The gowns Celia had ordered for Izzy had been let out again and again, and still her breasts pressed tightly at the seams. The white mounds swelled above the necklines enticingly, appearing ready to fall from their precarious perch at any moment.
If he didn't know better, he might think she was consciously testing him. She leaned into his vision several times a day, providing a ruthlessly teasing view of her newly abundant cleavage. She wore her hair in a relaxed style, and often a few long curls would lodge themselves between the tightly confined mounds, a fact to which she seemed oblivious.
No, she had no idea what her innocent sensuality did to him. She was so natural, so honest in her passion. There were things he could teach her, things he could show her. An image of her on her knees before him almost blinded him with lust. He shuddered with desire for her touch, her mouth. There were things he had learned at experienced hands…
Suddenly, the proposition in his mind shocked even him. He could not expect that from her. She was a lady, his love, the mother of his child. One did not demand one's honorable wife to perform bordello tricks.
The knock on the door of the suite drew him mercifully away from his frustrated thoughts. His valet entered from his bedchamber past the dressing room and answered the door. Hearing the hushed murmurs outside, Julian got the feeling something of import was afoot. He was out of bed and half-dressed by the time Simms returned.
"My lord, your grandfather's condition has worsened. His manservant has already called in the physician. They do not believe he will last much longer."
"Ah." Julian waited for any spark of emotion from within himself for the old man's fate. Nothing. Well, it was no more than he had expected. Absently, he allowed Simms to finish fussing about, and left his room for the long walk to the south wing where his grandfather had resided for the last twenty years.
It was over.
Julian ambled pensively down the hall on his way to his wife's rooms. All about him the servants scurried, covering the windows in black drape, and casting black cloths over the gleaming mirrors that shone in nearly every room of the house. He did not envy them their task, for there were over a hundred rooms at Dearingham.
Pausing outside Izzy's door, he wondered what she would think of his rise in station. As his father's only heir, he could presumably now call himself the marquess. Poor Izzy. She was not going to like being the marchioness. She had yet to adjust entirely to being Lady Blackworth.
He himself did not know how to feel about his advancement. Unlike the loss of his brother, the death of his grandfather left him quite unaffected. The old man had never been anything but harsh with his grandson, at any age.
Julian recalled being stood like an item at auction before his grandfather, waiting, five-year-old bladder aching, while the old man walked around him, listing his faults and inadequacies. He could remember the shame and humiliation when his control finally broke, and how all that had stood between him and the beating of his life was Manny.
Manny running in from where he had hidden outside the door, running in with a full-blown lie about a thief in the stables. Manny taking the much lighter beating given an heir with a small, tight smile and tears glinting in his eyes. Manny holding him as he cried shamed tears of hatred and need for his father and grandfather.
No, the old man had been a cruel soul, unlike Julian's father, who was perhaps merely cold and judgmental. Startled at that revolutionary thought, Julian blinked blindly at the tapestry gracing the hallway. The old duke had been a terrible grandfather.
How much worse of a father had he been? For the first time in his life, Julian felt a pang of pity for the young boy his father had once been. He wondered if his father would mourn the old duke. Somehow, he doubted it.
He himself felt nothing for the old ogre's death but a slight sense of relief. He would no longer be forced to report on estate affairs in the dark, reeking sickroom, nor listen to the man's cracked voice ranting in rage over his decisions from the bed. Not least of all, the death of the duke virtually destroyed his father's threat of disinheritance, and Julian had to admit that he looked forward to seeing the current duke's reaction to his son's new autonomy.
He found himself honestly reluctant to add to Izzy's strain with her new station, not to mention the imminent arrival of a man she openly despised. However, she needed to prepare herself for his father and the funeral, which was likely to be quite a grand affair. He made a note to send for a team of modistes for her. He doubted she would comprehend the need for an entirely new spit-of-fashion wardrobe, all in the most black of blacks. Really, it was a shame, for she looked so much better in colors. He hoped the entire matter would not shake her from her newfound equilibrium. She'd seemed so much happier, lately, as if she'd forgotten some of the worries that had plagued her.
As he approached her chamber door, it flew open.
"Now, Betty, I have sent to London for several seamstresses, for I cannot bear to dye my lovely gowns black. And I have employed several women from the village to make up a mourning version of the Dearingham livery. I thought it would be best, since we're about to be besieged by the high and low.
"All this and the rebuilding, as well. It is fortunate this house is so very vast. There will be sufficient room for everyone's servants in the old wing.
"Oh, and please tell His Grace's housekeeper to have extra beef slaughtered and hung, just to be on the safe side. It really is too bad to waste, but then, if the guests do not eat it, surely it could be used in the village."
All during this barrage, Izzy had been tying a voluminous apron about her dove-gray gown. She paused finally, taking a breath. Then she saw him lurking in the hall.
The animation bled from her face in an instant.
"Julian. Good morning. I mean… my condolences to you and your father."
Frustrated, Julian wondered if he could simply order her to return to her lively briskness, so like the old Izzy.
Reaching for patience, he smiled at her. "Thank you, but we were not much in favor with each other. I am surprised that you are so primed for action. I had thought I would be informing you, myself. Have you realized that you may now call yourself the marchioness?"
She visibly paled. "Must I? I would prefer not."
She looked away, as if desperate to escape. Never mind. He would leave her to her duties, which apparently gave her satisfaction. "If you need assistance—"
"No, thank you. I'll just speak to His Grace's staff. No doubt they have everything well in hand in any event."
A shadow of loss crossed her face. Now what was that about?
Without waiting for a reply, she gave him a troubled smile and hastened down the hall with Betty tripping at her heels.
After gazing after her in puzzlement for a moment, Julian turned wearily to his own rooms. He had sat by the old man's deathbed all night, watching the rise and fall of his grandfather's labored breathing.
It seemed the fire had sent the old fellow into his final rage. When dawn had brought an unobtrusive end to it all, Julian had risen silently and left the servants to prepare the old duke to lie in state. If he had given a moment to mourning, it had been more for what might have been, than for what was.
A bright spot occurred amidst all the chaos. Izzy received a letter from Lady Greenleigh detailing the latest gossip, delivered in a most amusing tone, about Millie Marchwell and her elopement with the penniless youngest son of the earl of Hardwick. Apparently the young man had quite swept her off her feet—much to her mother's dismay— and the two had set up housekeeping in a small house in London. But not all the news was so cheery.
I must also write to inform you that Eric came home one
evening much pained by a drubbing received at unknown hands, and has since been
morose and quite unbearable to live with. I sent him off to the country, dear,
until he unravels his tangled emotions. I believe he holds dear Julian to blame for something, and he is much distraught over you as well, my dear.
Whatever the circumstances, he seems quite forlorn. To be truthful, I am not sure which of you he most mourns the loss of.
Please, try to help the boys resolve their spat. Before one of Eric's sisters kills him quite dead.
Izzy was thrilled to see Celia dismount from her carriage. Flying from the window where she had watched the arriving throng, she ran most indecorously through her apartment until she reached the door. Straightening her dress and assuming a calm expression should she meet any of their guests in the halls, she stepped out clothed in full dignity.
As she smoothly rounded the landing above the great entrance hall, she forced herself to pause for a breath. It would not do to rush, even though what she truly wished to do was fling one leg over the polished railing and ride the endless bannister to the floor below.
Chuckling to herself at the image, she was about to descend when Celia passed through the grand double doors into the hall. Pausing to pass her cloak to one of the army of servants, she halted directly in the path of a rare sunbeam shining through the open doorway.
Izzy had to stop in awe at the way the light made her friend's beautiful hair glow after she removed her bonnet, and how her lovely figure showed to advantage against the rays streaming in from outside. All this beauty merely made Izzy watch admiringly, with no thought of envy in her heart.
Until Julian stepped forward to warmly greet the lovely widow.
Furious with herself, Izzy tried to fight down the tendrils of jealousy that twined through her spirit at Julian's warm smile, his welcoming bow over Celia's hand.
Did he stand a bit too close? Was his smile a few degrees warmer than any she herself had received from him since their wedding? Did his hand cling to Celia's for just a moment too long? These two had almost been lovers once, and although Izzy knew of no real contact since then, it was obvious to her that they were more than simple acquaintances.
And now Celia was a widow, free to remarry eventually, if she wished. Did Julian see it as an opportunity lost? Did it make him regret their marriage even more?
"They are quite stunning together, are they not?"
The dry voice at her ear made her start, and she shifted closer to the stair to increase the distance between herself and the new duke of Dearingham.
"Lady Bottomly has always been known as a great beauty, and if I'm not mistaken, my son had his eye turned that way once upon a time."
Despite the jovial nature of the words, they were delivered in a deadly monotone. He had followed Izzy's movement, stepping closer, and his voice grated unpleasantly in her ear.
"Oh, really, Your Grace? I'd no idea." Izzy moved to the side once more in discomfort. She felt a tiny chill begin in her spine.
"Yes, my son could have had any bride in the land. Landed, such as Lady Belinda Ainsley, or wealthy, such as the Lady Bottomly. Brides with something to offer Dearingham.
Worthy brides
."
His customary tone of voice was gone, in its place a touch of the venomous hiss she had heard from him once before—the day he had come to demand her departure. The day she had begun to suspect he was more than a little mad.
Her shiver became a distinct shudder, and Izzy moved away abruptly. Too abruptly. Her slippered foot came down on nothing and she made a hasty grab for the newel post.
Before she could touch it, her elbow was grabbed in a hurtful grip and she was caught from a certain tumble on the stairs.
Izzy exhaled with relief, and tried to regain her balance. She couldn't move.
The duke's grip remained unchanging, leaving Izzy dangling over the stair just a moment too long. Her heart thumped in alarm, and she raised her eyes to his.
She found black hatred there. A spike of pure fear spiralled through her.
Someone called her name from below but she could not breathe to answer.
Then she was pulled to secure footing again on the landing. Before she could firm her trembling knees, Julian's father was gone, and she was being called once more.
"Izzy!"
What had that been? Was she mad to think… ? Yes, she was being foolish. Over-imaginative. The fancies of a breeding woman.
Izzy shook her head and leaned to see the two below her.
Celia looked up at where she stood and smiled. Julian grinned and called, "Izzy, come! See who is here for you!"
Instantly Izzy was ashamed. Of course, Celia was here for her. She was the dearest of women, and had no yen for anyone's husband. And Julian was merely happy that her closest friend had come for her. Smiling widely, Izzy banished the nasty little demons of distrust and suspicion and danced lightly down the stairs, propriety be damned.
Once back in Izzy's private chambers, the two women dissolved into girlish giggling over the pomp and circumstance outside.
"What nonsense all this is," stated Izzy with some asperity. "No one had seen the man for twenty years, and from what I hear, no one could bear him then. It seems any excuse will do to gather and gossip and eat someone else's food."
"Do not forget the need to show off whatever gowns that did not get their wearing during the season," Celia added. "And pass on the chance to run their daughters beneath the eyes of the eligible men one more time? Inconceivable!"
"Utterly," agreed Izzy dryly, before bursting into laughter. "Oh, dear one, I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you once more. You have always been able to make me laugh."
"Oh, yes. I am renowned far and wide as a great clown," Celia replied with heavy irony. She smiled at her friend. "Truly, Izzy, laughter is
your
gift. You make us all happy when you laugh, so we
like
to do it."
Sobering, Izzy remembered the way Julian used to tease her, just to hear her laugh. "I do not laugh often here," she admitted. " 'Tis a grim, cold place. It seems to drain the merriment right out of me."