A Wicked Pursuit (32 page)

“Yes, I am,” Julia said with more than a touch of belligerence. “At least I manage to stay seated on my horse.”

Gus seized her by the arm to turn her away from Harry, and what she feared would be certain disaster.

“Come, Julia, you must see my gown for the wedding,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “The mantua maker made the final fittings just this morning.”

“Gus, don’t,” Julia said, trying to pull free. “I’d rather stay with Southland.”

“I’m certain the gentlemen will be much happier without us for a while,” Gus said, half dragging her sister with her from the hall and up the stairs. “Besides, I wish you to see my gown. It’s so grand, even you shall approve.”

But as soon as they reached Gus’s dressing room, where the gown was hanging on pegs in readiness for tomorrow along with the rest of her new wedding clothes, Gus swiftly closed the door and turned to confront her sister.

“I do not know what your intention may be, Julia,” she said with uncharacteristic ferocity, “and I don’t know all that happened between you and Harry. Nor, to be honest, do I wish to know. But I will not have you vexing him or disturbing our wedding.”

Julia’s eyes widened, and she stepped back with mock horror.

“My word, Gus, I’ve never seen you like this,” she said. “Quite the little lioness, aren’t you?”

“You’re jealous of me, aren’t you?” Gus said, the first time in their lives that she’d been able to say that to her sister. “You could have married Harry yourself, and you cast him off, and now you can’t bear the idea that
I’m
the one marrying him instead.”

“You’re only half right, Gus,” Julia said. “I did wish to marry Harry and become a countess and a duchess. But I did not wish to marry a man who was crippled and needy, and thus you are quite, quite welcome to him and his crutch.”

“You are cruel, to speak so of him!”

Julia smiled. “The truth can be cruel, Gus, and I’ve said nothing that wasn’t true.”

“Your venomous version of the truth!” Gus exclaimed. Julia was right: she never had talked back to her quite like this, but then she’d never had Harry to defend, either.

“You couldn’t bring yourself to visit Harry when he was ill,” she continued, “yet now you
dare
to make light of his suffering with your—your
foolishness
!”

Julia sniffed and turned away. “Did he tell you what happened that day in the woods?”

“I know he didn’t fall from Hercules,” Gus said staunchly. “He was thrown, and I suspect you had something to do with it.”

“But you do not
know
,” Julia said, pouncing on the truth. Considering how foolish she could be, Julia was often surprisingly adept in a quarrel, employing any misstep that Gus made against her. “Not for certain. I doubt Harry does, either, for all that he tried to slander me just now. He should take care. Southland won’t like that, and he’ll defend me, too.”

“I wouldn’t test Harry’s memory, Julia,” Gus said. “Not unless you wish an unpleasant surprise if he recalls more than you want.”

Julia smiled with maddening indulgence and began walking slowly about the small room, critically eyeing Gus’s new belongings as if she were browsing the goods of an inferior shop.

“I’m unconcerned, Gus,” she said. “The talk in London is that Harry’s not at all the gentleman he once was. Now that I’ve seen him, I’d say the talk is right. He’s not only crippled, he’s . . . different. No wonder the duke came racing clear from Italy to see for himself.”

Doggedly Gus followed Julia around the room, her hands knotted in fists at her sides. “If that was His Grace’s reason for coming here,” she said, “then at least he’s seen for himself that there is nothing wrong with Harry’s wits.”

Julia shrugged carelessly. “Perhaps,” she said. “But he did get his main wish. He’s found a wife for his oldest son. You already know all of Harry’s weaknesses, and you aren’t particular about them. That’s much better than having another potential bride or her family ask difficult questions about Harry’s health, and embarrass His Grace.”

Gus gasped. “That is absolute rubbish, Julia, the worst kind of speculation and gossip! His Grace wanted Harry to marry me swiftly because he discovered we’d—”

She broke off abruptly, realizing too late that she’d nearly revealed the truth to Julia. She turned around to face the window, wanting to hide the guilt that was surely on her face from Julia, but her sister had already seen enough.

“He—Harry—he ravished you,” Julia whispered behind her, her voice filled with genuine shock. “That’s it, isn’t it? He took your maidenhead, and the duke learned of it and is forcing him to marry you. Oh, Gus, that is it, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” Gus said bravely, turning back to face her sister. “He didn’t ravish me. I wanted to—to lie with him as much as he desired me. We’re lovers, Julia. We love each other, and we wish to wed so that we may be together for the rest of our lives. There,
that
is the truth, and I swear by everything holy that it is so.”

She’d never seen Julia so stunned, and certainly not by anything she herself had said. The customary well-practiced archness was gone from her face, and beneath the elaborate hat and plumes she looked confused, even baffled.

“Harry loves you like that, Gus?” she asked. “You?”

Gus nodded. “He does,” she said, “and I love him the same way in return.”

“You remind me of Mama when you say that,” Julia said slowly. “How she always said true love would find a way.”

Gus smiled wistfully, thinking of Mama, too. “With Harry, I did find true love.”

“Did you.” Julia tried to smile, her eyes watery with tears as she pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief. “He never loved me like that.”

“Oh, Julia,” Gus said softly. “You weren’t right for each other, that is all.”

Julia shook her head, shaking away Gus’s consoling words. “What I said about Harry being different—that’s true. When he looks at me now, I’m only one more lady. But when he looks at you, his eyes burn for you. I’ve never had that, either.”

“But you will, Julia,” Gus said, close to tears herself. “You have Southland.”

“Southland.” Julia smiled through her tears, and looked down at the ring on her hand. “I do have him, the great, handsome ninny. He’ll suit me a thousand times better than Harry ever could, anyway.”

She laughed, and Gus laughed, too, and they hugged and cried and hugged again.

“I hope that you and Harry will be vastly, vastly happy,” Julia said when they separated for the last time. “Considering how you love each other, it cannot be any other way, can it?”

“And I hope that Southland comes to love you the same way,” Gus said fervently. “You deserve nothing less.”

“He will,” Julia said, smiling. “He may not know it yet, but I shall make sure that he
will
.”

“More brandy,
Harry?” asked Father, pushing the bottle across the table toward him. “The night is young, lad, and tomorrow you become a married man.”

Harry glanced up at the case clock in the corner. The night wasn’t young; it was very old, nearly half past eleven. He’d been sitting here with his father and Gus’s father and that damned fool Southland for hours and hours, ever since the ladies had retired after supper.

Despite the best efforts of the older men to get him as drunk as they were, he wasn’t, not by half. The evening would have been much more enjoyable if he had been. As it was, he’d had to sit through one garrulous story after another of wedding-night mishaps, of brides both terrified and as lustful as March hares, of grooms bold and shy and bedsteads that had collapsed outright. None of it had seemed very funny to Harry, but then, nothing had seemed very funny to him today.

It had begun when he’d seen Julia Wetherby walk through the door this afternoon. He’d known he would have to see her again, one way or another. She was, after all, his future wife’s only sister. Not that he harbored any regrets or unfulfilled longings for her, anyway; his main thought in regard to Julia was that he’d been lucky to escape.

Yet the moment she’d stepped into the house, the plumes on her ridiculous hat bobbing in the summer sun, that other morning had come rushing back to him, and every blasted detail that he’d mercifully forgotten had returned with it.

He remembered her upturned face as she’d popped from the bush, whooping like a Bedlamite, and the plume on her riding hat quivering and the skirts of her habit flapping around like a flag in the fog. He remembered how the horse had bucked and flailed in terror, and how he’d fought back, barely managing to wrench the animal to one side and away from Julia before he’d been thrown. He remembered hurtling through the air and landing hard, and leaves that had smelled of mold and decay. He remembered Julia abandoning him, disappearing completely, and more pain than he’d thought a man could endure.

And then he remembered Gus, coming to him like an angel: his salvation, his dearest love, and the woman whom tomorrow he’d make his wife.

He should be the happiest of men, with the happiest of reasons. Yet ever since he’d seen Julia and remembered too much, he’d felt nothing but anger for what had happened to him. Though a great deal was Julia’s fault, he did not blame her. He’d been every bit as foolhardy as she had, accepting a mount that was clearly unaccustomed to new riders and then riding that horse pell-mell into the mist-filled woods, simply because a pretty girl had dared him.

Because of those rash and reckless choices, he would not be able to stride down the aisle tomorrow with Gus, or help her into their carriage, bedecked with flowers from the wedding, or, when they finally reached London and home, sweep her into his arms and carry her over the threshold. No matter what the surgeons promised, he knew he’d never be the same again, and all the self-doubt and disappointment that he’d thought he put behind him came rushing back, with more besides.

He’d been a rash, headstrong, careless fool, and now he’d pay for it the rest of his life. Worst of all was realizing that Gus would now have to pay for it with him. She’d never have the husband she deserved, and it was all his own damned fault.

He’d never forgive himself.

All through the afternoon and evening he’d tried to put the memories and the anger away and focus instead on tomorrow, tried and failed. Instead he’d been ill mannered and curt to those who did not deserve it and surly when he should have been joyful, while his thoughts had churned and his guts had twisted with emotions he could not control.

He pushed his chair back from the table, reached for his crutch, and stood. “Pray excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, bowing. “I’ll bid you good night now, and leave you to drink on in my name.”

“Harry, good Harry, you cannot leave us yet,” protested Wetherby, his broad smile as lopsided as his wig. “We’ve yet to have a good song. A wedding song for the bridegroom, heigh-ho!”

“Forgive me, but I am weary,” Harry said, wishing he could make the words less curt. “Tomorrow shall be a long day.”

“We’ll let you go, son,” Father said, smiling indulgently. “Tomorrow may be a long day, but tomorrow night will be even longer, and we want you to show your mettle, eh?”

The others roared, but Harry merely nodded and retreated to the hall as fast as he could. Despite what he’d just said, he knew that sleep would be impossible, and instead of going directly to his bedchamber, he headed to the rear of the house and the garden door, hoping that a bit of evening air might do him good. He could see the gardens through the windows, the hedges and paths crisp in the moonlight, and in the distance the slatted top of the arbor where he’d proposed.

He would miss this house. Not because it was extraordinary in itself, but the time he’d spent here, falling in love with Gus, had made it so. There’d been no expectations from others, no prying eyes, no gossipy items in the scandal sheets reporting their whereabouts and doings. Here at the abbey, there had only been the two of them, and it had been magic.

No wonder he wasn’t looking forward to returning to London. London would be filled with judgments; he’d known that even before Father had warned him of what people were already saying. His time here away from town had made him come to realize exactly how harsh London could be. From experience he knew it was a fine place if you were young and beautiful, strong and rich. He’d be considered weak now, fit for whispers and ridicule, and he knew, too, that all the young ladies and their mamas that he’d passed by would now have their daggers ready for poor Gus. He’d no doubt that the two of them would persevere, but it would not be easy, not for either of them.

Most of the house was already asleep for the night, with the night-lanterns offering their wavering light through the silent halls. He heard voices rising from the back stairs and the distant clatter of pans from the kitchen; doubtless the poor scullery maids were there still, striving to stay awake and praying the great lords upstairs would finally go to bed. Weary footsteps came up the stairs, and he melted back into the shadows, not wanting to frighten whichever hapless girl it might be on her way to her bed beneath the eaves.

She carried a candlestick before her, the pale light washing irregularly before her as she came up the winding steps. Yet instead of following the turning to the next landing, she stepped out into the hall, a small, pale figure. She wore slippers on her bare feet, a shawl wrapped over her nightgown, and her long braid swung like a pendulum between her shoulder blades.

He’d know her anywhere.

“Gus,” he said, calling to her softly. “Here.”

“Harry?” She came to him slowly, as if she didn’t trust it to be him. Her face was ghostly by the candlelight, her eyes enormous. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you with the other gentlemen?”

“Because I’d had enough,” he said. “Why were you downstairs?”

“Oh, it was nothing,” she said. “There was a question of missing silver spoons and forks after the washing-up, but it turned out to be a simple matter of miscounting, and hardly worth the fuss and accusations.”

She set the candlestick on a nearby table and raised both hands to smooth her hair neatly back from her center part. His gaze dropped down to watch her breasts rise with the motion, and press against the white linen of her nightgown. He’d never seen them so clearly without stays, uncrushed by whalebone and buckram, and the way they swayed, round and firm beneath the thin linen, was mesmerizing. It was the first time they’d been alone together all week, and her nearness was heady and potent.