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He was a nice young man, Julia thought, watching him weave through the crowd to the front door. Still self-centred and inclined to believe that things would fall into his lap by right, but he would learn. Yet however little he wished his cousin ill, the discovery that he was not going to inherit King’s Acre in a few years would be a blow that would set his world on its ear.
When her carriage pulled into the inn yard the footman jumped down from the box to open the door and let the steps down and almost fell over his feet when he saw the two men waiting. ‘Mr Jervis! And—oh, my Heavens, it’s his lordship! Thomas, look, it’s his lordship just like he used to be!’
‘Praise be!’ Thomas the coachman must have jabbed the horses’ mouths in his excitement. The carriage rocked back and forth and she saw Will grin in the lamplight. It was the first time she had ever seen him smile like that. How had she ever thought him old, even when he had been so sick? This was a man in his prime.
‘Praise be, indeed, Thomas. Good to see you again, Charles. Now, load up the bags and let us be going. We can’t keep her ladyship sitting around like this.’ He climbed in, the valet on his heels.
‘Good evening, your ladyship.’ The valet sat down with his back to the horses, his hat held precisely on his knees.
‘Good evening, Jervis. Welcome home. I am delighted to see you after all this time.’ And thankful that his presence in the carriage would bar any but the most commonplace conversation. Shock was beginning to give way to apprehension. It was no more than that, she assured herself. There was nothing really to actually be afraid of. Was there? Only some very unpleasant revelations to deal with.
‘You have bought a new team,’ Will observed. Perhaps he too was glad of their involuntary chaperon. ‘There will be more horses arriving in a few weeks. I bought an Andalusian stallion and two mares and a dozen Arabians.’
‘Fifteen horses?’ Julia felt a surge of excitement sweep back the fears into their usual dark corner. ‘We will need new stabling. And to extend the paddocks,’ she added. ‘Thank goodness the feed stocks are so good and the hay crop should be excellent if the weather holds. We may need to hire new grooms.’ Mind racing, she started to make lists in her head. ‘I will get Harris the builder up tomorrow to discuss plans. Jobbins will have ideas about any likely local lads to hire, of course, but we will need someone used to stud work—’
‘I have it all in hand,’ Will said. ‘You have no need to trouble yourself with such things now that I am home.’
‘It will be no trouble,’ Julia retorted. She knew exactly what state the grass was in, how much new fencing was needed, where an extended stable block would go and the strengths and weaknesses of the current stable staff. There was going to be a territorial battle, she could tell, because she was not prepared to let three years of hard work go and retire to her sitting room and her embroidery. But that was something else that could wait until the morning.
‘We can have supper while they make up the bed in the master suite,’ she said into the silence that had fallen. ‘And make sure your room is aired, of course, Jervis.’ In the gloom of the carriage she could sense the sudden sharpening of Will’s attention. He was hardly going to discuss their sleeping arrangements now. When the time came to go upstairs she would just have to be very clear that she wished to be alone.
No doubt that would be another subject on which Lord Dereham had very firm opinions. And then there was the secret tragedy that, somehow, she was going to find a way to confess before anyone told him of it.
Chapter Seven (#ub9426148-d4f7-562f-8aa6-288b0bed96a9)
Will rolled over on to his back and opened his eyes. Above him, lit by the early morning light, was the familiar dark blue of the bed canopy. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and focused on the stars embroidered in silver thread by some long-ago ancestress. Home. He really was home.
Without turning his head he stretched out a hand as he had every morning since he had finally accepted that he was not about to die. Beside him the bed was empty, the covers flat, the pillow smooth and cool. No one was there, of course.
Julia had not been very communicative last night, not after the brief verbal tussle over where he was sleeping. Which she had won, he reflected. For one night, at any rate. He was hard, aroused, but then he was every morning since he had recovered.
Will threw back the covers with an impatient hand and let the cool air of dawn flow over his naked, heated body. He had made his bed and now, he supposed, he must lie on it. Not that it would be such a hardship to lie with Julia. His mouth curved at the memory of her in that pink silk last night. He had thought about her these past years, but the memories had been of her spirit and her intelligence, not of her looks.
But marrying Julia had been a brilliant piece of improvisation by a dying man. A marriage of convenience that he had expected to last mere months. For a man with the prospect of a long life ahead of him it was a sentence to a loveless but solid and respectable future.
Or, given the hideous example of his own parents’ convenient marriage, loveless and cold, although, if he had anything to do with it, not spectacularly scandalous. He winced at the remembrance of the raised voices, the banging doors, the sniggers at school and the oh-so-careful reports in the scandal sheets—It is said that a certain Lady D—... It is the talk of the town that Lord D—’s latest companion...
All those lies, all the pretence. His father pretending he was not unfaithful, his mother pretending her heart was not broken, both of them lying to him, fobbing him off, whenever he asked if anything was wrong, when Papa would be home, why Mama was weeping again. It had felt as though they simply did not care enough about him to talk to him, to explain, to comfort the confused small boy. Looking back, he saw no reason to modify that explanation.
Thousands married without love and managed to live perfectly affectionate, civilised, faithful lives, he knew that. But, for a man who had once dreamed of something more for himself, it was a damnably unpleasant place to be. He had lived with a vision of bringing love back to Knight’s Acre and he had to accept that now he never would. He could sense that Julia would find it difficult to have him home and he could understand her feelings.
The night before he had told Jervis to leave the curtain drawn back. Now the sun flooded in through the window and he gazed down the long avenue of oaks towards the glimmer of the lake in the distance while he found his equilibrium again. He had managed to survive a death sentence, the loss of his betrothed and exile from the place he loved with a bone-deep passion. He had taken a gamble to save King’s Acre and if he had not, and had stayed, he would be dead by now and Henry in his place.
You’re an ungrateful devil, he told himself. He was alive, well and had an intelligent, attractive wife. King’s Acre had been in good hands, he felt confident of that. Of course Julia had been cool and had wanted to sleep alone last night. After all, she was a virgin and was probably shaken to the core to have her virtually unknown husband turn up without notice. That would change and he would be careful with her. And she would realise this morning that the master of the house had returned and she could place all the business affairs in his hands and, no doubt, be glad to shed the responsibility.
But for now the house was quiet in the dawn light. Down in the kitchens a yawning scullery maid would be riddling the grate and making up the range to heat water for the other servants. Up here all would be undisturbed for at least an hour.
King’s Acre lay open and waiting for him, like a mistress awaiting her lover’s return, and he would savour it, rediscover it and his hoarded, happy memories. Will pulled on a brocade robe and, without bothering to find his slippers, opened the door on to his dressing room.
He wandered from room to room, looked out of windows, touched furniture, picked up trinkets. Under his fingers the house came to life again in a myriad of textures: polished wood and rough tapestry; smooth porcelain, cold metal; cut glass and ornate ormolu. His eyes lingered on favourite paintings, achingly remembered views, familiar spaces. In his nostrils was the smell of lavender and beeswax, wood smoke and, unsettlingly unfamiliar, a hint of the perfume he remembered from Julia’s skin as he had carried her into the retiring room the evening before.
On this upper floor every door opened to him. At the other end of the main passageway lay the oak panels leading to the bedchamber Julia was using and he passed that by. Today she would move her things into the suite next to his and that would put an end to this nonsense of sleeping apart.
The final door, the one beyond her dressing room, did not open. Will twisted the handle, pushed, expecting it to have stuck. But it stayed firm. Beyond, he recalled, was a small room with a pretty curve to the wall where it fitted into one of the old turrets. There was no reason for it to be locked. Thwarted, he frowned. It could wait, of course. He would get the key... But the rest of the rooms had opened to him as if welcoming him back, giving themselves up again to their master. It jarred that this one remained blankly inaccessible.
Frustrated, Will hit the panels with his clenched fist. The sound echoed down the quiet corridor like a hammer blow.
A sharp intake of breath was all the warning he got that he was not alone. When he turned Julia was standing in the doorway of her room, her eyes wide, one hand clenched in the ruffles of her robe.
* * *
Will should not look so much bigger in a robe with bare feet and yet he seemed to fill the space. His eyes ran over her as she stood there in the flimsy summer robe until she felt naked and exposed.
‘I am sorry, I did not mean to wake you. I was surprised to find the door locked.’
‘There are just some things stored in there,’ she said vaguely. ‘Did you need the room? I will have it cleared.’ Oh, I am such a fool! Why didn’t I do it before? I don’t need an empty nursery to remind me of the child I lost. Can I tell him now? No. All night she had tossed and turned, trying to think how she would break the news of what she had discovered after he had left.
‘No, I don’t care about the room,’ Will said. ‘But may I come into yours?’
‘My bedchamber? But, why?’
‘Why?’ One dark brow rose and his smile became sensual. That look had been in Jonathan’s eyes that night in the inn. Her pulse spiked. ‘I am your husband,’ Will pointed out.
‘But our marriage was only a sham, a device. You cannot expect to...to come to my bed just like that, without any discussion, without giving me any time—I hardly know you!’
‘Then I suggest we make up for lost time.’ His expression softened. ‘I find you very attractive, Julia. Do I...frighten you? Is that it?’
He was so close she could see the individual stubble of his night-beard, see the crisp curl of hair in the vee of his robe. He is naked under it, just as I am beneath mine. He was a virile, attractive man. Head and heart and body seemed to be at war in her. Her feminine reactions to him were primal, she could not help them, she knew that. Even before, when he had been so ill, she had felt that flicker of heat, that attraction. And it was her duty to lie with him, she had taken everything he offered her and been grateful for it.
‘No,’ she admitted and saw the tension leave him.
But... She swallowed as he came closer still. She only had to close her eyes and she thought of Jonathan, his hands impatient, the painful thrusting into her body, his sneers, the betrayal. And he had left her with child.
Will reached out and pulled her against him and then there was nothing but those amber eyes holding hers as he lowered his head and kissed her. One hand slid up to hold her head and his fingers sifted into the mass of hair, loosened from its night-time plait. With the other arm he encircled her shoulders. She felt herself become stiff, unyielding, as reactions and instincts warred within her.
Will was overwhelming. Overwhelmingly big, overwhelmingly male. His mouth, as it crushed down on hers, was unlike anything she had experienced or imagined.
His tongue slid along the tight seam of her lips, seeking entrance, and she tasted him, felt his heat. This is not Jonathan. Suddenly her body was fluid, curving against his, only thin muslin and thick silk separating their bare flesh.
Jonathan had not seemed to want to kiss her much. There had been romantic, respectful kisses when he was courting her. Fleeting caresses that she now knew to be hypocritical ploys. When he had taken her to his bed she had ached for kisses, had wanted their reassurance, but he had been urgent, focused on sheathing himself in her body and, she realised now, reaching his own satisfaction.
She tensed at the memory, transferring those feelings to Will, wanting to reject him, but her body was sending her clamouring messages of need, of surrender. Of desire. He felt so strong against her. The thrust of his erection pressed against her belly. His skin smelt of musk and, faintly, of last evening’s shaving soap. His morning beard was rough against her cheeks.
Her body wanted to be seduced. Her common sense, squeaking faintly to be heard against the clamour of emotion, told her that he was her husband, that she should simply allow herself to be swept off to his bed.
No. Will’s tongue probed along her lips, seeking entrance. Some instinct that she did not dare to quite trust murmured that he would not force her. But he will make my body force me, she argued back. He thinks he holds every card, the arrogant devil.
Then take control, don’t let him dominate you so. As she thought it she felt her body melting, answering him, demanding with as much urgency as his was. He used his strength and she could not match it, but she could use it against him as a wrestler uses his opponent’s weight to overbalance him.
Damn you, Will Hadfield, Julia thought as she opened her lips, felt the triumphant surge of his tongue. You will be my husband, not my master. Rather than yield she would give as good as she got. Her own tongue met his, boldly, and then she lost track of time, of coherent thought and, certainly, of speech.
Will kissed as though this meeting of mouths was the sex act in itself: hot, demanding, intimate. She had no idea what she was doing as her tongue tangled and duelled with his, as the taste of him filled her and her ears were deafened by the sound of his breathing and her thundering heart.
His robe was too thick. Touch him. Julia pushed it back and found naked skin, hot and smooth over shifting, hard muscle. She wanted to bite, to kiss...
His hands came down, over her back, down to her waist and he pulled her against him and she felt the hard ridge of arousal pressed against her stomach and the memory of the pain came back, sweeping away the passion in a cold flood.
Will released her, stepped back his expression rueful. ‘I have frightened you. For a moment I forgot you were a virgin, Julia. It will be all right, I promise you.’
‘Yes, of course.’ From somewhere she found a smile.
‘Those few days we were together before we married—we are still those people. I have not changed so very much and I doubt you have either. We trusted each other. There was liking, I think. We can build on that. And attraction as we have just proved.’
Attraction, yes. She nodded, it was impossible to pretend otherwise. Trust. But I lied to you. You married a woman who killed a man. I was a fugitive. And now I have to tell you I bore, and lost, that man’s child and I have to beg you to acknowledge it as yours. If I let you lie with me then the marriage is consummated and I will have trapped you.
‘I’ll let you get dressed,’ Will said. ‘We’ll meet at breakfast and talk afterwards. You can move into the chamber next to mine and this will all be all right, you’ll see, Julia.’
‘Thank you.’ Her smile was slipping, but it was only a few steps to her chamber. Julia closed the door behind her with care. She was shaking, but she made herself walk to the armchair at the window, not collapse on the bed. She would be in control, she would not panic.
Before she slept with him she had to tell him the truth. Not all of it, not that she was responsible for Jonathan’s death, but about the elopement and about the baby. She owed it to him to be honest about that before he made love to her.
He would be angry, and shaken, but she had to hope he would understand and forgive her the deception because there was only so much weight her conscience could bear.
Once she had thought that the guilt and fear over Jonathan’s death would lessen, that she could forget. But it did not go away. It was always there and so was the pain and loss of her child, the two things twisting and tangling into a mesh of emotions that were always there waiting to trip her, snare her, when she was least expecting it. And now Will was home there was the added guilt of keeping her crime from him. But it was not a personal shame like her elopement or the pregnancy. This was a matter of law and she could not ask him to conceal what she had done.
The sensitive skin of her upper arms where Will had held her still prickled with the awareness of his touch. Her mouth was swollen and sensitive and the ache between her thighs was humiliatingly insistent.
He was her husband. She owed him as much truth as she could give him and, unfair though it might be, she wanted something in return. I want a real marriage.
Papa had taught her to negotiate. Know what your basic demands are, the point you will not shift beyond, he had told her. Know what you can afford to yield, what you can give to get what you want. He had been talking about buying land and selling wheat, but the principles were surely the same.
Julia lay back in the chair, closed her eyes against the view of the garden coming to life in the strengthening sunlight, and tried to think without emotion. She could not risk the marriage: that was her sticking point. She wanted her husband’s respect, and equality in making decisions about their lives and that included the estate and the farm. She wanted him to desire her for herself, not just as a passive body in his bed to breed his sons. Sons. The emotion broke through the calculation. Could she bear that pain again? Could she carry another child, knowing what it would be like to lose it before it had even drawn a breath?
Yes. Because if I am not willing to do that, then the marriage cannot stand. I made a bargain and I cannot break it. She felt one tear running down her cheek, but she did not lift her hand to wipe it away.
Chapter Eight (#ub9426148-d4f7-562f-8aa6-288b0bed96a9)
At length Nancy, her maid, arrived. Julia bathed, dressed and, still deep in thought, walked to the head of the stairs to be greeted by loud wailing rising from the breakfast room. When she ran down and along the passageway she was confronted by a view of the door jammed with all three of their strapping footmen, craning to see what was going on inside. Julia tapped the nearest liveried shoulder and they jumped apart, mumbling shamefaced apologies.
The wailing female was revealed as Cook, her apron to her face, sobbing with joy on Will’s shoulder. ‘I never thought to see the day... Oh, look at ’im... Oh, my lord...just like when he was a young man!’
Will had the usual expression of a man confronted by a weeping female, one of helpless alarm, as he stood patting Cook ineffectually on the back.
‘Mrs Pocock, do calm down!’ The relief of having some ordinary crisis to take control of almost made Julia laugh out loud. ‘Gatcombe, will you please find someone to take Cook downstairs and make her a nice cup of tea and the rest of you, get on and fetch his lordship’s breakfast. He will think he has come home to a madhouse.’
‘My lady, I must apologise.’ The butler glared at the footmen until one of them helped Mrs Pocock from the room, then waved the others in with the chafing-dishes. ‘Cook had retired to her room when you returned last night and the kitchen maids did not inform her until this morning of his lordship’s presence and his good health.’
‘Of course.’ Julia took her place at the foot of the small oval table as Will straightened his rumpled neckcloth and collapsed into his chair. ‘I had forgotten that Cook has known Lord Dereham for many years.’ Gatcombe went out, closing the door on the sounds from the corridor and leaving them alone.
‘Coffee, my lord?’ Will looked decidedly off balance. Whatever he had been doing for the past three years, he had certainly not been gaining experience in dealing with difficult females. But then, since he had recovered his health, they had probably been all willing complaisance. Julia tried hard not to imagine just how her husband would have celebrated his returning health and vigour.
‘Thank you.’ The heavy-lidded look had shivers travelling up and down her spine, but all Will said was, ‘You appear to have rather more control over the domestic staff than I have, my lady. Mrs Pocock would not stop wailing.’
‘It is only to be expected,’ Julia said as she racked her brains to recall whether her husband took cream and sugar with his coffee. He could say if it was wrong, she decided with a mental shrug and simply passed the cup. ‘They are all delighted at your recovery and as for control, I have been dealing with them daily for three years, after all.’
‘I trust there will be no more weeping females today.’ Will sipped his coffee without a grimace, so she had that right at least. None of the servants knew the true story behind this marriage, or even where they had first met—the more familiar she seemed with Will’s habits, the better it would be.
‘I doubt any more of the female staff will shed tears at the sight of you.’ Julia studied him over the rim of her chocolate cup as Charles came in and began to serve Will breakfast.
As was her habit, Julia started her day with only chocolate, bread and butter and preserves, but it seemed someone had warned the kitchen and Cook had managed to at least put a decent breakfast for a hungry man in train before her emotions overcame her.
Bacon, eggs, a slice of sirloin, mushrooms. Will nodded thanks to Charles when his breakfast plate was finally filled to his satisfaction. The contrast with the emaciated invalid picking at a spoonful of scrambled egg during their first breakfast together could not have been greater.
‘What are you thinking?’ Will asked as he reached for the toast.
‘Thank you, Charles, that will be all.’ Julia waited until he footman had closed the door behind her. ‘I was reflecting that I would not have recognised the man I married if it were not for your eyes.’
‘And that recognition was enough to make you faint?’
‘You must know perfectly well how distinctive a feature your eyes are. I had thought you must be dead, although I never once admitted it to anyone else. To tell the truth, I was surprised to receive the letters for as long as you sent them. When you left I had not expected you would make it across the Channel. So the shock of seeing you again with no warning was...intense.’
Will pushed the empty plate away with sudden impatience. ‘I will not beat about the bush. What is the matter, Julia? You know I am the same man you married, but you have changed. You are wary now and it is not simply the shock of seeing me. What else are you hiding from me?’
Hiding? For a moment Julia froze. Had Will the powers to read her mind? Of course I am wary! A ghost appears, kisses me until I am dizzy with desire...and whatever happens I must reveal one secret that may break our marriage into pieces and hide another for my very life.
Julia spread honey on a roll to give herself time to collect her thoughts, then answered as though the situation was as uncomplicated as everyone else believed it to be. ‘Of course I have changed. I have been alone for three years and I have just had a severe, but very welcome, shock.’ That was not entirely a lie. ‘You try hiding so much as an extravagant piece of shopping with Aunt Delia’s beady eye on you.’ Will gave a snort of laughter and she added, ‘Any woman would be wary if her lord and master had been away for so long and then returned unexpectedly.’
He paused, one hand outstretched to the fruit bowl. ‘Is that how you see me now you have had time to think it over? Your lord and master?’
‘Certainly not,’ she answered with as much composure as she could summon and was pleased to see the amusement vanish from his face. ‘It is how society views you. I regard you as an unknown and very uncertain factor in my life.’
He was peeling an apple, his eyes clashing with hers as the peel ran slowly over his fingers. The chocolate threatened to slop over the cup. Julia put it down carefully before he noticed the effect he had on her. ‘I have no idea if I will be happy married to you. Or you to me. But I will do my level best.’ She braced herself for an explosion of wrath.
‘Happiness? You aim high. I was hoping for mere contentment as a starting point. An absence of scandal would be desirable.’ There was an edge to that, she noticed, puzzled. He could have no idea what she was hiding, so why the reference to scandal? ‘Well, we will see. My experience of marriage is as brief as yours, but I have no doubt you will point out to me where I am going wrong.’
All very calm and polite, Julia thought, but under the civilised words was more emotion that he was keeping hidden from her. Which was fair enough, she supposed. She had no intention of making her own emotions any more transparent than most of them undoubtedly were just now, not yet.
‘Your own childhood memories will guide you, I imagine,’ she replied with equal calmness.
‘Do you? If you mean I should seek for a model of the ideal husband in my own parent I am afraid you would not be very happy with the result. He gave me these eyes and he left me the only thing I love: King’s Acre. I suspect you would want something more from me in the way of conjugal virtues.’ He drained the coffee and tossed his napkin onto the table. ‘Have you finished, Julia?
‘Certainly.’ In the face of that matter-of-fact bitterness there were no words of comfort to offer to a virtual stranger. She waited as he came round to pull her chair back. ‘What do you wish to do first?’
‘Any number of things, but please do not let me interfere with your morning. I will go and speak to my steward.’
‘Mr Wilkins will wait on us at eleven o’clock. Mr Howard from the Home Farm will be here after luncheon. I have sent for Mr Burrows, the solicitor, but I would not expect him until tomorrow.’
‘You have been very busy, my dear.’ The blandly amiable expression had ebbed from Will’s face. Those strong bones she had been so aware of when he was ill were apparent still, the stubborn line of his jaw most of all.
