Back in Your Arms Page 2

  Interest sparked along Gareth’s skin. “Are you saying Sir Charles left his widow without support?”

  Her answering frown indicated Constance was more than a little irritated at the dead man. “The gossips say that because they had no children, Fleming left almost everything to his cousin’s son Thomas, including the townhouse and country estate. How Charles expected Julia to survive on three-hundred pounds a year is further proof of his stinginess. Most women would have crawled away with what little was left but Julia is made of stronger stuff.”

  The memory of his former love’s refusal to back down from any position she decided to take nearly brought a smile to Gareth’s lips. “It sounds as if Lady Fleming’s story had a satisfying twist to it.”

  “Indeed. Thomas, who prefers the country to London and actually has a conscience, gave her the townhouse free and clear. He also raised her annuity to two thousand pounds a year. Through a brilliant range of investments, Julia has made her own fortune. She tried to give back the annuity but Thomas insisted she keep it even though he has a wife and family of his own. Julia is now considered one of London’s most popular hostesses and has many admirers.”

  Lovers, no doubt. “Does she indeed?” Gareth said politely. “You and she have been friends a long time?”

  “Only for the last five years,” Constance corrected. “But she introduced me to my husband, so I am forever in her debt. I do believe she is the most trustworthy woman I have ever met.”

  Gareth turned his snort of laughter into a cough. “An accomplishment rarely found in the ton,” he managed to say.

  She gently rapped his arm with her fan. “You are too jaded, Your Grace,” she scolded. “Put your past cares aside. We must select a dancing partner for you among these beauties. Look, there’s Julia. You shall continue to renew your acquaintance.”

  And before he could protest, Constance gently but firmly guided him across the room. The woman who had haunted his dreams for years stood—fan in hand—talking to a man who desperately needed a fashion lesson or two from Brummell. His girth threatened to pop open his waistcoat’s buttons and his cravat might have been tied by a blind valet. Thank God for uniforms. A military man could attend the most formal of functions and never look out of place.

  “Julia, my dear,” Constance said. “Here is your old friend. Don’t be too grieved with me for spending time with him.”

  Julia—no, Lady Fleming’s—eyes widened and her ivory skin paled, making the tiny freckles bridging her nose stand out. Gareth did a quick count and found instead of the seventeen he remembered, they now numbered twenty, a testimony to her frequently forgetting her parasol. Memory continued its work as the image of more freckles hidden by her gown danced across his vision, starting a heat coiling through his belly, and he clinched his jaw.

  Her fan quickened. “Don’t be silly, Constance,” Lady Fleming said. “There are many people waiting to meet His Grace. I must be patient and share him with your other guests.”

  “How unselfish of you,” Gareth drawled, raking his gaze over her. His eyes stopped their exploration at the neckline of her gown. While modest in its cut, it still offered a suggestion of that sweet hollow between her breasts, the one that always tasted of honey. A trickle of perspiration began at the back of his neck and crept past his collar, but he continued to stare at her until a pink flush covered her creamy skin.

  An answering cobalt fire flashed in her eyes, however her voice held nothing but perfect nonchalance. “Have you met the Honorable Sidney Pommeroy, second son of Viscount Ashworth, Your Grace?”

  “Pommeroy,” Gareth said, inclining his head. A man dressed like that did not deserve a bow.

  “An honor to meet you, Your Grace,” Pommeroy greeted. He stood a little straighter and made an effort to pull in his belly. Even in his dancing pumps, he barely reached Gareth’s shoulders.

  “If you are not engaged for every dance, Julia, you must dance with His Grace,” Constance said playfully. “You must renew your old acquaintance after all these years.”

  A burst of music from the small orchestra in the minstrels’ gallery prevented Julia’s answer. Couples headed toward the middle of the floor and lined up opposite each other. With a triumphant glance at Gareth, Pommeroy offered Julia his arm. “Shall we join them, Lady Fleming?”

  She closed her fan and let Pommeroy lead her away without a backward glance. Gareth stared after them until a faint squeeze on his arm reminded him of his hostess.

  He looked down and found Constance’s face alight with curiosity. There was nothing to do but join the dancers. Gareth stole one last glance at Julia and her popinjay. If that was her current taste in men, he was better off without her.

  Chapter Three

  Please, Lord, don’t let him ask me to dance. Please.

  Julia automatically performed the intricate steps of the second—and the last—dance with Pommeroy, keeping a smile plastered to her face by sheer force of will. She nodded at her partner’s banal conversation but as soon as his back was turned, her gaze was pulled to the tall figure dancing on the side of the room. Even if he hadn’t been wearing his uniform, Gareth’s height made him impossible to miss.

  His laugh rang out and Julia bit back the frown threatening to replace her forced smile. He had finished his dance with Constance and was now dancing with a young miss in a white dress, his attention completely engaged. Julia recognized her as Ernestina Graham, daughter of the Earl of Lowe and one of the Season’s debutantes. The wags estimated her dowry to be five figures, a wealth that nearly guaranteed her a success on the Marriage Mart. After all, money was what men wanted in a wife, wasn’t it?

  The music stopped and jaws aching, she smiled at Pommeroy. “Thank you,” she said.

  He bowed, his expression radiating confidence. “Lady Julia, might I have a word with you privately later? On a matter most personal and urgent?”

  What now? Julia kept her smile locked into place. “Of course. But for now, I would like to sit down.”

  “Of course,” Pommeroy echoed. He escorted her back to where two matrons sat and offered to bring her a cup of punch. After returning with her refreshment, he departed to join a young lady seated with her chaperone across the room.

  “Where is your sister tonight, Lady Fleming?” one of the matrons asked. “Is she unwell?”

  “Lucy took a chill while riding yesterday morning,” Julia said. “We thought it best she rest this evening. Thank you for inquiring.”

  “Have you danced with His Grace yet?” the other matron asked.

  Julia paused before answering to sip her punch. “Not yet,” she said. “He appears much engaged.”

  The first woman smirked. “He’s trolling, course. And only hours back in London too.”

  Fingers tightening around the cup’s handle, Julia looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He’s looking for a wife,” the woman explained. “As the Duke of Harrow, he will need to settle on someone soon. There’s not a mama in the room who wouldn’t have her husband pay any size dowry to have him as her son-in-law. Not that he needs the money.”

  “Oh look, he’s coming this way.” The second matron giggled. “Are my plumes straight?”

  “I don’t think he’s looking at you, Priscilla,” the first one said. “And the last time I visited your home, you still had a husband.”

  So much for divine intervention. With his eyes staking her to her chair, Julia watched Gareth approach. Female heads turned to watch his progress, and more than one girl’s eager expression crumpled into a mask of disappointment as he passed them by.

  He stopped in front of her and bowed. “Lady Fleming,” he said.

  “Your Grace,” she returned.

  “Might I have the honor of the next dance?”

  Damn and blast. Charles’ only useful legacy—a large and colorful vocabulary—filled her head. What she wouldn’t give to use more of it aloud now. “Well—”

  “Perhaps you hesitate because you do not
know the steps.” There was no mistaking the challenge in Gareth’s voice.

  Arching a brow, she asked, “Is Your Grace suggesting I don’t know how to dance?”

  “I have witnessed your skills earlier, my lady,” he countered. “But the next dance is to be a waltz.”

  “A waltz?” the plumed matron gasped. “Lady Pettigrew is going to allow a waltz?”

  “Yes,” he said, flashing a roughish grin. “It’s all the rage on the Continent. Has it not reached London?”

  “Again, how sad you are so poorly informed,” Julia sighed. “But of course such trivial news might not have reached the front. We’ve been waltzing in London for nearly two years now.”

  He held out his hand. “But I have not waltzed in London, so I must make up for lost time. It’s impossible to waltz on the battlefield.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “I insist.” He took her empty hand and pulled her to her feet. Julia barely had time to hand the plumed lady her empty cup as he advanced them out to the floor. The unmistakable rhythm of the scandalous dance, which half the mamas in London still forbade their daughters to do, swirled around them. Julia had no choice but to place one hand on his shoulder and waltz.

  They danced in silence for several minutes. Julia kept her gaze fixed on the walls just over his shoulder. Finally he spoke. “It’s been a long time, Julia.”

  “Indeed.”

  His hand on her back slid down to rest just above her bottom. This close, she couldn’t escape the familiar patchouli scent enveloping her senses and making her dizzy. Heat radiated from his gloves through the silk of her gown, starting an ache between her thighs and bringing to her face the hated blush she had taught herself to tame. Commanded by some silent force, she turned her gaze to meet his stony expression.

  “I understand from Constance that your sister made her debut this Season?” he said.

  “She did.”

  “But tonight she is indisposed with a cold?”

  “She is.”

  “Then I wish her a speedy recovery.”

  “Thank you.”

  They danced another moment before he spoke again. “You’ve changed.”

  “So have you,” she retorted, determined not to be hauled into the conversation she had dreaded for years.

  “War does that to a man.” In the room’s candlelight, his jade eyes glittered like a jungle cat, brooding and intense. “If one survives, one carries memories of it for the rest of his life.” A pained shadow passed over his face as he added, “So many did not survive. So many have died.”

  An unexpected sympathy pierced Julia’s heart. Several of her friends had lost brothers and fathers fighting Bonaparte, while other men had returned, maimed in body and spirit. London had seen too many memorial services over the years and too many returning wounded veterans crowded the streets as beggars. What horrors had Gareth seen? Her gaze flickered to his hand. That hand had loved her, comforted her, teased her. That hand had tamed a horse no one else could ride and that hand had brushed through the tangles their lovemaking left in her hair. How odd to think of that same hand wielding a sword or covered in blood from killing a man. Tears pricked her eyes at his loss of innocence. War had forever changed the young man she had loved and returned this stranger. But the man she had loved ceased to exist the night he betrayed her with another woman.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she said. “I meant no disrespect. You have earned all of England’s gratitude. We are proud of you.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course,” she said, wishing the dance would end. “You must be glad to be home at last.”

  His features softened and beneath her hands she felt some of the tension leave his body. “Yes,” he said. “It’s good to be home.”

  “And now you are a Duke,” she couldn’t help adding. “How will you occupy your time?”

  He gave her that familiar, lazy smile. “The usual things. Hunting, gambling…” His words trailed away and his gaze traveled up and down her body again. “Seeking pleasure. London has more than its share to offer, as I am sure you know.”

  Irritation curled around the base of her spine. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Constance tells me you are one of the most popular hostesses in London.” A faintly sarcastic tone entered his voice, insinuating so much more than his words. “You are said to have many admirers.”

  Anger quickened her pulse, but she would not let him goad her further. “I entertain a small circle of friends. It occupies my time.”

  His lips twisted into a sneer. “And a widow has certain freedoms other women do not. Freedoms to pursue their own special pleasures.”

  If it would not have caused a scandal and ruined Connie’s party, she would have slapped him for his insolence. Fortunately for them both, the music stopped. She jerked her hand from his grasp and summoned every ounce of self-control she possessed.

  “You may have changed, Your Grace, but London has not. Here a lady is still a lady, even if she is a solitary widow. Good luck in your pleasure hunting. I think you will need it, for you seem to have left your manners on the battlefield.”

  And with that, she gathered her skirts and made for the door.

  Chapter Four

  The October breeze wafting across the verandah did nothing to cool Gareth’s rage. Rage at Julia. Rage at himself. Why had he come here? Why hadn’t he stayed in his room at Rochester’s with a bottle or two of brandy? Years of war and hardship should have obliterated every last trace of her from his memory. Seeing her ripped open the old wound like a surgeon’s knife slicing through layers of hardened protection, laying him bare. He did not want to remember loving her.

  Stepping over the low wall, he walked across the grass into the safety of the trees. Lanterns hung from the boughs, casting a soft light around the lawn. The remaining flowers scented the air, their white blossoms glistening like diamonds against the black velvet of the night sky. All was quiet except for the thundering of Gareth’s heart.

  He pounded his fist on the oak’s gnarled branch. This was madness.

  Madness hardly became the new Duke of Harrow. He had duties. And if Gareth understood nothing else, it was duty. After all, Julia Fleming was only a woman. One woman was much like the others, right?

  Tobacco. That’s what he needed. How many times at the front had that been the only comfort one had? Old Max at Riley’s Tobacco Shop had nearly fainted this afternoon when Gareth appeared unannounced and purchased every last ounce of Hogans’, his favorite blend, and paid him double the price.

  Raking a hand through his hair, Gareth headed back toward the verandah. Other men, obviously of the same mind, stood in a corner, the smoke from their cigars rising in soft clouds above their heads. One or two nodded to him, but left him alone. Wise men.

  Taking a cheroot from a slim case inside his jacket, he approached a rack of candles Constance had provided for smokers. He lit it and inhaled deeply. The familiar blend filled his lungs, sending a wave of comfort coursing through his body. Perhaps after dancing again with Constance, he could make his excuses and leave. It was still early enough to go to White’s or maybe even Madame Genevieve’s House of Pleasure. By heaven, what a miracle. A French brothel right in the heart of London.

  The doors opened and a burst of conversation shattered the quiet. A group of overdressed young men—very young men—swaggered onto the terrace. Good God, had Brummell taught the ton nothing about simplicity of dress? Gareth wouldn’t be caught dead in their colorful getup, much less buried in it. Full of themselves and wine, they lit up their own smokes and began comparing the evening’s beauties and their worth.

  “Nothing much between her ears,” commented one.

  “It’s what between her legs I’m more interested in,” another cackled. “Damn, with seven brothers and sisters, she comes from fecund enough stock. Should be able to give me an heir and a spare before she’s twenty-two.”

  “What’s your mist
ress going to say when you marry a mere chit, Ramsfield?” chuckled a third man. “She’s hardly likely to give up the Marquess of Gladwell’s heir without argument.”

  “Damn, Henry, do you think I’d be fool enough to give up Elise?” Ramsfield said scornfully. “She’s as pretty as a Hilliard miniature and as smart as a whip. Don’t need either of those in a wife, just money and a productive body. Miss Tina being an earl’s daughter will jump at the chance to marry up and her sizable dowry will make tupping her worth it.”

  Bile rose in Gareth’s throat and he dropped his cheroot to the ground, crushing it under his boot. Beating the hell out of Ramsfield might quell the inferno raging inside him, but he would not have Constance’s party ruined by a spoiled brat’s boast or his own ill manners.

  But by God, the thought was tempting.

  He turned as a cacophony of whistles greeted another man lumbering across the stones. Gareth squinted through the candlelit darkness as Sidney Pommeroy joined the others. Even the candlelight could not hide his petulant expression. Lower lip thrust out, he might have been a schoolboy sentenced to write I-shall-not-conjugate-my-Latin-verbs-incorrectly one-hundred times.

  “Any luck, Pommeroy?” Ramsfield called.

  “She won’t have me,” Pommeroy said, his sulky tone carrying across the verandah. “Offered to make her my wife and she turned me down flat. Said I didn’t have what she was looking for in a husband. By gad, just who is she holding out for?”

  “And which lovely’s hand did you ask for?” the first man asked.

  “Julia Fleming,” Pommeroy ground out. “She probably thinks I’m not good enough because I’m a second son.”

  “Julia Fleming?” Disbelief raised Ramsfield’s voice. “What are you thinking, Pommeroy? Your father is a Viscount. You don’t want to marry down, do you? Her late husband was only a baronet and her father is in debt up to his eyeballs, if what the wags say is true. Not what I’d call good ton.”

  “You’re not the first she’s turned down, Pommeroy,” the first man commiserated. “I tried a year after Fleming died and she flat out told me no. And she’s had at least half a dozen offers since then. Lot of disappointed men in London.”