Then there was this other fellow, Adam Klein, a musician who claimed to have studied under Beethoven himself. He played alongside them in their performances, completing their quartet as the fourth member. Like Karl, Adam Klein had met him with suspicion when they first met, his gaze sizing him up warily. Lena’s firm introduction of Julius as a friend of Simon’s, and atemporary guest in their home, left Klein no choice but to grudgingly tolerate his presence.
Lena, on the other hand, mothered everyone, including the neighbours, the stray dog Bello, the bird in the tree called Fips, and any beggar child who happened to wander by.
Once, he even caught her mothering him when she put a hand on his forehead to check his temperature. When he looked up in surprise, she withdrew her hand, blushing wildly. “You haven’t said a word all day, so I wondered if you were ill. I can’t have anyone ill in my house, because then we’ll all fall ill, and Theo will insist on doctoring us, and then he’ll get ill himself.” She tended to ramble when she was embarrassed, and it appeared that she was often embarrassed in his company.
As if she didn’t know how to behave in his presence when they were alone.
He regretted now that he’d answered her question in the affirmative. When she’d asked him if they had been in love….
He’d lied.
Chapter Sixteen
It had been an arranged marriage.
As was customary, their union had been decided upon by their parents when they were still children—or at least Catherine had been. He was nine years older and at that time more interested in roaming the countryside with his friends, hunting, fishing, and riding than being with his child bride, who, in her portraits, appeared to be a diminutive, well-mannered doll with corkscrew curls, dressed according to the fashion of the time.
He’d never questioned the arrangement. It was his duty to marry and provide the Dukedom with an heir, and he was expected to marry the woman who was chosen for him. Certainly, he’d had his bits of muslin by the side, for his child bride was one thing, and his mistress another. One thing was duty, the other was desire. No one in his class would have batted an eyelid, for this sort of arrangement was not only common and acceptable, but it was also expected of the men of his class. It was the way things were done. Julius did not giveit a second’s thought; he had had neither the time nor interest to court anyone else, and he regarded the entire Season as a nuisance. As far as he was concerned, the engagement was convenient. When he inherited his father’s title at the age of twenty-six, they were expected to marry quickly. She was still too young, her parents had protested, barely seventeen.
He’d met Catherine at their official engagement a year later, a fragile, delicate slip of a girl, who’d looked at him with tremulous, nervous eyes. She looked as though a puff of wind would blow her away.
She was pretty enough, he’d decided. Good breeding, a good name, good manners. She could play the pianoforte, sing, and embroider well. She would bear him a son. In short, she would make an excellent duchess.
They’d taken a turn about the rose garden. It had been somewhat awkward. He wasn’t the most talkative person, and she was painfully shy. It was clear as daylight that the girl was terrified of him. They had nothing in common. She never met his eyes. When she spoke, her voice was so low that he had to bend down to make out what she was saying. She blushed furiously as she pulled out a small trinket and handed it to him, stammering that it was to be his engagement present. It took her three tries to get the words out.
There had been something endearing about that. He’d taken the trinket, which had been engraved with his family’s crest.
“You can open it,” she whispered.
When he did, he found a surprisingly accurate miniatureof herself inside, and on the other side several strands of gold. A strand of her hair.
It took him by surprise. This was a gift from a lover. He’d certainly never expected to receive such a trinket from his future wife.
“I’ll always treasure it,” he told her, and he’d meant it.
She glanced up at him shyly, like a fawn. Her lips had been slightly parted and looked like the dewy petals of a rosebud.
He’d kissed her then. He hadn’t planned it, and he certainly hadn’t thought about it. It hadn’t been a gentle, tender kiss either, but a demanding, possessive one. For a moment he’d allowed himself to be lost in her intoxicating sweetness.
He felt her shrink and tremble, and the first sane thought that penetrated his foggy mind was that it was too soon, too fast, and she wasn’t ready.
He let her go abruptly, and she looked at him with those fawn eyes as if he’d grown three horns on his head.
He’d suppressed a curse. Now he’d gone and frightened her with his brute handling of her. It was a miracle she didn’t run.
He’d mumbled an apology and fled, leaving her standing alone in the rose garden.
Not an auspicious beginning to their marriage, he’d thought ruefully.
They’d been married a month later in the family chapel. She looked as white as porcelain, and her hand had trembled like a little bird in his. There was still that nervous look in her eyes, as if she feared he’d devour her on the spot.
Julius wandered away from the Arenheim home and stared across the distance over the river, ignoring the cold wind pull at his hair.
Had theirs been a happy marriage?
He’d been absent most of the time. When he was at Aldingbourne Hall, she had tried so hard to please him. She’d been such an obedient, dutiful little wife. But she’d been so much younger, in a different league; she hadn’t been the companion he needed. She was always there, yet he’d barely acknowledged her existence.
Had he loved her at all during all that time?
