Ruthless Charmer (27 page)

Fortunately, they were treated to a full moon, which made their travel easier, but Julian imagined every village through which they passed must have believed a madwoman was escaping, so loud was Sophie's fury.

They reached the mammoth Georgian house that served as the Kettering seat by dawn's first light. Sophie had long since sobbed herself to sleep, and as Julian lifted her in his arms, he was reminded of the many nights he had carried her to her own bed after she had crawled into his, having been frightened by thunder or something under her bed.

How extraordinary that little girl had become the woman in his arms.

He hated Kettering Hall.

So much did he despise his country house that he left before the sun was directly overhead, with very little sleep and what little breakfast he was able to choke down. He took a horse from the stables instead of the chaise so that he might quickly escape this tomb of memories, and left a wretched, sobbing Sophie in the foyer, held firmly in the thick arms of Miss Brillhart, Kettering Hall's housekeeper. Miss Brillhart, bless her, understood the situation quite clearly, and had urged him on. Julian tried desperately to close his ears to Sophie's plaintive wail, had even tried to reason with her one last time, but she wouldn't listen to him. She called him a beast and a few other choice names, and in the end, he had been forced to walk out the door without looking back. He was doing the right thing!

Perhaps, but he avoided the family cemetery all the same, riding around the north side of the estate so he would not have to see the remnants of another time he had supposedly done the right thing. The elaborate headstone at Valerie's grave—an angel, rising high above all other markers—was the constant and stark reminder of his attempts to protect another sister. Or rather, his bloody failure to save her life.

A cold shiver ran through him; with a hard spur to the flanks of his mount, Julian tried to push the memory of the unhappiest event of his life from his mind by pushing his mount. In truth, Valerie had always been sickly, although she had seemed to improve in the last two years of her life. At the prime age of eighteen, a year or so after Eugenie married, Julian had taken her to London for the Season, squiring her to all the best soirees and balls. She had loved the whirl of activity, and though she was pale and a little too thin, she had captured the attention of more than one young fop.

It was in the course of that spring that she contracted the fever that decimated her.

After a fortnight, she had not improved, and Julian could recall even now that dull, aching fear that had lodged in his heart. Instinctively, he had sent to France for Louis and Eugenie and at the same time brought the finest doctors to Valerie's bedside, insisting they try every remedy, even those they claimed experimental. Nothing seemed to work; Valerie's illness dragged on, weakening her. In complete desperation, he had brought her to Kettering and the long-time family doctor who had nursed her since she was a baby.

He had been, Julian bleakly recalled, quite convinced Dr. Dudley could cure her one last time. To that man's credit, Dr. Dudley had tried everything he could. Nonetheless, Julian had almost strangled the kindly doctor when he at last said aloud what Julian already knew deep in his soul.

Nothing could save Valerie.

It was only a matter of time.

Except that Julian refused to accept it, railing violently at anyone who dared try to console him. So Dr. Dudley had reluctantly sent to Bath for a colleague who had experimented with some promising new medicinal combinations. Dr. Moore came at once, examined a delirious Valerie, then very clearly warned Julian that his new elixir was highly experimental and perhaps even deadly. But there had been no other option—both doctors agreed she surely would die without it.

Julian ordered she be given the elixir. He had done what was best for her.

But the poor girl reacted badly to the potion, and was too frail to withstand the ravages of the prolonged fever. He did not leave her side, even when exhaustion pushed him to the brink of collapse, but within days, she slipped quietly into eternal sleep while he held her in his arms and begged her to live.

The pain, dull astonishment, and fury with God had almost destroyed him. He had loved his sister with all his heart and could not bear to think he had helped to kill her, had broken his vow to his father to keep her safe and well.

His mount crashed through a grove of trees, but heedless of the low-hanging branches that slashed at his arms and legs, Julian drove the horse forward.

He had loved Phillip, too, like a brother. Phillip, who had been his constant companion since they were lads, inseparable into adulthood. Smaller than the other Rogues, Phillip had always been something of a ruffian, always pushing the very boundaries of propriety and societal acceptance. Julian had long thought his behavior was a sort of unconscious effort to make up for the lack of physical stature. But after Valerie's death, he began to view Phillip's conduct with increasing apprehension. It seemed too ribald, even for Phillip. Nothing seemed to satisfy him; not copious amounts of whiskey, not gaming, not his pick of Madame Farantino's women—even two of them at once.

The horse burst through the tree line and into an open meadow, and Julian bent low over the steed's neck, urging him faster.

He had tried to save Phillip, too. At first, he had offered enough money to clear the enormous debts in exchange for Phillip's sobriety, if only for a time. Anything would have been an improvement. But Phillip had scoffed at his offer, thanked him for his needless pity with not a little sarcasm, then heatedly swore that if Julian ever called his character into question again, he would gladly shoot him without a single thought.

Having throughly wounded Phillip's pride, Julian could do nothing but keep a silent vigil, choosing to accompany his friend on lewd excursions that repulsed him, convinced that if he was with Phillip, he could at least keep him from harm.

And then came Claudia.

Julian slowed the roan, released his grip of the reins and straightened, rubbing the nape of his neck to erase the familiar despair that was suddenly raging through him.

Claudia Whitney had walked into that ballroom and had turned everything upside down. He had known, of course, that Phillip had set his blurred sights on her. It had actually amused him until that night, until he saw her again for the first time since Valerie's funeral. Nothing was ever the same again. Oh, he continued to accompany Phillip along his path of debauchery, and on the rare occasions Phillip was sober, he even attempted to persuade him to change his conduct—-but not nearly enough or as strongly as he should have. No, no, no, not enough at all, and he and the Lord above knew very well why he had not. Because, thank you, he was hopelessly besotted with the Demon's Spawn.

He had loved Phillip, truly loved him like his very own brother . . . but Claudia was right. He had killed him; at least helped his death along.

Rather a dangerous pattern you have established, old boy. A wild shout of laughter tore from Julian's throat, reverberating against the low gray sky.

Was there ever a time you thought you might simply perish without her? For two years, he had adored her from a distance, thinking he might simply perish every time he saw her. Then he had seen her at Chateau la Claire and something deep inside had broken free, rising like Lazarus from the ashes of his soul. It was plain,

Julian thought hopelessly, that he had thought he might simply perish without her for a very long time. And what had he done? Ruined her.

Ah yes, Julian, know ye in his death the quality of love . . .

He knew it. He knew it like an arrow that pierced his heart and twisted about, up and down and around, torturing him unto death.

That arrow would not harm Sophie. God save him, if there was one thing he must do right, it was Sophie. That wretched girl needed him, whether she realized it or not, and he would gladly commend himself to hell if he could not keep her from harm.

Claudia found it impossible to eat or sleep after Julian had dragged Sophie away. Alone in the dining room the following evening, she frowned at the thick slice of cake the footman Robert had served her, from which she had removed all the raisins and arranged them into a frowning face—with spectacles—on the edge of her plate.

She toyed with the notion of summoning Ann and Eugenie to tell them what Julian had done, but thought better of it. Such news was best delivered by The Rake himself. But banishment? It was so primitive! Sarah Cafferty had been banished to Cornwall amidst a highly publicized scandal—it was an abominable practice, demeaning to women everywhere. And as hard as she tried, Claudia just could not reconcile the man who had coldly forced Sophie into that chaise with the man whose eyes had betrayed the ravages of a loss so deep it pained him still.

Their argument yesterday had enlightened her to a side of Julian she had never seen before, and damn him if it wasn't a vulnerable side. Claudia never would have believed that Julian Dane had a vulnerable bone in his body, not in a thousand years.

She suddenly dropped her fork and buried her face in her hands, miserably confused. There she was, about to feel sympathy for a tyrant again. What difference did it make that he had been hurt by one of his many paramours? It certainly didn't give him the right to whisk Sophie away like a mere piece of property. Nor did it excuse the fact that he obviously placed Sophie's happiness lower than propriety. It was so very arrogant of him to believe that some people were better than others by virtue of their birth or gender!

Claudia lifted her head and pushed the plate aside, her gaze fixing on the candelabrum in the center of the table. Last night, she had lain in bed trying to make sense of a situation that seemed increasingly complex. As the days passed, she was having a harder and harder time reconciling the arrogant, superior, vainglorious man with the one who showed streaks of kindness. It was impossible to ignore the nights that he and Arthur Christian left together, undoubtedly bound for Madame Farantino's. It was impossible to believe that man was the same man who would gently rub her back when her courses pained her, or send bouquets of fresh hothouse flowers to her teas when the other husbands derided their wives for attending, or get down on his hands and knees to frolic with Jeannine and Dierdre.

Yet he was the same man who seemed uninterested in her cause, with the exception of having made a list of names he would persuade to fulfill their pledge. Sometimes she felt as if he was managing her like one of his holdings, leaving her unchecked, unfettered, as long as she did not suddenly twist off wildly in a direction he did not expect.

But there was evidence of a softer, unguarded side of him she could not deny, as the argument yesterday had so poignantly pointed up to her. Nor could she deny that the kindness and patience he showed Eugenie's daughters often made her ache with a longing for something more between them, a distant hope that perhaps they might produce children one day. And what of Tinley? How could she ignore the fact that the doddering old man could scarcely lift a feather duster anymore, yet Julian ignored his senility, sparing the man's pride and allowing him to feel needed?

All right, but how, then, could he ignore Sophie's heartache, decide what she should feel and whom she should feel it for? Sophie's devastation meant nothing to him, and Claudia could not bear that.
I
am honor bound as your friend to tell you that Phillip is not the sort of man for you.

No! She did not want to relive that, not again, but Mother of God, how could she not? How could she ignore his callousness, once to her and now to Sophie, as if they were inanimate objects, incapable of thinking or feeling for themselves?

"Madam? Shall I remove the cake?"

With a thin smile, Claudia responded politely, "Please, Robert. And pour a spot of port, would you?"

Robert blinked, hesitated for a fraction of a second, but quickly recovered and returned with the port a few moments later. Claudia thanked him, sliding her gaze to the long green velvet drapes as she sipped the heavy wine.

Banished.

The more she dwelled on it, the more incensed she became.

His ghosts and Sophie's sobs chased Julian all the way back to London, reverberating in his head until he was quite sure he was deaf.

Surely there was something he could do short of locking her away at Kettering Hall, although he was damned if he could think of what. By the time he reached the outskirts of London, he was physically and mentally numb, propelled forward by the simple but overpowering desire to see Claudia's brilliant smile, perhaps even feel her arms around him. An insane hope, he knew, particularly after their argument, yet part of him stubbornly hoped that she had come to see his reasoning.

At St. James Square, he handed the reins of his mount to a young groom and wearily dragged himself into the foyer. Handing his leather gloves to Tinley, he said, "Have a bath drawn at once and inform Lady Kettering I have returned. I should like it very much if she would join me for supper."

"Might like it very well, my lord, but she's already dining," Tinley casually informed him, and hobbled off. A footman stepped forward to receive his cloak.

Julian sliced an impatient look across the footman. "See to it that he at least remembers the bath, would you?" he asked tersely, and strode across the foyer, headed for the dining room, trying hard to crush the adolescent excitement the mere mention of her name always sparked in him.

That he missed Claudia so badly in the space of twenty-four hours was unnerving as hell, made him feel silly and weak and quite awkward in his skin. Even as a young lad, he'd never been so bloody infatuated with anyone. It outraged him that his body seemed to think she was the only cure to the infernal rash in his heart. Yet when he turned the corner and neared the dining room, he had to force himself to walk and not sprint to her side.

A footman attending the dining room door opened it for him; as he came across the threshold, a startled Claudia came hastily to her feet, clutching a linen napkin. She wore a satin gown fitted tightly to her, the color of a cloudless blue sky trimmed in white. Around her slender neck was a triple strand of pearls, matching the large tear-drop pearls that dangled from her earlobes. Her hair had been piled carelessly on top of her head; little wisps of curls draped her neck.