DeButy & the Beast (11 page)

Sitting with him in the private Sedley box, she watched the players on the stage with tears in her eyes. Her spine straight, she leaned forward as if she needed to be as close to the stage as possible. In many ways she looked like the other fine ladies there that evening. Beautiful, well-coifed, and well-dressed. Tonight the only jewelry she wore was an exquisite and terribly expensive sapphire pendant.

If he had remembered that the blue gown was quite so low cut, he thought as his gaze dipped downward of its own accord, he might have suggested that she wear the gold, instead. The blue gown was entirely too tempting.

Even though she dressed to suit her station, there were some things about Anya that were unique. No other woman had that hungry gleam in her eye, the insatiable curiosity that lit her face, the apparent joy and sadness she could not, or would not, hide.

She listened closely to every word of the play. While those in the boxes near them watched halfheartedly, some of them wooden-faced and fighting sleep, Anya gave the play her full attention. She smiled, she laughed, she gasped, and now she cried. One of the tears that had made her eyes gleam slipped down her cheek. Examining Anya's every move was so much more fascinating than watching the group of competent players as they neared the end of the story.

Without taking her eyes from the stage, Anya reached out and took his hand. She squeezed, holding on tightly as Juliet awoke, found her dead husband, and stabbed herself. More tears came, and Anya did not try to hide the tears or wipe them away.

So, as the play ended and she turned to him, Julian reached out and wiped them away for her. His hands brushed lightly over her damp cheeks as she sniffled. All around them people applauded, the noise rose and fell, then rose again as the primary players took a bow.

For a moment Anya looked at him in that way she had: with a bone-jarring honesty that seemed to cut right through his flesh. And then she turned her face away and took her hand from his and started to applaud vigorously.

As the applause died down and the lamps were turned up, Anya sighed and turned to him again. Her tears had dried, but her eyes remained a little puffy and red. "I knew how the story would end, I knew it was not real, and still I cried. It was so... so sad."

"It's a tragedy."

Her eyes widened. "Yes, it is! Oh, Julian, I like the theater best of all."

He couldn't help but smile at Anya as he stood and offered her his hand. She was a love goddess, concubine to a king, a practiced seductress. And still she could be so innocent. "We will come again, then."

"Yes." She stood, her hand resting so delicately in his, and returned his smile. "When I said I liked the theater best, that did not mean that I like you less."

"I know."

"And Valerie," Anya added quickly. "I am beginning to like Valerie very much." She lifted a hand to her hair. "See this silk rose? She said I could borrow it, since it matches my dress. And I like Grandmother, of course. But I still do not like Seymour." Her smile faded a little. "He has small eyes, and his hair is too pale and thin. And he is mean."

"Mean? Did he say something hurtful to you?" Julian pulled Anya close as they exited the box. She fit very nicely against his side, he couldn't help but notice. If Seymour was harassing Anya, he would have to do something about it. The little man was a weasel, and Julian didn't much like him, either.

"Sometimes I hear him say things about me," she said in a low voice. "But I do not mind so much. Seymour is mean to everyone. Even Peter and Valerie, his own sister. He is not mean to Grandmother, though. I think he is nice to her because she has so much money."

"I'm sure you're right." They joined the flow of the crowd, down the stairs and through the lobby. Ah, they'd have to wait for their carriage to be brought around in this crowd. But it was a mild night, not too cold nor too warm, and he didn't mind waiting with Anya. They would surely find something to talk about. They always did.

"If he ever says anything to disturb you, come to me and I will take care of it," he said, sounding very much like a husband.

"You are so sweet,
marido
," Anya said, patting him on the arm. "But I can handle Seymour. Last time he called me a whore to my face, I showed him my knife and threatened to cut off his—"

"Anya," he interrupted in a whisper, afraid that in the crush of the crowd someone would overhear.

Then his outrage won out over his modesty. "He called you a whore?" Something entirely unpleasant rose up within him. It was more than indignation, it was pure white-hot fury.

"It happened long ago," Anya said softly. "Before we were married."

Julian found he didn't care when the transgression had occurred. Seymour needed to be taught a lesson. And to think, he had been insisting that Anya treat the odious man with civility and dignity. When they got home...

"Julian!"

His heart froze and his spine went rigid at the sound of that familiar feminine voice coming from directly behind.

"Julian DeButy," she said again when he did not immediately turn to greet her.

He released Anya, turned around, and faced Margaret. Of all the women in the world, why did
she
have to be here tonight? It had been such a nice evening, until now. Seymour and Margaret had ruined a perfectly lovely excursion.

Anya turned with him, and took his arm again. She laid her wild eyes on Margaret. "Julian,
cher
, who is this woman?"

Margaret was not a great beauty. She had honey-brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a passably pretty face. The neckline of her deep green gown was slightly more modest than Anya's, though she was so tightly corseted her waist was unnaturally small and her breasts looked like they were attempting to break free. Yes, she was a fairly attractive woman, nothing particularly special on the outside... and she was the one who had made him swear off women forever.

* * *

Instinctively, Anya hated the woman who had called Julian's name. Anya trusted her instincts, and the way the woman stared and smiled and... the truth hit her like a thunderbolt. They had lain together, Julian and this woman. She knew it in her heart, she knew it in the depths of her soul. It was as real as the breeze that washed over her face as they stood outside the theater where a moment ago she had been so happy.

"Anya, this is Mrs. Margaret March, an... old friend from home. Margaret," Julian added, looking slightly pained, "what are you doing in Wilmington?"

"I have a cousin here," Margaret replied, her eyes pinned to Julian's face. "She and her husband are over there, visiting with friends they ran into as we exited the theater. When I saw you I just had to come over to say hello." Her smile widened. "I'm here for an extended visit."

"Lovely," Julian said, almost choking out the word.

"Perhaps I'll see you while I'm here?"

"We're quite busy," he looked down at her. "This is my wife, Anya DeButy."

Margaret nodded and smiled, but Anya knew a friendly gesture when she saw one. This ogre of a woman despised her. "How utterly charming."

Anya replied in French, using some of the old King's best insults. It made her feel much better to call the woman who had once slept with Julian a stinking bow-legged ogre.

"She doesn't speak English?" Margaret asked, turning her gaze to Julian once again.

"Of course she does." Julian gave Anya a censuring gaze.

He had told her, so many times, how to properly greet. She really should practice now. He would want her to smile and say hello and tell this odious creature how pleasant it was to make her acquaintance. She could not. The idea of being civil to a woman Julian had touched as he refused to touch her was impossible.

And then the woman laid her hand on Julian's arm, leaned in, and whispered. "Do call on me while I'm visiting. I miss you."

Anya leaned toward the cozy pair and whispered, in English so there would be no misunderstanding, "Touch my husband again and I will cut out your heart and feed it to you as you take your last breath."

The woman stepped back with a satisfying expression of horror on her face, raising a delicate hand to her chest as if that lily-white fist might protect her. Anya barely brushed her fingers against the knife she wore beneath the folds of her gown.

All around them, people talked about the play they had just seen. They visited, laughed, and preened. No one seemed to notice the little drama that was taking place in their very midst Julian took a firm hold on her arm. "Anya, please," he whispered.

She lifted her face to her husband and pinned her eyes on him. "Please what? Please do cut out her heart? Please do not?"

"Julian," Margaret said, regaining her composure quickly. "Wherever did you find this... this little savage?"

Julian glanced over his shoulder to the line of conveyances in front of the theater. "That's our carriage. Thank God," he added in a lowered voice.

They made their escape through the throng, and Julian assisted Anya, a bit too forcefully, into the carriage. One glance out the window revealed that Mrs. Margaret March watched with great interest as Julian took the seat next to her.

As their carriage took off, drawing away from the theater, Julian sighed and ran his fingers through his long dark hair, mumbling something too low for Anya to understand.

"Did you really wear your knife to the theater?" he asked.

"Yes." Did he think she would leave the house without her weapon?

"It is entirely unacceptable—"

"She was your lover," Anya accused. The confines of the carriage were dim, but the moonlight lit the interior well enough for her to see her husband's face.

"Don't be..." he began, and then faltered. "That's not—"

"I have never lied to you," she interrupted. "And I do not believe that you have lied to me. Do not start now, Julian. You do not seem to be very good at it."

He turned so that his face was mostly in shadow, and looked down at her. "Yes, you're right. But I was very young, and foolish, and I had not yet studied the debilitating effects of the physical relationship."

Anya snorted.

"Don't do that," Julian chastised lightly.

"Tell me about her," Anya insisted.

Julian sighed. "I don't see why—"

"We have a long ride ahead of us, and I want to know. We are married. There is no reason for you not to tell me all about your intimacy with that horrid woman."

"I'd rather not," he replied coolly.

"If you asked me to tell you all about my time as King Sebastian's concubine, I would comply."

"I have never asked."

She scooted over, just a little, so her hip rested against his. "Why not?"

Julian ran his fingers through his hair again, made a noise no more polite than her snort, and mumbled beneath his breath.

"I could not understand you," she whispered.

"I do not want to know," he said succinctly. "There, now I've said it. It makes me a little insane to think about your blasted king. I most certainly do not want to hear details about your time with him."

Anya dropped her head against Julian's arm and smiled. He was jealous. She rubbed her cheek against the warm fabric of his gray suit and snaked her arm through his. "I simply want to know what she did to you to make you take a vow of chastity."

"She didn't..." he began.

"Do not lie to me," Anya insisted softly. She was quite comfortable, her head resting on Julian's shoulder, his arm entwined through hers. "How long ago did you know her?"

"It's been almost two years."

She smiled. "So long ago. Yes, you were much younger then. Young and foolish, I believe you said." Her smile faded. "Did you love her?"

Julian squirmed.

"Do not lie," she said again.

"I thought I did," he said softly. "I was wrong, of course."

"Of course," she whispered. Oh, she wanted Julian to love her. It was a silly wish, as most wishes were. No matter how hard she tried, she would always be much too unrefined for Julian.

"Did you... love your King Sebastian?" he asked, almost reluctantly.

"No," she answered quickly.

Julian's answer was a low grunt.

"What happened?" Anya asked.

Julian shifted, placing his arm around her and pulling her a little bit closer. "It's rather sordid, Anya. I hate to subject you to such things."

"I am a savage, remember?" she said, a hint of anger coloring her voice.

"You are not," he said, cupping her cheek in one hand and forcing her to look him in the eye. "You are a far better woman than Margaret March could ever be."

"And yet you loved her."

He returned her head to his shoulder, perhaps so she could not see his face, and tightened his arm around her. "I thought I did. She was a widow, grieving for the loss of her husband just a year earlier."

"She is young to be a widow."

"Her husband was much older, and in ill health. And wealthy." He sighed. "I thought she was the ideal woman. Decent, kind, soft-spoken, modest—"

"Yes, yes, I see." Anya cut him off, wishing to hear no more of Margaret's virtues.

"We became friends, and then, when we..."

"When she invited you into her bed," Anya supplied when he faltered.

"I thought immediately of marriage," he said quickly. "But whenever I mentioned making her my wife she said it was too soon after her husband's death. I believed her, and for almost a year we were..."

"Lovers," Anya snapped.

"One afternoon I decided to surprise her with an afternoon visit. I carried with me flowers, and an engagement ring I had saved for months to buy. At the time I was working in a hospital, and saving all I could so I could support her. I had even spoken with another doctor, one with an established practice, about joining him."

"But you do not like patients."

"I was willing to do whatever it took to..."

"To have her," Anya once more supplied, with more than a hint of dejection.

"She was not alone that afternoon," he finished softly. "I will not bore you with further details, but my eyes were rudely opened. She was not the woman I had thought her to be."