Stormswept (2 page)

Glancing at her sister-in-law, Elizabeth, Juliana tensed. The woman wore her usual carved-ice expression, which never cracked, even in the presence of her husband. Darcy’s reasons for marrying the young heiress had been thoroughly mercenary. But were Juliana’s reasons for marrying Stephen any different?

Yes, they were. There was nothing wrong with marrying for companionship. Even Llynwydd was lonely at night, in the dead of winter. She was tired of being alone. She wanted a husband and children.

Besides, she liked Stephen. They’d do nicely together.

Before she knew it, the meal had passed, and Darcy rose to begin the evening’s toasts. “Welcome, my friends, to this celebration,” he said in stentorian tones. “A year ago, this fine gentleman, the Marquess of Devon, came to court my sister, Juliana. And as luck would have it, they found favor in each other’s eyes.”

A shadow passed over his face. “Although my father died before he’d had the chance to meet his lordship, I know he would have approved of the marquess. Lord Devon is one of the most respectable, intelligent, and engaging men I’ve ever known.”

Darcy stood a little straighter, looking almost military in demeanor. “So tonight, my friends, I’m pleased to announce, on behalf of my mother and my late father, the betrothal of my sister to this honorable man.”

He held up his glass, his face flushing with pleasure. “A toast! To Lady Juliana and her husband-to-be, Stephen Wyndham, the Marquess of Devon! May their joy be unbounded! ”

The guests raised their glasses, preparing to cheer—but another voice rang out from the other end of the hall. “I dispute that toast! ”

Darcy looked incredulous, as the other guests hesitated with their arms suspended in the air as if by invisible wires. Juliana’s heart dropped into her stomach.

She searched for the man who’d spoken and found him at the other end of the ballroom. Towering over the other guests, he stood in the shadows, where she couldn’t make out his features. Was this the fellow Overton had spoken of?

He was dressed more soberly than her guests, and his entire
bearing bespoke arrogance. The gasps of those around him had little effect, for he carried himself forward with the invincibility of a battleship.

He snatched a glass from a guest’s hand as he passed. “I would propose another toast entirely.”

Something in his voice tweaked her buried memories. It couldn’t be. His accent wasn’t right. And as he came closer, she could see he wore the expensive attire of a lord, not the modest garb of a radical. What’s more, he was too big, too self-assured, and entirely too imposing to be . . .

But try as she could to deny it, her fear became a certainty as he strolled up the aisle to the head table. She stared at the broad shoulders, at the black curls cropped at the chin framing an arresting and painfully familiar face. She rose, not realizing that she did, disbelieving the evidence of her own eyes.

Darcy seemed to regain his wits. “What preposterous rudeness is this? I don’t know you, sir, and I’m certain you weren’t invited. Leave at once, before I have my footmen throw you out! ” He signaled to a servant, who hastened toward the stranger.

With a sinister clang, the encroacher withdrew his sword and the summoned footman fell back.

Sure of his audience, the man came to within six feet of her. “If anyone should have been invited, ’tis I. But then, I’m sure you treacherous blackguards thought yourselves well rid of me.” He scanned the head table with a scathing glance. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be engaging in this farce.”

With her heart in her stomach, Juliana stared at the man’s face. ’Twas impossible!

Stephen jumped to his feet. “Treacherous blackguards! I’ll call you out for that, sir! ”

“Ah, but you have it all wrong, Lord Devon.
I
should call
you
out. Ask Juliana.”

Stephen shot her a questioning look, but Juliana took no notice as the man fixed his gaze on her, searing her. Her throat tightened and her knees shook. Only one man had those blue eyes. And for a moment, her heart leapt and she wanted to bound over the table into his arms.

Then she saw the coldness in his eyes, the anger in his face, and the urge fled.

“You should have told him, Juliana.” His voice held an edge of fury. “ ’Tis an important thing to leave out of any discussion about betrothal.”

“It c-can’t be tr-true,” she whispered, stumbling over the words.

His eyes narrowed. “What? That I’ve returned? That I’ve come to reclaim my lands . . . my inheritance . . . and you? Oh yes, love. It is true.”

The entire company was thrown into confusion, except for her brothers, who looked as if they’d commit murder any moment. It was like seeing a corpse rise from the grave.

“Rhys, please.” She clasped her chair as her knees began to buckle.

With an expression as cold as the frostiest winter, Rhys lifted his glass in a toast. “To Juliana, my darling wife. I’ve come to take you home.”

And for the first time in her life, Juliana fainted.

Carmarthen, Wales

July 1777

Six years earlier

If you marry a green youth,

you will cut the sprouting corn;

and you may find that the harvest

is too stormy to be borne.

—ANONYMOUS, “STANZAS FOR THE HARP”

As sweet is your pose

As a riverbank rose

Or a posy where lily or lavender blows.

—HUW MORUS, “PRAISE OF A GIRL”

J
uliana St. Albans gestured at the tall young man who stood stiff and sober before the crowded room. “Is that Rhys Vaughan?” He seemed different from the other Sons of Wales sitting in the basement of Gentlemen’s Bookshop in Carmarthen. “That can’t be him. He looks too quiet.”

Her Welsh lady’s maid, Lettice Johnes, snorted. “For what? Did you expect a hard-drinking, hard-boasting gambler like his late father, the squire?”

Juliana swept her gaze around the room. “I expected none of this.” In her naiveté, she’d thought to find serious young men discussing politics in earnest voices . . . not this rabble of hotheads.

“I don’t suppose you want to go home now?”

Lettice sounded so hopeful that Juliana had to smile. “Not after I went to all the trouble of dressing like a poor Welsh servant to follow you here.”

“I should never have told Morgan I would attend,” Lettice grumbled. “And I shouldn’t have let you stay once you showed up. He won’t be happy about that.”

“It’s not your fault. If your sweetheart wasn’t always so heedless of his surroundings when he courts you, I wouldn’t have overheard him mention the meeting.” And Rhys Vaughan’s part in it.

“Pray God none of the Sons of Wales recognize you. They’ll think you a spy, and Lord only knows how they’ll react.”

“No one will guess who I really am.” Juliana wore her simplest gown, a mob cap to cover her telltale red hair, and a Welsh shawl. It was the perfect disguise.

“If your father finds out you were here consorting with ‘those dirty Welsh,’ he’ll give you a thrashing. You’d best leave before you get into trouble.”

A pox on Lettice for always trying to tell her how to behave! At twenty-one, Juliana wasn’t a child anymore. Why, most women were already married, bearing children, and running households. Surely she was old enough to attend a late-night meeting of Welsh radicals.

“Will you stop haranguing me if I promise not to get caught?” Juliana snapped.

“This meeting won’t be the ‘romantic’ Welsh poetry and history you fancy. It’ll be rough men waving their arms and shouting about politics.”

“They’re not shouting now.”

“They will be, once Rhys Vaughan starts to speak his piece.”

Juliana glanced to where the squire’s son stood beside
a burly shopkeeper, waiting for the meeting to begin. The men in the audience were scowling and making sarcastic comments as the squire’s son strove to ignore them.

“Why are they so hostile to him?” Juliana asked.

“The young Mr. Vaughan has been away a long time at university and on the Grand Tour. Since his father loved to talk of how the English would save Wales, this lot is suspicious of the son.”

“But children don’t always take after their parents.”

“Aye. Heaven knows you’re nothing like yours.” Lettice flashed her a speculative glance. “You came just to see Mr. Vaughan, didn’t you?”

Her maid was far too perceptive. “Of course. I wanted to hear his lecture. He’s speaking about the Welsh language, isn’t he?”

“Aye, but that’s not why you’re curious. After what your father did to the Vaughans, you want to see what the son is like. So what do you think of the man whose inheritance your father stole?”

Juliana stiffened. “Papa didn’t steal Llynwydd. Squire Vaughan was a profligate man who lost his estate through his own recklessness. He shouldn’t have played cards at such high stakes if he hadn’t been prepared to lose.”

“Perhaps. And perhaps your father shouldn’t have agreed to such high stakes. A man’s estate is his life.” Lettice leaned closer. “Some claim the squire was drunk when he made that bet. And some claim your father cheated, in his eagerness to get a fine estate to use as your dowry.”

Juliana winced. “I don’t care what the gossips say. Papa won that estate fairly.”

“Then why deed it to you? Fathers don’t generally give their daughters ownership of their dowry properties, especially when the family’s finances are strained. He wants to protect Llynwydd from whoever might challenge his claim.”

“That’s not true.” Papa had only been trying to secure Llynwydd for her so Darcy couldn’t appropriate it for himself after Papa died. “But I’m sorry the squire’s son has no more inheritance now.”

“Aye, and no father, either.”

Guilt assailed Juliana. The squire had killed himself after losing his estate. And all because of what Papa had done to protect her.

She’d come here hoping to find Mr. Vaughan to be as much a profligate as his father, someone she could despise. Instead, she found a sober fellow too serious for his age.

And far too handsome. He had an unblemished brow, a determined mouth, and the strong jaw of a man of character. He didn’t look much older than she, yet unlike other young men, he didn’t fidget or shift from foot to foot like an impatient heron. His regal reserve and arrogant stance obviously came from good breeding. Like Darcy, he exuded confidence. His neat clothing wasn’t extravagant, but it was certainly finer than that of the others.

Yet he shockingly wore no wig. Like a common Welsh laborer, he kept his lustrous black hair tied back in a queue. And his eyes were all passion and fire . . . blue and wild and fierce, like the crashing waters of the Welsh sea.

He must have sensed her watching him, for he turned his gaze to her. She caught her breath, afraid he might
see through her flimsy disguise. But when he gave her the barest half-smile and his gaze moved on, her breath whooshed out of her.

He wasn’t at all like other men of rank she knew, who were cold and lackluster even when they smiled at her. Like King Arthur, Mr. Vaughan thrummed with power. Arthur had been Welsh, too, a scholar and not a warrior. She could almost envision Mr. Vaughan admonishing his knights to uphold the ideals of the realm.

Oh bother! As usual, she was making everything romantic. Rhys Vaughan wasn’t an Arthur, and certainly not a king.

“There he is, the devil,” Lettice muttered.

Juliana looked over to see Morgan Pennant coming down the row toward them. The handsome printer in his thirties always smelled of ink and paper. Men generally trailed after Lettice like lapdogs, but only Mr. Pennant had captured the maid’s affections. Unfortunately, his involvement with the Sons of Wales had forced her to keep her courtship secret. But she hadn’t been able to keep it from Juliana’s curious eyes.

As Mr. Pennant sat down beside Lettice, he laid a proprietary hand on hers, then leaned forward to see who her companion was. When he caught sight of Juliana his smile faded, and he shot Lettice a quizzical glance. “What’s she doing here? ’Tisn’t a place for an English girl.”

“She followed me after she heard you invite me. You did say Mr. Vaughan would be talking about reviving the Welsh language.” Lettice shrugged. “Once she was here, I couldn’t send her home alone, could I?”