Joan Wolf (13 page)

Julianne compressed her lips. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” He leaned against the parapet and regarded her inscrutably. “What should I call you, then? Shajaret ed Dur?”

Her eyes opened wide with shock at his words. She felt a thread of panic shiver down her spine. “No one knows anything about that, John. I thought we had agreed to keep it a secret.”

“Even from your fiancé?” His voice was low and drawling.

“Yes. Even from him.” She took an uneven breath. “I told him you were a friend of my father’s. I told him it was Papa who showed you my journal.”

He watched her without a flicker of expression in his strangely light eyes, then he put his finger under her chin and tipped her face up so it was illuminated by the moonlight. “Do you realize what you are doing by marrying this boy?” he asked her gravely.

She looked back at him a little uncertainly. There was no trace of mockery on his face. “Certainly I realize what I am doing,” she answered, a small puzzled line puckering her clear brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he returned grimly, “that you are not marrying Rutherford at all. You are marrying his house and his father.”

She jerked away as if he had struck her. “That’s not true!” She put her hands on the stone parapet and stared out into the moonlit garden. She was rigid with anger. “William is the nicest boy I have ever known. I am marrying him, not his possessions.”

“Oh, I acquit you of being mercenary. That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it. But I want you to think of this, my girl.” He sounded almost brutal now. “On your wedding night that ‘nice boy’ whom you have been leading about like a tame dog on a leash is not going to be satisfied with a pat on the cheek. Have you thought about that? It’s not his house you’ll be going to bed with.”

At that she whirled and swung her open palm at his cheek, hard and in deadly earnest. She was quick, but his reflexes were like lightning. He caught her wrist and held it in an unbreakable grip close to his face. They stared at each other in roused hostility and Julianne felt the impact of his anger like a blow. Why can’t we leave each other alone? she thought in a wild flash of despair.

There was the sound of voices approaching the French doors from the drawing room and the cruel grasp on her wrist relaxed. When Lord Minton and Lord Henry Melburne came out onto the terrace they found Lord Denham leaning casually against the parapet with Julianne standing a good six feet away.

She felt a great rush of relief at the sight of Lord Minton. Here was safety, she thought. She gravitated immediately to his side and he smiled at her with that radiance of friendliness and good humor that had always so attracted her. He spoke a few words to John and the three men fell into general conversation, with Julianne making no attempt to participate. She stood beside Lord Minton and watched John, and compared.

Between the Earl of Denham and her future father-in-law there appeared to be perfect respect and accord. But Julianne thought that there could not be two men who were more opposed. Lord Minton represented peace and kindness and care. There was such a world of quiet security in his blue-gray eyes, in the soft tones of his even, cultured voice.

There was no quiet in John. He was energy—energy that was almost an irresistible power in itself. Like her father, he embodied strength and courage, adventurousness and ruthless determination. There was no peace in John’s blazing eyes; the intensity of life was what burned there so clearly, so seductively.

But Julianne had lived with a man like that. She knew how that single-minded intensity could deprive you of your freedom. Such a man had no respect for another person’s self-hood, another person’s separate interests and desires.

He attracted her. She was honest enough to admit that to herself. But she had been burned once, and badly. Never again, she vowed, stepping even closer to Lord Minton. She would take her nice, honorable, well-mannered William and count herself lucky.

Chapter Sixteen

Gentle as falcon or hawk of the tower.

—John Skelton

The sun was shining brightly the next day and Lady Minton announced that she had arranged an outing for the afternoon to see a beautiful fifteenth-century church in a nearby market town. They would take along a picnic and stop in a lovely spot she knew of for some alfresco refreshment.

The idea was greeted with enthusiasm by the young people of the house party, who were feeling the effects of the four-day rain. In the end it was decided to take two carriages and three phaetons. In the first carriage rode Lord Minton, his sister Lady Henry Melburne, and Lady Melburne’s son Henry and daughter Maria. In the second carriage were Mr. and Mrs. Lewis and two Foster cousins. Mr. Frederick Foster drove his father’s phaeton accompanied by his cousin George; Lord Rutherford drove Julianne, and Anne Foster had managed to maneuver so that she was riding with Lord Denham in his own phaeton.

They stopped for their picnic on the way to visit the church. Lord Minton supervised the unpacking of the refreshments while the rest of the party wandered about looking at the exceptionally pretty views they had of the Channel in the distance. Lord Rutherford had Julianne’s hand tucked firmly in his arm and she was looking up at him with a serenely trusting gaze. It made the blood stir in his veins, the way she turned to him like that, and his hand tightened possessively on hers.

“Rutherford.” It was John Champernoun’s voice. “I believe you said earlier that you wished to look more closely at my horses.”

“Yes.” For once Lord Rutherford was not anxious to have his attention diverted to horseflesh, but courtesy turned his steps toward Denham’s phaeton. Julianne was forced to accompany him. They were standing all three of them near the horses’ flanks when there came a shrill scream from over by the trees. They turned as one. There, standing a few feet from the protection of the trees, was the most enormous dog Julianne had ever seen. He was crouched, snarling at Maria, who was cowering some ten feet in front of him. The dog was coiled, ready to spring. The most frightening thing was not the growls that came from its throat but the white foam that flecked its muzzle and drooled from its mouth.

“Oh my God,” breathed William.

“Don’t move, Miss Foster.” The voice was John’s—not loud but distinctly authoritative. He himself was moving, four steps back to his phaeton, where he reached a hand in quickly. He was back by their sides in an instant, a gun in his bandaged hand. “Julianne,” he said, and handed it to her.

“Denham!” The shocked voice was Lord Rutherford’s, but Julianne paid no attention as she raised the gun. Maria, panic-stricken, turned to run and the dog sprang. There was the sharp, loud crack of a gunshot and the dog crashed to the ground and lay still. John and Julianne were the only ones to move for a minute, both of them walking swiftly toward the fallen animal. John looked down at the still form and said, “Good shooting. You got him through the brain.”

Julianne nodded. “Don’t touch him. He was sick.” Their movement seemed to release all the others from the spell of shock. Maria turned, sobbing, into her mother’s arms. Several of the ladies felt faint and sat down abruptly. A few of the gentlemen were pale as well.

Lord Rutherford stared at his fiancée, who was handing the gun back to Lord Denham. Her face looked completely calm and fearless and as she glanced up at the tall man beside her a flash of something he could only describe as gaiety went across her lovely features. He was too far away to hear what she said, and he moved purposefully across the grass toward the two of them.

“You
would
have a gun handy,” was what Julianne had said.

“Of course I had a gun,” he replied. “A reprobate like myself never stirs without one.”

Lord Rutherford came to a halt beside them and looked with hostility at John’s laughing face and brilliant eyes. “Good God, Denham,” he exploded, “why did you give that damn gun to Julianne?”

John turned to him, black brows lifted in surprise. “My own hand is bandaged. I thought perhaps it might affect my accuracy.”

“What I meant was, why did you not give the gun to
me!”
Lord Rutherford’s face was flushed with agitation. Julianne found herself thinking that he looked rather like a small boy who has been deprived of a treat.

“I know how well Julianne shoots, but I didn’t know about you,” returned John bluntly. “It was not a moment for taking chances.”

Lord Rutherford looked absolutely affronted. “John did not mean to insult you, William,” Julianne said reasonably. “I
do
shoot well, you see. And everything has come out all right. Except we really should bury this dog.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t travel with a shovel,” said John regretfully and Julianne laughed.

The sound of that rippling, genuine amusement infuriated Lord Rutherford. The two of them were behaving very badly, he thought. Neither showed the smallest concern for the feelings of others.

At that moment Lord Minton came up to them. “Good shot, Denham,” he said.

“It was not Lord Denham who shot the dog, sir,” came the stiff voice of Lord Rutherford.

“Oh? I thought, since it was his gun ...” Lord Minton suddenly smiled. “Of course, you have hurt your hand. Well, believe me we are most grateful that you were along, Denham, and had the presence of mind to get that gun quickly to William. I shudder to think what would have happened if that dog had actually bitten poor Maria.”

“William did not shoot the dog,” said Julianne with a trace of exasperation. “I did.”

There was a moment of silence. “You did, my dear?” said Lord Minton.

“Yes.” Julianne was further exasperated by the undoubted incredulity she had heard in his voice. “I spent five years in Africa, Lord Minton. I learned how to shoot.”

“I see.” He turned to John. “It
was
your gun, Denham?”

“Yes. I have a pocket in the phaeton where I keep it. Like Julianne, I spent too many years in Africa to feel comfortable if I don’t have a gun at hand.”

“Well, it was fortunate for us all that you had it,” repeated Lord Minton.

The ladies now began clamoring to return home and Lord Minton turned to try to soothe and reorganize his party. In the end one of the servants who had come with the picnic was left to keep watch over the dog until a few men from Minton could arrive with shovels to bury it. The rest of the party hastily got into their carriages and in ten minutes they were on their way home, the fifteenth-century church quite forgotten.

Lord Rutherford sulked the whole way home. It was a well-bred, quiet sulk, but a sulk nonetheless. Julianne kept her own temper under control and refrained from telling him exactly how childishly she thought he was behaving. When they arrived at Minton they found Lady Minton, the dowager duchess, and two Foster aunts in the drawing room, and the whole tale had to be told. Maria was bundled off to bed and the rest of the party settled down to tea and cake. They had been deprived of their earlier refreshment due to the dog.

It soon became clear that everyone was under the misapprehension that Lord Denham had fired the shot. No one had been looking at him; everyone’s eyes had been fixed on the dog. They had seen Julianne hand him the gun and assumed he had given it to her to hold while he examined the dog.

There was great wonder expressed when it became known that Julianne had fired the shot. John went through his explanation about his injured hand and everyone nodded doubtfully. They clearly still could not understand how he had ever given up his gun to a woman. Julianne suddenly knew, with a flash of insight, that there was not another man in the room who would have done as John had. With the evidence of her marksmanship staring them in the face, they still would not have given her the gun.

“But
how
did you know Julianne could shoot, Lord Denham?” asked Anne Foster sweetly.

“I knew Julianne and her father in Africa,” he answered easily. “I know how good she is with a gun. Lord Richard put her in charge of the firearms, in fact. I believe he found her to be more careful than himself about such matters.”

Every eye in the room swung to Julianne. “Guns are very important when one is traveling in Africa,” she explained patiently. “Aside from defense, they are one’s chief source of food.”

“Did
you
shoot the game for your meals, Julianne?” The incredulous questioner was George Foster.

“Most of the time,” she replied evenly. “I was a better shot than Papa.”

There was utter silence and then the dowager duchess said, “Dear Julianne finds it painful to talk about that awful time in Africa. Go upstairs to your room, my love. You need to rest after all this excitement.”

Julianne sighed. “It was not an awful time, Grandmama. Some of it was wonderful.”

“I know, dear,” said the dowager duchess soothingly. “But I think you ought to go upstairs now.”

Julianne’s lips curved in tolerant disdain as she looked around the room full of wide-eyed Fosters. “Very well, Grandmama,” she said to the perturbed dowager duchess. “I will go upstairs.” As soon as she had gone her grandmother began to explain and apologize for her unorthodox upbringing. Everyone was very kind.

Chapter Seventeen

Thus, by these subtle trains,

Do several passions invade the mind,

And strike our reason blind:

Of which usurping rank some have

        thought love.

—Ben Jonson

Several hours later Julianne was seated before her dressing table getting ready for dinner. Her dress, a pale green summer gown of the lightest muslin, was laid out on the bed ready to be slipped on. Her maid was brushing her long hair preparatory to dressing it high on the back of her head
a la Grecque,
and Julianne’s eyes were closed. She loved to have her hair brushed; it seemed to her the absolute height of luxury to have someone else do this for her. Suddenly there was the sound of voices in the hall. Julianne jumped to her feet, startling her maid into dropping the hairbrush. She picked it up, staring in bewilderment as her mistress walked swiftly to the door and opened it. “I thought I heard your voice,” said Julianne with satisfaction. “Come in here, I want to look at that hand of yours.”