Sinful Confessions (2 page)

He
also supposed he owed her a more pleasant welcome, even if he couldn’t fathom
why she was here.

When
he pressed open the door, she slipped past him—again caring little for his
personal space. Or hers. In spite of travelling all night presumably, she
smelled floral and fresh. She began to unbutton that tiny jacket and work it
off her shoulders as she did a loop of the room. No predatory glint hung in her
gaze.

Normally,
when women visited his home, they were weighing up his valuables. Gauging how
much the paintings were worth. Deciding how they’d decorate the pale green
room. In some ways, the death of his last wife had at least saved him from any
more visits from mothers and daughters. None would go near him now.

“This
is a beautiful room.” She shrugged out of her jacket and glanced around for
somewhere to put it. It ended up draped over a Louis XV chair along with her
hat. “Very feminine.”

Feminine.
Yes. There was a lot of
feminine
in this room right now. However, it
wasn’t the curves of the gilded chairs that drew his attention. It was the
curves under Miss Thompson’s high-necked shirt that captured his eye. She did
another loop, as though parading especially for him. Her skirt clung tightly to
her hips and as near as he could tell, no bustle enhanced her behind.
Everything fit tight, perfectly. Julian had ample idea what her figure was
like. Long, lithe, with high, pert breasts. Of course a corset could be
responsible for those breasts but this was a fantasy after all and his fantasy
woman had breasts that were high and round and succulent.

Mother
wouldn’t approve of course, which made it all the more appealing. His mother
had designed this room and he imagined her lips curled in distaste at the idea
of an American scattering her clothes over the furniture. Thank the Lord she
was in Brighton.

Julian,
however, rather liked the idea of more clothes being scattered. A shirt
perhaps. Then a corset. A skirt and some drawers. Maybe he’d leave any
stockings on. He bet she would look radiant in silk stockings.

Miss
Thompson paused by the fire and held out her hands. Apparently some of his
staff was around as it had been lit on this dreary morning. He glanced at the
clock on the mantelpiece. Afternoon. Not morning. He’d slept that away it seemed.

While
his visitor fussed with her auburn hair, drawing back the wet strands that were
stuck to her cheeks, he rang the bell for tea. He had a limited amount of
staff—yes the house took a lot of work—but he hardly needed anyone to care for
him. However, there had to be
someone
around.

He
eyed the back of her for a while. What to do with her? He coughed. “Will you
not... will you not have a seat?”

She
smiled at him. Any hint of that rebellious woman demanding entrance to his
house had vanished. A warm fire and a dry room had done wonders for her
temperament.

Easily
pleased then. Very unlike wife number three.

Viola twisted her hands together and
offered the marquess a smile. She hoped her apprehension didn’t show. She
should never have spoken to him like that. Lords were meant to be respected. Oh
boy, should she have curtsied?

Her
stomach felt as though she were on that awful ship again. Being thrown about,
up and down, left to right. The journey across the Atlantic had been rougher
than she’d expected and she’d spent many a day abed. She hadn’t been able to
sleep on the trains either and had nearly gotten lost in London. Fatigue was
beginning to make her head pound.

But
no train or ship was to blame for this. No, it was the darkly handsome man
standing in the corner of the room, looking as though he had little idea what
to do with himself. Once she had gotten past his initial appearance, she’d
begun to appreciate how he looked. After six months of correspondence, she was
sure he would be handsome.

Though
she had expected him to look after himself better.

She
supposed a widower without a woman to take care of him couldn’t look refined
all the time. That beautiful penmanship had indicated a proud and careful man.

Oh
well, at least he wasn’t grizzled and ugly. Under the quite thick beard was a
handsome face. She could tell. Grey eyes with a slightly wild look assessed her
boldly. His light brown hair had streaks of grey at the temples and he appeared
older than his two and thirty years. Nevertheless, those broad shoulders and
trim waist were to be admired.

And
his feet. Those were handsome feet. Wide, steady. Goodness, did lords always
walk around barefoot in their homes? Surely their feet got cold on the marble
floors? Though this pale cream carpet felt thick and... Oh dear Lord... were
those her footprints? She had cut across the grass as the road up to the house
wound around a corner. She had barely given a thought to her white skirts and
certainly not to his cream carpets. Excitement at meeting the marquess had made
her forget everything. But it seemed mud had splattered up her hem and left
lovely round marks from her heels and soles on the pristine carpet.

Quick,
she had to distract him before he noticed. Oh dear, did the marks go all the
way around the room? Viola surveyed the carpet. They really did.

“You
truly have a beautiful home.” She cringed inwardly. And what used to be a
beautiful room until she stepped into it.

“I
rang for some tea,” Lord Lockwood said, hands clasped behind his back.

Viola
hadn’t even noticed him do as much but she noted the cord on the wall wavered
back and forth.

“Please
sit.” He motioned to the chair nearest the fire.

Remembering
herself, Viola settled into the chair. It wasn’t at all comfortable. The hard
frame dug into her arms and back and it felt as though it needed new stuffing.
At least it forced her to sit properly. As the youngest child in a family of
boys, her posture had always been lacking. And English women always had
wonderful posture. Perhaps it was because of chairs like these.

Lord
Lockwood—gosh, it felt odd to call him that. She had thought of him as Julian
for some time—came to stand by the fire. He twisted two fingers around another
finger—the one a wedding band should have been on. Twist. Twist. Twist. He was
missing his wedding ring, she’d wager. He hadn’t told her much about his late
wife, only that she had died over a year ago.

But,
to think, she would soon be mistress of all this and she would take care of
this English lord. It was like a dream come true. She glanced out of the
window. She hadn’t expected it to be quite so grim and miserable in England
though. It was spring after all. She’d imagined green fields with little lambs
running about. Most of the sheep she had passed had been huddled under trees,
looking as miserable as she’d felt riding in the mail coach.

“Did
you not get my letter?” she asked, shattering the silence.

“No.
About what?”

“About
my visit. To arrange everything. You had said you wanted to finalise everything
in April.”

Julian
pressed his fingers to either side of his head and rubbed them. “April.” He
scowled. “Right. I recall. But I didn’t expect you to come in person. Nor did I
expect...” he waved a hand up and down her, “you.”

“Oh.”
She supposed fathers did these things normally but hers was too sick to travel
at the moment. He was recovering well from a bout of pneumonia but there was no
way her papa could have managed such a journey. “You anticipated speaking with
Father?”

“Well,
yes, frankly.”

“He
has been very unwell.”

Which
was how they came to write letters to one another. She couldn’t help but be
grateful she had been put in charge of her father’s correspondence while her
brothers ran their father’s shipping business. For the first time in her life,
she’d been trusted to do something useful and worthwhile. And she had started communicating
with this eloquent, enigmatic Englishman. Their letters had turned from coffee
to cats to companionship. Her friends were riddled with jealousy.

“When
might we—?” She was interrupted by a petite maid coming in with a tray of cups
and biscuits. Her stomach grumbled in anticipation.

“Where
would you like it, my lord?” the girl asked.

“On
the table.” He motioned to the table in front of her that matched the
ornamental chair upon which she sat.

The
maid placed it down and began to pour. Viola eyed the steaming cups with
appreciation. A shudder wracked her and as soon as the maid retreated, she
snatched up a cup and cradled it in her palms. The damp fabric of her skirts
clung to her legs and a few drips had crept under her jacket to trickle down
her spine. Though her hair had been saved from too great a soaking by her hat,
the tiny wet tendrils continued to send fresh drops over her skin. All in all,
it was not the best way to meet the man she hoped to marry.

He
eyed her with a raised brow before coming to sit opposite. Was it so very
inappropriate for her to be alone with him? So much so that he wished to send
her away? She couldn’t fathom his cool manner. The British men she had met in
New York hadn’t been nearly so stiff, but neither had they been marquesses.
What troubled her most, however, was how unlike the man in the letters he
seemed. She wasn’t sure what she expected but she certainly didn’t anticipate
him suggesting she find elsewhere to stay.

Viola
sipped the tea and felt the warmth trail down to her stomach. Already her spirits
began to revive. She reached for a macaroon and stuffed it into her mouth,
chewing quickly. Her stomach grumbled—loudly. She winced and glanced at the
stoic lord to see his reaction. His expression hadn’t changed. He watched her
as though he couldn’t quite believe she was there, eating macaroons and
drinking tea.

Perhaps
he was nervous about asking her to marry him? Perhaps he had changed his mind?
If he had expected to start marriage negotiations with her father before
meeting her, he must be displeased she’d arrived to push things forward.

Well,
she would have to prove to him she could be wifely material. He had to have
fallen in love with her via her letters, even if he had not said as much. There
was simply no way two people could communicate as they did without love.
Already on the verge of love, it would only take a few kind words and actions
for her to fall head-over-toes in love with him. Viola loved love. She poured
it onto her brothers, who all thought her silly, and she doted on her father.
The men in her life accepted her actions begrudgingly but she needed someone
who could show her the same in return.

Julian,
the tenth Marquess of Lockwood, had to be that man. Under those stiff British
manners lay a man with a huge heart and a wonderful sense of humour. She simply
hadn’t met him yet.

She
skimmed her gaze over the room and tried not to be daunted by its beauty and
elegance. “Is Patches around?”

It
seemed to take him a few moments to absorb her question. A tiny ripple of
movement ran through him and he reminded her of a beast unfurling himself. He
finally reached for a cup of tea and nodded. “Yes, though he’ll be upstairs. He
sleeps in the master bedroom for most of the day and does his stalking at
night.”

“I
recall. Does he still like to sprawl across your face in the mornings?”

“Yes.”
A hint of a smile teased his lips. His cat was apparently his weakness. “What
of Mittens? You left him at home, I see.”

“Oh
yes, he wouldn’t have taken well to the travelling though I intend to bring him
here next time. I miss him already.”

“No
doubt he is missing you too.”

“Papa
has promised to spoil him with lots of fish and sliced ham.”

Their
cats had been what had led to their correspondence back and forth. She had
apologised on her father’s behalf when Mittens had chewed up one of Julian’s
letters to her father and it was unreadable. So when she explained what had
happened and asked him to resend his request, he had sympathised and said he
understood well. Viola couldn’t help but be charmed by this Englishman and his
love for his cat.

“I
shall introduce you later.” He placed down his cup when she shivered. “You are
still cold.”

“A
l-little.” Now he’d reminded her, the chills seemed to increase, making her
hand shake and her tea nearly spill into her lap. She placed the cup down
before she had any more disasters. “I swear the rain is colder here and it has
soaked all the way through to my undergarments.”

That
eyebrow rose again. His expressions seemed to only go as far as mildly
surprised to faintly astonished by her. Was she so very baffling? She would
have to try harder to be more ladylike. Her friends had told her to watch her
tongue and be more refined but growing up in a household of men—poor men for a
while—had made her a little rough around the edges. It didn’t matter that she
would inherit part of her father’s business one day and be a wealthy woman. No
amount of wealth would make up for her past.

Viola
certainly envied those with family wealth who had received training in how to
behave. Perhaps when she returned home before the wedding she would ask father
to invest in some help. A few weeks of teaching ought to do it. Then she could
return to England and be the perfect bride of a lord.

He
stood suddenly and strode over to the bell pull. She listened for some kind of
sound but heard nothing. How did he know it had rung? But sure enough, the very
same maid arrived within moments, looking flushed and a little breathless. She
imagined lords like Julian didn’t worry that his staff might not hear him or
come to him on command. He simply expected them to always be there to cater to
him.

“Jenny,
Miss Thompson could do with a warm bath. Have one poured, will you? And see
that her trunk is taken up to the Sunflower room.”

“Yes,
milord.” The maid turned to hurry away.

“Jenny?
Where the devil is Bramley?”

“In
the village, milord. Mr Bramley didn’t think you’d be needing him today so he
went in to collect the post and those books you ordered.”

“Very
well.” He waved a hand then called her name again. “Will you take Miss Thompson
up to her room now.” Julian—no, Lord Lockwood—eyed Viola sternly. “When you are
warm and dry, we’ll decide what to do with you.

A
faint flourish of excitement crept into her belly. He wasn’t exactly warm as
she had hoped and he certainly hadn’t greeted her with the expected passionate
kiss but there was something darkly attractive about the man. His eyes said
wicked things to her, even while his face remained expressionless.

She
placed down her unfinished cup of tea. Perhaps he wished to be rid of her so he
could make himself more presentable. He would look utterly divine in a necktie
and formal wear. Coming to her feet, she offered a formal curtsey.

“Good
day to you, my lord.”

A
mildly bemused expression crossed his face before he nodded and turned his
attention to the cup of tea in his hand. Had she curtsied wrong? She sighed as
she followed Jenny out. She had a lot to learn about English gentleman and
their etiquette.