The feel of a cold, clammy hand on his skin startled Julian. He shot upright, blinking rapidly against the light, trying to focus on the watery image of Tinley, whose stooped frame waited patiently, regarding him with a rather bored expression on his face. "Jesus, Tinley, might you have knocked?" he snapped.
"I did rap, my lord, but there was no response save a bit of snoring. Nor did you respond when I rapped on the edge of the desk."
Julian glowered at the old man. "What do you want?"
"Lord Redbourne to see you, my lord."
Bloody grand. "Then I suppose you had better show him in," he muttered, and shoved to his feet, making a feeble attempt to straighten his clothing.
"Shall I serve brandy?"
Julian chuckled in spite of himself. It was so like London—civility above all else, even when one man likely wanted to kill another. "By all means, serve brandy. Ask him to supper, why don't you?"
Tinley neither responded nor smiled as he shuffled out of the room.
Julian was at the hearth when Redbourne stormed in. He hadn't actually seen the earl in many months, and was struck by how much Claudia resembled her father. He was stately in stature, rather tall. His graying hair was perfectly arranged in the wispy Greek style favored by men of fashion. His handsome face showed signs of strain—telltale signs around the eyes, between the brows. His blue-gray eyes—Claudia's eyes—swept Julian from top to bottom.
Redbourne's lips curled into a sneer. "Well, Kettering, you don't look like a bastard. But you are that and more, you blackguard. I have every right to demand satisfaction for what you've done!"
All right then, they would dispense with the civilities. "Then do it, Redbourne," Julian responded evenly. "I'm not of a mind to putter around the issue."
With a shout of contemptuous laughter, Redbourne strode decisively into the room. "You are awfully cocksure, my lord! You have disgraced me! Trust me, if I were to put a bullet through that rotten heart of yours, no one in London would fault me for it!"
"I did not disgrace you, Redbourne," Julian said calmly. "Your daughter did that to you."
The color drained from the earl's face. "Don't push me, Kettering."
"And don't threaten me," he responded low. "If you want something of me, ask it."
Redbourne pressed his lips so tightly together that they all but disappeared. "I have come to ask you to be a gentleman. You've known my daughter since she was a girl—you were once a brother to her," he said, his eyes reflecting his disgust as he spoke, "and I should hope you would be man enough to do the right thing. I am asking you—begging you—don't allow my daughter's ruin at your hand."
Julian's gaze locked on Redbourne as he slowly shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the mantel. "I offered marriage, but your daughter refused me. It seems she rather despises me."
That was obviously news to Redbourne. "She has a rather unique way of showing it," he muttered. He moved to the desk, absently shoving a hand through his perfectly arranged hair. "She is ruined, Kettering. You ruined her. The rumors that circulate are devastating—I know you will understand the import when I tell you the rumors have even reached the king's ear." He glanced at Julian from the corner of his eye.
Julian lifted a hand to rub the juncture of his neck and shoulder.
"I am appealing to you to behave as a peer, as a gentleman. As a man who has proudly raised four sisters. You'd ask what I am asking if the woman in question were young Sofia."
"Her name is Sophie." The ache in Julian's shoulder spread into his chest, and he restlessly shoved away from the mantel. "I understand your position, Redbourne, but you must consider mine. She has refused my offer and I am therefore hardly inclined to force her to accept it against her will."
"You would if it were Sophie," Redbourne quickly shot back. "If this
. . .
abominable thing had happened to your sister, you would seek every means available to avoid scandal. I know that about you."
True. He would do whatever he must to protect any one of his sisters—it was an instinct in him as natural as breathing. He shrugged. "Even if I agreed, Claudia would not."
Redbourne snorted disdainfully. "What option does she have? Her folly has made her a virtual prisoner in my home. She rarely goes out, her friends cut her, she is not invited anywhere—she has no choice, unless she relishes living her life as a spinster."
Julian tried to picture Claudia in Redbourne's stuffy house, alone . . . her sparkle smothered by scandal.
"It's not as if you must unite with her, you know."
That brought Julian's head up; he glanced curiously at Redbourne. "Pardon?"
Redbourne shrugged lightly. "Yours certainly would not be the first marriage among the ton in which the happy couple chooses to lead separate lives_.__ . ._ in all things."
Julian blinked. It had never occurred to him to marry before that night at Harrison Green's. It had certainly never occurred to him to do it in name only. But then, these circumstances were atrocious. He had compro-mised Claudia irrevocably and had learned that she despised him completely—he couldn't imagine being married at all, much less to a woman who despised him. Nevertheless, he felt keenly the weight of his responsibility for this mess. Perhaps Redbourne was right. Perhaps they could co-exist in the same house peacefully enough; both the St. James house and Kettering Hall were large enough that they could go for several days, even weeks, without having to see or speak to one another. It could work.
He turned his head, looked at Redbourne. "If I should agree, would you be able to obtain a special license?"
Relief washed over Redbourne's face. "Of course," he said quickly. "Then you'll do it?"
Swallowing past the lump of uncertainty lodged in his throat, Julian nodded.
Redbourne turned on his heel and strode to the door. "You are doing the honorable thing, Kettering. No one can fault you for it."
Perhaps
. . .
but Julian had the uneasy feeling that there was one person who could and would.
She would, apparently, be forced into mar-rying The Rake.
Through her lashes, Claudia looked at the man who would be her husband as he spoke casually to Louis Renault—as if this sort of family gathering happened all the time.
It had only happened because her father had insisted upon it after coercing her into agreeing to marry Kettering. Oh, he had been truly magnificent in that— first sweetly cajoling, then threatening her, then swearing on her mother's grave to make her life a virtual hell if she did not agree to Kettering's offer. He had thrown everything at her he could think of, but she had resisted valiantly, certain she could weather the storm and determined not to lose everything to The Rake. The earl probably had no idea which threat in particular had finally swayed her. It was not the threat of spinsterhood, or the rabid vow to closet her away. It was the moment he had declared her poverty-stricken, stripped of her annuity and her allowance—and therefore, stripped of the means to support the town house on Upper Moreland Street.
Battered down, Claudia had tearfully agreed then, and the moment the words slipped from her mouth, her father had forcibly sat her at his desk to pen a note to Kettering. Under his watchful eye—he had literally hung over her shoulder—her tears blinding her, Claudia had written a terse note accepting his supposed offer.
Kettering had come round to see her the next day, but she had made Brenda beg off for her, unable to look at him just yet. He had sent his regrets up with Brenda, and Claudia had not seen or heard from him again.
Until her father had forced her to come to this so-called family supper.
Julian had been politely reserved since their arrival, greeting her distantly, his lips barely grazing her knuckles. But his obsidian eyes had pierced her with a look; a probing, questioning look that brought a heat to her neck. Then Eugenie had rushed to greet her, alternately sobbing with joy and regret and joy again, and his eyes had shuttered.
They had not spoken since.
Not during the round of whiskey for the men before supper, not on the promenade to the dining room, and not over wine before the meal was served. Eugenie and Ann had seen to it that she survived the supper, speaking very carefully of the wedding, treading softly around the affair as if they had not been surprised out of their wits by it all. In the gold salon after supper, when the men remained in the dining room for a glass of port, Eugenie had quietly discussed the details of the wedding breakfast with her, as if mentioning it would cause her to burst into tears— Eugenie had always been perceptive that way. And when the men rejoined the ladies, Claudia had deftly avoided any conversation with him at all by focusing intently on Ann's complaints of swollen ankles and a strange craving for broad beans.
But she had felt his eyes on her, surreptitiously watching her every move. Oh, God, how would she ever survive this? How could she possibly walk down the aisle to him? Lie in his bed?
A shudder ran through her, chilling her to the bone. For the thousandth time, she thought of Eugenie's wedding and the way she had glided down the aisle on Julian's arm to a beaming Louis. She thought of how proud and handsome Julian had looked that day, how desperately in love she had been with him, how she had stood at Eugenie's side and imagined that the vicar was speaking to her and Julian—
Stop! Claudia squeezed her eyes shut for a moment to regain her balance. She was not that silly girl any longer! Seven years had passed and with them, her doe-eyed innocence. Seven years in which she had learned what men were, what they truly wanted from women, and how easily they could dismiss women from their lives if it suited them. She understood that women were the vessels upon which they satisfied their desire, chattel to command in marriage. And looking across the room at him, Claudia believed her future husband was the epitome of the worst of them. Because he was the sort of man who could bring a woman to a state of blind devotion without so much as flexing his heart.
Worse, Claudia knew she was the sort of woman who succumbed easily to his charm. She certainly had at Harrison Green's, somehow believing herself above propriety and chastity. Her mistake was one of monumental consequence, one she would regret the rest of her days. But the damage was done; her only hope now was to beg him for a few concessions that would enable her to survive this loveless marriage, a few ground rules they could both agree upon that would make it less hurtful. Please God.
She could not avoid him forever, no matter how much she wanted to. Julian glanced at her from the corner of his eye, nodded at something Louis said, and tried not to squirm with impatience. He felt as if he was about to crawl out of his skin, a feeling that had only gotten worse since she had arrived. God, but her smile, that devastating flash of brilliance was gone, and in its place a look so sullen that it made him wince. Her dismay was palpable; he felt it so keenly that he wondered if he had confused it with his own. It was clear she was averse to this marriage, but what was done was done—there was nothing either of them could do now, for to call off the wedding would plunge them into a scandal so deep neither of them could escape. He was, therefore, of the firm opinion that they should simply make the best of it. It was not the end of the world . . . not yet, anyway.
And as he excused himself from Louis's company, he was bound and determined that she would see his reasoning and come to the very same conclusion.
He strolled casually across the room, cognizant that they all strained not to watch the exchange. His sisters, naturally, were beside themselves with glee that he would finally marry—their dearest friend, no less. Oh, they knew very well what had happened to bring this marriage about, but they did not allow a lurid little scandal to stand in the way of their happiness. Frankly, he had the sense all day that they had been gamely struggling not to burst into wedding song. It was a supreme sacrifice for them, he knew, to remain subdued because of the somber reasons behind the pending nuptials.
It did not, however, keep them from grinning widely when Claudia came to her feet as he approached. Surprised, Julian halted, clasping his hands awkwardly behind his back. "A word, madam?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, please," she responded, and calmly walked out of the room. With a glance at the others, Julian followed her, motioning for the footman posted just outside the salon to follow them. Claudia started to the east; Julian reached for the small of her back and felt the muscles stiffen beneath his palm as she stopped and turned halfway toward him.
He let his hand drop. "I suggest the library. Unless, of course, you prefer the breakfast room?"
"Um, no. Excuse me," she muttered, and walked stiffly in the opposite direction, her dark gold and green skirts floating behind her. Julian could not help but think of that afternoon at Chateau la Claire when she had glided across the grass, barefoot, the sun bringing out the bits of gold shimmering in her hair. That day seemed like years ago now, he thought, reaching to open the door of the library.
Claudia squeezed past him, carefully putting as much distance between them as possible, then fairly sprinting to the far side of the room where she took refuge near a globe. As they waited for a footman to light several can-delabras about the room, Julian beheld his bride-to-be, thinking that with her hands clasped tightly together and her chin held high, she looked very much like the defiant little girl who had stood so often in his study at Kettering.
He couldn't help but smile. "Relax, Claudia."
She did not relax, but shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Julian glanced at the footman hovering near the door and dismissed him with a nod.
"I_. . ._ I don't want to do this," she said when the door shut.
The troubled sound of her voice pierced his soul; he sobered instantly. "Why don't you sit down? You'll be more comfortable."
"Isn't there some other way? I mean, there must be something you can do!" she blurted anxiously.