Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The following morning Julian stretched from his bed naked at an ungodly, very un-London hour, with a crackling fire awaiting him.
At the window, he braced an arm at the casement and felt the urgent stirrings of what he assumed poets spoke of when they described homecomings.
The river glinted steely grey in the dawn light and through the glass, he could hear the brittle rustle of leaves before they lofted in the wind and floated down to earth.
Ahead the banks of the River Itchen sloped upward into turning trees and brush.
South, in the distance, through sycamores, he spied the cutters in their slipways and men already at work.
He opened the window and breathed in the cold air. He needed to do something about his marriage soon. But what recompense was available to him that Kitty could believe his motives genuine? If he asked her to join his bed, would she see it as a desperate act of atonement?
He remembered the last time he had been inside her as if it had been an hour ago, and his body responded in kind.
The door opened.
He twisted around and Kitty froze in the threshold clutching a tray of steaming coffee.
Her gaze immediately pinned to his erection.
She stammered and hurried to the low table before the fire and stuffed the tray down, spilling the milk.
Her back to him, she mopped up the milk and blurted out an apology.
“I should have knocked,” she said. “I assumed you would be abed at this hour or—or I would have had Abigail bring it to you.”
“Would she have knocked?”
She straightened, saying to the fire, “Of course.”
“Good. Or we might be less one maid and paying for a surgeon to stitch her head when she swooned.”
Her embarrassment hadn’t dampened his arousal in the least. He walked toward her and placed his hands softly on her shoulders. “Good morning, Kitty.”
Her flesh tensed beneath his palms. “I—I left you a note on the hall table next to the blue vase. I am to church early this morning. There is a rehearsal after service with the children, and then supper at the Carleton’s.
I’ll not return until late, but I’ve let Mrs. Miggins know you will be expecting dinner. ”
“It is Sunday? And the yard is open?”
“Those who work are paid a premium.”
“And I have been relieved of my church-going duties?”
“Yes.”
He looked down at the back of her gown where his throbbing need grazed black wool. He could bend her over the settee and throw the lot of black over her head and seat himself inside her. No, she needed tenderness, not a man consumed by lust.
“I admit, I feel unsaintly at present,” he murmured at her shining hair, the riotous curls of the girl he had once loved raked and pinned severely. Cherry perfume filled his senses. “Can church service wait?”
She twisted around under his hold, her eyes fierce. “What should I do, Julian? What do you want?”
He frowned. “What do you want?”
“You’re asking?”
“I’m asking. And damn it, why must it always be what I want?”
“Because you are the one with the expectations.” She poked his bare chest. “Because you are the one with the judgments. You are the one who cannot be pleased whether I act the wanton or the wife. The one who came into our home with the stench of another woman and then tried to tell me you failed.”
He stripped a hand through his hair in familiar frustration. “I am sorry for that.”
“Do you know what I want? I want to know what this will be. And from there, I will proceed. But I will not, cannot, be rejected again based on your whims. Or this.” She clutched his jutting erection. “You decide.”
She turned on her heel and quietly shut the door behind her.
Kitty stood at the north transept altar staring into the delicate votive flames as the children filtered in for rehearsal.
Althea had conceived a children’s Christmas program shortly after Mr. Lovett’s visit, remarking on her fondness for a child’s voice raised in worshipful song.
Kitty fell quickly into the plan, though she wasn’t so certain of the purity of Althea’s motivations.
Whatever the reason, Althea was grasping the challenging nature of her scheme as she directed the children into the chancel pews and they did everything but, giggling, squealing, and climbing about the nave.
One ran behind Kitty, arms outstretched in the imitation of a bird, and Kitty remembered she was supposed to be praying.
She pressed her hands together and dipped her mouth to her fingertips.
Unsaintly Julian had named his mood, and she had gone off like dueling pistols.
She had been honest. She could not continue along an undefined path.
If he wanted a marriage in name only, then he would have it.
It would hurt, but she was used to hurting.
If he wanted more, then she would do what she had to do.
Open herself to the possibility of more pain.
Althea announced the rehearsal’s start, and Kitty joined her, Lucretia Carleton, and Robert in the chancel. Robert looked sheepishly to Kitty from the stairs of the sanctuary, and Kitty returned his look with a nod.
Robert had chastised her for opening the yard on Sunday.
She had countered that her men were allowed only to work until service and paid a premium.
The gentle vicar had scoffed, telling her that God was their premium, and she, still in a taking over her quarrel with Julian, had informed him that God filled souls, not bellies, which would be wanting come winter.
The rehearsal was improved from the Wednesday last. Most of the children could not read so the first quarter hour was spent relearning the verses of Joy To The World. Then came learning the harmonies and resisting one’s desire to sing louder than everyone else.
Althea sang in a wide-ranging, sweet soprano in opposition to her fierce gazes and demanding flourishes.
Robert was a bass, Lucretia a thin soprano, and Kitty a low-pitched mezzo.
Julian had often remarked upon her throaty singing voice.
As big as a whale, he had once described it as a boy, in complete opposition to her puniness. He had called her that. Puny.
Would she forever be confused by him? He had purchased the tourmaline and diamond necklace for her. She had wanted to jump in a hole. He had remembered her birthday. Julian had always cared for birthdays and holidays.
He had done nothing with the woman, and she wanted to believe him.
The children attended Althea while they shifted on their feet and scratched their heads.
George Wright, a dark-headed boy and charming rascal, reminded Kitty of Julian as a child and Andrew, who had had a full head of black hair when heaven had taken him from her arms. Her arms felt acutely empty where Andrew had once nursed. And died.
She just stared at George Wright, craving a second chance to relive her life and choose differently.
She would have had doubts on the earl’s intentions and ignored his letter and traveled to Southampton instead of waiting for Julian’s return.
Andrew would be alive and not buried in a Highland graveyard.
Her body would be fruitful and her love not worthless. George Wright would be Andrew.
She was relieved when the boy scrambled from the pew and ran outside to do his business. The church’s arched center door creaked open at the west entrance.
Julian stood between the last pews where a smattering of parents watched the rehearsal. He was in his exercise clothes, knitted waistcoat and shirt, breeches and soft leather shoes like fencing slippers. His breath strained at his shoulders.
Kitty made the long walk down the nave, halting with a foot between them. Close enough to catch Julian’s masculine scent and see the perspiration trickling down his corded throat.
“Is everything all right?” she asked. Because he didn’t appear all right at all. His gaze was dark and his mouth grim.
Swiping off his knit cap, he wiped his shirtsleeve on his brow and gazed beyond her to the chancel. “Come with me, please, if you will. I wish to speak in private.”
On heavy limbs, Kitty retrieved her cloak with an excuse on attending an urgent matter, and let Julian guide her outside.
Their grand coach waited on High Street.
It was quiet, most of the town home for Sunday supper.
He handed her into the coach and sat beside her toward the going.
His muscular leg pressed against hers. His fingers splayed on his thighs.
He asked her about the Christmas program, what songs the children were to sing, the date.
Julian led her to his chamber and settled her in a chair beside the fire. He added a log, stoked it, and stretching to his feet, turned to look at her.
She tried to smile.
He left her, tearing off his waistcoat and shirt and slapping a wet cloth over his face and shoulders. He cupped his hands in the basin and raked water through his hair. She watched the rivulets stream down his back and thought how lucky she could be to have him and his strong body.
She averted her eyes to the fire.
Julian’s footsteps crossed the room. He sat across from her, elbows to his knees, in his robe and bare feet, black hair damp and curling at the ends. So irresistibly hers.
He swallowed and regarded her deeply. “I am sorry for staying away three weeks longer. For attempting an affair. I did fall asleep in her bed with my clothes on. A sort of last effort at infidelity. Which failed.” He stared down at his rough hands draped between his spread knees.
“But most of all, I am sorry for speaking to you cruelly on never wishing you in my bed again. You are not the antithesis of pleasure.”
She saw his struggle and appreciated his effort.