"Very well, then, I shall have to conclude it was me," he said cheerfully.
Oh, it was him, all right, everything about him. It was the way he looked, the polished way he spoke, the deadly charming way in which he smiled. It was that his name had been linked with every beauty among the ton, married or not—but never hers. And it was the way he had denigrated her when he told her she wasn't good enough for Phillip, then had turned around and led Phillip to his demise. It was all of that and a sense of urgency to flee before she was forced to confront those demons again, relive Phillip's death again, and the events leading up to it. She really did not want to despise Julian.
But she did.
"I confess I am rather keen to know why you would so desperately want to avoid me that you would run a man down. It rather injures my feelings."
As if anything could injure his black heart. "I did not run a man down. I didn't actually see him until it was too late. Really, I am not obliged to answer."
A chuckle rumbled through his chest. "But you will," he said in that terribly silky way of his.
Claudia made a frantic motion for the innkeeper then, and when he acknowledged her, she turned to face her new escort. His black eyes locked with hers; a smile lazily lifted one corner of his mouth, and her insides somersaulted in response. That was exactly the problem—her insides always somersaulted when he smiled. But that didn't change who he was, and he couldn't sit with her, even if they were the last two people on the face of the earth. He was a selfish, arrogant, irresponsible rogue, and though Adrian Spence may have pulled the trigger, Phillip wouldn't have been standing on that field at all had it not been for Julian Dane.
But God in heaven, why did he have to smile like that?
"Oh, please!" she muttered hopelessly.
With a slight frown of worry, Julian leaned forward. "What is it, Claudia?" he asked, managing to sound genuinely concerned.
"Might we at least have a bottle of wine if we are to wait?" she asked, and immediately closed her eyes, mortified that those words had come out of her mouth.
Claudia could have a whole bloody barrel of wine if she wanted it, as far as Julian was concerned— anything to keep her exactly where she was. The innkeeper beamed with pleasure when Julian asked for his finest bottle of wine and quickly suggested a platter of cheese and bread to accompany it. Julian nodded absently to that as his attention was sharply focused on the woman beside him. As her gaze darted to other patrons around the room, she drummed long, tapered fingers on the scarred table, then fingered the gold cross around her neck—
Phillip again. The obscure, demented feeling that he is watching.
Was she thinking of Phillip, too? Remembering what might have been? It had been only eighteen months— perhaps she still mourned him.
Bloody marvelous. It had been and was Julian's grave misfortune to want her, more than he had a right to. More than common sense could justify, even now. Yet he desired her, completely and miserably, and although he knew she would never be his when Phillip lived, he could not bear to see her make the dreadful, irrevocable mistake of shackling herself to Phillip. For all of Claudia's sophistication, she was an innocent. She had no way of knowing that if she agreed to Phillip's suit she would be marrying a drunkard facing staggering debt and certain ruin.
So Julian had felt compelled to go to Claudia and explain that Phillip was not the sort of man for her. He had done it for her sake
. . .
he was certain he had done it for her sake. Claudia, however, had not exactly thanked him for his advice. Actually, she had come dangerously close to hitting him, and Julian was not anxious to resurrect that memory.
He waited until the wine had been brought, and as he filled her goblet, he remarked, "I had occasion to visit the Jardin du Luxembourg while I was in Paris and happened upon one of the finest displays of roses I have ever seen."
Immediately, Claudia shot him a look of suspicion. "Roses?"
"It brought to mind a garden that once boasted England's finest roses. Not as brilliant, perhaps, but nonetheless quite pleasing to the eye and rather well thought upon by residents of that particular parish." He smiled and handed her the goblet of wine.
Her eyes narrowed. "And?"
Very deliberately, Julian poured wine for himself. "And, I was reminded of its unfortunate demise." He lifted his glass and touched the rim of hers with it. "All for the sake of an imaginary castle. You were incur-rigible, Claudia."
The memory danced across her eyes. "I beg your pardon, you are mistaken," she said politely. "It was not for the sake of an imaginary castle, but the castle's imaginary bailey, where the imaginary knights housed their steeds. And by the bye, I was not incorrigible, I was creative. You, on the other hand, were quite rigid."
"Rigid? Me?" He chuckled, lifted the goblet, and sipped. "Do not confuse discipline with austerity. I assure you, instilling a little discipline into five young girls was not an easy task. I am quite certain you recall the rainbow incident? No doubt you thought me rigid, but I should have taken a switch to all five backsides for running off like that, and at the very least to yours."
Claudia almost sputtered her wine. "You think
I
was responsible? I'll have you know that it was all Genie's idea to find the end of the rainbow. I merely claimed it was my doing to protect her from your wrath, as I was often forced to do."
Now that made him laugh. "You would have me believe that? Should I take it then that Eugenie chopped down the rosebushes? Or frightened poor Sophie nearly to death?"
"It was hardly my fault that you coddled Sophie so shamelessly," she said, trying to hide an impudent smile behind her goblet.
"I hardly coddled her. But when an eight-year-old girl climbs into one's bed, and clings to one's nightshirt with the grip of ten men because she is frightened out of her wits, one is inclined to allow her to stay."
Claudia actually laughed at him. "All right, I shall concede that point," she said cheerfully. "But I was only twelve! And it really wasn't such a terribly scary story!"
But it wasn't a very scary story! For a brief moment, Julian was transported back in time to where the twelve-year-old Claudia stood before him in his study, her little hands fisted at her sides, her chin raised defiantly, Eugenie and Valerie cowering behind her. But didn't you think the child would be frightened when Eugenie pretended to be a ghost? Claudia's pert little nose had wrinkled at that and she had stolen a glance at her partner in crime.
I
didn't think she was very scary a'tall. I thought she should have made some noises.
"It was frightening enough for an eight-year-old. Sophie slept in my bed for three nights before I finally convinced her it was Eugenie underneath that linen."
With a sheepish smile, Claudia dropped her gaze; thick, chocolate lashes dusted her cheeks. "I suppose we might have been a bit careless," she admitted, "but that doesn't mean you weren't terribly rigid."
"What, rigid again?"
"I rather imagine old Tinley had to screw your boots on every morning."
Julian smiled broadly. "Is that so? Then what have you to say about the ponies?"
"Oh! That was hardly my fault!" Claudia insisted with an indignant gasp. "What of Genie? Why is it that you don't recall her wretched behavior?"
"My dear Eugenie was a veritable saint. And I suppose the disaster with the rabbits was hardly your doing, either?"
She threw up her hand, palm outward. "On my honor, that was most assuredly Genie."
Julian laughed for the first time in weeks, a laugh that started somewhere deep in his belly and twirled about his heart before escaping him. "You were a willful child, and it is a wonder to me that Redbourne didn't lock you up in some convent."
Her smile brightened considerably. Lord, but her eyes were arresting. Julian lowered his goblet and looked about the room as he gathered his composure. "What brings you to France?" he asked. "I had heard you were nettling poor Lord Dillbey to draft a parliamentary bill that would allow labor organizations for women and children."
Color crept into Claudia's fair cheeks and she sobered somewhat. "Is that such a horrible thing? Men have them. There is talk in France of allowing them for women."
"And exactly how would you know that? As you can scarcely speak French, I rather doubt you can read it."
That earned him a saucy grin. "Why, Lord Kettering! There are other ways of communicating—one does not necessarily have to speak French."
Oh, yes, he could only imagine that was true. "I suppose your considerable charms were enough to convince Dillbey?"
With a rather unladylike snort, Claudia shook her head. "The king could not convince Dillbey! That man is impossible! Rather pleased with himself, if you ask me, and fancies the rest of us should be just as pleased. . . ."
Lord Dillbey was, apparently, often on Claudia's mind, as she spent the better part of the next quarter of an hour detailing his many idiosyncrasies, not the least of which was his apparent disregard for womankind in general. That was not entirely true—Dillbey was a regular customer at Madame Farantino's, a rather expensive and clandestine gentlemen's club—but he was rather odious. Although not as odious as Claudia found him, and Julian was terribly amused by her description of his long, thin neck and peculiar walk as resembling an ostrich all dressed up for Christmas.
The more she talked of Dillbey and her causes, the more she seemed to relax. He would have thought it impossible, but Julian grew increasingly enchanted. The aloofness he had suffered from her at Chateau la Claire seemed to dissipate altogether, and it was easy to see why Claudia was so popular among the ton's eligible bachelors. She had a dozen ways of smiling that made a man feel as if he was on top of the world. When her eyes glittered with amusement, that same man could not help but wonder how they might glitter in the tumult of love-making.
God Almighty, was there nothing he could do to steel his heart against this impertinent, charming, stubborn, and beautiful woman?
Phillip never had her.
He was ashamed to think it, but the knowledge kept creeping into his thoughts, unwanted, unfounded. Yet Julian was glad for it. He wanted the privilege of holding her, of making passionate love to her. He wanted her all to himself, and at this moment, he didn't give a damn what that said about his character or his actions almost two years ago. He wanted her so badly, had wanted her for so long now, that sometimes he actually felt paralyzed with a longing he could hardly contain. That didn't stop him from feeling like a traitor to Phillip, even now, but he couldn't make himself care any longer.
He just wanted her.
Claudia was in deep trouble. Oh, yes, very deep. Ocean deep.
She swirled the contents of her goblet with one hand and watched his fingers caress the lines on the palm of her other as he pretended to read it, the skill dubiously gained during a particularly memorable trip to Madrid some years ago.
She had tried to remain aloof from the arrogant rake, but he had to go and be insufferably clever and charming and witty, and good God was he handsome! Ah, but she knew what he was about. At five and twenty, she was well acquainted with the signs of subtle seduction—reading her palm, indeed! It galled her to think that she might still succumb to such adolescent games!
"Ah. See this line? It means you will love well and be well loved in return," he said, and lifted his raven eyes to hers.
"Rather, you wish that's what it meant."
"You've no idea how much," he easily agreed, and dropped his gaze to her palm again as he languidly traced the line with the tips of his fingers, his touch feather light. Her skin tingled deliciously, and she recalled. Beatrice Heather-Pratt, the wife of the invidious Viscount Dillbey, whispering to her, 'Wo man can pleasure a woman like Kettering—dear me, what that man can do with his hands!" This, she had said breathlessly to Claudia as she tried to adjust her coif, having just come from the closed morning room at a Harrison Green party. She and Beatrice had been standing along one wall, both of them surreptitiously watching Kettering saunter across the crowded room like a bantam cock upon his exit from the very same morning room.
"And this line means you will live a long life, apparently with many grandchildren to comfort you in your old age."
Her skin was on fire.
"What nonsense, your palmistry!" she scoffed, and withdrew her hand.
"Perhaps, but I think there is something to be said for it. After all, one's skin reveals many things about one's character."
Her scalp prickled; she took a gulp of wine. "By one's skin?" she asked, feeling a little light-headed.
"Yes, indeed." He leaned forward, only inches from her face, and peered closely. "For example, the fine lines around a woman's eyes," he murmured, lifting his hand to brush her temple, "tell a man that she likes to laugh, that she is happy." Heat shot down Claudia's neck and into her chest as he traced a line around the corner of her eye. "And the fine lines around her mouth," he continued, his gaze and his finger dropping to her lips, "tell a man when she is not happy." He touched the corner of her mouth so lightly that Claudia's pulse was suddenly racing. Impossibly, he leaned closer. He meant to kiss her. Her mind screamed to pull back, but Claudia froze, unable to stop him, wanting him to touch her with his lips—
"Pardon, monsieur."
Claudia started, her cheeks flaming, but Julian calmly leaned back and removed his hand from her cheek, his gaze still riveted on her lips. "Oui?"
The innkeeper reported something in rapid-fire French.
"Merci," Julian said, his gaze still locked on her. "It would seem the Maiden's Heart is ready for boarding."
"Oh! That's very good news," she blustered clumsily, and looked down as she tried to fit her hand into a glove that Julian had somehow coaxed off her. The innkeeper said something more, and by the time Claudia had managed to stuff her hand into the tight kid leather glove, Julian had come to his feet, was shoving a hand through the thick tousle of his hair as the innkeeper walked away. He regarded her rather sheepishly. "We've a bit of a problem, I'm afraid."