Julia didn’t feel quite comfortable not wearing black, but neither did she want to go down to dinner wearing the austere bombazine, with buttons secured up to her throat and at her wrists. So she chose a gown of black silk and lace, an off-the-shoulder style that was at once elegant and respectful, and if she were honest with herself, also seductive.
She saw the approval in Edward’s eyes when she joined him in the library before dinner, was very much aware of it during dinner. In the small dining room, she sat at the foot of the table that would accommodate eight, so she could look at him head-on, rather than his profile.
She wanted—needed—whatever it was they might be moving toward to be different from what it was they were edging away from.
“I was thinking of rearranging the family wing,” she announced during their third course.
Studying her over his glass of red wine, he nodded. “Rearrange the entire residence if you like.”
“Not the furniture so much as the people. I thought to move into another set of suites.”
Where she had no memories of being with Albert, where everything would be fresh and new and different.
His gaze never wavered from hers. “Splendid. But I also want you to feel free to replace any furniture, any art, anything that isn’t to your taste. Neither my brother nor I ever had any sentimental attachment to anything here. We never knew much of the history behind the items. A consequence of not living here in our youth.”
“I’ve always found the residence welcoming. I want only to move to another set of suites for a bit of a change.”
“As you wish.”
She hadn’t expected that he would deny her; she didn’t think he would deny her anything she asked.
Their conversation during dinner wasn’t as lively as it had once been. They were both treading lightly. She worried now about revealing something to the servants she shouldn’t, slipping up. She couldn’t call him Albert. She knew differently now. Although she knew wives who referred to their husbands by their title, she’d always found it a bit odd, Grey being so formal and distant.
When they were finished with their desserts, he invited her to join him in the library. As she walked into the room that no longer reminded her of Albert, but rather of Edward, she strolled over to the shelves, studied the volumes lined up like well-disciplined soldiers. “I thought I might read aloud tonight.”
Having some form of planned entertainment would remove a little of the strain of striving to come up with conversation.
She was suddenly acutely aware of him at her back, the heat radiating from his body warming her exposed flesh. Her breath held, she waited, even as her heart pumped with a madness that made her light-headed. He reached up toward a bookshelf, the opening of his jacket barely floating over the curve of her shoulder, as light as a butterfly’s fluttering wings just before it landed on a petal. Inhaling deeply, she took in his purely masculine fragrance, wondering why she had ever thought his scent was the same as Albert’s. His was more tart, more bold. He was not one for subtlety.
“This one would prove interesting,” he said, his voice low, provocative, hypnotic.
She wanted to turn into him, press her cheek against the center of his chest, have his arms close around her. But it was too soon for such intimacy. She needed to be more certain of her feelings, that they were not influenced by grief and the prospect of loneliness. So she stayed as she was, watching as he slowly tipped back the leather-bound book, brought it down and placed it in her hands.
He stepped away. “Brandy?”
“Yes, please.” Why did she have to sound breathless, why was it that he always managed to so easily send her nerve endings rioting?
Cursing the unsteadiness of her legs, she made her way to a chair near the fireplace. He handed her a snifter, and she studied the reflection of the flames in the glass, in the amber.
“To new beginnings,” he said, raising his own snifter.
She looked over at him, lounging back in the chair, so causal, so comfortable. Always at ease with himself, always confident as to his place, even when that place had been as second son, younger brother. Even when that place had been pretending to be Albert.
After taking a sip of her drink, she set it aside, turned her attention to the book resting in her lap—and burst out laughing. “The Husbandry of Sheep?”
“There’s an excellent chapter on breeding, quite titillating.”
“You’ve read it?” She didn’t bother to hide her skepticism.
“At Havisham Hall it was the most risqué reading we could find. I was quite good at embellishing the narrative whenever I read it to the others.” He held out his hand. “Would you care for me to demonstrate?”
Smiling, she shook her head. “How did I ever believe for a single second that you were Albert?”
“Because the alternative was unthinkable, and that’s what I was counting on.”
And now the thought of him being dead was unthinkable. She set the book aside, picked up her glass, took another sip. “What if Allie is the only child, healthy and strong, I shall ever bring into the world?”
“I don’t want you for your breeding capabilities.”
But he should. Now that they knew the troubles that plagued her, she was an awful choice for him, for a man who needed an heir.
“That said,” he began slowly, “I very much want you for the act that leads to breeding.”
He spoke of mating as though it wasn’t something that should be limited to beds and darkness. Her face warmed with the thought of them finishing what they had merely begun. “You’re a bad influence.”
“You like that about me.”
She did, but it was more than that. “There are aspects to myself that cause me to experience a sense of shame. I am left with the impression that in a similar circumstance, you would experience no humiliation.”
Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his thighs, his hands cupping the bowl of the snifter as though it were an offering. “I’ve always been of the opinion that what people do in private is of no one else’s concern.”
His gaze was so intense, practically boring into her, and she had to fight to hold it. “What if I wanted to do something that you found disgusting?”
“Such as?”
Why had she traveled here? “You are already quite familiar with my penchant for whispering naughty words.”
“Based on my reaction that unfortunate night, I should think you would be well aware that I have no objections to any words you would utter. Some of my favorites are naughty ones. Words should bring you no shame. What else?”
Taking another sip, she realized she hadn’t really considered his reaction that night. She’d been angered by his deceit, mortified that he’d heard her words, but it was her own shame that had prompted her reaction. He’d never given her any cause to experience a sense of degradation. He’d never teased, chastised, nor tormented her for the folly of her actions. She circled her finger around the rim of the glass. “Sometimes, I think about putting my mouth where I shouldn’t.”
“Where exactly?”
“Your—” She nodded toward his lap, or tried to.
“My cock?”
She glowered at him. “You say the word with such ease.”
“It’s a good word. Trust me, I would not take offense if you put your mouth there.”
“I’m not talking about putting it on the word, but on the object. And I don’t know why you make me think such wicked things.”
“Look at me.”
It was much easier to stare at the fire. Mayhap she should leap into it.
“Julia,” he prodded far too insistently.
She shifted her gaze over. He was sitting back, his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin on his hand, one finger slowly stroking just below his lower lip. She wanted to kiss him there.
“There is no place upon my person against which you could press your lips, your tongue, that I would find fault.”
“It’s not proper.”
“Would it bring you pleasure, joy, satisfaction?”
She fought not to squirm. “I think so. I don’t know for certain, as I’ve never been quite so bold. I’ve only thought of doing it.”
“Then it is not improper.”
“How does one learn what is proper and what is not?”
“By experimenting, I suppose.”
“It’s easier for men. You can visit brothels. I suspect you’ve had a thousand women, and if you make a fool of yourself with one you simply move on to another.”
“Not quite a thousand.”
“A hundred?”
“I truly didn’t count, but I suspect the number is far fewer than that. The important thing is: I would never make you feel a fool.” He held out his arms in supplication. “You may do with me as you will, and I shall be ever grateful for it.”
“If I wanted to flog you for keeping things from me?”
He grimaced. “I would probably object to that. I’m not of the opinion that pain equals pleasure. Although I think I’m relatively safe, as I promised not to keep anything else from you.” He looked toward the fire. “And yet already I have done so.”
Her chest tightened a fraction. “What have you kept from me?”
He slid his gaze over to her, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Shall I gave it to you now?”
She furrowed her brow. “It’s an object, not a secret?”
“It’s a secret if I haven’t given it to you yet.”
“You’re being difficult.”
He grinned. “I am, but then you expect that of me, don’t you?”
To tease her, to cause mischief, to be playful. Strange how the facets to him that had once irritated her now charmed her. “Perhaps I don’t want it.”
“Fear of you tossing it in the fire is actually why I haven’t given it to you yet.”
She pouted, sighed, rolled her eyes. “I won’t toss it into the fire, but it’s not fair to tell me about it if you’re not going to give it to me.”
“I suppose you have a point. Wait there.” He drained his glass before getting up, striding to the desk and pulling open a bottom drawer. Reaching inside, he pulled out an oblong shape wrapped in brown paper, secured with a string. Walking back over, he held it out to her. “I was going to give it to you for Christmas, but I had second thoughts, was afraid it might give me away.”
Taking it from him, she set it in her lap, watched as he returned to his chair and went incredibly still, his focus on her as though this item and her reaction to it were of monumental importance. She tugged on the string until the bow unraveled and the paper fell away to reveal a glistening rosewood box with a small crank on one side. “Oh, Edward, it’s gorgeous.”
“It opens.”
Lifting the hinged lid, she smiled at the exposed mechanisms, protected behind a veil of glass. “What does it play?”
“Wind it up and see.”
Slowly, gently, she turned the small handle, afraid something so delicate might break. When it would turn no more, she released her hold and “Greensleeves” began tinkling around her.
Memories washed over her, of ballrooms and waltzes and being held inappropriately close, yet never objecting. She hadn’t even realized she held those remembrances, and yet there they were, so vivid, as though the moments had occurred only last night.
“You always waltzed with me when the orchestra played this tune,” she said quietly.
“I wasn’t certain if you noted that it was always the same song.” He still hadn’t moved, didn’t appear to even be breathing.
“I’m not certain that I really did until just now. Why the same song?”
“If it was a pleasant experience for you, I wanted you to associate it with me. And if it wasn’t, I didn’t want to be responsible for ruining every tune for you.”
Closing the lid, she stroked her fingers over the polished wood, the vibrations of the tune thrumming through it. “I always enjoyed dancing with you. It seemed to be the only time that we weren’t at odds. I thought it was because we were concentrating on not stepping on each other’s feet.”
“Having the opportunity to dance with you is the only reason I ever attended any ball.”
It wasn’t so much that she wanted to be wooed as much as she wanted to ensure she saw him clearly, the man he truly was and not the man he’d been pretending to be. She needed to be certain she could separate one from the other, that any feelings she possessed for the man sitting across from her were sentiments he rightfully deserved. But when he uttered words such as those, how could she not be wooed, flattered, enticed? How could her heart remain unaffected? “We never spoke when we danced.”
“I wanted nothing to distract me from the sensation of holding you in my arms. Dance with me now.”
She glanced around wildly, wanting what he offered, yet strangely fearful that it might prove her undoing. “What? Here? Or are you suggesting we go to the grand salon?”
“The grand salon is too large.” He stood and extended his hand. “The foyer would serve better. More intimate but with enough room that we won’t bump into anything. The box can serve as the orchestra.”
“It’s madness.”
“Then be a little mad.”
He was looking at her seriously, solemnly, and yet there was a challenge in those brown eyes. Neither of them had put on their gloves following dinner. His hand in no way reminded her of Albert’s graceful one. Edward’s appeared stronger. He had a callus on the pad below his index finger. Months here, and yet still his hands were those of someone who preferred the outdoors and exertion. She slipped her hand into his. As his fingers closed around it, before she could rise, he grabbed the box that would have required two of her hands to hold it securely and was then pulling her to her feet.
“I haven’t danced since last Season,” she said as he escorted her from the room.
“I haven’t danced since I last danced with you.”
“But you did dance with other ladies,” she pointed out. She’d seen him dancing with them, and each one had looked completely infatuated.
“I did, but I usually retired to the card room after I waltzed with you. I liked having your scent lingering around me, which in retrospect was rather masochistic on my part.”
“I truly had no idea.”
“That was the whole point in my unforgivable behavior.” They reached the foyer, and he released his hold on her. “Now I need you to see and trust that the man I was before is not the man I am.”
He wound up the music box, his large hand dwarfing the small mechanism, then set it on a table that hugged a wall. The music filled the area. He stepped up to her and drew her into the circle of his arms.
And then they were waltzing. Closer than was appropriate, more securely than he’d ever held her, as though he would never let her go. Or perhaps he merely wanted to ensure that she didn’t knock into any of the tables or statuettes or flower vases. How he managed to avoid them was beyond her, as his gaze never left hers.
She realized that during all the years when they had shared a single dance, he’d always given her his full and complete attention. She simply hadn’t seen it because devotion to her was not what she expected of him. She’d assumed he was striving to make her feel uncomfortable or mock her in some way, and yet still she’d enjoyed circling over the floor with him because he was one of the most graceful dancers she knew. Perhaps because he’d spent time balancing along cliffs or hazardous trails. He’d skirted obstacles to reach his destinations—
But he’d walked away that night in the garden because his brother loved her, and she loved his brother. And he loved Albert.
The music stopped and yet still seemed to hover on the air, reluctant to go away completely. As reluctant as Edward seemed to release his hold on her. He lowered his head.
She pressed a finger to his lips. He stilled, his eyes searching hers.
“If you kiss me, I’ll be lost,” she told him.
“I’ll find you, lead you back.”
“I have to lead myself back. Edward, I must be sure that what I’m feeling is not influenced by what I no longer have.”
“I promised you time and you shall have it.” Stepping away from her, he went to get the music box.
She was a silly woman to mourn the distance that now separated them when she had been the one to insist upon it.
He offered his arm. “I’ll escort you up.”
They were silent as they went up the stairs, and yet there was nothing uncomfortable in it. He wasn’t resentful or angry, nothing untoward shimmied off him. At her door, he handed her the box.
“Sleep well, Julia.”
Then he was gone, jogging down the steps at a steady clip, the click of his footsteps echoing up. She went into her bedchamber, walked to the window and sat in the chair. Holding the music box on her lap, she wound it up, leaned back, closed her eyes and let the music and the memories overtake her.
She had no plans to compare brothers. Still, what she felt for Edward was unlike anything she’d ever before experienced. It was vibrant, alive, intense. It frightened her, if she were honest. It was as though he had the power to reach into her and expose every secret she’d ever possessed—without shame, remorse, or guilt. Surely it could not be healthy, surely they would burn up if they gave in to their desires. But it was more than a touch of the flesh, it was a touching of souls, a commonality of passion.
She had loved once, loved still, but the stirrings in connection with Edward were vast, encompassed more than the whole, seemed to reach beyond what was safe and secure. Yet how could she contemplate not surrendering?