Somewhere I'll Find You (13 page)

Damon lifted his head and slid his body over hers. Julia arched and sighed, letting him do whatever he wanted. She was far beyond virginal modesty now, pliant and open to his every desire. There was a heavy push between her thighs, a forewarning of pain. She bit her lip at the intrusion and wrapped her arms around his back, wanting him to take her with a primitive urgency that would startle her in later moments of reflection. But Damon paused and held back, staring at her with dawning incredulity.

“You're a virgin,” he whispered.

Julia's arms tightened around him, her small hands working at the small of his back, stroking and kneading in unconscious encouragement.

“Why?” seemed to be the only word he could manage.

Her eyes glittered as she looked up at him. “I never wanted anyone before you.”

Damon kissed her taut throat, her cheek, her trembling lips. It seemed that his entire being was filled with all the blind yearning he'd felt in his adult life. In a decisive motion he shoved forward forcefully enough to rend her innocence. She tensed in his arms, drawing a quick, shocked breath. Damon hated the pain he caused her, yet he discovered a fierce satisfaction in possessing her as no man ever had. She was impossibly tight, her sleek depths holding and wrapping him in intense heat. He pressed a slow rain of kisses on her face, mingling words of praise and desire as he tried to comfort her.

Gradually Julia began to relax as she adjusted to the unyielding invasion. He was gentle with her, his hands playing over her body in unhurried exploration. She quivered as she felt him slide deeper, thrusting in a slow rhythm that drew currents of delight through her body. Somehow the initial pain had been banished, replaced by the urge to lift high against him and take him even deeper inside. He complied with the wordless demand, driving straight and sure within her until she was caught in another surge of delight. She felt him grasp her hips, his fingers clenching over the rounded flesh, and he made a low, tormented sound as he found his own release. Shivering, Damon pressed hard against her until it seemed that their bodies had melded into one.

Julia was intensely drowsy for a long time afterward as she rested in the crook of his arm. Damon had extinguished the lamp, leaving them in peaceful darkness. She was halfway in a dream, her head filled with idle thoughts, her senses drinking in the warmth and texture of the man beside her.

She was no longer the figure of mystery that teased the public's curiosity, or an actress reciting well-rehearsed lines from a play…she had been cut adrift from the past that had bound her. Turning her head, she gazed at the hard-edged profile of the man beside her. Lord Savage, her husband. He would take over her life if she allowed it. He would keep her safe and sheltered, and inundate her with so much luxury that she would hardly mind being confined in a golden cage. But she would never let anyone own her. She had spent most of her life under her father's thumb, and that had been enough.

She would not lose herself in her husband's shadow as her mother had done. She would carefully guard the part of herself that she had struggled to nurture and preserve—and that meant any relationship with Damon was impossible.

D
amon awakened slowly, puzzled at finding himself in an unfamiliar bed. The elusive scent of a woman's perfume emanated from the pillow beside him. Still half-asleep, he pressed his face into the fragrant cream linen. Memories of the previous night came back to him, and he opened his eyes.

He was alone in Julia's bed.

Julia…she had never been more than a name to him, a shadow from the past, and suddenly she had become stunningly real. He saw the flecks of blood on the sheet, and he was instantly riveted. Wonderingly his fingers moved across the crimson marks. He hadn't considered the possibility that Julia might be innocent. He had never been with a virgin before, only mature women who were fully versed in all the aspects of passion. Sex had always been a frolic, a casual pleasure, not the transforming experience of last night. Julia was the only woman in the world who had belonged solely to him.

Why had she allowed him the privilege she had given to no one else? Certainly he was not the first man to desire her. She was lusted after by every man in London. Logically he searched for all possible reasons she had given him her virginity, with so many unanswered questions still between them, and he could think of none.

He wanted her back in bed, now. She had been so incredibly beautiful, so artless and trusting. He wanted to tease and comfort and caress her, to make her feel things she had never thought possible. And afterward, to hold her for hours as she drifted into sleep, and watch over her dreams. It had come upon him so suddenly, this obsession with her, the need to see her every day and night, and yet he knew in every fiber of his being that it was permanent. He couldn't imagine a future without her.

Throwing aside the bed linens, Damon prowled naked around the room, scooping up his discarded clothes. He dressed quickly and pushed the muted green curtains aside to glance out the window. It was still early outside, the morning sun beginning to ascend over the steeples and high-crowned rooftops of the city.

The small house was quiet except for the footsteps of the housemaid as she crossed the front entrance hall. Upon seeing Damon halfway down the stairs, she flushed and glanced at him warily.

“My lord,” she said, “if you would care for some tea and breakfast—”

“Where is my wife?” he interrupted brusquely.

The maid backed up a step or two at his approach, clearly uncertain if he should be considered a madman or not. “Mrs. Wentworth is at the theater, sir. They have rehearsals every morning.”

The Capital. Damon was annoyed that Julia hadn't awakened him before she had left. He considered following her, and confronting her immediately. They had many things to talk about. On the other hand, he had certain matters to take care of, not the least of which involved Pauline. He scowled at the nervous housemaid. “Tell Mrs. Wentworth to expect me tonight.”

“Yes, my lord,” the girl replied, skittering back as he headed for the door.

It had been a hellish morning at the Capital. Julia knew she was performing badly at the rehearsal, and frustrating Logan Scott to no end. She had trouble remembering her lines. It seemed impossible to concentrate on the character she was to play, or give the other actors their proper cues. In addition to a blinding headache, she was sore in every part of her body—and more than everything else, her mind was filled with thoughts of last night and what she had done.

In a moment of recklessness she had made a terrible mistake. It had seemed so right to be with Damon. She had been lonely, vulnerable, craving the pleasure and comfort he had offered. In the harsh light of day, however, everything was different. She felt a terrible heaviness inside—her secrets were slipping away, flying out of her reach before she could snatch them back. Even the familiar atmosphere of the theater failed to soothe her. Perhaps now Damon believed he had rights over her. She must make it clear that no matter what had happened, she belonged only to herself.

“Don't make the mistake of thinking I can't replace you,” Logan warned tautly under his breath as she stumbled gracelessly through yet another scene. “It's not too late for me to give the part to Arlyss. If you don't begin to show some interest in what you're doing—”

“Give the part to her, then,” Julia said, shooting him a simmering glare. “At the moment I don't care.”

Unused to such rebellion, Logan tugged wildly at his dark mahogany hair until it nearly stood on end. His blue eyes gleamed with annoyance. “We'll do the scene again,” he said through gritted teeth. He gestured imperiously to the other actors onstage; Charles, Arlyss, and old Mr. Kerwin. “In the meantime, I suggest that the three of you go to the greenroom and study your lines. At this point I wouldn't rate your performances more than a notch or two above Mrs. Wentworth's.”

The little group obeyed with a few grumbles, evidently relieved to escape the tension-fraught theater. Logan turned back to Julia. “Shall we?” he asked coldly.

Without a word she moved to the left wing, from which she was to make her entrance. The scene was one in which the two main characters, Christine and James, found themselves in the first throes of love. As the sheltered Christine, she was supposed to be enthralled by the freedom of her masquerade, pretending to be a housemaid. She was also dismayed by her attraction to a mere footman, but unable to keep from throwing caution to the wind.

She made her entrance, trying to convey something of the character's mixture of eagerness and uncertainty…until she saw the tall, appealing figure of James waiting for her. With a laugh of excitement, she rushed to him and threw herself into his arms.

“I didn't think you'd come,” he said, whirling her around easily, letting her feet touch the ground. He brushed a curl from her face as if he couldn't believe she were real.

“I didn't want to,” she replied breathlessly. “I couldn't help it.”

With apparent impulsiveness he bent to kiss her. Julia closed her eyes, knowing what to expect. She had been kissed countless times on stage before, whenever a scene required it, by Logan, by Charles, and even once by Mr. Kerwin, who had played an aging monarch married to a young and beautiful bride. Handsome though Logan was, his kisses had never affected Julia. They were both too professional for that. It wasn't necessary to feel something in order to convince the audience of it.

She felt his lips touch hers…but suddenly the memory of last night flashed through her mind…the heat of Damon's mouth, the pressure of his arms locking her against his long body, the passion that had swept over her—

Julia tore away from Logan with a muffled sound, staring at him dazedly while touching her lips with trembling fingertips.

The character of James dropped away, and Logan's familiar expression appeared. He seemed confounded, shaking his head slowly. A vibrant note of anger pierced his voice. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

Julia turned away from him, rubbing her arms agitatedly. “Aren't I allowed to have a bad day like everyone else? You're never this harsh with the others when they're having difficulties with a part.”

“I expect more of you.”

“Perhaps that's a mistake,” she said sharply.

His gaze bored into her back. “Evidently it is.”

She took a long breath and turned toward him. “Would you like to try the scene again?”

“No,” Logan replied sourly. “You've wasted enough of my time today. Take the afternoon off—I'll work with the others. And be warned, if you're not in perfect form tomorrow, I'll give the part to someone else. This play means a hell of a lot to me. I'll be damned if I'll let anyone ruin it.”

Julia lowered her gaze, feeling a stab of guilt. “I won't disappoint you again.”

“You'd better not.”

“Shall I tell the others in the greenroom that you want them back here?”

He nodded and waved her away, his face set.

Sighing, Julia walked from the stage into the wings. She rubbed her temples and eyes, willing her headache to go away.

“Mrs. Wentworth?” A young man's hesitant voice intruded on her thoughts.

Julia paused and looked toward the speaker. It was Michael Fiske, a scene painter of exceptional talent. Armed with his paint and brushes, he had created some of the most beautiful and original flats, set pieces, and backcloths Julia had ever seen. Other theaters had recognized Fiske's talent and tried to lure him away, forcing Logan Scott to pay him an unusually large salary to retain his exclusive services. With his usual confident bravado, Fiske had informed Logan and everyone else at the Capital that he was worth his high wages. Most of them privately agreed.

But Michael Fiske's normally cocky expression was gone today, and his manner seemed unusually hesitant. He stood in a shadow, holding a small, bulky package, his warm brown eyes beseeching. “Mrs. Wentworth,” he repeated, and Julia approached him.

“Yes, Mr. Fiske?” she asked with a touch of concern. “Is anything wrong?”

He shrugged his wide shoulders and clutched his package more tightly. “Not exactly. There's something I wanted to ask you…if you wouldn't mind…” He stopped with an explosive sigh, his good-looking face creased with doubt. “I shouldn't have bothered you. Please, Mrs. Wentworth, just forget—”

“Tell me,” she insisted with an encouraging smile. “It can't be all that bad.”

Looking tragically resigned, Fiske extended the paper-wrapped package to her. “Please give this to Miss Barry.”

She took the object from him and held it carefully. “Is it a gift for Arlyss? If you don't mind my asking, why can't you deliver it yourself?”

A flush covered his lean face. “Everyone knows you're the best friend Miss Barry has. She likes and trusts you. If you would give this to her, and speak to her for me—”

Understanding dawned on Julia. “Mr. Fiske,” she asked gently, “do you have a romantic interest in Arlyss?”

Hanging his head, he made a gruffly affirmative reply.

Julia was touched by his evident sincerity. “Well, that's no surprise. She's an attractive woman, isn't she?”

“She's the dearest, loveliest thing I've ever seen,” he blurted out. “She's so bloody wonderful that I can't bring myself to talk to her. When she's near, my knees turn to jelly, and I can't even breathe. And she doesn't even know I exist.”

Julia smiled sympathetically. “Knowing Arlyss as I do, I'm certain she would prefer it if you approached her yourself—”

“I can't. It's too important. I've thought about telling her how I feel, but…she might laugh or feel sorry for me…”

“No, I assure you she's not like that,” Julia said hastily. “Arlyss is very fortunate to have a man like you to care for her.”

He shook his head, crossing and uncrossing his arms. “I'm not a fine gentleman,” he said glumly. “I don't have fancy clothes or a grand home—and I've got few prospects. She won't want me.”

“You're a good man, and a wonderfully talented painter,” Julia said reassuringly, but inside she worried that he might be right. Arlyss had always been easily swayed by glittering promises and tempting presents. In the past few years she had gone through a string of jaded men who used her for their own selfish pleasures, and then discarded her with no remorse. And then there was Arlyss's hopeless crush on Logan Scott, who would certainly never give a thought to a relationship with her. Arlyss had made no secret of the fact that she was attracted to powerful men. If only she would fall in love with someone like Fiske, an earnest young man who might not ever be wealthy, but who respected and loved her.

“I'll give this to her,” Julia said decisively. “And I'll speak to her for you, Mr. Fiske.”

He managed to look relieved and despairing at the same time. “Thank you—although it's a hopeless cause.”

“Not necessarily.” Julia reached out to touch his shoulder consolingly. “I'll see what I can do.”

“God bless you, Mrs. Wentworth,” he said, and walked away with his hands crushed inside his pockets.

Wandering to'the greenroom, Julia found the other actors conducting their own rehearsal. She gave them all a shamefaced smile. “Mr. Scott wants you back on stage. I'm afraid I've put him in a royal temper. My apologies to everyone.”

“No need for apologies,” Mr. Kerwin assured her, his jowls swinging as he chuckled. “Everyone has a difficult day now and then, even a fine actress such as you, my dear.”

Julia smiled gratefully, and gestured to Arlyss as the others filed from the room. “Come here for just a moment—I have a gift for you.”

“For me?” Arlyss's brow puckered. “It's not my birthday.”

“It's not from me—it's from a secret admirer.”

“Really?” Looking pleased and flattered, Arlyss toyed with her mop of curls. “Who is it, Jessica?”

Julia held, out the package. “Open this, and see if you can guess.”

Giggling in excitement, Arlyss snatched the parcel and tore the paper with childish glee. After the layers of protective covering were demolished, both women stared at the offering in delight. It was a small, exquisite portrait of Arlyss costumed as the Comic Muse, with luminous skin, rosy cheeks, and a sweet smile curving her lips. The interpretation was idealized, her figure painted a bit slimmer than in real life, her eyes a little larger…but it was unquestionably Arlyss. The skill and talent of the artist were remarkable, resulting in a delicately shaded work that captured the joyous essence of its subject.

“How wonderful,” Julia murmured, thinking that Michael Fiske could have a future beyond mere scene painting.

Arlyss scrutinized the portrait with obvious pleasure. “It's too pretty to be me!…Well, almost.”

Carefully Julia touched the edge of the gilded frame. “Clearly it was painted by someone who loves you.”

Thoroughly perplexed, Arlyss shook her head. “But who?”

Julia stared at her meaningfully. “What gentleman do we know who can paint like this?”

“No one around here, except for…” Arlyss sputtered with an incredulous laugh. “Don't tell me this is from
Mr. Fiske
? Oh, dear…he's not at all the kind of man I usually take an interest in.”

“That's true. He's honest, hardworking, and respectful—completely unlike the debauched men you've been complaining about for so long.”