Back in Your Arms Page 4

  “You shall stay as long as you like,” Julia told her.

  Lucy regarded her thoughtfully. “But what if I don’t find a husband?” she asked.

  Julia could not contain her laughter. “My dear, it is your turn to be the ton’s brightest star. It’s just a matter of time before you find the right man and he finds you. You are far too beautiful and kind not to be asked. And you may be as choosy as you wish, no matter what Father says. Now, remind me about James Conrad. Who is he? Where did you meet him?”

  A rosy hue flooded Lucy’s face. “Well—”

  “Ah ha!” Julia gently pinched her sister’s arm. “Do tell.”

  “James Conrad,” Lucy said slowly, as if savoring the taste of the man’s name, “is a friend of the Earl of Cheswick. He’s been at several of the Earl’s ‘afternoons’.”

  “Of course! The handsome young man with the lovely baritone voice,” Julia recalled, trying not to chuckle at the thought of the foppish Cheswick. Rumors abounded to his scandalous life on the Continent, and he was seldom in town. Julia had long suspected there was something more to the man than his outré behavior. To be included in Cheswick’s circle of friends was among the highest of compliments.

  “Very handsome,” Lucy sighed dreamily.

  “So you truly like James Conrad?”

  “Yes.” Lucy’s expression shifted into one of sadness. “But his papa lost most of his money through bad investments, so James has little income and not many prospects.”

  “Do you think he cares for you?”

  Lucy’s returning blush was all the confirmation Julia needed of where her sister’s heart was placed.

  “Well, we shall see won’t we?” Julia pronounced. “Sometimes young men come into money unexpectedly.”

  Lucy giggled and asked, “Haven’t you ever wanted to marry again?”

  “No,” Julia said firmly. “Thomas Fleming’s generosity and my success at investing have given me the means to develop an independence most women never know. Thanks to that, I will never have to worry about money again or be forced to be under a man’s authority.”

  “But what if you meet your true love?” Lucy persisted.

  I did and he betrayed me. And now he’s back. “I’ll let you look for me, dear.” Patting the stack of envelopes by her plate, Julia said, “Now, since you are feeling better this morning, let’s go through these invitations. It would be a shame if you had to miss any more parties. Constance was disappointed you could not attend her soirée last night.”

  Lucy’s face brightened. “Was it wonderful? How many times did you dance?”

  “I was nearly the belle of the ball,” Julia declared, waving her hand again. “Many dances, and with many men.”

  “Until Papa arrived,” Lucy said. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you last night, but Papa demanded you come home at once. He had been drinking. I didn’t know what else to do but send for you.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Anger surged through Julia again. George Heaton was too often in his cups and completely unpredictable. But last night, she had been almost grateful for his summons. It gave her the perfect excuse to leave the party and escape another encounter with Gareth. Fortunately, drunken sleep had already claimed her father by the time she arrived home. Her maid Maria had given Lucy a mild sleeping draught to ease her agitation, so Julia found her household quiet and still.

  But sleep had eluded her last night. Despite her eyes being shut, she had still seen Gareth, looking incredibly lethal and incredibly handsome with that one lock of dark hair falling over his eyes. Even in a ballroom, he remained the most dangerous man she knew. Sleep stayed a stranger until the hall clock chimed half-past two, leaving her listless and heavy-limbed this morning.

  She swallowed her yawn and said, “Let’s go through these invitations and decide which ones we prefer.”

  The doorbell’s chime interrupted their perusal, followed by her maid Maria’s quick footsteps in the hall. The dark-haired woman bustled in, her amber eyes snapping with excited curiosity.

  “For you, Señora Fleming,” she proclaimed, placing a large bouquet of paper-wrapped yellow roses on the table.

  “Julia, how exciting!” Lucy cried. “You have an admirer!”

  Julia’s mouth went dry as memory worked its wicked magic. Gareth had once scattered the bed and floor of their trysting spot with yellow rose petals. “Was there a card with them?”

  “Si, of course.” Maria handed it over. “The boy who brought them wants to know if there is a reply.”

  “How many roses, Maria?” Lucy asked.

  Maria smiled broadly. “Twelve,” she said. “Someone is smitten with your sister.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Julia said weakly, staring at the enormous spray nestled against the paper.

  “Open the card!” Lucy urged.

  Hands only slightly trembling, Julia opened the card and silently read the all-too-familiar scrawl covering it.

  My behavior last night was unconscionable. Forgive me. G.

  “Well?” Lucy said. “Who are they from?”

  “The Duke of Harrow.” The words still felt odd on Julia’s lips.

  “You met a duke? How wonderful!” Lucy clapped her hands together.

  “He came to the title during the war,” Julia said absently, stroking the petals.

  Lucy leaned forward, her face alight with excitement. “Was he at the ball last night? What’s his given name?”

  “Gareth McNair.”

  “Gareth McNair is the Duke of Harrow?” Maria’s smile turned into a scowl. “The same Gareth McNair who—”

  “Hush,” Julia commanded.

  Lucy pursued her lips in thought. “Didn’t you know someone by that name years ago?”

  “I did. But he certainly wasn’t a duke or anything close to it.” Julia folded the paper around the card again and said, “Go tell the boy that there is no reply, Maria.”

  “But Julia!” Lucy protested. “You can’t!”

  “Yes I can.” Julia said, reaching for an invitation.

  “Perhaps your sister does not wish the attention of this Duke,” Maria defended her mistress. “There is no rule that says she must accept any gifts he sends.”

  “But Jules,” Lucy coaxed, using her childhood nickname for her sister. “Yellow roses mean friendship. Perhaps His Grace wants to be friends again.”

  Maria’s dark-eyed gaze darted between the two sisters. “So what does her ladyship wish?” she asked. “Is there a reply or not?”

  Julia lifted the bouquet and inhaled the sweet scent. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked hard to stop their escape.

  “Señora?” Maria’s voice seemed to come from far away. “What do you want to do?”

  Sighing inwardly, Julia surrendered to courtesy. “Very well. Bring my writing case. Send the boy to the kitchen and tell Cook to give him some hot chocolate while I write a reply.”

  Maria shot her a withering look as she took the bouquet. “I will put them in your drawing room,” she announced. “Are you at home to anyone?”

  “Not at the moment,” Julia said.

  Muttering in Spanish, Maria headed toward the hall. Her heels striking against the tile floor testimony to her displeasure. Julia waited until the sound died away before looking again at Lucy. “Please, not a word of this to anyone,” she warned. “I do not wish to encourage a relationship with the Duke of Harrow.”

  “Yes, Julia,” Lucy said dutifully but the curiosity remained in her eyes. “What shall we do today?”

  Julia took an invitation from the stack and glanced at the return address. “This is from Constance Pettigrew. No doubt she wants to be sure you are on the mend.” She opened it and read over the contents. “As I thought. We’re invited for luncheon at her home today at one o’clock. So that’s what we’ll do.”

  Maria returned with Julia’s writing case. “As you requested, my lady.”

  “Lucy, why don’t you practice your music while I write the reply?” Julia
suggested. “We can go through the others later. Your Mozart sounded quite fine the other night at the Coburns’ party.”

  “Yes, Julia.” With a nod, Lucy left the room for the parlor. Minutes later the sound of the pianoforte floated back to them.

  Maria glared at Julia. “So the man who betrayed you thinks he can win you once again with flowers? Does he think because he is now a duke you will forget what we saw him doing with that woman on Lord Cheswick’s balcony?”

  “It’s not a thing a woman can forget,” Julia said, opening the writing case.

  “Or forgive,” Maria added. “With my own eyes I saw him. If you had asked, I would have put a curse on him.”

  Her maid’s fierce loyalty after all these years made Julia smile. “You don’t know any curses,” she accused. “You always say that because your grandmother claimed she was half-gypsy.”

  “It’s never too late to learn,” Maria quipped. “It would give me a chance to practice. Perhaps His Grace would make a nice toad. Then we could put him in a field with lots of snakes, hmmm?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Julia warned. “But Lucy is right. Not sending a note of thanks would certainly arouse the Duke’s attention. And that, my dearest Maria, is the last thing I want.”

  Chapter Six

  Another bath and fresh clothing put Gareth in a better mood. Any trace of a hangover was long dispelled by Taggert’s recipe. Now at half past twelve, and his stomach grumbling, Gareth found himself in William’s carriage, headed once again for Constance Pettigrew’s home in Mayfair. After eight years of trudging around the Continent, being driven—especially such a short distance between Rochester’s and Constance Pettigrew’s home—seemed odd. But he was a Duke now and a Duke would not walk anywhere. He would have to remember that.

  Besides, despite the morning’s exercise, William’s use of his cane today suggested the slight chill in the air bothered his leg and to spare his friend’s feelings, Gareth had quickly agreed to the carriage’s use.

  Remembering the number of debutantes in attendance last night, Gareth glanced at William. “Constance isn’t going to try her hand at matchmaking this afternoon, is she?”

  “You’ve been back in London twenty-four hours. Not even Connie works that fast,” William assured him with a grin. “I’ll get her to swear on her wardrobe allowance she will not interfere with your bachelorhood. That will slow her down.”

  “Good.” Gareth sighed his relief.

  “But be warned, old friend.” William winked his good eye. “Soon enough every matchmaking mama will be showering you with invitations to socials and ‘at homes’. The Duke of Harrow’s days as a bachelor are numbered. Don’t even think of trying to escape their clutches.”

  “I helped rout Napoleon and you think me incapable of doing the same to a roomful of women? Ha!”

  William’s answering snort of laughter sliced through Gareth’s declaration. “Women with marriageable daughters,” he corrected. “If England had sent them against Napoleon, he’d have agreed to any terms for surrender within a week. But we’ll see, Your Grace. We’ll see.”

  Before Gareth could frame a reply, the carriage had stopped at Constance Pettigrew’s elegant townhouse. Marley, who had served the Pettigrews for three generations, opened the front door for them.

  “Good morning, Sir William. Early as usual I see,” his creaking voice praised. “Most of her ladyship’s other guests have not arrived yet. Good morning, Your Grace. Welcome home.”

  Dread shuttled down Gareth’s spine. “Other guests? How many?” he asked.

  The old servant’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, it’s hard to say, Your Grace,” he said. “Her ladyship traditionally invites no fewer than a dozen to luncheon the day after her soirées.”

  They followed his hobbling gait across the foyer. Opening the drawing room door, he called, “They’ve arrived, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Marley,” Constance said as they stepped inside. “I’m glad to see William convinced you to join us today, Your Grace.”

  Whatever words of greeting Gareth might have employed remained in his throat. Julia Fleming sat on a floral loveseat near the windows. Early-afternoon sunlight kissed her hair, turning it a golden-honey color. Her violet dress brought out the blue in her eyes and she regarded him with a cool composure, as if meeting her old lover twice in twenty-four hours happened every day. Only giving her left ear a quick tug told him she was nervous. By all the devils in hell, how did he remember that?

  A younger woman sat beside Julia, enough alike in feature to suggest a close familial relationship. The only difference in their matching beauties was her paler blonde hair, and her expression suggesting she expected the afternoon to be a pleasant one.

  “Thank you for including me, Lady Pettigrew,” Gareth recited. He crossed the room to bow to the violet-clad figure. “Lady Fleming, am I right in guessing this is your sister?”

  “It is.” Her tone might have been sculpted out of ice. “Lucy, this is His Grace, Gareth McNair, the Duke of Harrow. My sister, Lucy Heaton, Your Grace.”

  Miss Heaton rose and gave an elegant curtsy. “I am honored to meet you, Your Grace.”

  Her unfeigned innocence touched him and he bowed. “The honor is all mine, Miss Heaton. Allow me to present my friend, Major William Hampson, baronet and Lady Pettigrew’s brother. William, this is Miss Lucy Heaton, Lady Fleming’s sister.”

  To Gareth’s relief, Miss Heaton did not stare at William’s covered eye. Instead she favored him with an honestly warm smile and curtseyed again. “Major Hampson.”

  “Your servant, Miss Heaton,” William said and moved to sit in a nearby chair.

  “I trust you are recovered from your cold?” Gareth asked Lucy.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said. “And the flowers you sent Julia this morning were lovely.”

  “Flowers?” William looked up and a sly grin eased across his features. “His Grace sent Lady Fleming flowers?”

  “Yellow roses,” Miss Heaton said. “Did you receive her thank-you note, Your Grace?”

  “Not by the time we left,” Gareth said stiffly, seating himself near Constance. Julia should really teach her sister not to talk so much. Judging from Julia’s tight-lipped smile, she agreed with him.

  “Indeed,” William drawled. “How very thoughtful. Who else have you invited today, Connie?”

  He spoke casually, but Gareth watched him grip the head of his cane. People other than friends too often gawked at his appearance. Constance sent him a love-filled glance and said gently, “Friends of Samuel who could not attend last night. Your friends too, William.”

  The door swung open and Marley announced the arrival of more guests. After surrendering his place to an elderly gentleman, Gareth went to stand before the French doors and watched Julia whispering to her sister. Bright pink flooded Miss Heaton’s face and she cast him an apologetic look. She was obviously warned to say no more about the roses.

  But Julia’s glance nearly undid him. Her expression remained serene, but he found himself drowning in the fathomless depths of her eyes. At one time, he would have been glad to do so. Gripping his hands together behind his back, Gareth silently cursed his decision to come here today. What surprises would his second twenty-four hours in London bring?

  “Lord Castleberry, the Earl of Cheswick, and Mr. James Conrad,” Marley announced.

  “Lady Pettigrew, your humble servant has arrived!” The heir to the sixth Marquess of Durham bowed deeply from the doorway. Several of the women giggled and the men snickered. Catching sight of Gareth, Cheswick lifted his ever-present quizzing glass to his eye and intoned, “Lud, help us! If it ain’t His Grace, the Duke of Harrow. Will my heart stand the strain of its palpitations?”

  “Cheswick.” Gareth bowed his head in time to hide his smile. Society would collectively swoon if they knew that behind the foppish façade, Jonathon Dashiell—Dash to his friends—Castleberry was the Foreign Office’s most celebrated spy. Napoleon had once promised a fortune to the m
an who would bring him Cheswick’s head.

  Cheswick waved a hand at the young man behind him. “May I present my friend, James Conrad.” Gliding over to their hostess, he bowed again. “My lady, I am overwhelmed by the beauties before me. And here is this Season’s brightest diamond, Miss Lucy Heaton.” He raised his quizzing glass again. “You look ravishing, my dear.”

  Miss Heaton could not stop her giggle as she rose and curtsied. “How are you today, my lord?”

  “Vastly improved upon seeing you here. My dearest Lady Fleming, you do remember my friend James Conrad? For he certainly remembers you and your sister.”

  “Of course.” Julia extended her hand. “It’s delightful to see you again, Mr. Conrad.”

  The young man accepted her hand and executed a perfect bow. “The pleasure is all mine, Lady Fleming.” A tender expression spread across his face as he bowed to Lucy. “Miss Heaton. I hope I find you well?”

  Eyes shining, Lucy said, “Very well, Mr. Conrad. Have you and Lord Cheswick had a pleasant morning?”

  “Indeed we have!” Cheswick declared. “I feel ten years younger already. Ah, Lady Stirling!”

  He hurried to bow in front of a laughing, white-haired matron before going on to give every other female present his enthusiastic admiration. While his mannerisms might be outré, no one had ever dared suggest Cheswick did not adore women in every sense of the word.

  “Now,” Cheswick announced when he had finished greeting everyone. “We must have some music before we dine. Miss Heaton, I recall hearing you sing and play at the Coburn soirée. Would you do us the honor?”

  Miss Heaton sent her hostess a questioning look, and Constance said, “Of course. That would be lovely.”

  “May I, Julia?” Miss Heaton looked at her sister.

  “Of course,” Lady Fleming said. “It doesn’t do well to say ‘no’ to the next Marquess of Durham. Everyone knows that.”

  “Indeed,” the future Marquess declared as the other guests laughed. “Not if my papa—who is in excellent health by the way—has anything to say about it! James will turn pages for you, Miss Heaton. And after that, perhaps you might sing a duet for us.”