“The Gainsborough?” Her mother’s brow furrowed. “You know I have been most desirous of seeing it hanging in the library on Fifth Avenue.”
Julianna gritted her teeth. “He wants to marry me tomorrow, Mama.”
“May as well get on with it. Rather putting the horse after the cart, is it not?”
“We will be staying here in London,” she pressed. “Emily and I. For a time, at least. Shelbourne wants to be a part of her life.”
Her mother wrinkled her nose, her expression one of distaste. “Surprising, I must say. Children are dreadful creatures. But it is likely for the best.”
Had she expected even a modicum of sadness from her mother at the realization she would be living across the ocean from her daughter and granddaughter? If she had, how foolish. This was the mother who had done everything in her power to force Julianna into giving Emily to another family and pretending she had never been born. This was the mother who would protect her own reputation and seek out her happiness over that of her daughter. The same woman who had refused to allow Julianna to let Emily call herMama.
The time had come to sever their ties.
Julianna rose. “I hope Father gives you the Gainsborough. Do not come to the wedding tomorrow.”
Without bothering to await her mother’s response, she left the room.
Chapter 8
Two years earlier
The ocean passage has not proven particularly trying. The days pass in a game of patience, when I possess little. I have distracted myself with drink, a favorite friend of mine in the absence of the woman I thought to make my wife. Am I a fool for making this voyage? We are due to arrive in New York City tomorrow. Julianna is there, and the physical distance between us after some three months of interminable separation shall be shortened considerably. No one at home knows I have gone. Anonymity is how I prefer this mad attempt at reconciliation; my lack of pride is as appalling as it is apparent. Should I fail, I, alone, will know…
~from the journal of Viscount Shelbourne, 1883
Julianna told herself, as she made her aimless way down one of the many walking paths at Farnsworth Hall, that nothing life-altering had happened since those kisses in the lake. The earth had not shifted. The sun had not turned into the moon. She was still Lady Julianna Somerset, red-haired and freckle-covered, her bosom too big, and her laugh too loud. And Shelbourne was still the most handsome man she had ever beheld. He still made her palms sweat and her knees quiver and the most delicious ache burst forth from the knot of desire spinning deep within her.
However, she could not seem to convince herself of the reliability of her self-assurances. Because too much lingered. Although he had been polite at dinner the night before and their paths had failed to cross at breakfast, a new hope was burning brightly within her, spurred by the way Shelbourne’s lips had felt, firm and hot and strong, and as if they had always been meant for hers. A gift she had unexpectedly received beneath the country sun just yesterday.
But was it not also true that Lord Shelbourne possessed something of a rakish reputation? Had not Hellie told Julianna of her brother’s exploits in shocked whispers on so many occasions in the past? Stories they were not meant to know about, women whose existences they should never acknowledge. There had been an opera singer. An actress, too. An artist.
Viscount Shelbourne, it seemed, enjoyed the company of a certain set of ladies.
And how was Julianna to compete with beauties who also possessed not just incomparable talents but the ability to freely pursue whomever they desired? The answer was as clear as it was distressing. She could not. Likely, Shelbourne’s politeness at dinner had been a reflection of that. Those kisses had been everything for her, and for him…
For him, they had likely been nothing. Less than nothing, mayhap.
No different than the kisses he had bestowed upon a dozen other lips before hers. Certainly less skilled. She had no experience. He had probably laughed at her when they had parted.
Her humiliation was complete.
What good was there in the culmination of years of pent-up longing and yearning, of watching from afar, when the man she loved remained out of reach? Kisses were not enough. Not when they were followed by precise, agonizing politeness and terrible silence. As if he had not upended her world yesterday.
She reached a rise in the path which overlooked the lake from high above. The scene of her folly glinted beneath the morning sun, mocking. The view from here was breathtaking. On a knoll opposite, a small, white Palladian temple presided. On any other day, she would have been mesmerized by the beauty of the reeds surrounding the lake, the chirping of the birds, the blue sky overhead blunted with the occasional hoary cloud. Everything seemed to glow with the brilliance of nature. The grass was verdant. The air succulent and perfumed with vegetation.
But when she stood here, the small miracles of nature were lost upon her. All she saw was the ruins of her dreams.
“Lady Julianna.”
The low voice, a husky baritone that would forever fall over her like silk, was the product of her imagination. She was certain of it.
Until the hackles on the back of her neck rose. Until warmth suffused her. An awareness unlike any other was there, burning to life. She was so attuned to him, she knew it before she turned to find Shelbourne sauntering toward her, dressed as if he had been riding. Leather boots and tweed and an invitation to sin.
She swallowed. Remembered herself. Curtseyed. “My lord.”
A rush of despicable awkwardness swept over her. Her palms were damp. Any witty or clever turns of phrase fled her along with her breath. He was here. Stopping just short of touching distance.
Kissing distance, reminded the wickedness within.
