“Father is here?” she asked, though she hardly needed him to confirm what she’d just heard for herself. “I’ll come with you, Julian.”
“Not now.” His tone, much like his gaze, had gone frigid. “It appears Mr. Whitney has asked for me. I’ll indulge him by meeting him. Ring for your maid and tend to your toilette. You may see him afterward.”
And then, without a further word, he disappeared into his dressing room, leaving her to stare after him, wondering if she’d won the battle between them or lost the entire war.
For precisely the third time in their abbreviated familial acquaintance, Julian found himself squaring off against Jesse Whitney in his study. He felt rather reminiscent of a pugilist at the moment, simultaneously attempting to defend himself and identify his opponent’s weaknesses. The man was a menace who didn’t give a damn for proper etiquette. Not only was it bad form to call on newlyweds until it became known they were receiving, it was bloody well terrible to demand an audience with a man upon being informed his lordship was not at home.
Particularly when the reason for his lordship not being at home was a naked and beautiful wife in his bed, sweet and warm and wet and willing. Damn everyone and everything but her to perdition. But he could not think about her now—about all they’d done and had yet to do—as he faced her father, for Christ’s sake. For they had just begun, he and his little dove.
Now, however, there was another matter he needed to face. And that matter was an irate, unreasonable father who should have had the courtesy and the grace to recognize his daughter was now married. They did not require further interference.Juliandamn well didn’t require further interference. He vastly disliked being made to feel as though he were a stable boy who’d made off with the daughter of the house. Even if—his noble lineage aside—that was all too close to the mark.
Julian raised a brow, pinning Whitney with a withering look. “I don’t see a pistol this time, old boy. Could it be you’ve one secreted in your waistcoat?”
Clara’s father favored him with a scowl that would have scared the devil. “Go to hell, Ravenscroft.”
The man hated him. Julian couldn’t entirely blame him. If a blackguard with a reputation as bleak as his would have absconded with his own daughter, he’d feel the same. But he didn’t yet have a daughter, and Clara was his in every way now. The mere thought was enough to send a sharp bolt of lust straight through him.
He tamped it down, forced his ardor to cool. Jesus, could he not regain control over himself? Was he nothing more than a ravening beast? If Whitney could see the wicked thoughts plaguing him, the poor chap would expire of apoplexy. Either that or leap across Julian’s desk with every intention of throttling him.
The notion wrung a grim smile of amusement from him. For all that Clara distracted him, he still enjoyed goading her father. “One must admit that hell does indeed seem my inevitable destination.”
Whitney’s hands clenched into fists, the only show of his rage beyond his thunderous expression. “I’d love to send you there. Don’t doubt that for a moment. But it would seem I’m not the only one. Common fame has it that you were attacked several days ago, and that the villain intended to murder you.”
Blast. He’d been hoping to keep that particular ignominy from wagging tongues. “I was,” he acknowledged. “Tell me, Whitney, did you hire someone to kill me?”
His wife’s father threw back his head and laughed as though Julian had just delivered the finest sally. It was his turn to clench his fists as he waited for the man’s loud humor to subside. Truly, how had a small and blindingly lovely creature like Clara ever been borne from the big, rough-hewn brute before him? It boggled the mind.
“I’ve warned you enough that you ought to know, Ravenscroft,” Whitney said at last, having quelled his vociferous glee. “I served four years in the Army of Northern Virginia. If I wanted you dead, I’d do the deed myself and you damn well wouldn’t be here smirking at me, gloating over my failure to bash in your skull, because you’d long be a corpse.”
A bloodthirsty bastard was Clara’s sire. Julian could have admired him for it, but since the bulk of his murderous intentions seemed to hinge upon Julian himself, he deemed it wise to refrain.
He kept his tone steeped in sarcasm. “Forgive me if I remain suspicious, Mr. Whitney, particularly in light of such an entertainingly murderous soliloquy. What shall I tell Clara, do you think, when she enquires about our audience? That her papa isn’t responsible for my bludgeoning because he assures me I’d already be floating in the Thames if he but wanted it?”
Whitney’s face reddened and Julian knew a moment of satisfaction at provoking him. Clara had accused him of fashioning everything into a game for his own personal entertainment, and perhaps she wasn’t so far off the mark.
“You do amuse yourself don’t you, you son-of-a-bitch? You’ll say nothing of the sort to Clara. As long as my daughter assures me she is happy, I don’t wish you ill. Make no mistake that I do expect an audience with her before I leave today.” His glare gained intensity. “The moment she isn’t happy, you’ll have cause to fear me. But what concerns me now is her safety. If you’ve lunatics attacking you in the street, how can Clara be safe?”
The question abruptly dashed his diversion. It was, after all, a question that he had refused to allow himself to ponder. For he was selfish. He was greedy. He wanted Clara by his side. In his bed. In his bloody arms. He damn well never wanted her out of reach.
“Clara is not in danger.” At least, he had no reason to believe she was. For it certainly seemed that the miscreant who’d laid him low had only been interested in his demise and not anyone else’s. Of course, it did stand to reason that if a madman was targeting him, the bastard could lash out at those closest to him as well. The notion sent a chill through him.
“Butyouare, Lord Ravenscroft,” Whitney noted, all but saying Julian’s thoughts aloud. “And if you are in danger of further assassination attempts, how can you imagine that she might not be in danger as well? What would happen if the villain who assaulted you returns to finish the deed here in your home? What if Clara is in the way? What if she’s attacked? I know you’re a heartless blackguard but even you must care for her wellbeing, at least in whatever capacity you can manage. She’s your wife now.”
Whitney said the last as though it still made him faintly ill. Yes, Clara was his wife now. She washis, damn it, in every sense of the word. And he would protect her however he must. “No harm will come to her while she’s in my care,” he promised, relenting and taking pity on Whitney. After all, at heart, the wily bastard was only a father who loved his daughter.
And Julian could relate in a basic sense.
For somehow, Clara had made him experience something he’d thought he was no longer capable of feeling: emotion.Jesus.The realization hit him with the force of a blow to the gut, knocking the wind from his lungs, leaving him reeling and confused. He cared, goddamn it.
He cared for her.
That was the sensation expanding in his chest, the knot in his gut each time he looked upon her, the need to keep her from fleeing to Virginia, to touch her, to take her. All of it. Perhaps she’d hooked him, stupid fish that he was, from the day she’d stepped into this same study, bringing her warmth and her orange-scented loveliness with her.
No one would hurt her, he vowed inwardly. No one.
“Naturally, I care for her wellbeing. I’d do anything to protect her,” he elaborated curtly.
“Forgive me if I cannot merely accept your assurance, Ravenscroft,” Whitney drawled. “How can you keep her safe? You’ve nothing here but an old butler and a handful of servants for fortification. Have you even a weapon?”
