At least the manuscript gave him something to look at while his head throbbed and his mind wandered. Damn her, but he had dreamed of her overnight—a very erotic dream—and after several long months of impotence had become painfully aroused.
This morning he had debated calling on her. No, he had warred with himself, alternating between disbelief that he could be so bloody fascinated with a woman and indignation that she could hardly seem to abide him.
This is absurd. Julian shoved the manuscript away and rubbed the back of his neck. In the first place, he was a bloody Rogue of Regent Street and could have any woman he wanted. In the second place, she had grown up in his house, among his sisters, had known him since she was a little girl. And in the third place, goddammit, she had been Phillip's intended, and even if almost two years had passed, he could not betray Phillip's memory by seducing the woman he had intended to marry!
And what other man would you suggest, my lord? I know of a hostler near Redbourne Abbey. Perhaps you think he better suits? Her words from that night came back to him as clearly as if she had just spoken them. God, how he had longed to take her in his arms, kiss that lunacy from her lips. Not a hostler, Claudia, he had been desperate to say. Me! But the words had never passed his lips—he had felt the weight of his lifelong friendship with Phillip and had resisted the corporeal urges of his body in favor of loyalty.
Loyalty that still hung like a noose around his neck.
Restless, Julian came to his feet and crossed to the window. He was sick to death of moping about like some schoolboy and decided to find Sophie, perhaps accompany her to an exclusive millinery shop on Regent Street. That would surely boost her sagging spirits; hell, she might even speak to him again. With an uneasy shrug of his shoulders, Julian quit the study and went in search of his youngest sister.
Sophie, however, was nowhere to be found. Even her lady's maid was nowhere in sight. Julian at last found Tinley, seated at the formal dining room table, a duster resting in front of him.
"You've worn yourself outagain, haven't you?" Julian admonished the old man.
"I beg your pardon, my lord, you are mistaken. I employ a variety of techniques to keep your house in superb condition," Tinley said as he reluctantly pushed himself to his feet and retrieved his duster.
"Yes, I see that you do," Julian drawled. "Have you seen Lady Sophie?"
Tinley paused, looked thoughtfully at the chandelier. "I rather think not recently," he said uncertainly.
Julian peered closely at Tinley. "No?"
"Well_. . ._ I believe that perhaps Lady Sophie is visiting Lady Boxworth today," Tinley answered.
It was as good a guess as any, Julian supposed. To Ann's, then. "Have the phaeton brought round, will you? I'll fetch her," he said, and with a last curious look at the old man, Julian walked out of the dining room.
Sophie was not with Ann.
Ann was unconcerned. She suggested he try Aunt Violet, then smiled, patting his arm in a motherly sort of way. "You are too protective. Sophie will be one and twenty in a matter of weeks. She's grown now."
"She's an innocent," he retorted sharply.
He did not go to Aunt Violet's home at Eaton Court— his instincts told him he would not find Sophie there, either. His instincts, unfortunately, told him that she was with Stanwood, and his blood ran cold.
When he returned to St. James Square, he summoned Tinley to the library. "Think, Tinley. How long has she been gone?" he asked.
Tinley blinked, clearly confused. "Who?"
There was no point in prolonging the conversation; Tinley's memory was fading as rapidly as his eyesight. So Julian dismissed the butler with the firm instruction that Sophie was to be brought to him at once upon her return.
Fortunately, he did not have to wait long.
When Sophie entered the library a half-hour later, she could scarcely look at him. She sat gingerly on the edge of a chair, her head lowered as she fidgeted with a braid of ribbon at her waist. She was ashamed or hiding something or both, and Julian's anger soared. He paced in front of the windows, struggling to contain his anger and his fear at what could be happening with her. After several tense moments, he stopped pacing and faced his sister. "Where have you been?"
"Ahem. Ah, with Aunt Violet," she said meekly.
His pulse began to throb soundly in his neck. "I wouldn't make things worse by lying if I were you." She said nothing; Julian swallowed hard. "Were you with Stanwood?"
He waited a few moments, watching as Sophie seemed to shrink before his very eyes. Just when he thought he would explode, she muttered a very soft yes. He pivoted sharply, pacing like a madman in a furious bid to control his anger. The chit was a fool! That man was a wolf in sheep's clothing, a predator who would eat her up. He paused, thrust a hand through his hair as he racked his brain for the reason she would defy him so blatantly, any semblance of an excuse . .. but he already knew the reason. He knew instinctively that Sophie was suffering from the same quiet desperation he was.
"Sophie." His voice was hoarse with emotion. "You cannot see him." He glanced over his shoulder at her; she would not look up. "I know that you are particularly attached to him, but he is not suitable."
"How can you say that, Julian? You don't even know him!"
It was true that he had met Stanwood on only a handful of occasions, but Julian knew his reputation well. "I know him—much better than you believe," he said low. "I don't want to hurt you, darling, but the man wants nothing more than your money." Sophie's head jerked up; the hurt in her eyes slashed painfully at his heart. "He wants it because he has lost his in gaming hells," he doggedly continued. "His reputation is reprehensible—"
"He said you would say that!"
Julian wondered if Stanwood had told her all of what he might say about the bastard. For there was much more, but he was unwilling to offend her with the worst details of his reputation, which included a proclivity for inflicting pain on his bed partners.
"Please try and hear me, love. There are rumors of Sir William's cruelty
. . .
he will not treat you with the esteem you deserve, do you understand? He is not the sort of man who would revere a wife—"
"He has not as yet offered for me, Julian, and I dare say he won't, knowing your prejudice against him as he does," she said, lifting her chin defiantly.
Julian's hold on his temper was slipping. "You have other suitors. Aunt Violet said that young Henry Dillon has called—"
"He's a child!" she cried. "All of them! Sir William predicted this; he said you would marry me off to the suitor with the fattest purse, regardless of my feelings in the matter!"
The bloody bastard was pitting her against him. Fury was quickly mounting in Julian, and he fought to maintain his composure. "He is manipulating you, Sophie," he responded evenly. "I forbid you to see him, and I am not open to debate on the matter."
The hand in her lap was trembling—she was desperately trying to maintain her composure, too. "We never debate anything, Julian. You dictate, and I am expected to follow."
He ignored her remark. "Mark me, Sophie. This will be the last time I will tell you."
She came clumsily to her feet, piercing him with a dark look. "As you wish," she said bitterly, and walked unsteadily from the library, leaving Julian with the funny feeling that there would be nothing as he wished.
When Sophie did not come to supper, he sent a tray up. When Tinley returned and informed him Lady Sophie had refused the tray, Julian tossed his linen napkin aside and shoved away from the table, leaving a plate full of food himself.
He knew her misery, and God, how he wished he could change everything for her. How he wished he could make Stanwood honorable. Unfortunately for both of them, he couldn't change a bloody thing, least of all, Stanwood's rotten character. And as it stood, Julian would not change his mind in this.
He had vowed to his dying father to keep his sisters safe and well. He had failed miserably with Valerie. He would not fail with Sophie.
God, he had to get out of this house. What was once a spacious mansion was beginning to feel like a closet where he and Sophie were forced to co-exist. Harrison Green, he had learned from Arthur just last evening, was having another of his bawdy routs in celebration of All Saints' Day. The nephew of an influential earl, Harrison Green had more money than brains, and his single purpose in life was to provide the town's entertainment. A rout at Harrison Green's was guaranteed to be crowded with London's elite, unfettered by convention or propriety—exactly the sort of mindless entertainment Julian needed at the moment.
Julian was not disappointed. Arriving at Green's, he could scarcely squeeze past a harried footman, wig askew, to gain entry. Once inside the foyer, he was immediately accosted by Lady Phillipot, a very tall and rather large woman squeezed into a gown so tight that he could see the stays of her corset straining against the satin. Her ample bosom was dangerously close to spilling over when she latched on to his arm with a bright smile. Julian had heard that Lord Phillipot was abroad, and thought that rather explained the woman's overly bright smile.
"Kettering!" she chirped loudly, beaming at him. "Ooh, what good fortune that a Rogue has joined us!"
"Lady Phillipot, how do you do?"
"Did you come alone?" she asked eagerly, peering around him. "Shall I show you around? Oh, say that I shall! I should very much like a few dear friends to see a man as handsome as you on my arm!" she declared, and burst into a loud, piercing laugh.
"Earl Kettering? Good God, didn't think to see you tonight!" Harrison Green, a short, round man who still dressed in the bright colors of a past era stuffed his monocle in his eye and peered closely at Julian. "Didn't think to see you any night, truth be told."
"What, and pass up what promises to be such a lively event?" Julian asked, smiling at Lady Phillipot as he peeled her fingers from his arm. "Don't mind, do you old chap?" he asked Green.
"Lord no! Just leave some of our fair damsels to frolic with the rest of us, will you?"
Lady Phillipot howled at that. "Harrison, you devil," she cried, slapping him on the shoulder with her fan.
"I shall endeavor to do just that, but I shan't make any promises," Julian said, and smiling, smoothly step-ped away from Lady Phillipot before she could latch on to him again. "I assume the game room is in the usual location?" he asked, not waiting for the answer as he quickly gained the stairs.
The size of the crowd surprised him but then again, the late fall meant fewer soirees as the gentry slowly returned to their country homes for the winter. He pushed his way through the throng of men and women in various stages of flirtation along the stairs, drinking liberally from a flute of champagne someone had pressed into his hand.
On the first floor, the drove was even thicker. A waltz was in full swing in a small ballroom. Across the hall, a long sideboard was set with food; several small tables were scattered about and filled with Green's hungry guests. Just down from there was the main salon, where several men were engaged in card games on which hundreds of pounds were wagered. Julian picked up another flute of champagne from a passing footman and made his way to the ballroom, preferring the scenery of dancing women to the smoke-filled gaming room. That was one thing he truly enjoyed about Green's affairs—innocent young debutantes, fearful of ruining their pristine reputations, would never darken his door. The sort of women who attended a Harrison Green affair were either married—and therefore past the age of worrying about their chastity—or uncaring of society's regard for them.
Those were the women he enjoyed the most.
Like Lady Prather, who was making her way toward him. Julian smiled as she covertly brushed her hand across his thigh. "My lord, you've been gone so long," she pouted prettily.
"Not so very long," he said, surreptitiously running a hand around her waist and over her hip. "Where is Lord Prather?"
"The game room, as always," she said, deliberately brushing her breast against his arm. "Will you dance with me?"
He was only human. He led the pretty blonde onto the dance floor and waltzed her into the thick of the crowd, smiling as she murmured all the things she would like to do to his body. The end of the dance found them near the string quartet and partially secluded from the crowd. Julian could not help himself—he kissed the temptress, hungrily and long—until reason caught hold of him, and he begged his escape before he found himself in deep trouble with another husband. Leaving a sulking Lady Prather behind, he worked his way to the far end of the ballroom and the doors opened onto the terrace to draw breath into the house. He leaned against the wall and sipped his champagne, watching the dancers twirl by him, smiling suggestively at a group of young women who were eyeing him over the tops of their fans.
A movement just outside his peripheral vision caused him to turn his head toward the terrace—and Julian caught his breath.
Claudia.
He had not expected to see her here tonight-Harrison Green seemed so . . . inadequate for her, if not a little risque. But there she was, alone on the terrace, standing beneath the overhang of the porch above. Her gaze was locked on a rather garish painting of the sun and moon and stars above her head. In the shallow light of a pair of rush torches, she turned a slow pirouette, thoughtfully tilting her head from one side to the other as she studied the painting.
She looked magnificent. The pewter satin gown she wore was the exact color of her eyes. The bodice of the gown dipped enticingly low; the sleeves, fitting tight around her upper arms, left her shoulders gleaming white and smooth. In one hand a half-empty flute of champagne dangled. The other hand fingered the triple strand of pearls at her neck that matched those strung loosely through her coiffure. A thick tress of hair was carelessly pushed behind her ear, tangling with the pearl drop earrings she wore.
He was reminded of the night two years past, when she had appeared at the Wilmington Ball on her father's arm, snatching the breath from his lungs.