Their Inconvenient Yuletide Wedding
Author
Joanna Johnson
Reads
16,5K
Chapters
14
Chapter One
Pretending she hadn’t heard the library door creak open, Julia Livingston slid down in her chair, holding her book higher in front of her face. If she didn’t make eye contact, perhaps her brother wouldn’t notice her sitting in front of the fire, trying to make herself invisible as his heavy tread came to a halt beside her.
‘Julia.’
She didn’t look up. She knew exactly what he would say and she didn’t want to hear it, instead huddling deeper into her armchair as if it could hide her from the conversation she’d been trying to avoid.
‘Julia. Ignoring me won’t make me go away.’
A finger hooked over the top of her book and tilted it down, at last forcing her to look up at the figure looming above her.
‘Oh, Harry. Apologies. I didn’t see you there.’
Her brother snorted and fell into the chair on the other side of the fireplace, resting his boots on the fender. For a moment he watched the flames, their cheerful glow battling against the winter chill that prowled outside Highbank’s tall windows, but then he turned to her and she felt her shoulders slump at what she knew was about to come.
Harry cleared his throat, opened his mouth...and grimaced.
‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘You know like what. You’re giving me the same sad eyes my greyhounds do when I won’t let them off the lead.’
It wasn’t a particularly flattering comparison, although she couldn’t deny its accuracy. Her eyes were indeed fixed on him with the earnest entreaty usually only dogs could manage, wordlessly imploring him not to continue with the inevitable, but he faced them down with a weary shake of his head.
‘Come on. If it was up to me, of course you could stay here for as long as you liked, but you know she won’t give either of us a moment’s peace until you’re back beneath her roof...or better yet, have one of your own.’
Julia dropped her abandoned book onto the table beside her, her straight eyebrows drawing into a frown. Once objects of ridicule, those same full brows had recently come to be considered an asset to a face now deemed worth looking at; something that would have been very difficult for her to believe when she was younger.
There had been universal surprise when Alice King’s daughter wasn’t born an obvious beauty. Once the toast of Guildbury society, even now, nearing fifty, Mama could turn heads when she entered a room. Julia’s father had been the lucky man to win her hand—as the richest and most handsome suitor, naturally—and their son had inherited a combination of their good looks that made him as popular among the young ladies as his mother had been with the gentlemen in her day. With such well-favoured parents it had seemed a surety their next child would be just as blessed, which was why, when Julia came along four years after her brother, she had instead seemed as out of place as a sparrow in an aviary of exotic birds. Somehow, Mama’s wide-spaced eyes had found themselves set below Papa’s powerful brows, with Alice’s superb bone structure fighting against the decided Livingston chin and the long limbs that suited Harry so well made Julia as ungainly as a foal. The mixture of such strong features had entirely overwhelmed her for much of her life, and since her recent return from Europe Julia felt she had merely exchanged one set of problems for another, all of them caused by the outer shell she wouldn’t have chosen for herself.
‘It’s the most ridiculous double standard.’ She leaned forward to stoke the fire, jabbing the poker into it with more vigour than was strictly required. ‘You’re older than me and yet because you are a man you’re seen as more eligible with every passing year, whereas just because I haven’t leapt at my first sniff of a proposal...’
‘You’re teetering on the brink of spinsterhood at the grand old age of twenty-one? An oddity who refuses to wed even when showered with offers?’
At the sharp turn of her head Harry produced a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘Our mother’s words. Not mine.’
‘Oh.’ The sight of the letter settled a weight over her chest. ‘She’s still angry, then?’
‘Possibly not. The tone is more wounded martyr than anything else.’
‘Heaven help me. That’s worse than angry.’
It was Julia’s turn to gaze into the flames. Yet again she’d proven a disappointment and the heaviness in her chest grew more oppressive as she recalled what had driven her to seek sanctuary at her brother’s house.
Mrs Livingston’s mouth had sagged with horror when Julia came bursting out of Burton Lodge’s parlour, the two almost colliding as Mama stood with her ear pressed against the door, and Julia’s rejected suitor had barely left before the screaming began. Whatever had possessed her to spurn the advances of one of the richest men in the neighbourhood was beyond understanding, and the fact it was the third time she’d turned down an offer was not to be borne. Mr Sydenham was wealthy, of an appropriate age and not unattractive in certain lights, and there was absolutely no reason for his dismissal other than Julia’s stubborn refusal to do as she ought.
Never mind that he’d been among those who tormented me for years, joining in when the others laughed at my clumsiness or how I blushed like a radish every time someone glanced in my direction. Why wouldn’t I jump at the chance to wed a man who helped make my life a misery?
As a girl there had been no chance of her remaining unaware of her various shortcomings. When forced by her parents to leave the safety of Burton Lodge’s library, where she’d preferred to spend her days reading instead of venturing outside, her flaws were pointed out mercilessly by the prettier young ladies and the neighbourhood lads in a constant catalogue of her failings until she could barely stand to look in the mirror. Harry had done his best to protect her but his own good looks meant he never fully understood how much gentle teasing could hurt, and once he’d left for university, she’d had to weather that mockery alone. For years she’d been convinced of her own hideousness, and just because she was now celebrated for the same unusual countenance that had once garnered such scorn didn’t mean she had forgotten the feeling of being trapped in her own skin.
So many stupid jokes at my expense—and most of them started by the same person. How I rejoiced the day he left town, off to be a thorn in someone else’s side...
Her conscience gave a faint tweak.
Fine. Perhaps that isn’t entirely true.
The day that person had left Guildbury to embark on the Grand Tour had indeed been a blessing, but it would be a lie to pretend she hadn’t also been secretly grieved. He had been barely eighteen and she two years younger, given to blushing whenever he entered the same room and more likely to grow wings and fly than utter a word in his presence. Every girl in the neighbourhood had fancied herself in love with him, with his tousled chestnut hair and confidence surpassed only by his good looks, and every lad had looked to him as their model. So when he’d first made a jest at her expense it hadn’t taken long for others to follow suit. He had by no means been the worst of her persecutors nor the cruellest, but he’d certainly set the example for everyone else, and she was sure that without his involvement her childhood could have been marginally less miserable.
Belatedly, she realised she was sucking in her bottom lip. It was an unconscious habit she’d had for as long as she could remember, something she’d always done when anxious or unsure, and she stopped hastily as soon as she became aware she was doing it again. The action lingered as a relic of the sad, uncertain girl she had once been, and she was determined never to feel like that again, not now she had come to know her worth.
She’d come to understand something in the years since that person had left town. It didn’t matter how good-looking a man was. It was his nature that really counted, a kind heart the most important thing; and no comely face nor bulging pocketbook would now make her overlook a rotten core.
An awkward cough brought her back into the present. Harry was folding and unfolding the piece of paper on which Mama had made her anguish known. ‘It was your third proposal since your return to England. Three offers in two months? I don’t agree with what Mother said or how she said it, but I wonder...’ He tailed off when Julia looked ready to seize hold of the poker again.
‘Yes, I’ve had three—from three equally unappealing men. I might not have minded so much if they’d approached me pleasantly, perhaps leading with an apology for their unkindness when we were younger, but they don’t. They just ooze.’
Harry looked faintly revolted. ‘They ooze?’
‘You know. Charm, compliments...frothy words none of them were uttering before I went away with Aunt Marie. Where were all my admirers then? Certainly not praising my sense of humour or grasp of French, which I possessed long before I was regarded in any way pretty.’
Kind, stylish Aunt Marie had always showered her sister’s offspring with love, and it surprised nobody when she chose her unhappy niece to accompany her and her husband on an extended tour of warmer climes. Such a lengthy separation was scant hardship for Mr and Mrs Livingston; after all, it would give them a break from the ceaseless question of what to do with a shy, stooping daughter nobody wanted to marry, who every day caused them to shake their heads and wonder what went wrong.
But then Italy had happened. Wonderful, balmy, cultured Italy—and Julia hadn’t been the same since.
Beneath the Mediterranean sun she found herself surrounded by more appreciation than she’d known in her entire life. To her amazement the men there praised the wild darkness of her untamed curls, and her almost black eyes were likened to gleaming obsidian, or ebony, or a hundred other things that made her flush a rosy pink. The strong planes of her face were suddenly admired—not possessing the delicateness so favoured at home, perhaps, but striking in a different way, distinctive and so arresting that soon Julia found herself in the novel position of being very much in demand.
One gentleman begged to paint her. Another left flowers outside her door every day for a month, until Uncle Cecil finally intervened. At first, Julia thought they were mocking her, their attentions based in the same ridicule she’d grown so used to, and to realise they were sincere was the single largest shock of her life.
Sensing the moment had come, Aunt Marie had swung into action. A fashionable French modiste was employed to subtly shape Julia’s heavy brows, enhancing their bold shape in a flattering frame for her large, expressive eyes, and a local woman skilled in the art of managing curls was brought in to teach Julia’s lady’s maid how to properly dress her hair. Mama had always thought she was a lost cause but a little gentle encouragement was all it took to bring out her unique beauty and her confidence had gradually begun to rise, each day climbing a little higher from the mud into which it had been trodden by others’ cruel jokes.
Arriving back in Guildbury a year and a half later, she had known herself to be almost unrecognisable. Glowing with self-assurance, she was graceful, collected, radiating an inner vibrancy that eighteen months of happiness had lit to burn inside her like a flame. She didn’t shy away when spoken to any longer; instead, she met every eye and joined every conversation, and she’d barely been back at Burton Lodge a fortnight before the first gentleman left his card. The ugly duckling had become a swan at last, and Mama’s surprise was matched only by her delight at finally having a daughter she felt she could be proud of, little realising the person inside was very much the same as before. The old Julia still lurked just beneath the polished veneer and nobody knew how hard she worked to maintain the illusion, her newfound poise looking effortless, although in truth anything but. It was only by careful concentration she now managed to prevent herself from dropping teacups or fumbling with her gloves as had happened so frequently before Milan transformed her life.
A silence had settled over the library. Aware Harry was patiently waiting for her to finish, Julia shook her head.
‘I won’t have any of the men who want me now, no matter how much Mama might desire a match. When I take a husband, it will be a man who values me—me, for who I am inside rather than out—and I won’t settle for anything less.’
She stood, pretending to stretch her legs as she strolled to one of the windows overlooking Highbank’s fine gardens, the grass sparkling with frost beneath a sky so bright it hurt her eyes. This house was her haven and she wished she didn’t have to leave it, the prospect of returning to her parents making her lips twist. Mama would throw herself into the role of the injured party, sighing and making much of bravely bearing her immense disappointment, and Papa would sequester himself in his strictly off-limits study. There would be no lively conversation, only quiet rooms and disapproving glances, and Julia’s spirits dropped further to imagine the cold reception that awaited her return.
Behind her she heard her brother get to his feet. He’d never been one to enjoy discussing feelings, and she could tell he was uneasy as he came to stand beside her.
‘I sincerely hope you find such a man. In the meantime, however...’
‘I know. It’s time for me to go home.’
Harry pushed a hand through his hair, looking apprehensive. ‘Take heart. It’s not long until Christmas. There are all kinds of parties and agreeable distractions in the next few weeks to take some of her attention from you.’
‘Nothing will distract her,’ Julia replied despondently, picking gloomily at a flake of loose paint on the windowsill. ‘She won’t rest until I’m wed. With every party her eyes will be on stalks for single gentlemen to parade me in front of, and I’ll be forced to dance with one after the other until my legs give out.’
‘I’ll be there to pick you up.’
‘You? You wouldn’t notice even if I dropped into a dead faint. You’ll be surrounded by young ladies the moment you set foot in the ballroom—and don’t try to deny that’s the way you like it.’
Her brother at least had the good grace to pretend modesty. His face was acknowledged locally as almost more of an attraction than his fortune, but his blushes were saved when the sound of the front door knocker made both Livingstons turn away from the window.
‘Are you expecting someone?’
‘Not at this hour. I’m shooting with Langtree but not until later this morning. He must have come early.’
Despite her low mood Julia couldn’t help a small smile. ‘In that case I think I might go to see about packing my things. Colonel Langtree is a very pleasant man but I’m in no hurry to be trapped in another conversation with you two about pheasants. Last time I made the mistake of being caught up the topic was hunting, and I only understood about one word in three.’
Harry’s huffed laugh followed her as she made for the door and stepped onto the landing. Her rooms were at the other end of the corridor and she moved briskly towards them, listening for footsteps on the stairs. It would be the height of bad manners if the Colonel caught her beating a hasty retreat—but the thud of ascending boots told her she hadn’t hurried quite fast enough.
There goes my chance of escaping more talk of guns.
She stopped, throwing one wistful look towards her distant bedroom door before adopting a welcoming smile. The Colonel really was a very pleasant man for all his relentless talk of things she had no interest in, and she readied herself for his usual bluff greeting as his head rose into view.
But it wasn’t Colonel Langtree’s affable, weathered face that appeared above the carved oak banister. It was a different one entirely—one that made Julia freeze where she stood.
The man paused on the penultimate step as he noticed her, his eyes meeting hers to send an unpleasant shock through her suddenly taut insides. Their deep blue scrutiny swept over her, giving the impression of taking in every detail with one glance, but then he bowed and any hope of speech died in Julia’s tight throat.
‘Good morning, ma’am. I apologise—I wasn’t aware Mr Livingston already had company.’
He straightened up again, easily able to look down at her even while standing a stair below. By the polite pause he seemed to be inviting her to reply, but Julia found for the moment that was quite out of the question.
She looked up at him into a face she’d studied hundreds of times and always with admiration. She hadn’t seen it for five years, of course, and would have gladly gone twice that time again without catching sight of that aquiline nose and lips always teetering on the brink of a smile; but he’d broken that winning streak, ambushing her now in what she’d thought was her safest place, and she felt a hot wave of displeasure to realise he had only improved with age.
He was tanned now, his skin taken on the same olive depth her own had developed in Italy, and sun-bleached streaks glinted among his chestnut hair. It was as disordered as it had always been, artfully arranged to look casually undone, and for the most fleeting of hideous moments she recalled how her younger self had longed to run her fingers through those tousled waves, one glance enough to send her mind spinning backwards to days she now tried to forget.
When she didn’t speak he continued, a faint furrow appearing between his brows. Perhaps her expression gave him a hint of what was unfolding behind her frozen mask but he pushed on, so civil now that it made Julia want to grind her teeth.
‘The butler trusted me to escort myself upstairs. My name—’
‘Is Samuel Beresford.’ She cut him off abruptly, her tongue at last ungluing itself from the roof of her mouth. ‘I already know your name, sir. Just as you know mine.’
‘Do I? I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t quite place...’
He climbed the final stair, narrowing the space between them, and Julia almost flinched away. Only her determination to appear unmoved held her in place, and as she met his questioning gaze she felt a fierce pride that she hadn’t stumbled backwards, another victory over the innate awkwardness it had never been so important that she conceal.
It was the Honourable Samuel Beresford if she was being pedantic. The son of Viscount Maidwell, heir to a vast estate and confident in the knowledge he was respected and revered wherever he went—and quite possibly her least favourite person in all the world, the very man she would have been quite happy never to lay eyes on ever again.
It had been his jokes that set the tone for how the others had mocked her so mercilessly from the tender age of twelve, when the other girls began to blossom but Julia did not. He had been the first to notice how she stuck to the sides of every room, too shy to venture out into the open, and how she so often seemed to trip over her own feet when Mama forced her to dance. His playful teasing had paved the way for far more vicious treatment and even if he hadn’t been the worst he had still been the most to blame, and it was only thanks to Aunt Marie that the damage he started with his thoughtlessness had at last been reversed.
He was examining her closely and she made sure to keep her chin raised. She would not blush under his scrutiny—not anymore, no matter how much the passing years had honed his boyish good looks into a grown man’s handsomeness. There was power in his jawline now and a new firmness to the set of his shoulders, the impressive height that had made so many young ladies swoon matched by a breadth of chest that he hadn’t possessed as a youth. In all, he was a man to catch the eye and was undoubtably aware of it, and Julia felt her hackles rise to admit her own attention might, too, have been piqued if she hadn’t known who he was.
But I do know.
It was maddening that he could have had such an effect on her life while she had evidently left little trace on his, and her shoulders tensed further when he dared offer her a smile—one far more charming than she liked.
‘Forgive me, ma’am. I’ve been away for some years. If we were acquainted before that—’ Suddenly, the faint puzzlement gave way to dawning realisation. ‘Wait. It can’t be Julia? Julia Livingston?’
Her stomach contracted as frank disbelief flashed over his face. It was far from a flattering reaction and her aversion sharpened as she watched him collect himself, trying to cover his amazement with a veneer of courtesy.
‘It’s a pleasure to see you again. I’d never have known you. You look...different.’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was like ice; deliberately so, and she took a grim satisfaction in seeing his uncertainty. Probably he expected her to wilt as she would have five years ago, delighted and mortified by his undivided attention, but she would have to disappoint him now.
‘It’s been widely noted how much I’ve changed in recent years. I used to be regarded by certain people as something of an oddity—but then, who would know that better than you?’
Looking down into her cold eyes, Samuel realised it was too late to avoid causing offence. He shouldn’t have allowed his surprise to be quite so obvious, probably, although surely anyone who had last known Julia Livingston as a girl of sixteen could be excused for feeling some shock at seeing her so changed. Then she had indeed been slightly strange, painfully quiet and always with her nose buried in some book, but now...
Good Lord. When did this happen?
Catching his first glimpse of her as he came to the top of the stairs, he had felt a flicker of involuntary admiration at the sight that greeted him. Tall, beautifully dressed and crowned with a lavish abundance of coiling dark hair, she’d been a striking picture, waiting to welcome him to Highbank with a smile that had slipped the moment she saw his face. It wasn’t quite the reception he might have expected, the delight of young women usually growing stronger at his approach rather than rapidly diminishing; but then again, he thought as he watched a muscle move below her clenched jaw, wondering when exactly her neck had become such a supple curve, that was what had caused him his current trouble in the first place.
The minute raising of a now well-shaped eyebrow, probably to prompt him into some reply, rescued him from thoughts of what he had left behind in Venice. He’d returned to England to put that mess behind him, and an encounter with a childhood acquaintance was as valid a distraction from his torment as anything else...as long as he made sure not to dwell on the bewildering new refinement of her bearing or glossy splendour of her once uncontrollable hair. Those were the kinds of things he never intended to notice in a woman ever again, his heart still in Italy even if the rest of him had found its way home, and the idea of Miss Livingston in any way rousing his attention was as unwanted as it was baffling.
He took in the frigid elegance of her posture, more graceful now than he would ever have believed but radiating dislike that was almost tangible.
I always thought she liked me...although by the looks of things, perhaps not anymore.
Samuel tried another smile—one that to his mild puzzlement was again not returned. What had he done to earn such a frosty reception? The Julia he remembered, the younger sister of one of his boyhood friends, had been endearing in her ineptness; a sweet, timid thing he’d been unable to resist subjecting to a little good-natured teasing for continually treading on the hems of her dresses and banging her elbows in doorways. She had never complained, however, and he could hardly imagine what he could have done in a five-year absence to warrant such treatment on his return, her bashful smiles now replaced by a glare that could have curdled milk.
She allowed the slightly uncomfortable silence to linger for a beat before she continued. ‘You’re here to see my brother, of course. If you’d come with me, I’ll take you to him.’
Without another word she swept past him, holding the now pristinely un-stepped-on hem of her gown away from his boots as if he was contagious. She moved like a dancer, her head high and shoulders perfectly squared, and he found himself left with no choice but to follow or be left behind. The subtle sway of her waist as she walked—or glided, rather, no longer slouching along as she would have once—drew his eye with renewed amazement, although he made sure to disregard it as she stopped to call through a half-open door.
‘Harry. Your visitor.’
With obvious unwillingness she waved him inside, coolly averting her eyes from his nod of thanks. For a moment it seemed she was tempted to leave but reluctant good manners evidently prevailed and she followed him—at a safe distance—into the room.
Harry was standing beside the roaring fire, his back to the door, and he turned as he heard them enter. ‘Langtree. You’re earlier than—’ He broke off. ‘Beresford? Samuel Beresford? What are you doing here?’
At once, he came forward to grasp Samuel’s hand, pulling him in to slap his shoulder. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure! When did you arrive back in town?’
‘Only last night, under cover of darkness. I sneaked into Rookley Manor like a thief and almost scared my mother to death.’
‘I imagine she barely recognised you. What has it been—four years since we saw you last?’
Samuel shook his head. ‘Above five. I was eighteen when I went away and you just shy of twenty. I can’t say you’ve changed much with time, though—you still look the same.’
It was the truth and he considered briefly how strange it was that one sibling could be so unaltered when the other had almost become another person, uncomfortably aware of Julia’s presence at his back. A glance over his shoulder showed she watched him, her eyes slightly narrowed, and the short hairs on his nape stirred inexplicably.
Just as well I didn’t come here to see her. What the devil’s gotten into the girl?
Pushing the question to the side he accepted the chair Harry offered, glad to draw nearer the fire. The winter chill was made even colder by Julia’s unfriendly gaze, and he deliberately didn’t return it as she arranged herself in an armchair beside her brother’s, warily settling herself among the cushions.
Fortunately, Harry appeared not to notice anything was amiss. ‘So. You’re home again. And you didn’t send word you were coming.’
‘No. I left Italy too quickly even to write to my parents, and then I thought to catch them unawares by showing up unannounced.’
‘Is that so? What made you quit the place in such a rush?’ Harry’s curiosity turned quickly to a grin. ‘No. Don’t tell me. My guess is you paid a little too much attention to the wrong signor’s daughter. Did you have to flee before you were made to marry her? Perhaps at the end of a shotgun?’
He laughed and Samuel attempted to force one, too, although he felt his stomach plummet. Quite accidentally, Harry had strayed too close to the truth, and Samuel had to work hard not to let his smile slip, hoping the stiffness of his lips wouldn’t betray him.
If he hadn’t found out Lucrezia’s secret he would indeed have married her, although out of choice rather than force; and, like a fool, he’d be thinking himself lucky to be the man who could call her his wife.
With great effort he tried not to let his mind turn towards her but it was too late. Harry’s throwaway joke wrenched open the floodgates, and the memories Samuel was trying to hold back poured through, picture after picture from what he had imagined would be the happiest time of his life now soured into raw regret.
Her vivacity was like a dancing flame, warming him with her mere presence, and now he was left alone in the cold. From the first moment he had seen her, alighting from a gondola and shielding her eyes from the Italian sun, it was as though for him all other women had vanished. Everything about Lucrezia Bianchi had taken perfection as its blueprint: the raven waves of her hair and her laughing eyes, the same deep brown as the strongest coffee, and the way she smiled with her long lashes half lowered as though to stop anyone but him from reading her thoughts. She was vibrant and passionate and he’d been so sure their love would be the kind poets spoke of, a connection that would grow year by year until the only thing to part them could possibly be death.
But he had been wrong.
From somewhere he found a careless shrug, praying neither Livingston noticed the rigid set of his shoulders. It wasn’t a tale he wanted to tell; not now, while Julia watched him with the strange hostility he didn’t understand, and not later when he might have spoken to Harry alone. His pain was private, rooted inside him like a malignant growth, and he had no wish to share either his suffering or his shame with the world.
‘I suddenly decided I’d had enough of it. Nothing more dramatic than that.’
The lie didn’t come easily but he made himself deliver it with all the nonchalance he could muster. ‘After so many years... I simply felt the urge to return home.’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Julia frown. She was inspecting her fingernails now, although her furrowed brow suggested some question had occurred to her. It seemed unlikely she would choose to voice it but he turned to her regardless, determined to change the subject before anyone could delve any deeper into things he wanted left alone.
‘Do you live here now? With Harry rather than your parents?’
She looked up from her study of her cuticles. He’d already noticed her ring finger was bare; she hadn’t married and gained a house of her own, then, during his time abroad. Once that wouldn’t have shocked him, the Miss Livingston he’d known perhaps not an obvious choice for a bride, although now as she sat near the fire, the light playing over her face to emphasise the height of her cheekbones, he had to admit a glimmer of surprise.
Who would have known she’d turn out like this? That somewhere beneath the gorse bush hair and hunched shoulders a handsome woman was waiting to break free?
If he’d been inclined to fall prey to another striking countenance he might have been in danger from Julia as she was now, her features no longer overshadowed by heavy eyebrows and the line of her profile like tawny stone. There was more colour to her skin than he remembered, as though she had been overseas herself, and for the first time he felt a twinge of unease.
The more he looked at her...the more he studied her sable hair and eyes surrounded by lashes so thick... Did she remind him, in the smallest possible way, of...?
Her voice was as brittle as fractured ice. ‘No. I have been staying for a while but will be returning to Burton Lodge shortly, most likely today.’
She smoothed down the lap of her skirts, pointedly looking away from him. ‘I don’t have the luxury of being able to stay away from home for as long as I wish. That’s something I find only men are able to enjoy.’
It was almost an accusation, sharp enough for even Harry to realise something was wrong, but Samuel hardly registered it. His stomach had dropped another notch as he tried to dismiss the unwanted thought dawning on him, the movement of Julia’s full lips sketching a parallel to another pair he wished now he had never kissed. The idea she could remind him of the woman he’d left behind was so unexpected it threatened to knock the breath out of him, suddenly caught between the desire to watch the familiar yet different face and the instinct to get up and walk away.
In this light, when she tilts her head towards the fire...
There was a definite resemblance, he acknowledged unwillingly, tamping down a leap of unease.
Signora Bianchi had been lively, bright and warm and so magnetic he hadn’t been able to resist her pull—whereas Miss Livingston was like a statue carved from ice. Julia was so cold that she possessed none of Lucrezia’s allure, her charms restricted to the glacial beauty that she’d somehow managed to acquire in his absence. Once he had gotten over the surprise of seeing her so altered, any discomfort she caused him would fade, he assured himself, and until then he would simply keep his distance.
That, at least, should be easy enough.
He risked one more swift glance, wishing he hadn’t when he noticed the delicate shape of her collarbones above the invitingly low neckline of her dress.
It seems Julia takes little pleasure in my company now and would welcome my avoiding her—although as to why I still couldn’t say.
Samuel determined to set the question aside. It was a reunion with Harry he had come for, not his peculiar sister, and what an admittedly attractive young woman thought of him didn’t matter. After the debacle in Venice he was resolved never to be led by a beautiful face ever again, and when he inevitably came to wed it would not be to anyone in any way like the woman he had loved before.
Harry coughed, breaking the tension that Julia’s tone had spun like a chilly web. Obviously, he didn’t understand her manner any better than Samuel did, but with his usual cheerfulness he carried on regardless. ‘I’m expecting Colonel Langtree later this morning. We’re going over to Brookland to shoot. You’ll come with us, I hope? I have all the things here you’ll need—spare gun and so forth.’
‘I’d be glad to.’ Samuel managed a slightly more normal smile. What he needed was to be among friends again and he felt a flicker of relief when Julia rose to her feet.
‘I imagine the Colonel will be here soon. As the three of you now have an engagement, I shall wish you good morning and withdraw to pack my things.’
She dropped him a curtsey as stiff as it was perfect and turned away, her gown rustling as she went. Again, she moved with enviable grace and the overwhelming temptation to watch her swept over him, so powerful only Harry’s voice stopped him from surrendering to the urge.
‘Wait, Julia. How soon are you going? You won’t have left for Burton Lodge before I return?’
‘I may have.’
Julia paused to look over her shoulder, her curls gleaming like a pile of black pearls. She smiled at her brother, but when she met Samuel’s eye it vanished like sugar in a puddle.
‘Suddenly, being back under Mother’s roof rather than this one doesn’t seem so bad.’
