Authors: Julia Ross
Why wouldn't it rain?
Why didn't he come?
She couldn't eat for nerves. In the heavy, sticky
dress she'd been wearing all day, she burned as if he had already set the
flames.
Ι am not a widow. Ι am a wife.
She paced the limits of the parlor, went up and
downstairs several times, strode about the hallways and the close confines of
her bedroom, where - through the uselessly open windows - the hot air under the
roof mingled with the hot air outside. She must win the game, that was all!
Do you truly wish to live here forever like a fly
in amber, while the world buzzes and clicks by without you?
Α bat flitted past the window. Juliet sped
over to the open casement and leaned out. The sun had almost disappeared behind
Farmer Hames's woods to the west. He must come soon.
As the sun is going down.
"Ma'am," Kate said behind her.
"Ι have filled a bath."
Juliet spun about.
"In the porch off the kitchen," Kate
added. "The tub was delivered not an hour ago."
"Α tub?"
"Yes, ma'am. And another note." The
maid held it out.
The wax seal fell away as Juliet tore it open.
In Italy to change into our most casual clothes
and sit quietly on the patio with friends is just α gentle, civilized way
to spend α summer evening. But rest assured, our 1talian supper does not
begin until you arrive in the arbor - G.
So he would not burst in on her as she bathed? At
the eroticism of the thought, Juliet blushed scarlet. What was the matter with
her? She threw up her chin, her father's daughter. Of course, no gentleman
would do anything so scandalous!
Her petticoats stuck to her hot skin.
"Yes," she said. "I should like to
bathe."
She had not soaked in a bath in years. It would
have been far too much work to heat that much water, let alone to fill and then
empty a tub. Juliet had contented herself with basins and a daily wash with a
cloth.
The air scorched in the kitchen, but the porch
door had been built in two sections, as if for a stable. The top stood open.
Beyond, the courtyard lay shadowed and silent. Cooler air flowed through now to
where Kate had set the tub and filled it with the help of the other maids. The
scent of mown hay mingled with drifting smoke from the chimney. It felt safe
and quiet, the tub standing in this little vestibule with the vast countryside
stretching away outside.
He had sent soaps, thick white towels and a linen
bathing robe - wildly improper gifts no lady should accept. Juliet laughed and
changed into the long gown. It was bliss to sink into the tepid water and let a
lady's maid wash away the residue of the day. The tub was also hung with cloth,
so as Kate washed each part of Juliet's body, just that one limb or area of
skin emerged whitely from the damp drapes. It was an oddly coy dance, poised
between modesty and abandonment.
Kate turned aside, busy with some detail. Α
small noise made Juliet glance up. There was nothing there. No golden-haired
man leaned grinning on the sill of the open stable door. Nothing but the quiet
summer evening. Nothing to disturb her.
If he did burst in on her, what would he see?
Juliet glanced down at herself. The gown draped
thinly, sticking to her wanton skin. Her breasts glowed pink under the wet
fabric, her nipples dark in contrast. Heat burned through her blood.
If he
burst in on her-
Yet she knew he would not. Even without his
reassurance, she knew he would not. Alden Granville was far more clever and
more subtle than that.
Kate washed Juliet's hair in a preparation of
suds and herbs and rinsed it in clean water. She helped her out of the water
and dried her. Immediately, in spite of the cool bath and her damp hair, Juliet
was too warm. Must she dress again in petticoats and hooped skirts, with the
bodice laced tightly over her corset and her fichu tucked into the neckline?
"I’ll fetch the Italian dress, ma'am,"
Kate said. "Ι took the liberty of unpacking it for you. There's another
note."
Standing wrapped in towels, Juliet read his
swirling hand writing:
The company has shed all the day's normal
clothes. We find the ladies in slippers instead of shoes. No heavy overdress or
stiff, pointed bodices. No hats or hoops. Just muslin sleeves tied with
ribbons, and α simple lute-string petticoat.
Improper?
Only α little.
Sensible? Eminently.
And very liberating - G.
She could almost see his smile.
"What do the gentlemen wear?" she
asked.
Kate stopped in the
doorway.
"In
Italy?
Ι
really can't say, ma'am. No doubt they have
very foreign ways and fashions."
Α
white garment hung over the maid's arm, light
and inviting. Dark blue muslin bunched and draped. Ribbons fluttered.
Vestimenti
di confidenz
α
.
Did he think Juliet had
to
ο
little nerve?
Obviously not. He
expected her to wear it.
She put on her stays
first, with one of her own chemises under it. Even Italian ladies surely did
not receive company without them? But then she let Kate comb out her hair and
tie it back in a ribbon. Almost as if it were a dream, she slid into the gauzy
petticoat with the ribbon-tied sleeves. The fine muslin robe that went over it
was dyed a deep indigo - the
wine-dark sea.
It all felt so
insubstantial, falling over her skin with a feather-light touch.
Kate held out a pair of
slippers. Simple, without heels. Juliet slipped her bare feet into the
blissfully cool leather. Filmy cotton caressed her bare legs and arms as she
moved.
She walked into the
kitchen to stand in front of the window, glazed with reflections now it was
growing dark outside.
Α
stranger gazed back: a
woman in loose-fitting robes with her damp hair spilling down her back and her
skin rosy from the bath. The low neckline exposed her throat. Ribbons trembled.
Her gold chain
disappeared beneath the neckline of the petticoat, less revealing than a ball
gown, to where her locket nestled hidden between her breasts.
The dress was not
immodest.
It only felt that way.
CHAPTER SIX
MR. GEORGE HARDCASTLE
SPREAD HIS COATAILS BEFORE
THE
fireplace,
though the grate lay cold. He was dark, certainly handsome enough - the
dramatic coloring and strong bones that often appealed to the ladies.
"So what the devil
can you tell me about my wife, sir?" he asked.
"Was Russia never
warm enough?" Robert Dovenby put as much sympathy as he could i
n
to the question.
"Just a habit,
sir." George dropped his skirts. "
Ι
don't generally stay in the stink of London
in midsummer.
Ι
am here now only
because-" He stopped as if uncomfortable. Poor fool! "Well, I've had
a small reversal in fortune, truth be told." Real distress slipped into
his voice. "Rivals ruining my business. Faith, sir! Don't even know who
they are!"
Dovenby raised a brow.
"Deuced bad luck, sir. But to answer your question: Your wife disappeared
years ago. No one's seen hide nor hair of her since."
"Disappeared? Plague
take it, how can she have disappeared? Her father-"
"Disowned her."
Dovenby picked up his glass and sipped at his wine. "After the unfortunate
scandal and the tragedy. She has very probably changed her name."
"Then how does she
survive? Whoring, most like! Who keeps her? "
Dovenby lost any last
shred of sympathy for the man - a dangerous development for Hardcastle.
"If she were being kept as a mistress, sir, we'd all have heard of
it."
"Then the rumor is
true that she came into an inheritance?" Hardcastle stepped forward.
"Devil take it! How much?"
"I have no idea.
Ι
have heard nothing of her since you left for
Muscovy. "
"Because you bloody
well tried to get into her skirts, most like!"
Dovenby smiled, though he
did not think it amusing. "
Ι
would probably have done
so, had the chance arisen. It did not."
George stared at him.
"They still call you the Dove?"
The ruby liquid swirled
with dark shadows. It was so simple to lead a man like Hardcastle exactly where
one wanted to go. He would do so now without compunction.
"Only my most
intimate friends - or sometimes my enemies take such liberties, sir. You will
be pleased,
Ι
am sure, to use my
correct name?"
The man flushed. "Do
you still claim to be the most notorious rake in London, sir?"
Dovenby glanced up at the
man who had just chosen, if unwittingly, to become a pawn in a very wicked
game. "Alas, Viscount Gracechurch stole that distinction as soon as he
came back from 1taly."
George Hardcastle broke
into peals of laughter. "Heard it already in the hallway - Sir Reginald
Denby's been putting the story about! Involves a hayfield? The lady said she'd
tup Gracechurch if he scythed twenty acres for her. Imagine! Stripped himself
naked - displaying to a gaggle of rustics everything God gave him - cut the
whole damned field in an hour, then tupped her in the haystack! Is it
true?"
"I wasn't there, my
dear fellow."
"Yet he did tup
her?"
"Gracechurch?"
The word expressed a
world of incredulity. "No woman ever refused him!"
"Who was the wench?"
"
No
idea, sir. Yet the libidinous viscount has not been
seen at his London lodgings for a week. Neither is he at Gracechurch
Abbey."
"And the place falls
apart while he games away his fortune: that's the story
Ι
heard - just hadn't put it all together till
now." George struck: one fist into the palm of the other hand. "Women
are a man's ruin, sir! Meanwhile my wife enjoys her inheritance!"
"How very
distressing." Dovenby set down his wine. "With your own affairs so
ill-starred, what will you do?"
"I’ll have her
property from her, of course," George Hardcastle said. "As soon as
Ι
can find her."
The door opened behind
them. Heels clicked as another man walked into the room.
"A pretty
tale," the newcomer said. "May
Ι
join you, Dovenby? Hardcastle?
Ι
couldn't help but overhear."
George scrambled to his
feet and bowed. "My lord!"
Lord Edward Vane sat and
stretched out long legs. "Can't stay, alas. Leave town within the hour -
off to Marion Hall, Sir Reginald Denby's place in Hertfordshire. Yet
Ι
must speak with Dovenby. Hardcastle, if you
wouldn't mind-?"
George blushed and bowed.
"Of course not, my lord." He bowed again. "Dovenby."
Lord Edward watched him
leave. "Money-grubbing fellow. Is he completely to let, Dovenby?"
Dovenby stood up and
stretched. He must do whatever necessary to complete his vital plans regarding
Lord Edward, but he did not have to particularly enjoy it.
"Shall we say his
business fails to prosper."
The duke's son closed his
eyes and leaned back. "So unfortunate. The unavoidable consequence of
your private venture into his trade and my own investment therein. He has taken
the hint that his wife has her own income and property?"
"Hardly hers.
Anything she possesses is Hardcastle's by right." The Dove turned and
studied the powdered face, the slight sneer about the nostrils. "This
lurid tale about Gracechurch.
Is
it true?"
"Who knows? Perhaps
not in the details. Does it matter? What matters is that we know the
whereabouts of Mrs. George Hardcastle. When the time comes,
Ι
suppose we must let it slip to her husband,
if only from a sense of duty-"
His distaste deepened.
"You have no concerns about Gracechurch? That the viscount might be a
dangerous choice for your game?"
"Lud, sir! Thus
speaks the notorious Dove. Are you jealous
Ι
didn't choose you for the role?"
Dovenby bowed.
"Touche. She's rumored to be a damned beauty, of course. Yet she must be
very alone in the world."
Lord Edward opened his eyes to stare at his business
partner.
"
Hardly alone, sir,
when she has a living husband."