by Linda Jones
“A visitor?” he snapped, ready to strangle Anya’s cheerful cousin.
“A Mrs. Margaret March. She said she was an old friend.”
Anya cursed in French and stood too quickly.
“Be careful.”
She glared at him, then dropped the fluttering scarf she’d been holding into his lap. “I believe you need this more than I do, husband. It would be quite embarrassing, I imagine, for your lover to realize that you desire your wife.”
“Margaret is not my lover,” he hissed.
“Well, she is here for you.”
“I didn’t invite her,” he said as Anya stalked away, moving without care around him and across the sloped roof. “There’s no need to be angry at me.”
She responded in curtly delivered Spanish. He didn’t know what she said, but if her tone was any indication she had just dismissed all his teachings on decorum.
“There’s no need to curse.”
Anya climbed over the railing to join her cousin. “I cannot believe that you would kiss a woman like that.”
“He kissed her?” Valerie asked, raising an outraged hand to her ample breast.
“Yes!” Anya snapped.
“It happened a long time ago.” Julian still was not ready to stand and make his way across the roof—which seemed much higher off the ground than it had when he’d crossed it in order to rescue Anya.
Anya, who apparently didn’t need to be rescued.
“I will keep her company until you join us,” she promised with a demonic smile.
“No!” Julian stood quickly, and Anya’s scarf caught the wind and flew away, drifting brightly across the roof and down into the garden.
“Perhaps we can compare spots.” With that, she turned and entered the observatory.
Valerie cast an indignant nose-in-the-air glance Julian’s way, sniffed, and followed her cousin; and Julian hurried, as fast as he dared, after them.
*
Anya had never experienced jealousy. She had not loved Sebastian, so she had never minded that he seemed to prefer his first concubine, Emelda. Until Julian, Sebastian had been the only man in her life, so she had nothing else with which to compare this newfound rage.
For a moment, on the roof, she had actually thought Julian meant to kiss her. Ha! He saved his kiss for women like this one, a tightly corseted, false-faced, tittering puta.
If not for Valerie, she would have run straight from the roof to the north parlor, where Margaret waited. Valerie had insisted that Anya don a proper gown and fix her hair. One softly whispered argument had won Anya over. Don’t give her a reason to make fun of you. Anya had dressed quickly, and Valerie had styled her hair. By the time Anya stepped into the north parlor Julian was already there, talking softly and politely to the hussy he had once kissed.
Margaret’s eyes cut Anya’s way as she entered the room. The sparkle Anya saw there was not laughter or happiness, it was a jealousy like her own. No, Anya amended as she crossed the room to stand beside Julian. The jealousy she herself felt was fueled by love. Margaret’s anger was ugly. No love lurked there.
“Mrs. DeButy,” Margaret said, not bothering to rise from her seat in Grandmother’s favorite velvet chair. “How lovely to see you again.”
Liar. The word was on Anya’s lips, but she did not allow it to escape. Julian had been drilling these blasted manners into her for two months. He would be furious if she forgot them all now. “A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. March.”
Julian took a deep breath and let it out slowly, in a sigh of relief, perhaps. Relief that she had taken the time to dress? Or that she had not yet threatened to cut out Margaret’s heart?
“What a charming accent you have,” their guest said insincerely. “When I told my cousin that I had met you, she shared the story of your homecoming. It’s quite fascinating.” Margaret wrinkled her nose. “But she did not know how you came to meet and marry Julian. I’m sure that’s just as fascinating a story.” She waited for a response, eyebrows lifted and ears perked.
“It is not so fascinating,” Anya began. “We simply…”
Julian grabbed her arm and pulled her close. “Met and fell instantly in love,” he said quickly.
Anya glanced up at her devious husband. He looked down at her and pleaded with his dark eyes. “Yes,” she said softly. “Very simple.”
When Anya looked at Margaret again, she saw the widow’s face had grown harder. Her mouth was set in an unappealing line, her eyes were narrowed. “How charming.”
Anya might have spent more of her life on a remote island than off it, but she was no simpleton. Julian was using her to make his old lover jealous. If he really cared for her she might not mind so much, but he did not. This marriage was a task to him, a chore, and she had been a fool to allow herself to fall in love with him.
If she did not love Julian, she would tell Margaret that their marriage was a pretense. That he had never touched her, that in two months he would be gone. But she did love him, so she said nothing.
She did love him, but she would never forgive him.
Margaret began an inane diatribe on the weather. Julian nodded politely, as if he hung on every word.
His eyes were on the odious woman, he nodded and agreed with every word she said.
Anya reached out to grab the figurine that sat on the table by the window. She did not even have to step to the side to reach it, it was simply… there. Before she could cock her arm back, Julian’s fingers closed around her wrist. Margaret, studying the portraits in the parlor as she talked about the unbearable heat, did not notice.
With a surge of something that felt like relief, Anya smiled as Julian took the figurine from her and placed it out of reach. So, he had been watching her all along, out of the corner of his eye. He certainly did not want his wife to embarrass him in front of his puta.
Anya’s eyes fell on the vase of roses that sat on a long table behind the couch. She took a step toward it, but Julian wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close to his side. This Margaret did see, but to one who did not know of Anya’s penchant for throwing things, it might seem like a gesture of devotion.
“Do come sit with me,” Margaret said, her words small and tight. “When you stand before the window that way the sun hurts my eyes when I look at you.”
“Certainly.” Julian took Anya’s arm and led her to the couch, where he sat close beside her.
“Now, what does your cousin’s husband do?” Julian asked.
Margaret replied with great vigor, telling them all about the businesses her cousin’s husband owned. She could not have said the man was a successful shopkeeper. No. She had to give them endless details of each and every shop.
The more Anya watched and listened to Margaret, the more she hated the woman. Julian had loved her. He must still, if he was so anxious to make her jealous. He likely did not care at all that Anya herself was experiencing the new and unpleasant emotion.
Anya fingered the knife she wore at her thigh, tracing the shape beneath the fine fabric of her gown and thinking of ways she might make use of the weapon. Julian clamped his hand over hers, and Margaret jumped. The harlot actually blushed.
Julian kept his hand there, firmly over hers. Instead of pushing him away, Anya lifted and threaded her fingers through his. And she smiled. Ah, if he wanted to make Margaret jealous, she could be quite accommodating.
When Anya twisted just slightly and reached for the vase behind the couch, Julian tensed and started to pull her back. He relaxed when she plucked a single perfect yellow rose from the vase and twirled it between her fingers.
She brought the flower to her nose and took a deep breath. The scent was lovely, the petals soft. Margaret droned on about imported fabrics.
With the scent of the rose filling her, Anya very casually lowered the bloom and allowed the petals to brush her lips, her chin, and then her throat. The hand that remained clamped over hers stiffened. Julian cleared his throat.
Anya’s h
and swayed to the side, and she very nonchalantly stroked the petals of the rose against Julian’s throat. Up to his chin, then down to the starched white of his collar. To the side and sweeping to brush just beneath his ear.
Margaret stumbled over a difficult word. Anya suspected the word was and but could not be sure.
Julian’s free hand jerked out and snatched the rose away. His cheeks blushed pink, and he swallowed hard.
Margaret almost regained her composure. At least she did not stumble over her words for a while. She finished the tedious tale of shopkeeping and began to tell them all about her cousin’s children.
God above, Anya did not want to sit here and listen to the sweet tales of babies. She would never have her own, so she had no patience for charming stories of other children. It only reminded her that she was, to Julian and to every other man, incomplete as a woman. Imperfect.
She turned her head, reached up to sweep away long strands of Julian’s dark, wind-brushed hair, lifted her face, and sucked his earlobe into her mouth.
Julian did not move away. His earlobe remained in her mouth, then caught between her teeth. “Anya,” he groaned softly.
Margaret shot to her feet. “I really should be going.”
Anya released her hold on Julian and stood to smile at their guest. “Yes, you should. We have things to do. I am supposed to say it was very nice of you to stop by.”
Margaret went white. “It was my… pleasure.” She turned panicked eyes to Julian. “It was good to see you again. Congratulations on your… marriage.”
“Your strumpet is very good,” Anya said brightly. “She says that as if she means it.”
Margaret spun on her heel to leave, and Julian made as if he intended to pursue her. Anya’s hand fell on a small porcelain bowl that sat on the table at the end of the couch, and she sent it sailing. It broke against the doorframe with a satisfying crash, and Julian stopped in his tracks.
“You will not follow her,” Anya seethed. In the distance, the front door closed behind their visitor.
Julian turned slowly, and with one look at his face Anya took a step back. She had never seen him so angry. “I was only going to see her out and apologize for your atrocious behavior.”
“Do not apologize for me.”
“Someone has to!”
Anya circled the couch, intent on that vase of roses. Julian ran into the room and they met at the vase. Both of her hands closed over the rounded porcelain. Julian’s larger hands covered hers.
“What were you thinking?” he seethed.
She lifted her eyes and stared at him over the yellow roses. “I was thinking that if you insist on lying to make your whore envious of your new love, we should at least make her believe that the lie is true.”
His anger faded, but he did not release her or the vase. “I apologize,” he said softly. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“I do. You loved her and she hurt you, and now you want her to think that you do not hurt anymore. But you do. You must. Otherwise you would not have thought to lie.” Her eyes burned. “You would not have cared so much. You must still love her.”
“Anya.” Julian, no longer angry, took his hands from hers and lifted them to her face. “I don’t…”
With Julian’s stilling hands away from the vase, Anya lifted the container and quickly dropped it to the floor. It landed with a loud crash and splattering of water and roses. In the distance, Peter cursed.
Julian closed his eyes and dropped his hands from her face. “Go to your room,” he ordered softly.
Anya, who would have loved to storm to the sanctuary of her room if he had not ordered her to go, planted her feet and placed her hands on her hips. “No.”
“I said—”
“No.”
Julian reached for her, and in an unexpected move he lifted her easily and in a smooth, sweeping motion tossed her over his shoulder. She felt dizzy for a moment, as she hung there in such an undignified manner.
“I do not have the fortitude to argue with you now,” he said in that damned sensible voice of his.
She dangled from his shoulder as he carried her to the stairs. “You… you…” There was no English word strong enough or angry enough for the way she felt at this moment. She used the language of Puerta Sirena, the language that came to her almost as easily as English, to curse her husband. To insult him.
She salted her dialogue with a few words in Italian, and a few in French. He never slowed his step, and Anya bobbled as Julian all but ran up the stairs with her suspended from his shoulder.
Growing angrier with each passing second, she reverted to the language of her island home as Julian threw open the door to her room.
And in that language he would never understand she told him, angry tears in her eyes as he carried her into the room and dumped her onto her own bed, that he was the only man in the world who could break her heart, and for that she would never forgive him.
Chapter 8
It was too late to run for the roof, Julian thought as the carriage rumbled down the road. They were on their way to the party Anya had been so dreading. The plan was to travel that day and spend the night at the home of one of Elizabeth Sedley’s oldest friends, the woman who was throwing this summer party. Planned activities would fill the day and night the next day, and on Sunday everyone would travel home.
The Sedley servants had been given a holiday. Hilary and Betsy had each gone to spend the weekend with their families. Even Peter had taken off, telling Mrs. Sedley that he would pass the time at a friend’s home in Wilmington. He seemed as anxious to get away from the house as Anya was to remain in it.
Julian was mightily tempted to run for some sort of escape. For a while it had seemed that Anya was taking to her lessons quite well. But lately she had been reverting to her old ways, and he had no idea what she might do next. It would be a disaster of major proportions if she decided to saunter down to breakfast wearing only her scarves and a mélange of jewelry. And if she decided to throw a vase or nibble on his ear… would he be quick enough to stop her?
She had been very quiet in the past few days. He didn’t like it, he didn’t like it at all. A quiet Anya was rather like a volcano. It wasn’t a matter of if she would erupt, it was only a matter of when. And how.
Julian rode in the carriage with Anya, her cousin, and her grandmother. Seymour had chosen to ride a horse, a method of travel Julian would have preferred. But he needed to keep a close eye on Anya. There was no telling what she might say in his absence.
“William Mathias is going to be there this weekend,” Valerie said, a wide smile on her face. Oh, how her attitude had changed in the past few weeks. She had been so sullen, in the beginning. But she and Anya had mended some fences, and the cousins were becoming quite close.
“That William Mathias is a rounder, and if he expresses an interest in you, you must remember that he is only attracted to your money,” Mrs. Sedley said curtly, and with an unintended cruelty. “The Mathias family never did recover financially from the war. As a Sedley you must always remember your position.”
Valerie’s face fell, and she turned her forlorn gaze out the window. Not a word of argument passed her lips.
But Anya was not about to let the incident go. “How do you know this William Mathias is only interested in Valerie’s money?”
“We don’t know, Anya, but we must assume…” Mrs. Sedley said gently, as if she were talking to a child.
“Perhaps he is interested in her bosom.”
Mrs. Sedley gasped, and Valerie blushed from the exposed skin above her modest collar all the way up to her pale hairline.
“Anya,” Julian said gently. That gentle rebuke should be enough.
It was not. “But this is family. You said I could say some things to family that I cannot say to strangers.”
“That is true, but…”
“Is it not important that we know if William Mathias likes Valerie for her money or her bosom?”
&nb
sp; “We don’t know that he likes her at all,” Mrs. Sedley said tightly.
“Valerie must have many beaus,” Anya said with a smile. “She is beautiful and usually very sweet.”
Valerie wrinkled her nose. “I’m too chubby, and not nearly as pretty as you.”
“You are a very pretty girl, and you are not chubby,” Mrs. Sedley snapped. “You just haven’t gotten rid of all your baby fat, yet.”
“I’m almost twenty-three,” Valerie whispered. “I don’t see how this can be baby fat.”
Julian wished he could disappear. Crawling out the window seemed a perfectly reasonable option.
“The fat is what makes her bosom so magnificent,” Anya said.
“Would you please not say the word bosom again?” Mrs. Sedley snapped.
“Of course, Grandmother,” Anya said sweetly, and then she turned to Valerie. “You must introduce me to this William Mathias. I think he must like you for your tete.”
“Anya!” Mrs. Sedley snapped.
“I did not say bosom.” Anya turned to Julian. “You will ask him.”
“No!” Valerie shouted, all but coming out of her seat.
Julian stared with admiration and wonder and complete bewilderment at his wife. “There is no proper way to ask a man if he cares for a woman because of her fortune or her… feminine assets.”
“I guess that is true. At least I know why you married me,” Anya said coolly. “For a ship and a few sailors, you became my husband and teacher. I never had to wonder why, or if, you cared for me. Take heart, querido, your time is speeding past quickly. In less than two months you will be finished with your arduous task.”
Mrs. Sedley cleared her throat and began to tell them all about the home of her old friend, Katherine Mansfield. She was quite thrilled about the weekend, in spite of William Mathias’s presence and the excitement of never knowing what Anya might say or do next.
Anya pretended to listen, so Julian stared at her. He stared intently at the set of her chin and the gentle shape of her lips. At the way her hair would never quite behave. If he leaned forward, just a bit, he would be able to see the fire in her eyes, a flash of sea-green flame that was so much a part of her.
