And then he started running. No more warning. The determination on his face was undeniable.
Now was clearly not the time to seek an audience with him. On a squeal, she fled him in truth, going as quickly as her cumbersome skirts and petticoats would allow, tearing down the hall. His heavy footfalls were behind her. Growing nearer.
Of all the scenarios she had envisioned during the interminable trip here and time she had subsequently spent working up the courage to confront Shelbourne, this—fleeing him as he chased after her—had not been one of them. Her heart was pounding. She raced past a shocked footman and a wide-eyed maid.
“Keep running, little goose,” Shelbourne called after her.
Mad, she thought frantically. Mayhap he had gone mad. Or he was so thoroughly in his cups he did not give a damn about chasing a lady from his home. She dashed toward the entry hall, but he caught her with an arm wrapped around her waist.
Before she could even react, he had hauled her backward, turned her around, and lowered his shoulder to her midsection. She grappled with his broad, damp shoulders.
“Shelbourne, stop this at once.”
But her protest was only met with him rising, tossing her easily over his shoulder.
She was suspended above the floor, and the world was upside down.
And she was falling apart.
“Shelbourne.”
A flurry of footsteps reached her. “My lord, her carriage is waiting.”
His butler, she realized. The servant was infinitely prepared.
Only Julianna had not been. Nothing tonight had gone as planned.
“Excellent, Wentworth. Fetch me some whisky as well, won’t you?” he asked calmly, as if he was not carting Julianna about.
“Allow me to walk on my own,” she said, all the blood rushing to her head.
“But that would not be nearly as satisfying.” With that pronouncement, he carried her into the night. Cold rain slashed at her, but he trudged on, undeterred.
The pavements were a murky blur beneath them as he took her toward her carriage.
“Shelbourne!” she tried again, but it was futile.
He was shouting orders to her coachman now. The door to the carriage was opened, and she was dumped unceremoniously inside.
She had a moment to catch her breath, to swipe the riotous curls from her eyes, and catch him hovering in the doorway, rain glistening on his sharp cheekbones.
“Go back to America, Julianna,” he told her.
And then, he slammed the door closed.
Chapter 2
I miss him. Every day across the ocean filled me with more pain than the one which had preceded it. The journey to New York City was arduous, and not just because of the swelling seas or the time required to cross the Atlantic. But because it took me from him. I know I could not have remained in London and that I made the right choice. However, I still lay awake at night and ache for him…
~ from the journal of Lady Julianna Somerset, 1883
The witch had trespassed on his bloody dreams last night, much in the same fashion she had intruded upon the sanctity of his home.
Which meant that when Sidney woke, obscenely early by his standards, with a mouth that tasted as if he had spent the evening licking the attic floor, and a curdled stomach, she was the first thought on his mind. Of course she was. Two years had passed, and when had he ever had a day when memories of her had not haunted him somehow, in some way?
He could not recall. Damn her and her flaming-red curls and her freckles on her nose and her pale skin and bewitching lips and curves and her fucking eyes that were bluer than a cloudless sky and the ocean combined. Damn every little part of her to perdition, where she belonged. And damn her scent, lily of the valley, as well. Sweet and innocent. Everything she was not.
Sidney rolled onto his side, self-hatred skewering him as thoroughly as any sword. Bile raced up his throat.Hell.He was going to cast up his accounts just as he had suspected. He blamed his desperate state on her as well.Everythingwas her fault. Her fault for returning to England. For once more being within reach.
