with nothing so much as the occasional knothole, and there wasn’t a piece of furniture in the place.

  Not exactly an establishment that invited lingering, or leisurely consideration of a new wardrobe. In fact, the only thing that came close to capturing her interest was the shopgirl, who was pinning a half-finished piece on a mannequin near the front window and refusing to look in Julianne’s direction.

  “Excuse me.” The woman’s dark hair and hunched shoulders knocked against the walls of Julianne’s memory. The girl looked an awful lot like the missing maid she was not supposed to be thinking about. Then again, her thoughts had been a tangled web this past week. It should not surprise her she was imagining the girl everywhere she looked.

  Instead of turning around and offering a greeting, as good manners and probably her position demanded, the girl ducked her head and stepped behind the curtain that separated the shop’s showroom from its workspace. Her curiosity now thoroughly piqued, Julianne started to follow, but just as her hand reached out to brush the dark velvet fabric, a woman roughly the size of a draft horse stepped out, muttering below her breath.

  She stopped short when she saw Julianne. “Oh! My apologies, miss. My girl told me there was a customer out front, but she neglected to tell me you were a lady.” The shopkeeper’s hands fluttered over her apron, smoothing and worrying and finally untying it and shoving it beneath a shelf. “How might I help you?”

  Julianne smiled, though this was a distraction she was no longer sure she wanted. “I am in need of a new gown, and I’m afraid my timeline can only be described as desperate. I am to host a dinner party at the end of the week, and I need a gown suitable to reflect the family’s state of bereavement. I am willing to pay for a rushed order, of course.”

  “Then you are the new Lady Haversham, I presume?” At Julianne’s cautious nod, the shopkeeper’s already ruddy cheeks pinked up. “Mr. Blythe mentioned the events at Summersby to my husband, over a pint at the King’s Widge. My congratulations on your recent marriage.”

  Julianne’s own mouth firmed in response. Honestly. Had Shippington really named its public house after the king’s . . . well . . . widge? And was Blythe staying there, regaling the locals with sordid tales of the new earl? He’d left Summersby nearly a week ago, though his mother was still very much underfoot, and over the course of the last week she’d given little thought to where the man had gone other than being glad for his absence. Her stomach tightened in irritation to realize he remained so close to Summersby.

  “Let me hazard a guess,” she told the shopkeeper. “Has Mr. Blythe been spreading tales about town? Perhaps suggested Lord Haversham might sport scales and breathe fire?”

  The shopkeeper’s eyes widened. “I . . . er . . . that is . . . he did not . . .”

  “He means to discredit my husband. I should have a care how much stock I put in his words, if I were you.” She straightened her shoulders. “Now then. With respect to the gown . . . I was thinking of a similar style to the one I am wearing, but perhaps in black instead of this horrid gray. I need it completed by Friday morning and delivered straightaway to Summersby. I also wish to place an order for five additional day dresses—all black silk, but in varied styles, of course—to be finished by the second week in November.” She smiled meaningfully, certain her business was not only welcome, it was direly needed. Why, the poor woman couldn’t even afford enough fabric to fill her shelves.

  The shopkeeper shook her head, worry lines radiating from her eyes. “I don’t think I can help you, Lady Haversham.”

  Julianne waited for an additional explanation, but none appeared forthcoming. Honestly, no wonder the town floated in a backwater sort of nonexistence. What kind of self-respecting seamstress turned down an offer of work? Why, in London she would have already been seated on a plush settee, a cup of tea in one hand, the latest plates from Paris spread out before her and a veritable army of staff bringing bolt after bolt of fabrics for her to see and touch.

  Here, they’d been haggling for what seemed an eternity, and her hand was still no
ticeably empty.

  “In London, my modiste has always been able to accommodate my requests,” Julianne said slowly, trying to make sense of this new, nonsensical world. For the first time it occurred to Julianne that perhaps the world she had married into—namely the alien territory of Yorkshire—was a different beast than London.

  The shopkeeper shrugged apologetically. “Unless you’d planned to settle for broadcloth, we’d have to order the materials out of Leeds, and if you’ll forgive me saying, you don’t seem the broadcloth sort. If the fabric is delivered promptly, we could possibly have the first gown finished by Saturday next, and the rest by the end of November, but even that will be a rushed order, I am afraid. I’ve only the one girl to help me. While Miss Smith is fast of hand, we’ve other customers to serve as well.”

  Julianne’s thoughts promptly abandoned her request for a new dress—which was clearly a lost cause—and shifted to the latter part of the woman’s explanation. “Miss Prudence Smith?” she asked, daring a glance toward the curtain where the shopgirl had so recently disappeared.

  “Aye.” The shopkeeper clucked in annoyance. “Not the most dependable of creatures, but devilishly clever with a needle, which is why I’ve kept her.” Behind Julianne, the door’s bell rang out, and the shopkeeper’s eyes pulled away. “Oh, good afternoon, Mrs. Duffies. We’ve finished those new drapes you ordered. I’ll be with you in just a moment.” The woman turned back to Julianne. “Shall I order the crepe from Leeds, Lady Haversham?”

  Julianne’s feet itched, but she forced herself to wait. “Oh, I think I’ll just have a look at the broadcloth and think about what you have advised.” She waved a nonchalant hand. “Please, I do not want to keep you from other customers with my indecision.”