Chapter Eight
Damn, it was good to have a direction. Real, physical work he could do for her. Even if that work was just shoving aside some furniture and rolling up the carpet while a parrot taunted from above.
Julian led her to the pianoforte in the corner. After removing an arrangement of lilies from the top, he ran one hand over the polished wood veneer. This was a remarkably fine instrument. Far superior to any he’d learned on in his youth. He’d never had a single lesson, nor even much opportunity to practice. But after a few hours sitting down to the thing—testing the keys and experimenting with intervals, learning how the contraption worked—he’d understood it and had simply been able to play. He could hear a tune with his ears, and his fingers just knew how to translate it into the proper sequence of keys.
Some said God had given him a gift. To Julian, it was much the same as his ability to reproduce voices—just one more function of having acutely trained ears. From the earliest days of his life, listening had always been his paramount task. He’d always been alert, always been listening. Their lives had depended on it.
“Julian,” she teased as he sat down to the instrument, “you know actual music isn’t required. Not for me, anyhow.”
“Humor me,” he said, shaking his fingers loose. “How shall we begin?”
“The quadrille? Surely balls still begin with the quadrille?”
He nodded in confirmation. “Place your hands flat atop the pianoforte. Lean against it, if you will.”
She complied.
“Now close your eyes.”
She did so, smiling.
His breath caught in his chest. “God, Lily. You’re so damned beautiful it hurts.”
She didn’t react, of course. He’d known she wouldn’t. But for whatever reason, he couldn’t help testing her. It was the strangest thing. He’d been that way with his mother, too. Always testing her with outlandish comments made to her back: “Look sharp, it’s an elephant!” and such.
Setting the memory aside and placing his fingers to the keys, Julian played several bars of Le Pantalon, the first figure of the quadrille. When he stopped, Lily opened her eyes.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
“A bit unpleasant. It tickles all along my teeth.”
“But the rhythm. Did you recognize it? Can you visualize the steps?”
She nodded.
“Again,” he said. She closed her eyes, and he played through the same section, taking it a few bars further this time. Her fingers tapped along with the beat.
“Once more,” he directed at the end. “This time, eyes open.” He played straight through to the end of the figure, holding eye contact with Lily as together they recited the steps. “One, two, turn …,” “Now to the corner,” and so forth. At the conclusion of the sequence, he rose and offered his hand. “Are you ready to try?”
Nodding her agreement, she took his hand. Together they moved to the center of the room and queued up facing one another.
Their first attempt was over before it even began. They started with a deep, stately curtsy and bow, but when they lifted their heads, they found the parrot sitting on the floor between them, cocking his head and blinking a perplexed, beady eye. Lily dissolved into helpless laughter while Julian shooed the creature away.
They tried again, this time making it through a small section of the dance.
As they practiced the figure, the occasional feathered interruption overrode any awkwardness. For the most part. One particular segment of the pattern required them to link hands and circle one another, maintaining eye contact all the while. On each attempt, Julian lost his rhythm in those lovely eyes and stumbled over his feet. It took a half-dozen tries before they executed that turn successfully.
But they did eventually succeed, and Lily’s pleasure in their mastery of the figure was clear. Using this method, they worked their way through each section of the quadrille. First, Julian would sit at the pianoforte and play the rhythm, and Lily would “listen” with her hands. Then they would attempt the steps with varying success, avian antics depending.
The quadrille conquered, he suggested a particular country dance, one that had climbed to a new apex of popularity just this season past.
“It’s all the rage,” he said. “They’re certain to include it at the assembly.”
“I never learned that one.” Lily worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “But let’s have a go.”
It was a disaster. Though the rhythm was simple, the dance’s pattern was lively and complex. Julian attempted to demonstrate both the lady’s and gentleman’s parts, but he could only be in one place at a time.
When Lily missed her entrance cue for the fourth time running, she threw up her hands in defeat. “I’m sorry. I’ll never learn this. I’m wasting your time.”
“No, you’re not.”
She shook her head, obviously discouraged. “I just can’t seem to catch it. Popular or no, I’ll have to sit this dance out.”
“Don’t be distressed,” he said, grasping her by the elbows to prevent her from turning away. “We’ll try again later, or tomorrow. Every day until the assembly, if that’s what’s required. And it will go so much easier in a group, you’ll see. With dancers on either side, you can take your cue from them.”
Her chin quavered, and frustration rose in his chest. It wasn’t frustration with her, but with his inability to fix this for her. To fix everything for her.
“Lily,” he said. “It’s just a dance. You can do this. You can do anything.”
She sighed, shrugging away from his touch. “There’s not enough time. I shall have to stick to the dances I remember, never mind that they’re a decade out of fashion. If only I could recognize each dance by the music, that is. This is hopeless.”
“No, it’s not. I’ll learn the order of dances ahead of time and write it down.”
“How will you do that?”
“Easily.” Simple matter of slipping a coin or two to the orchestra leader. “You can keep the list folded in your glove. And we’ll strategize, when it comes to arranging partners.”
“There’s always waltzing,” she added. “Surely I can manage a waltz with any competent partner. I needn’t do anything but follow his lead.”
“True,” he agreed. “We can make certain you’re paired with someone you know. A good dancer. Morland would do.”
“Or you.”
He paused, momentarily struck mute by the thought of holding her in his arms, close and tight, while the entire ton looked on. “Or me.”
“Can we try?” She looked to the pianoforte.
“But of course.”
He sat down to the instrument once again. This time, he allowed his fingers to linger, skimming over the tops of the ivory keys as he deliberated just what to play. Finally, he positioned his hands, closed his eyes, and simply let his fingertips decide. They coaxed from the instrument a slow, melodic waltz. He couldn’t even remember where he’d heard it. Perhaps in one of those Austrian snuffboxes, with clockwork that produced tinkling tunes? The melody did have a Viennese lilt. As the progression built, he allowed the music to take over and surrendered to the beauty and haunting romance of the tune.
When he finally looked up, some moments after the final chord, he found Lily draped over the instrument, staring rapt at his hands. “I’ve always loved watching you play,” she said. “So much passion.”
He couldn’t respond to that. So, wordlessly, he stood and offered her his hand.
They moved to the center of the room, and she tentatively placed her hand on his shoulder. His palm fit perfectly into the notch between her shoulder blades. She smelled of fresh dusting powder, and her eyes were a rich, deep brown. If it wouldn’t sound so puppyish to say it, he might have compared them to burnt sugar. Dark, and all the sweeter for it.
In lieu of compliments, he gave her an appreciative smile. Then, without warning, he spun her into the waltz. Her little gasp of surprise thrilled him more than it ought. He loved the feel of her body, lithe and warm. The way they fit together, moved as one. She trusted his lead, and he swept her in confident turns about the floor.
“You waltz beautifully,” he told her, after they’d completed a few circuits of the room. “You have nothing to fear. At the assembly, you’ll be the object of admiration from every quarter.” He would make certain of it.
She pressed against his lead. “That’s enough, I think.”
He twirled her to a halt, but she didn’t move away. Instead, she pulled their clasped hands closer, into the space between their chests.
Good. He needed that extra barrier. She was too close, and he was tempted to pull her closer still. His heart pounded a rhythm three times faster than the one their feet had so recently obeyed.
“Do you remember the night we first met?” she asked.
He bit back a laugh. Did he remember the night they met? Of course he remembered. He could have cited the date, the occasion, the warmth of the evening, the ruby-red shade of his waistcoat that night. The double twist of her pinned-up hair, the fourteen silk-covered buttons down the back of her gown. The precise moment he’d first seen Lily Chatwick smile. He remembered everything.
He said, “Remind me.”
“It was here, of course, at the house. Leo’s birthday dinner.”
“Your birthday dinner, too.”
“Yes, but the guests were his. It was the night he started that ridiculous club with the stud horse, Osiris. Do you recall it now?”
He nodded.
“You watched me all that night. Through our conversations, at the dinner table, then over drinks afterward … You never took your eyes from me.”
“I was attracted to you. Haven’t I confessed as much? You’re a beautiful woman, Lily. I’ve always been attracted to you.”
“It seemed more than that.” She tilted her head, looking at him from a new angle. “There was something almost predatory in your gaze that first night. I think you were forming designs on me.”
“Wh—?” His breath left him, and with it went any hope of denying the truth.
“Oh yes,” she said, her mouth curving in a subtle smile. “I knew it. You followed me from the room, remember? Before we went into dinner, I excused myself to check on the place settings, and you followed me. Most brazenly.” Her cheeks colored with a blush, and her gaze flirted with his lapel. “You’ve forgotten it, I’m sure. To you, it was just another idle flirtation. But it wasn’t an everyday occurrence for me.”
“It should have been.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s precisely what you said. I asked you if there was something you needed, and you said no.” She smiled. “I was flustered by that arrogant smirk you wore, however well I know the expression now. I asked you directly, ‘Why are you following me?’ And you said …”
He gave in. “I said, ‘Why are you surprised? When a beautiful woman leaves a room, she hopes a man like me will follow her.’”
She gave his shoulder a playful smack. “Exactly! And I was so angry with you.”
“No, you weren’t. You were pleased.”
“I was not.” She gave him a coy glance through lowered lashes. “Perhaps a little. I thought you would try to kiss me, but you didn’t.”
“No.”
Julian never kissed a lady upon first flirtation. He preferred to let her simmer with the possibilities a little bit longer, imagine what might have occurred. He found it made her all the more receptive on second approach.
“I shouldn’t admit this,” she said, “but I felt certain you meant to seduce me.”
“Perhaps I did.” He said carefully, “I’ve set out to seduce a great many women.”
“I know that. I knew that, and yet—somehow that only made it more thrilling. I lay awake all that night. I didn’t know how I would react when I saw you again. I rehearsed polite demurrals and cutting setdowns, and …” She swallowed. “And there was a part of me that didn’t want to refuse.”
“Lily …” He stepped back.
She held his hand fast, keeping him close. “But I didn’t need to refuse. The situation never arose. When I saw you next, you were friendly and polite. Even charming. But you never pursued me that way again. What changed?”
“Nothing changed.”
“Something must have changed. Was it you? Or me?”
“Neither.” How could he explain? It was one thing for her to be generally aware of his reputation, and quite another for him to openly admit he’d spent those years methodically bedding his way through the wives of the English aristocracy, simply out of spite. And since the Marquess of Harcliffe had no wife, Julian had decided seducing his twin sister would suffice. But then he’d spent an evening in this house, where he’d been welcomed as an equal and a friend. Before the night was out, he was a charter member of London’s newest, strangest, and most elite society: the Stud Club.
For those few precious hours, they’d made him feel he belonged here. In a way that Julian—a bastard child raised on the streets—couldn’t remember feeling he’d ever belonged, anywhere.
“I suppose,” he said honestly, “I decided I liked you too well to seduce you.”
She laughed with self-effacing charm. “There’s a compliment to me in there somewhere. If I think on it long enough, perhaps I’ll make it out.”
Julian hated to offend her, but he could see no good way to end this conversation. A blunt exit was his only hope. “I’m sorry, but I have business that requires my attention.” That wasn’t prevarication. He was horribly late to his office, again. “We’ll practice again tomorrow.”
“Wait.”
What could he do? He waited.
“If I really intend to do this,” she said, picking at an invisible bit of fluff on his sleeve, “… attend this assembly, invite the attention of suitors … I need practice with more than just dancing.”
He frowned, waiting for her to explain.
“I’ve lost all talent for flirtation. What little I possessed to begin with. I can’t even remember the last time I was kissed.” She threw him a quick, guilty glance. “Well … er … aside from the other morning, but that hardly counts.”
“Right.” Good Lord, would he never live that down?
Her words tumbled out in a breathy rush. “Anyway, I just thought perhaps, since there was once a time when you actually meant to pursue me … and since you say you’ve always found me attractive … that maybe you wouldn’t mind … kissing me now.”
He could only stare at her. Somewhere in that great chain of words, had she just asked him to kiss her?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m being ridiculous.”
He nodded. Yes, ridiculous.
She took a deep breath and began again, looking him full in the eye as she spoke. Her whole demeanor had changed. No girlish nervousness now, just direct communication, woman to man. “Julian, let me be perfectly clear. In an embarrassing, utterly juvenile way, I am offering you the chance to kiss me. Just this once, without promise or penalty attached. Without the influence of sleeping powder.” Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper. “Without interruption.”
She stared at his mouth, awaiting his response. Which made him stare at hers. Her lips were so pink and so plump and so alluring. And trembling, just a little, because despite the forthrightness of her request, she was frightened of what came next.
She was wise to be afraid. She wanted a kiss? He wanted more. So many impulses buffeted him. Not just the tickling breeze of fancies, but full-force, catastrophic monsoons of desire. If she could see the images whipping through his mind, she would turn on her heel and run. In one instant, he wanted to hold her, wrap his body around hers, and protect her from the world. In the next, he wanted to strip her bare and ravish her completely. Possess her, lay waste to her, have her naked and quivering right here on the floor.
Truly, man? On the floor?
Yes, devil take it. He was that depraved. He wanted this elegant, noble lady who was thirteenth in line for the Crown, and he wanted her bared and panting on the waxed parquet. A kiss was what she asked, but for him—a kiss would not be enough.
And now Julian trembled, because he was a little scared, too.
At some point, he’d released her hand. Her touch had slid from his shoulder. They stood facing one another, arms dangling at their sides. They weren’t even touching anymore. It ought to be easy to walk away.
Just like waltzing. Slide one foot back …
“A kiss, Julian. Just this once.” As his hesitation stretched, her brown eyes glimmered with hurt. “Are you truly going to refuse?”
He closed his eyes. Sighed. Opened them again.
And spoke the only word he could.
“No.”
The decision made itself. He lashed one arm around her waist, cinching her close. With his other hand he cradled her neck, tilting her lips to just the perfect angle.
Because this time, damn it—he was going to do this right.