The Secret Life of Lady Julia (27 page)

Chapter 47

“W
hat was Thomas Merritt doing here?” Charles Stewart’s question stopped Stephen in his tracks. He was on his way to see Castlereagh, to give him the documents, to praise Julia, and to make a deal with the outgoing ambassador. He hadn’t expected to see Stewart, who was leaning against the doorway of the library, a drink in his hand, his shirt stained with wine and his own blood.

Stephen winced at the man’s appearance. His nose was broken and he had a black eye, swollen shut. He had to admit that he was almost pleased to see the damage.

He could afford to be pleasant. The future was secure, both his own and Julia’s. “Don’t you know why he was here, my lord?” he asked. “I thought you were in charge of the embassy’s security. Haven’t you been briefed?” He read the confusion in Stewart’s one good eye.

“I’ve been—away—for several days. Business,” Stewart lied. “I’m on my way to see Rob now,” he said, referring to his half brother.

“Then you should ask him,” Stephen said, and turned to walk away.

“Has Julia Leighton gone yet?”

“No. She’s upstairs, asleep. You won’t be able to get rid of her now. She’s done his lordship a favor.” He waved the folder in his hands.

“What’s that mean?” Stewart growled. He reached for the folder, but Stephen held it out of his reach.

“Sorry—classified. For the ambassador’s eyes only.”

“And this has something to do with Julia Leighton, and Tom Merritt?”

He was quick, Stephen would give him that much. Stewart was reputed to be an excellent spy when he wasn’t drunk. He also hated Thomas Merritt. He wondered again just what Thomas had done to cross Stewart.

He hadn’t missed the way Julia looked at Merritt as he got out of the coach. Did she still have feelings for him? He’d never been a jealous man, but he’d never been in love before. If Merritt was the reason Julia had hesitated in accepting his marriage proposal, then he would remove his rival by whatever means came to hand.

“I see you know Merritt, my lord. To me, he’s merely a thief. We hired him for his professional skills, nothing more.”

Stewart’s brows rose, and he winced at the pain, crossed to pour a tumbler of whisky. “So that’s what’s become of him.”

“Wasn’t he a thief in London?”

Stewart snorted. “He was a fool when I knew him—a rake, a gambler, and a charmer of women, but he was a fool with morals. His brother married for love, but his bride married for money. Joanna lived for pleasure, wallowed in it, in fact. When she lost a fortune gambling and Edward cut off her allowance, she simply took lovers and made them pay, and when her husband discovered that, he banished her to Brecon Park. She wanted a playmate in her solitude, and she wanted to hurt Edward, so she sent for Thomas, and me. I was Edward’s oldest and closest friend, above suspicion in his eyes, but if a woman offers . . .” He shrugged, and Stephen felt his gut twist.

“Joanna was in my bed one night, and Edward arrived at Brecon unexpectedly. We didn’t know until we heard him coming up the stairs. There was no time to make it to her own rooms, so she ducked into Tom’s rooms instead. That’s where Edward found her, naked.” He chuckled. “Joanna begged him not to tell. Tom saw me in the doorway when the shouting began and guessed the truth, but he’d given his word before he knew what that truth was. The chivalrous fool didn’t defend himself, just let his brother disown him, cut him off without a penny.

“Joanna went to see him, days later, at some squalid hellhole he’d found in London. She offered him a pair of diamond earrings, Edward’s wedding present, to keep quiet. He found out later just what she was, but it was far too late by then. He came to see me, hoped I would admit the truth, but I owed him money—a lot of money. I refused to help him, since he was better dead and disowned to me. I threatened to do the opposite, and tell Edward I’d seen him with Joanna, that he’d forced her. I heard that someone broke into Edward’s London house and took all Joanna’s jewels from the safe. They never caught the thief, but now I assume it was Merritt.”

“Probably,” Stephen said, gritting his teeth. Stewart was even more loathsome than he could have imagined. He had hoped to hear that Merritt was a wastrel, a philanderer, a depraved rake guilty of terrible crimes. Instead, it turned out he’d done the honorable thing to defend a woman. He shut his eyes. It did not make Merritt’s seduction of Julia any more bearable, or even understandable.

Stewart dropped into a chair and fixed Stephen with a one-eyed glare, completely without a shred of remorse for ruining a man’s life. “So Tom’s a thief, eh? How the hell did he end up here, in Vienna, helping you with . . . ?” Stewart pointed at the folder in Stephen’s hand. “
Why
would he help you?”

Why indeed. For Julia? He didn’t want to believe that. “I told him we’d hang him if he didn’t.”

“The Tom Merritt I knew wouldn’t care about that. Not if helping wasn’t already in his best interest. Not anymore. What was his price?”

Stephen hesitated. “He wants money, of course, and Castlereagh’s Order of the Garter star.”

Stewart chuckled. “The star? Why? Does he want revenge on the whole bloody British aristocracy?”

“I don’t know. He made having it a condition of his help.”

“Then I can only imagine he wants to embarrass this embassy out of spite.” Stewart regarded the folder again. “Does he know what’s in there?”

Stephen nodded. “I assume so.”

“And if he were to tell anyone?”

Stephen considered. Who would believe that Wellington was involved in a plot to set Napoleon free? No one would, without the documents. Without them, Talleyrand had nothing.

“You don’t like Tom, do you, Ives?”

“No,” he admitted.

“I won’t ask why. He’s the kind of man women adore, and other men despise him for it. Is that sufficient to say? I’d love to be rid of Tom too. He has a few too many interesting tales to tell, and that makes him dangerous, even a potential traitor. It’s my job—and yours—as part of this embassy to ensure traitors are harshly dealt with. I don’t know why you have cause to hate him, but let’s just say that this”—he pointed to his broken nose—“cannot go unpunished.”

Stephen clutched the folder tighter. Actually, Merritt wasn’t a traitor, he was a hero. Except for the fact that he had asked for a reward. And Julia still had
feelings
for him, even after he’d used her, abandoned her. “I’ll help you arrest Merritt under one condition, my lord,” he said. Stewart waited without comment, his one good eye gleaming. “Leave Julia Leighton alone.”

Stewart’s laugh was a dark gutter innuendo. “Ah, so that’s it, is it? No wonder she refused me. Are you . . . ?” He made an obscene hand gesture that made Stephen’s skin crawl. He stiffened.

“No.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, but whether she stays or goes is up to Castlereagh. But we can be rid of Merritt if we work together. So are we friends?”

Stephen considered how Stewart treated his friends. He also considered how Julia had looked at Thomas Merritt, the way her breath had caught in her throat when he left the coach, and the fact that she’d hesitated in accepting his proposal.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked Stewart.

“J
ulia Leighton is to be dismissed at once,” Castlereagh said an hour later, once Stephen had presented the stolen documents to him and he had quietly looked them over. “I will pay her passage back to London, but nothing else. She will not receive a commendation or any other acknowledgment.”

Stephen felt indignation fill him. “She has not asked for anything at all, my lord, and she took a great risk to get these letters back.”

“She will be expected to sign a document promising never to disclose this incident to anyone,” Castlereagh said. He got up and dropped the stolen pages on the fire, watched the flames obliterate them and poked the ashes to dust.

Stephen stood at attention. “I’ll know, your lordship. I will be expected to make a full report to the Duke of Wellington when he arrives to take over the embassy. He’ll wish to know, don’t you think, in case it comes up again, in case Talleyrand kept copies—or originals.”

He paused, waiting for Castlereagh’s face to soften in defeat, but it did not.

“I also know, my lord, that you have exceeded your mandate here in Vienna.”

Castlereagh’s face creased into a rare smile, but it did not meet his eyes. “A good try, Major. You could take Charles Stewart’s place when Wellington arrives, if I recommend you. Are you truly willing to risk your career for a woman like Julia Leighton?”

Stephen felt his throat tighten. “I intend to marry her.”

Castlereagh’s brows rose. “Did you know that my wife is a dear friend of the Countess of Carrindale? She is—was—Miss Leighton’s mother. She has been writing to my wife, insisting that Julia not be allowed to remain here, that it is an embarrassment to her husband. My wife has been pressing me most strongly to send Julia away. She fears she will embarrass us. It turns out she was quite right. Shooting a thief in the park appears quite brave and heroic to some, but others would see her as a woman who is dangerous, overbold. And if the other tales of her—accomplishments—here in Vienna come to light, do you see how that could work against our mission here?”

Stephen did indeed.
A fallen women, stolen documents, thieves . . .

“I can, of course, insist on her dismissal, Major. It is within my rights. I can even order soldiers to eject her from the premises if she will not go. You will do as you must, of course, but it will mean the end of your career.” He paused. “Perhaps we can come to an agreement.”

Stephen waited.

“There is an excellent posting available in Spain. I am offering it to you. In return, if you decide to marry Julia Leighton, you will keep her silent and obedient. No more listening, or shooting, or daring adventures, is that clear? You have an estate somewhere in England, do you not? Take your wife there,
keep
her there, out of sight.”

“Yes, my lord.” Stephen’s heart sang. “I will tell her at once.”

Chapter 48

J
ulia hurried along the snowy street wrapped tightly in her cloak, her hood up. She ignored the street vendors, the shoppers, the carriages rolling by. When she reached Thomas Merritt’s lodgings, she hurried up the stairs and knocked on the door. She wasn’t sure what she would say when he opened the door, or worse, if a servant opened it. In England a lady did not call upon a man at his home, and even if she was far from England, and no longer a lady, she still obeyed the rules of correct behavior—except this one, just this once. Still, if anyone recognized her, it would be most embarrassing trying to explain herself.

She had to see him again, had to know. The kiss he’d given her in Talleyrand’s library still burned on her lips. She’d spent a restless night thinking about Thomas when she should have been considering Stephen’s proposal. How could she say yes, be his wife, when she could not stop thinking about another man?

She would ask him about the letter on her pillow. Another kindness, perhaps, like his return of Dorothea’s watch? Then she would thank him for his assistance the previous evening, and take her leave well within the fifteen minutes allowed for polite calls. Once all that had been done, she would be able to forget him, see him as a perfectly ordinary man and not—

The door opened.

His shirt was undone at the neck, and he hadn’t shaved. She could still see the bruise on his forehead, read the surprise in his eyes.

“Julia,” he said as her breath caught in her throat. “Why are you here?” He stepped aside to let her in. The room was filled with the scent of his soap, his discarded clothing and books,
his bed
, visible through an open door.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked, but she threw herself into his arms and pressed her mouth to his.

His arms came around her, clasping her to him as he met her kiss and let his lips melt into hers. It felt right, perfect, she realized. She fit against him as if they’d done this a thousand times.

“Julia, what are you doing?” he asked, holding her away from him, cupping her face in his hands, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Why are you here?” he asked again as his eyes drank her in, bored into her.

She felt tears in her eyes. “I need to know—I have to know—why I can’t forget you.”

He stared at her for a moment, searching her face, and she held her breath. If he laughed, told her she was mad, she would shatter, fall to pieces. But she would be able to go on, move forward with her life without forever wondering if her feelings at her betrothal ball—and now— were a mistake, a trick of the light, or too much champagne.

She straightened her spine. She was being foolish. In a moment he’d offer her a sherry to calm her nerves, suggest she sit down for a moment . . .

“I should go,” she said, and moved toward the door. He caught her wrist.

“Stay,” he said softly.

He kissed her, sipped at her lips, twined his fingers into her hair, loosening it. Pins fell to the floor like rain. She gripped the folds of his shirt, holding him to her. His mouth tasted of whisky, and she found she liked that as much as the taste of champagne, maybe more.

He trailed kisses over her cheeks and down her throat as he untied her cloak and let it drop away, then kissed her collarbone as he undid the buttons of her gown, let it fall to her elbows.

She slid her hands into the open collar of his shirt, caressed the warmth of his flesh, the hardness of bones and muscles, felt his heart beating under his skin.

His hands moved to cup her breast through the fine linen of her shift. She gasped. Oh yes, this is what she wanted, what she dreamed of. She tangled her hands in his hair as his mouth found her nipple through the thin garment, then moved to the other. She was caught in her gown, couldn’t move, only able to
feel
what he was doing to her.

“Thomas,” she sighed, arching against him.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom, kicking the half open door out of the way. He fell to the mattress with her, kissing her still, trying to fight his way out of his own clothing at the same time, both of them breathless.

“Why is it like this with you, and no one else?” he muttered.

She couldn’t answer that, had no idea, since he was the first, the only man she had ever— She drew a sharp breath as he left her, began to prowl the bedroom, running his hand through his hair. His shirt hung open, revealing the muscles and planes of his chest.

“I’m famous for my control, for my bloody prowess in bed—ask anyone.”

She leaned on her elbow, her loose hair falling over her open bodice. “There’s no one else here.”

He looked at her as if she were daft. “I didn’t mean that. I meant that I can’t stop with you. I don’t want to. I haven’t forgotten you either, or one single detail of that night.”

“Then it isn’t always like this?”

He stared at her. “Don’t you know? What about David, after me, and Ives?”

She didn’t reply, had no words to tell him he was the only one.

He sat on the edge of the bed, brushed a long lock of hair over her shoulder, stared at the deep vee between her breasts. “I don’t know a single thing about you, except that I want you like I’ve never wanted any woman, and I don’t know why. One rushed, clumsy tumble in the dark, a few brief moments, that’s all it was, and yet—” He caressed her cheek, cupped it, ran his thumb over her lower lip. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

She pressed her cheek into his palm. “Is that why you made this a condition of the bargain?”

He pulled his hand away as if she’d burned him. “Is that why you’re here? It was a stupid thing to say. I didn’t mean it.”

She felt a flash of anger. She was tempted to say yes, but the look in his eyes stopped her. There was hurt in the depths of his eyes, longing, and something she’d never seen before in any man’s eyes, and it took her breath away. “You were in my room last night. Why didn’t you wait for me, demand your payment then?”

“I climbed that damned wall to prove I could. I waited, Julia. I thought you must be with—” He stopped. “You belong to someone else.”

She reached up to caress the bruise on his forehead, gently, with the tip of her finger. “I belonged to someone else then too, that night, and it didn’t stop you—us—from—”

He caught her hand, brought it to his mouth, kissed her palm. “You still don’t blame me for what happened that night, do you? You should. You have every right to hate me. I had experience. I should have stopped. You should have told me you were a virgin.”

She squeezed his hand. “I wanted it, wanted you. I want you now.”

He leaned over to kiss her, and she lay back, slid her arms around his neck, drawing him down to her. “You . . .” He kissed her again. “ . . . are the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.”

“Show me,” she said.

He didn’t need a second invitation. They undressed each other. She took his shirt. He tugged her gown over her head and tossed it aside, then untied the ribbons on her shift and peeled that away too, leaving her naked. He stared down at her, and she fought the urge to cover her breasts with her hands, suddenly shy.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“You’re beautiful, Julia Leighton, even more beautiful than I imagined. I wished, afterward, that we hadn’t made love in the dark, that I’d been able to see you.”

She closed her eyes and ran her hands over the hard planes of his chest. She caressed the muscles of his shoulders and arms, familiar, but new, as well, thrilling. “You are just as I remember,” she murmured as she opened her eyes. “Better, now we have light, and privacy and—” But that was all they had—not time, beyond a few short hours, not tomorrow. Her heart contracted in her chest.

He held her for a moment, his chin resting on the top of her head, hers in the hollow of his neck, and she breathed him in, memorizing him for the days to come, when she would be without him again. She marveled at the feeling of his naked flesh against her breasts, the heat of his skin, the sensation of his heart beating next to her own, and raised her mouth to his. His tongue sought hers, tangled until they were both panting.

She fumbled with the buttons of his flies, her hands brushing against the hardness trapped under the fabric. She couldn’t make her fingers work, not while he kissed her, stroked her, drove every sensible thought out of her head with his tongue, his hands, his body on hers. He found places she had never even known existed—wonderful, secret, delicious places—driving her beyond reason, to a place of pure sensation. He took over the task, deftly opening his breeches. She hadn’t touched him that night, hadn’t had the chance or the experience in their frenzied encounter. She explored him now, reveling in the new experience and in his response. He groaned as she caressed him, his erection hot against her palm.

“Julia . . .” He whispered her name, watched what she was doing to him, his jaw tight. He pressed her back into the bed, sought her mouth with his as he stroked her breasts, her back, her hips, and the curve of her buttocks. She did the same things to him, since she knew very little of how to proceed, but trusted that he did. It had worked before.

His body was magnificent. She marveled at the play and flex of his muscles, the hard, hairy surfaces that melded so perfectly with her softness. His legs tangled with hers, his body fit against her curves perfectly, as if she were made just for him and no other.

His hands parted her thighs, and she gasped as she felt his fingers dip beneath the curls to touch her flesh. He teased her, tormented her, and she nipped at his lips, his tongue, as he kissed her, arched her hips, wordlessly demanding more, but he took his time, moved slowly when she wanted speed, touched lightly when she wanted friction and pressure. His erection brushed her hip, and she closed her hand around it, felt it leap, and squeezed gently. His breath turned into grunts of suppressed desire, and the tempo of his fingers increased. He caught her cries in his mouth as the pleasure peaked, poured over her. Surely she would die of this. She cried out again as he plunged his fingers into her, working her, pleasing her until she thought she couldn’t stand any more. He positioned himself above her then and drove into her, sending her soaring even higher. She dug her nails into his shoulders as her body rippled around him, drawing him in, lost to everything but the feeling of his body joined to hers, the heat, the friction, the need. Again, and again. Could she ever have enough of him?

By the time he groaned and arched into her one last time, she was spent, sated with pleasure, exhausted. He put his arms around her, holding her against his pounding heart. She felt tears in her eyes.

It had not been anything like she recalled.

It was better.