Julia London 4 Book Bundle (24 page)

“Lilliana, where is your cloak? You’ll catch your death!” he called, and began stripping his own cloak from his shoulders.

“I’m quite all right,” she assured him, but he already had the cloak around her shoulders. He kissed her forehead in greeting and Lilliana immediately stepped back,
out of his reach, to peer around him, blushing. “Did you just arrive?”
Where was Adrian?

“This very moment. Come—I won’t have you standing outside,” he said, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, forcing her into his side as he hurried her toward the house. Entering the terrace sitting room, Lilliana smiled brightly and glanced anxiously about, expecting to see her husband.
Where was he?

“I could use a bit of brandy to warm my bones. It’s frightfully cold out,” Benedict remarked.

Lilliana pulled his cloak from her shoulders. “Max keeps the gold salon rather well stocked,” she replied, inclining her head toward the door. Benedict took the cloak and followed her into the corridor. Adrian would appear at any moment, she thought, and give her that charming smile of his. He would act as if nothing had happened, just as he always did.

But Adrian did not appear as they walked the length of the corridor.

Benedict commented on one of her newly hung paintings—marvelous, he said, and she nodded, her eyes trained ahead, expecting him to step through a door at any moment. When they reached the gold salon, they found it empty, and Lilliana’s heart sank.

Max entered behind them and quickly divested Benedict of the cloak, then walked to the sideboard, withdrawing two snifters. “May I pour you a brandy, my lady?” he asked. Lilliana shook her head, and Max put one snifter away. Now there was only one. Adrian had not come home, she realized, and was suddenly conscious of a dull ache in her chest

Benedict accepted the snifter from Max and strolled casually to the hearth to warm his back. “I thought spring had come, but it is awfully cold out. I suppose winter is not quite done with us,” he remarked sociably, and sipped his brandy. “Thank you, Max. That will be all.”

Lilliana sank into a chintz-covered armchair, oblivious to the tight-lipped look Max gave her before he quit
the room. “Did … did Adrian come with you?” she asked, wincing that her voice sounded so small.

Benedict hesitated. “I’m afraid not. He decided to stay a bit longer.”

“Really?” she asked, trying very hard to sound casual. “How much longer?”

“I couldn’t say, really.” He suddenly turned his back to her, warming his front. “I cannot seem to shake the chill.”

“Umm … did he say
why
he should remain there?” she asked, her voice even smaller.

Benedict responded with a shrug of his slender shoulders. “I rather imagine he will tell you it was business.”

He would
tell
her it was business? Lilliana’s hand fisted in her lap, and she dropped her gaze, commanding herself not to be so distrustful. When she lifted her head again, Benedict had turned and was watching her closely. Her cheeks flushed. “He must be quite busy with his work. It’s been so long since he has been to London.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t fret—he didn’t seem so very busy,” Benedict offered, and smiled strangely; it seemed almost a sneer.

But Lilliana nodded dumbly, distraught that her husband had not returned. Might never return! Perhaps he found himself delightfully free of her and quite safe from another shameful episode in her suite. Her face flooded with the heat of shame as she recalled that night for the thousandth time, offering herself like a whore, shocked when he had angrily thrust into her, and then … then finding such
rapture
in it. She swallowed convulsively at the memory; how despicable … it would be a miracle if he ever found his way home again after what she had done.

“Dear God, I’ve upset you,” Benedict said, and came away from the hearth.

“Of course you haven’t!” she shakily attempted to assure him. “I’ve been a bit under the weather recently, and I rather think—”

“Lilliana, look at me.” Benedict sank down on the ottoman in front of her and leaned forward so that she could see the concern etched around his eyes. “Lord help me, but I cannot bear to see you so distressed—”

“I am not distressed—”

“I cannot deceive you. I would do anything to avoid hurting you, but I cannot lie!”

The nausea of dread began to rise in her throat. “Lie?” she echoed, and with a limp flick of her wrist, attempted to laugh.

But Benedict caught her hand and held it tightly. “I tried to tell you what sort of man he was, but you would not hear me.… Jesus, this is so difficult,” he said, grimacing.

“Please, Benedict, no more,” Lilliana insisted weakly, but oh, God, she knew. She knew and the knowledge was knifing her through the heart. She yanked her hand free of his; he fumbled for it but let it slide through his fingers.

“My dearest Lillie, how very innocent you are,” he said, sighing sadly. The sound of that name on Benedict’s lips, the name
he
called her when he held her in his arms, made her nausea grow. “I know how painful this must be for you—poor Lillie, so very sweet and simple. Unfortunately, it is the way of some men and there is little one can do to change them. It is difficult to accept, I know, but you are strong—you
will
come to accept it, and I will help you with all that I have,” he murmured.

She had no idea what to say to that! Stunned, she could only stare at him, wondering if she should thank him for being forthright or curse him for saying something so wretched.

He suddenly rose. “Let me fetch you a brandy. You’ll feel better with a brandy.” He returned a few moments later with a snifter, holding it between his hands to warm it before giving it to her. “I’ll postpone my return to Kealing Park a day or two; I cannot leave you in such distress.”

He handed her the brandy with such a look of pity that she wanted to pour it over his head. Simple and fragile—but look at her, for God’s sake! A country bumpkin who threw iniquitous little tantrums in her bedroom! “There is really no need, Benedict,” she said, but her hand, trembling as she took the brandy he offered, suggested otherwise.
Damn it!
How could she look at Adrian again, knowing he was keeping company with another woman in London? A woman who undoubtedly accepted his gentle caress without tears or dramatic displays!

“There is every need,” he said in a distinctly patronizing tone. “Drink your brandy, love, and then perhaps you should lie down for a bit.”

She didn’t need to lie down. She needed to run out into the bitter cold so that her lungs would freeze and she would never have to take another tortured breath again.

Fortunately, Thunder liked the cold, and kept up a rapid pace for most of the trip to Longbridge. Adrian had made good time and was glad for it. The need to see Lilliana was eating at him like a virus, so much so that he had asked Arthur to bring the emerald jewelry he had commissioned because he simply could not wait another day. Naturally, he had been forced to endure a fair amount of ribald laughter for it, but Arthur had agreed.

Thunder trotted down the oak-lined drive, and Adrian anxiously glanced at his pocket watch again. Max had once mentioned she spent her afternoons painting; she would be in the orangery now. In the paddock he quickly tossed the reins to a groom and instructed him to have his bags delivered to Max, then headed for the orangery. As he round the corner of the stable, he could see the soft glow of candlelight illuminating the orangery windows, and amazingly, his heart beat a little faster.

He picked up the pace, jogging to the corner of the
orangery, then slowing to a walk as he headed for the door. As he approached one pane-glass window, he caught a glimpse of her inside, her brush raised to a canvas, her blond curls shimmering in the candlelight. He smiled warmly—but the smile began to fade as he neared. A man’s arm came up near her head, pointing at something on the canvas. Max, perhaps? Or Benedict?

His eyes narrowed as he walked past the window. It was Benedict, all right, hanging over her shoulder. Reaching the door, Adrian rapped lightly and swung it open. Lilliana dropped her brush and came clumsily to her feet, hastily wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. “Adrian. You’ve come home.”

Cool and to the point. Not exactly the reception he had hoped for, but not altogether unexpected. “A little later than I would have liked,” he said blandly. He glanced around as Lilliana shrugged awkwardly from a smock that looked suspiciously like one of his shirts. There were paintings everywhere—covering the walls, propped like cards in one corner, and on three separate easels in various spots around the large, rectangular room. “You’ve been busy, I see,” he said, and glanced to his right “Ben, I am surprised to see you,” he said, and walked forward, extending his hand. “Thought you had business elsewhere.”

His brother’s eyes darted nervously to Lilliana before he grasped Adrian’s hand. “The weather,” he mumbled. “Rather nasty the last few days.”

It was cold, but hardly treacherous. Adrian shifted his gaze to Lilliana. “I hope you have been well,” he said, and strolled toward her. Her eyes widened as he approached, the gray-green orbs exactly as he had imagined them these last few days, large and framed with thick golden lashes.

“Are you?”

“Am I?”

“Well.”

“Oh!” Her hand came up, and she nervously fingered the small gold cross at her neck. “Yes, quite well, thank you. And you?”

“Quite well,” he mumbled, and leaned down to kiss her. She startled him by turning her head slightly, so that he just caught the corner of her mouth. He straightened slowly, silently cursing Benedict’s presence. If only he could speak to her, in here, among her paintings. While she looked so terribly mussed and appealing. “I don’t suppose I could entice you to join me in the gold salon? I should like to hear about Longbridge while I was away. I trust no boxing matches have occurred?” he asked, and smiled.

“Umm, no.” She glanced at Benedict. A twinge of jealousy shot down Adrian’s spine, and he followed her gaze over his shoulder. Benedict was standing with his feet braced apart, his hands clenched at his side. “Ah, actually, my lord,” she said, “it is almost time for tea. If you please, I should dress first.” She quickly pulled a tarp over the painting she had been working on and stepped around him, walking toward the door. Benedict was there in a trice, holding out her cloak. “Oh. Thank you,” she mumbled, and fastened it around her neck. She turned halfway toward Adrian, her gaze riveting on his neckcloth. “Excuse me,” she muttered. And with that she walked out of the orangery. There was no joy at his return, no need to see him as he needed to see her. Terribly conscious of Benedict, Adrian kept his expression neutral. He strolled toward the door, his eyes on his younger brother, who seemed oddly nervous. The weakling was hiding something. “Did I interrupt?” he asked mildly.

“Interrupt …? God, no, Adrian. She’s been a bit unsettled I think, what with you being gone.”

“Has she? I would not have guessed,” Adrian said dryly, and walked out the door, not caring if Benedict followed or not.

But he did, and Adrian was forced to make conversation with him while they waited a full hour for Lilliana to appear. Benedict chatted endlessly about nothing, and if pressed, Adrian could not have repeated a single thing he had said. His heart was full of foolish jealousy at her
cool reception, impatience at her lack of gaiety. Had he been a fool to think he harbored some fondness for her? Had he been so disturbed by her performance that night in her bed that he had come up with some ridiculous notion of affection? Yes, and while he was convincing himself that he rather did care for her, she had been smiling at Benedict.

But when she walked into the salon wearing a pale gold gown of brocade and chiffon, the uncertainty rocketed to terrifying proportions. She moved as if she were gliding on air, the chiffon streaming out behind her like some sort of cloud. Her hair was swept back and bound up with little gold beads stuck carelessly about her coif. She was terribly alluring—had she always been so? Was it really possible he had been so blind to her charm?

She sat gingerly on the edge of a settee and accepted the cup of tea a footman handed her, but made no move to drink it. Her face was pale, and the faintest of shadows dusted the skin beneath her eyes. Benedict immediately engaged her in some useless conversation, and Lilliana smiled at him, and Adrian felt the gulf between them widen impossibly. This was hardly what he had hoped for or imagined. He had wanted to sweep her into his arms, make passionate love to her, and erase the memory of that awful night.

But Benedict’s chatter continued well into supper. At the dining table, Adrian quietly endured the inane chatter and Lilliana’s bright responses. Too bright. So bright that it seemed that tiny chinks in her armor were glowing with them. This was not the same Lilliana he had left a few days ago.

And if he needed any further proof of it, she did not touch her pudding.

By the time the dishes had been cleared and the port drunk, Adrian was sick to death of Benedict. He had to speak with his wife, alone, unguarded. He stood abruptly, his eyes riveting on Lilliana. “I would speak with you alone, Lilliana,” he said curtly, and glancing to
his left, said coolly, “Ben, you will excuse us, won’t you?”

“Oh! Naturally! I should really be off to bed as I intend to get an early start tomorrow.”

That
Adrian would believe when he saw it. With a curt nod to his brother he walked to the door and opened it. “Lilliana?”

Her gaze fell to the table, and bracing her hands against it, she slowly pushed herself to her feet. Deliberately, she turned and walked toward him with her eyes on the carpet, as if she had been summoned to meet her maker. When she reached the door, Adrian grasped her elbow and propelled her swiftly into the east wing and to his private study.

Pushing the door open, he waited for her to precede him, then stepped across the threshold and leaned against the door with his hands shoved in his pockets. He watched her move to the far side of the room, nervously running her palms up and down over the chiffon overlay of her gown, until she at last clasped her hands at her waist and turned toward him.