Chapter 9

“No one can determine what caused the horses to bolt,” Noel said softly. “I can’t understand it. I know those animals; both nearly twenty years old and completely without vices, and they’ve been plodding up and down these streets for a decade without shying at anything.”

Cyrus was standing by the fireplace in his study, a forearm resting on the mantel as he gazed down at the cold hearth. He was expressionless, his eyes unreadable. He didn’t look up, or respond to his friend’s low words.

Noel tried again, unable to forget the quick, curiously intense sidelong glance he had seen his friend throw the oncoming ice wagon—just before the placid horses had inexplicably bolted. “Did you hear what the doc said? Virtually every bone in Drummond’s body was broken.”

“Don’t expect me to grieve for him,” Cyrus said.

Sighing, Noel decided some questions couldn’t be put into words simply because they weren’t meant to be asked. “There won’t be anything left of the Drummond house,” he offered. “We’re lucky the storm hit today, or the whole neighborhood would have gone up in flames.”

“I know. At least Drummond’s servants managed to get out, and no one else was hurt.”

Perfectly aware that he should leave, since it was nearly midnight, Noel remained because he was determined to get at least a few answers. “How’s Lissa?” he asked.

“The doctor says she’ll be all right,” Cyrus replied. “Shock and bruises, mostly. We put her to bed about an hour ago, and Julia’s been sitting with her.”

“How is Julia?”

Cyrus half turned to face his friend, sliding his hands into his pockets and leaning back against the mantel. A slight smile curved his mouth. “Did anybody ever tell you you’re a damned nosy bastard, Noel?”

“You’ve told me frequently,” his friend replied without offense. “But that was a perfectly proper question.”

“I know. It’s the ones I can see trembling on your lips I’m leery of.”

A short bark of a laugh escaped Noel. “Get your answers ready. In the meantime, how is Julia?”

“Numb. In control. Withdrawn. Shall I go on?”

“She was leaving him, wasn’t she?”

“Don’t cross the line, Noel,” Cyrus warned quietly.

Noel leaned forward in his chair, staring at Cyrus. “I think our friendship can bear it. I hope so, anyway. Besides, it’s a fairly obvious conclusion, and one I’m not alone in reaching. Cy, people are already talking.”

“Do you think I give a damn?”

“On your own account, no. But what about Julia? At least two families offered to take her and Lissa in, and you refused both of them. As if you had a right to. A lot of people heard that, and took note. So the eyes of the curious are gawking at a very recent widow and her young sister staying with a bachelor to whom they are not related—who has a reputation for fleeting affairs. By morning every inquisitive soul in the city is going to be chewing on that little tidbit. Drummond’s obvious insanity might make some people hesitate to brand Julia with a scarlet A, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“I’m going to marry her,” Cyrus said quietly.

Though those words from his friend would have utterly confounded Noel weeks before, he was curiously unsurprised to hear them now. He didn’t even wonder if the motive was to protect Julia’s reputation; he knew Cyrus too well to believe such nonsense. “Well, it’ll eventually give the gossip a new direction,” he said wryly.

“I mean immediately. Next week at the latest. If I can persuade Julia, that is.”

That was a surprise. “For God’s sake, Cy, her husband isn’t even in the ground yet!”

Cyrus hesitated, studying his friend, then said, “Noel, Drummond didn’t just go insane—he’s been insane for a long time. Years, at least. He hid it well, except in private. He didn’t hide it from her. No one who knew what Julia’s gone through could ever condemn her for not mourning him.”

“You mean…he abused her?”

Again Cyrus hesitated. He knew Julia would be appalled if the hell of her marriage became a topic for speculation in the neighborhood. But he also knew too well the social set to which they belonged. Some part of the story would have to be known if Julia was to escape censure for a second marriage hard on the heels of her husband’s funeral.

“Cy?”

Obeying one of the impulses that seemed to determine so many of his actions these days, Cyrus said, “He was brutal. In ways I hope you can’t even imagine. If she weren’t an incredibly strong woman, she’d have gone mad herself. As it is, she’s scarred both in body and mind, and terribly vulnerable right now.”

Noel’s expression was unusually still as he looked at his friend, and his voice was very quiet. “I see.”

“I could take her away somewhere,” Cyrus said broodingly. “Start fresh in another city, where no one has to know she was married before. But her life’s already been disrupted so much. She needs a sense of security, and I believe I can give her that here. In time. But if the people she knows in Richmond treat her badly—”

“You’re right in thinking that if the truth were known, there wouldn’t be many who’d condemn her for marrying again right away. The question is, how do you let the truth out without making Julia feel worse than she does about it.”

Another impulse prompted Cyrus to say, “Noel, would you ask Felice to call on Julia in a day or so?”

“Of course,” Noel replied slowly, his eyes very intent on Cyrus. “But what’s on your mind? And why Felice?”

“I’m not quite sure what’s on my mind.” He thought about it for a moment. “I believe Julia needs to know all marriages aren’t like hers was, and she’ll be sure of that only if another woman tells her. She needs to talk to another woman, someone she can feel comfortable confiding in. Felice would be perfect. She has a happy marriage, she wouldn’t condemn Julia, and her support would go a long way in influencing the other women in the neighborhood to accept Julia’s remarriage without censure.”

Noel looked at him for a long moment, then said, “Cy, you are uncanny.”

“What are you talking about?”

Leaning back in his chair, Noel shook his head slightly. “You knew Felice was a widow when I married her?”

“Yes. I remember when she moved to Richmond ten years ago. What’s your point?”

Softly, Noel said, “Her first husband…she’ll carry the scars he gave her to her grave.”

Cyrus felt a shock. “I had no idea,” he murmured.

“I think you did. Somewhere inside, I think you knew Felice would be the ideal woman to talk to Julia, even though I’ve never told you what she suffered.”

Cyrus didn’t say anything immediately, just looked at Noel steadily. “I don’t know. Perhaps,” he said finally. Then he shrugged. “My peculiar whims and notions don’t interest me at the moment. I’m worried about Julia. Will it upset Felice too much to talk to her?”

Noel got to his feet. “No, I don’t think so. And she’ll want to help, you know that.” He studied his friend for a moment, then obeyed an impulse of his own to say, “Something else is worrying you, though. What is it?”

He hadn’t meant to say anything, but Cyrus had a feeling he might need help in finding the answers he needed and there was no one he trusted more than Noel. “Drummond returned home hours before he should have. Lissa said he was already raving when he came in the door, that he knew Julia was leaving him—and coming to me. There was no way he could have known—unless someone told him. And I have no idea who it was.”

Julia rested her head on the lip of the tub, feeling the warm water ease her tension. Warm water, Mrs. Stork had said in her motherly way, because she’d feel chilled later if she didn’t now; shock did that to people.

Cyrus’s housekeeper had been wonderful, helping Julia get Lissa into bed and even persuading the shivering girl to drink enough hot soup to “warm her from the inside.” Julia had intended to remain by Lissa’s bed, but once her sister had fallen asleep, Mrs. Stork had returned with a smiling young housemaid and had urged Julia to take care of herself now, because Sarah would stay by the bed in case Miss Lissa needed anything.

Julia had protested. It was late, there was no need for Sarah to be kept from her own bed. But Sarah had spoken up shyly to say she’d be pleased to stay, and Mrs. Stork had said there was a bath ready for Julia and a tray would be sent up later. Not accustomed to being watched over by anyone—Adrian’s servants were efficient but remote—Julia had allowed herself to be persuaded.

She hadn’t had the time to feel a sense of strangeness in being in this house, and matter-of-fact acceptance of the servants turned what should have been an awkward situation into a relatively normal one. From the moment Cyrus had brought them there, she and Lissa had been treated as if they belonged. Not by a single word or glance had anyone betrayed surprise, curiosity, or censure.

Julia didn’t know what Cyrus had said to Mrs. Stork, but he must have told her something, because the waiting bath was in the master suite. After everything that had happened that day, Julia had felt nothing more than a twinge of embarrassment when she realized she’d been taken to his rooms. She had been provided with a nightgown—heaven knew where it had come from—and Mrs. Stork had asked her to leave her things out in the dressing room so they could be cleaned for the next day.

It had hit Julia only then. Everything in the world she could have called her own was nothing but a pile of ashes now. She tried to feel something about that, but was aware of nothing except weariness.

Now, lying in the warm, softly scented bathwater, she tried again to feel something. Not grief, no, but some emotion. A sense of relief, of freedom. Worry about the future. She was a widow now. Today she had seen her husband violently killed, had seen his mangled body lying in the street. She had seen the house she had lived in for two years blazing. She had taken a lover.

A soft knock at the closed door of the bathroom made her turn her head and regard the barrier a little blankly, then she heard Cyrus’s voice.

“Julia? May I come in?”

She was vaguely surprised he’d asked. That he had knocked. Intimacy with a man meant a loss of privacy, didn’t it? “Of course,” she responded. What else could she say? This was his house.

He came in and knelt on the mat by the tub, his black eyes searching her face intently. As if he had to touch her, his hand rose to gently stroke her cheek. “How do you feel, my sweet?”

“I don’t feel anything.” She forced herself to think. “The servants? The house?” She meant Adrian’s, of course, and Cyrus understood.

“The servants are fine, they got out in time. They’ve been given rooms here until we can get everything sorted out. I’m afraid the house was gutted.” His voice was quiet.

“I wonder why he burned it,” she murmured almost to herself. “The house was his pride.”

Cyrus was on the point of saying a madman could hardly be rational about anything, but something stopped him. Julia knew Drummond’s sickness better than anyone, and if she found the arson surprising…Cyrus had a feeling that was important, but he didn’t know why. And he didn’t want to probe the matter now with Julia. She was too controlled, too withdrawn; he didn’t like her pallor or the darkened stillness of her eyes.

“Did you talk to the police?” she asked idly in the same soft, remote voice.

“Yes.” He had dealt with all the official questions and had talked to the firemen at the Drummond house, preferring to spare Julia as much as possible. He was afraid, however, that the worst was yet to come. The mayor of Richmond had apparently gone berserk, setting his house afire and then rushing into the streets with a gun, shouting obscenities until an ice wagon had run him down; the newspapers were going to have a field day.

Cyrus leaned over and kissed her briefly, wishing he could protect her from the curious world outside this house. “Mrs. Stork sent up a tray for us,” he said. “You need to eat something, love.”

Julia wasn’t hungry, but she didn’t argue with him. “All right.”

He smiled. “Want me to wash your back for you?”

“No.” She knew the answer was too quick, too sharp, and her eyes slid away from him nervously. “Thank you, but it isn’t necessary.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “Today at the house you were careful not to turn your back to me until your blouse was on. You don’t want me to see, do you?”

She had to meet his gaze again, drawn by the understanding in his incredible voice. “It’s ugly,” she whispered.

Cyrus made a soft sound, as if he were in pain, and said, “Sweetheart, nothing about you could ever be ugly to me. I have to see, you know that.”

“Not now.” She knew her eyes were pleading. “I can’t—please, not now.”

“All right.” He stroked her cheek for a moment, then rose to his feet. “I’ll wait for you in the bedroom.”

Julia nodded, and remained in the tub for a few moments after he’d gone out and shut the door behind him. What she wanted more than anything was to close her eyes and sleep, to forget for a few hours.

She got out of the tub finally, pulling the plug to let the water drain, and dried her body with one of the warmed towels provided for her. The nightgown she pulled over her head was fashioned of cambric and trimmed in pale satin ribbons, a lovely, expensive garment. It didn’t belong to one of the maids, she knew. The nightgown provided for Lissa had also been a fine one, and Julia couldn’t help wondering…

She pushed the speculation out of her mind, too tired to try to decide if the nightgown and the acceptance of the servants was merely due to past experience of women staying here. There was a hairbrush and comb near the basin; Mrs. Stork had said they were for her use. Julia took her hair down and brushed it, but didn’t attempt to braid it for the night.

She went out into the bedroom, finding that a small, linen-covered table had been set near the window with a light meal. She still wasn’t hungry, but when Cyrus came to take her hand and lead her to the table she didn’t protest. He had taken off his coat, tie, and vest and seemed relaxed, but she knew he was watching her closely. She wondered vaguely if he expected hysterics, and almost wished she could have them; she thought anything would be better than the numb lack of feeling that encased her.

He talked to her while they both ate, though afterward Julia was never able to remember what he said. All she recalled was the inexpressibly soothing sound of his voice, the peculiar magic of it seeming to surround her with a sense of peace and contentment. She ate to please him, tasting nothing.

When they were finished, he piled the dishes on the tray and set it outside in the hall. When he returned to her, he lifted her up from her chair, cradling her body easily in his powerful arms, and carried her to the big bed. He settled her there, drawing the covers up over her because the room was cool, then sat beside her on the bed and looked down at her gravely.

“I want very much to stay with you tonight, love,” he said in a gentle tone. “Hold you. May I?”

Julia was surprised, first, that he asked. This was his house, his room, his bed, and he had every right to be there, after all. Then she became aware of a crack in her numb cocoon as warm gratitude rushed in. Whether he was sensitive to the moral awkwardness of her presence in his bed on her first night of widowhood or was merely concerned about her state of mind, at least he was kind enough to ask her preferences.

Without thought she reached out a hand to him. “Please.”

He carried her hand briefly to his lips, then rose and began undressing.

She lay still and watched him. Some part of her mind considered the idea that this should have seemed wrong. Every proper feeling should have been outraged, she thought. Women didn’t sleep in the arms of their lovers on the very night they were widowed, it just wasn’t done. It wasn’t decent. She would be expected to mourn Adrian for at least a year; everyone she knew would be extremely disapproving if she didn’t. And they’d be utterly shocked she was even in Cyrus’s house—no less his bed.

Her upbringing insisted she conform to certain standards of behavior and obey society’s rules.

But being with Cyrus, even tonight, didn’t seem wrong. Every instinct told her she belonged with him. If she’d been offered another choice, she wouldn’t have wanted to exercise it. How could such a strong certainty be wrong? How could she pretend to mourn a husband who had treated her as Adrian had, or feel any need to show respect for his memory? How could she bring herself even to simulate grief for the end of a marriage that had been nothing but hell?

Julia knew she couldn’t do it. She thought fleetingly of the probable consequences, but when Cyrus slipped into bed beside her she dismissed them from her mind. He was naked, which somehow didn’t surprise her; she couldn’t imagine him in a nightshirt, and felt her lips twitch of their own volition at the very idea.

He gathered her into his arms, and her body instinctively molded itself pliantly to the hardness of his. Her head was pillowed on his shoulder, one of her hands rested on his broad chest, and she felt mildly surprised she could be so comfortable. He had left the bedside lamp burning, and she blinked with the same detached surprise as she watched her fingers toying with his silky black chest hair.

“I love you, sweetheart,” Cyrus murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

She didn’t respond, except to sigh softly and relax completely in his arms. It had been a long time since she’d been able to give herself up totally to sleep; Adrian had found more than one rude or violent way of waking her, and she’d never been able to feel safe enough to sleep peacefully. But tonight she did. She slept so deeply and dreamlessly, she never moved all night.

It was nearly noon the next day when Julia woke, alone in the big bed. She lay drowsily for a while, dimly puzzled, then sat up slowly as she realized where she was. In Cyrus’s house. In Cyrus’s bed. The clothing she’d removed last night lay neatly over a chair near the bed, obviously clean and pressed. Only the soft ticking of a clock on the wall disturbed the silence.

Julia looked at the clock for a moment, then threw back the covers and slid from the bed. As she got dressed and put her hair up, she gradually became aware she wasn’t numb anymore. The feelings were somewhat distant, hazy almost, but they were there. A lingering shock over the violent suddenness of Adrian’s death; a sense of loss for her belongings gone in the fire; worry about Lissa; and worry about the future.

Choosing to deal with one matter at a time, she focused her attention on her sister. It wasn’t until she left the bedroom that she realized she didn’t know her way around the big house, but Lissa’s voice made the matter academic.

“Oh, good, you’re up. Cyrus said you were, but I couldn’t figure out how he knew since he’s just come back.” Lissa was a little pale as she came down the hall toward her sister, and the left side of her face was faintly discolored from the bruise Adrian had given her, but she was smiling.

“Are you all right?” Julia asked.

Lissa nodded reassuringly. “I’m fine. I still shake when I remember—but I try not to think about it. You? Cyrus said you slept well.”

Julia’s first impulse was to rebuke Lissa for so casually using Cyrus’s given name, but even as the thought occurred she chided herself wryly. We’re in his house, and I slept in his bed! It’s a little late to worry about propriety. Still, she glanced at her sister a bit uncomfortably as they began walking toward the stairs together. “I’m…much better. Lissa, I know what you must think about—about—”

“About you and Cyrus?” Lissa’s smile widened as she linked her arm with her sister’s. “I think it’s wonderful.”

Uncertain if she should feel amused or appalled by Lissa’s acceptance of the situation, Julia said, “For heaven’s sake, you weren’t raised to think anything of the kind. I hope you know how improper the entire situation is.”

“Why, because people will say so?” Lissa’s voice was calm. “Julia, people said you had a perfect marriage, and they were certainly wrong about that. Besides, you’re going to marry Cyrus so it’s not as if you’re living in sin.”

Julia stopped at the head of the curving staircase, staring at her sister. “Did he tell you that?”

“Well, he said he’d asked you, and he meant to persuade you. I don’t know why on earth you’d say no.”

Somewhat weakly, Julia said, “I’ve been widowed less than twenty-four hours.” To her own shock, it was the best reason she could think of.

Lissa smiled a little, but her eyes were grave. “Julia, I saw what Adrian was yesterday. I saw it. I can’t even begin to imagine what you went through these last two years, but I can guess the idea of another marriage—especially so soon—scares you to death.”

Julia knew that was true; tangled with her painful awareness of the scandalous situation was a frightened reluctance even to think about binding herself legally to another man. Haltingly, she said, “Cyrus has been very kind. And I know I should be grateful he wants to marry me, but—”

“Grateful?” Lissa looked bewildered. “You talk as if he’s being noble in asking you! Why? Because you’ve—what’s that prim phrase I heard old Mrs. Hunt use?—oh, yes, just because you’ve anticipated the wedding night? Or is it because you were leaving Adrian anyway? Julia, for heaven’s sake, Cyrus loves you, don’t you know that?”

“You don’t understand,” Julia mumbled, too dismayed by Lissa’s extremely frank comments to pay much attention to the last confident statement. She wasn’t much surprised at Lissa’s muted cheerfulness. Her sister had always been able to adjust quickly to even the most disturbing changes in her life. But this complete acceptance of Cyrus, and Lissa’s cool disregard of all the proprieties, was definitely upsetting.

Oddly, Lissa laughed, and took her sister’s arm again as they started down the stairs. “I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand, Julia. But Cyrus should be able to make things clear to you. I like him so much.”

Julia sent her a puzzled glance, but before she could say anything Lissa was going on.

“His servants are wonderful, aren’t they? Sarah went to one of the shops last night to get those nightgowns for us—I think Cyrus knows the shopkeeper, because he opened up after hours just so Sarah could get the nightgowns—and she and another of the girls got a complete list from me this morning before they went out shopping for us. Cyrus didn’t think you’d feel much like going out, so he asked me to tell them what colors you preferred so they could get what we needed for now—”

“Wait.” They had reached the bottom of the stairs, and Julia kept a hand on the newel post as she stood looking at her sister. She felt a little dizzy. “He’s buying clothes for us?”

Lissa looked as if she’d had a feeling this wasn’t going to be easy, but her voice was matter-of-fact. “Our clothes went up in smoke, remember?”

“But he shouldn’t. It isn’t right.”

“Mrs. Stanton thinks it is,” Lissa said firmly.

Julia felt even more dizzy. “Felice Stanton? I barely know her. How can you be privy to what she thinks?”

“She called to see you this morning, and I talked to her.” Lissa eyed her sister for a moment, then said, “Her husband is Cyrus’s best friend. She said she was delighted he’d finally found a woman he could love, and that he’d make you a wonderful husband. Reformed rakes always do, she said. And she agreed with me that after Adrian was so cruel to you, you certainly deserve a wonderful man like Cyrus.”

“Oh, my Lord,” Julia murmured, almost wishing she was still numb. This turn of events was utterly unnerving.

Lissa looked a little guilty. “Well, perhaps I shouldn’t have been quite so talkative, but she was nice. And she didn’t think there was anything at all bad or improper in us being here. She said that sometimes rules had to be broken, because under some circumstances they were idiotic. After all, nobody could doubt you’d been living with a lunatic, not after what Adrian did yesterday. So why should you wear black and refuse to marry anyone else for at least a year? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Lissa, are you busy spiking my guns?” Cyrus asked calmly as he crossed the entrance hall toward them.

She turned to him with a questioning lift to her brows. “I’m not perfectly sure what that means,” she confessed naïvely.

His gaze went to Julia’s face, then returned to Lissa’s. “It means a man likes to do his own proposing,” he told her in a wry tone. Before she could do more than look guilty, he added, “The parlor’s filled with packages; don’t you think you should go sort through them while I take Julia to the luncheon waiting for her?”

“I suppose I’d better,” Lissa murmured.

As Lissa walked to the parlor, Cyrus tipped Julia’s chin up and kissed her, very slowly and thoroughly. When he finally raised his head, she felt breathless and dizzy.

“Good morning, love,” he whispered.

Julia cast about among her scattered thoughts and chose one at random. “I have to flee the country,” she said.

Undisturbed and apparently unsurprised by the statement, Cyrus took her arm and led her through the house to a small breakfast parlor near the rear. “Where would you like to flee to?” he asked politely. “I’m partial to San Francisco, but since that’s U.S. territory, I suppose you’d rather go somewhere else. London is nice. Or Paris.” He seated her at a cozy table, sat down on her right, and poured two cups of coffee from a silver pot.

Julia had the strangest impulse to laugh, and chided herself with silent severity. This was not a laughing matter. She felt absolutely appalled that Lissa had talked so freely to Felice Stanton—even if the older woman did seem kind and wasn’t known as a gossip.

She took a sip of coffee, then looked at Cyrus with wondering eyes. “You talk as if nothing’s happened.”

“Nothing more terrible than shooting a rabid dog has happened,” Cyrus said with utter calm. “The poor brute’s out of his misery, and everyone around him is out of danger.”

“I should feel that way, shouldn’t I?”

“Why?” Cyrus took one of her hands and held it, his black eyes serious as they rested on her face. “Did you have one moment’s peace or pleasure in your marriage?”

Julia didn’t have to think; she shook her head slowly.

“Did Drummond ever show you even the barest hint of any sort of kindness, or do anything to make you sorry he’s dead now?”

Again she shook her head.

“Then why should you feel anything except relief? Julia, if you plan to live your life as others think you should, you’ll never be happy. Did it make your situation any easier to pretend your marriage was a successful one?”

“No,” she murmured.

“Then don’t pretend now. He was a brutal, demented bastard, and the only decent thing he ever did was to die.”

She looked at Cyrus for a long moment and, slowly, a heavy weight lifted from her shoulders. What did the opinions of others matter? She valued Lissa’s opinion and, she realized, she valued his. What anyone else thought didn’t seem very important any longer.

“Would you really flee to Paris with me?” She smiled.

“Just say the word, and I’ll book passage on the next ship, love.” He was smiling as well, his velvety eyes warm.

Julia was tempted. At the very least, Adrian’s death would be a nine-day wonder, with curiosity and speculation running rampant; removing herself, for a while at least, would be the most painless solution. But as she looked at Cyrus, she realized she didn’t want to run and hide—because of him. If she ran, it would be as good as proclaiming she was ashamed of her relationship with him because there was something wrong with it, and she couldn’t feel that way no matter her upbringing.

Drawing a deep breath, her fingers tightening in his without her knowledge, she said, “Perhaps we can see Paris someday. I’d like that. But for now…”

He lifted her hand and kissed it. “Good. Spring is the best time to travel anyway. Besides, we have a house going up outside the city, and you’re going to be very busy in the next few weeks choosing paint, wallpaper, and rugs, among other things.”

“I am? But—” She broke off, staring at him.

He looked at her gravely for a moment, then said quietly, “I know you haven’t had time to think, sweetheart, and I know I said I wouldn’t press you. But I’ve never felt more strongly about anything in my life. We belong together. Take a chance on me, please. Marry me.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she whispered.

“Yes, I do. I know the idea of another marriage terrifies you. I know you’ve been hurt so much you can’t imagine not being hurt again. I know you dare not trust me, even though you want to. And I know I’m asking you to have more courage than you think you possess.”

He did understand. She felt she was lost somewhere in those intense, beautiful black eyes, caught and held by a gentle grip she didn’t want to fight. Everything in her, every thought, instinct, and muted emotion felt the pull of him so strongly, it was actually painful to resist. A dull ache swelled inside her, growing moment by moment as she remembered the astonishing pleasure she’d found in his arms, his passion and gentleness, his care of her.

“I love you, Julia. Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she said breathily, and the dull ache inside her immediately faded, replaced by a growing warmth. She was still frightened, still acutely aware of the risk she was taking, but her deep and certain understanding that she already belonged to him was too powerful to fight or deny.

“Thank you,” Cyrus said huskily, kissing her hand again. “You won’t regret it, I swear.”

A little bemused, she shook her head. “You have the most unfair eyes,” she murmured.

He grinned suddenly, the first time she’d ever seen him do so, and his lean, handsome face revealed such delight, she couldn’t help smiling back at him.

“Tate always said I was sired by a warlock; maybe he was right. I’ve known for weeks it would take some kind of magic to win you, love.” He laughed softly, then released her hand and said, “If you don’t eat, Mrs. Stork will scold both of us.”

Mildly surprised, Julia looked at her steaming coffee and the covered dishes that were no doubt still warm. It had been another of those interludes that had seemed to stop time, she realized, as if everything around them had waited patiently for Cyrus and her to come to an understanding. She thought it was peculiar. Very peculiar.

She unfolded her napkin across her lap and sent him a slightly shy look. “I’m not really hungry.”

“You have to eat to keep up your strength,” he said solemnly, a gentle laugh in his eyes. “You’re going to need it.”

“Why?” she asked warily.

“Because,” he said, sitting back and lifting his coffee cup in a toast, “I’m about to try to persuade you to marry me next week.”

All during the remainder of the day Julia had the strangest feeling she was being gently but inexorably carried along by forces determined to shape her life. Cyrus was only the beginning, very reasonably arguing against her scruples until her own arguments seemed weak and uncertain. He never once scoffed at her principles or belittled them in any way, he merely maintained that since her marriage had been a travesty and her husband a brutal lunatic, she owed no respect or consideration to either.

It was difficult for her to disagree on those grounds, but she tried because she was frightened. Society’s condemnation was only a small worry, and one she had already decided wasn’t as important as she’d believed; marriage itself was what terrified her, and though she’d agreed to marry him, she badly needed time to get used to the idea. He knew that, she thought, but remained gently insistent she marry him as soon as possible. He didn’t demand an immediate answer, but at various times all day he continued to try to persuade her.

She was kept too busy to pay much attention to the frequent rattle of the door knocker as the butler turned away newspapermen and other curious visitors throughout the day. Packages continued to arrive full of beautiful clothing for her and Lissa. No matter how strongly she protested to Cyrus that he shouldn’t be buying clothing for them, he just laughed and kissed her.

He kissed her often. He touched her a great deal as well, touches that were casual and yet curiously intimate in their manner. He couldn’t seem to be near her without taking her hand, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, or putting an arm around her—and quite clearly didn’t care who happened to be present to witness his actions.

Julia was a little stiff at first, but it didn’t last long. She couldn’t help feeling warmed by his affection and tentatively reassured by it. She even stopped blushing whenever Lissa, Mr. or Mrs. Stork, or one of the other servants happened to observe a kiss or embrace.

She couldn’t quite bring herself to feel the unshadowed enjoyment Lissa obviously found in trying on new clothes, but she didn’t try to curb her sister’s cheerfulness. She tried on a few things herself when Cyrus went out after their late lunch, choosing that particular moment only because Lissa insisted she should and because Julia wanted to spend a little time alone with her sister in her—and Cyrus’s—bedroom so they could talk.

The master suite itself was a little changed since morning, a fact that surprised Julia and gave her food for thought. She didn’t know the extent of Cyrus’s participation in making the arrangements, but a second wardrobe had been brought into the bedroom for her clothing, and a dressing table complete with satin-cushioned boudoir chair now occupied a prominent place in the dressing room. There was also a set of silver-backed brushes obviously for her, as well as a selection of perfumes and bath salts. Fresh flowers in delicate crystal vases graced the table by the window and her dressing table.

Julia realized only then that Cyrus had been unobtrusively busy all day making her transition into his home as smooth and comfortable as possible for her. He had made certain she wasn’t disturbed by the shocked and curious world outside the house, and had kept her attention occupied with her sister and the activities of sorting through boxes and packages while he had dealt with other practical matters. She thought he had talked to the police again, as well as Adrian’s—and his—attorney, but she wasn’t sure.

In any case, it was obvious he had assumed responsibility for her and Lissa’s welfare as well as making certain both felt entirely comfortable and welcome in his home.

“Oh, Julia, look at this! Isn’t it beautiful?” Lissa had opened one of the boxes on the bed, and held up a stunning emerald green evening gown.

“Lovely,” Julia agreed, hanging in the wardrobe the golden gown she’d just taken off. She was careful not to turn her back to Lissa except when buttons had to be fastened, and even then took pains to show as little of herself as possible; the scars were faint, she knew, especially on her upper back, but she didn’t want Lissa to notice them.

“Sarah and Cathy have wonderful taste,” Lissa said, holding the gown up to herself as she stood before the dressing mirror in the corner and studied the effect. “And since Cathy’s a redhead like us, she knows what colors just won’t do.”

“Nothing black,” Julia said almost to herself, suddenly realizing this as she gazed at the colorful garments hanging in the wardrobe and tumbled on the bed.

Lissa turned from the mirror, her expression more serious than it had been all afternoon. “I told Cyrus I wouldn’t wear black for Adrian, and he said he didn’t want to see you do so either. So I told the girls not to buy anything black, not even a skirt.”

Julia sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her sister gravely. “Something else for people to talk about,” she murmured.

After a moment Lissa hung the emerald gown in the wardrobe and then returned to sit on the bed across from her sister. Her pretty young face was still sober. “Is that so important, Julia? I mean, I know it’s supposed to be, but is it? All those people who look and talk don’t know anything. They can’t. They didn’t live with Adrian. They didn’t see the life bleeding out of you because of him. They didn’t see you stay in bed for a whole day, so white and silent.”

“Lissa—”

“You think I haven’t noticed, since we’ve been in here, that you don’t want me to see your back? I—” Tears glittered in Lissa’s eyes, and her voice broke for a moment with an anguished sound. Then she was going on fiercely, “I hate myself for not realizing, for being fooled by him just like everyone else was! He hurt you so badly, and I didn’t know. You should have told me, Julia—you must have been terrified, and hurt so often—you should have told me—”

Julia quickly went around the bed and sat down beside her weeping sister, putting her arms around Lissa gently. “I didn’t want you to know, honey,” she soothed. “There was nothing you could have done. It’s all right.”

“No, it isn’t,” Lissa said huskily, dashing a hand across her eyes as she tried to get control of herself. “I should have known, but I was blind and I didn’t see what he was.”

“No one saw,” Julia murmured.

“Except you.” Lissa looked at her, the wet green eyes filled with an implacable loathing. “I’m glad he’s dead. I hope he suffered the way he made you suffer.”

“Lissa—”

“I mean it, Julia. I won’t even pretend to grieve for him. I won’t wear black, I won’t go to his funeral, and if anyone offers their sympathies to me, I’ll tell them I hope he’s burning in hell!”