Chapter Eleven
In the late afternoon a week later, Rafe headed for the library.
By now, his industrious wife had likely finished her day’s tasks, and if so, he would probably find her there.
She’d brought the books of poetry up to her chamber and often read to him in the languid aftermath of lovemaking, but she preferred to study the illustrated botanicals in the library, where she might leave the book open on the desk with room enough for her sketchbook beside it, where she added small drawings to its crowded pages.
With a sigh, he slowed his steps. She seemed so happy with her books, her duties, and their life in general. There was even a new glow about her these last weeks which reassured him that she was not regretting her decision to wed him.
All factors that made him reluctant to have this upcoming discussion with her. But with the estate’s limited spring planting finished, the lambing season ended, the new calves delivered and the forest maintenance tasks accomplished, it was time to plan that trip to London.
He’d tried on several occasions since their one sharp exchange to introduce the matter in a more congenial manner—with no success. She’d either tried to distract him by introducing some other ‘important’ topic, or softly begged that they forego discussing it at the moment.
He shook his head, sighing. For an instant, he felt a modicum of sympathy for her overbearing mother, who had tried without success to push or pummel her into becoming the sort of well-brought-up maiden that lady believed she needed to be.
Quiet Juliana might be, but she could be quite unmovable when she chose.
It still stung that she seemed to place more value in her mother’s disparagement than in his reassurances.
But then, her mother had had years to instill those doubts. He must do his best to counter them—and he needed to succeed at that now.
For though initially he’d thought he might just as well go to London alone, over the last few weeks, he’d discovered he enjoyed the daily company of his wife a good bit more than he’d expected.
He really would prefer to have her remain at his side—his best friend, helpmate and marvelous lover—in the City as she had been here at Thornthwaite.
Compelling her to discuss the matter would be hard enough and persuading her even more difficult. Ignored by her father, so often having her appearance and abilities denigrated by her mother and sister, she was, he knew, convinced she could only be a burden to him in London.
He was just as convinced she would not. After all, he had no interest in mingling with the shallower members of Society whose chief interests were food, parties, jewels, clothing and gossip.
He was eager to see Hart Edmenton again, to have Juliana meet him and his wife Claire, whom he admired—and had once seriously considered courting.
He recalled with a grin that it was his tentative pursuit of the lady that shocked his friend into ceasing to overlook the treasure at his side.
The widowed sister of the previous duchess, Claire had acquainted Hart with the ducal estate and its duties when he first returned from the army after unexpectedly inheriting the title.
At the time, Hart had been holding out for a Grand Passion like the one his own parents shared. Having suffered a Grand Passion himself, Rafe had strongly advised his compatriot to seek instead a Grand Friendship.
A Grand Passion. That surprisingly sharp ache stabbed again at his ribs.
Absently, he rubbed a hand there to soothe it.
He’d worked so hard to suppress any thought of Thalia, he’d almost convinced himself that he’d successfully buried for good the misery of losing her.
But apparently, like a crack plastered over, the fault still lurked beneath the outward concealment.
Firmly he suppressed both the ache and the memories.
As he’d assured Hart, courtesy, respect and affection provided a far better foundation for long-lasting happiness in marriage. The kind of friendship, respect and affection borne of shared interests and common endeavours he shared with his Juliana.
Then he recalled that, to his and Hart’s surprise, Claire ended up becoming Hart’s Grand Passion.
He pushed the disconcerting thought aside.
What more bliss could he wish for? He had a highly competent wife with whom he shared a warm affection and a powerful sensual connection that kept him permanently simmering on the edge of arousal, no matter how often—and it was very often—his enterprising wife satisfied him.
Why would he ever want to complicate that with the drama and misery of Grand Passion?
He wouldn’t, he told himself firmly. Nor would he want his dear Juliana to suffer from it.
She’d been sensible enough not to have fallen for Ian.
If he prided himself that she cared a bit more deeply for him than she had for his brother, he’d still not want her to care too much more.
So much that it destroyed the easy companionship and friendship they shared.
An uncomfortable niggle that was something like doubt nipped at him, but he pushed that away, too. Enough dawdling; time to face the task at hand.
Rafe walked to the open library door a moment later and paused.
Juliana was indeed seated at the desk, her gaze moving back and forth from the illustration in the book open before her—one of Bewick’s, he noted—to her sketch-pad.
Smiling, he watched as she carefully sketched away, probably copying some figure that had caught her eye or creating a different image inspired by it.
He wondered how he’d ever thought her meek and childlike.
True, her figure wasn’t voluptuous, but it was well-rounded, with firm breasts, wide hips, slender hands, and a lush mouth.
For a moment, he was distracted by memories of what she could do with those hands, that mouth, those legs wrapped around him…
Pulling himself back from the sensual heat she seemed to always arouse in him, he reminded himself he was equally taken by her great, expressive brown eyes, so alive with intelligence, curiosity and concern.
How her keen observation and unique way of looking at the world continually surprised him with new insight, or some fresh vision of something he thought he knew but then realized he’d never really seen.
Then there was that still-mystifying, ever-compelling, chameleon-like ability to switch in an instant from enticing siren to helpful assistant.
He shook his head. He truly was one lucky man.
She looked up then and smiled. ‘Repairs completed on the roof thatching?’
‘Yes, we finished up today. I rode out to the south farms with Sterling, then inspected the repairs to the stone fences on the fells that were damaged by winter frost. Now that the sheep have gone back up to graze, it was the last spring task we needed to accomplish to bring all the work on the estate up to date.’
Her smile faded. ‘You’ll be needing to leave for London, then.’
‘Yes. Parliament is already in session; I don’t want to delay much longer to answer the writ and claim my place.
I’m anxious to hear the progress of the army; Napoleon abdicated last month and will be exiled to Elba, the newspapers say, but I don’t know anything about what will happen to the different units.
They’ll get the latest news sooner in London. ’
‘Are you concerned about your friend, Lieutenant Marsden?’
‘Yes. One benefit of being still with the army; one can keep better tabs on one’s friends, even if one’s units don’t take part in the same campaigns. Charles is not much of a correspondent, it turns out.’
‘Surely you would have heard something, if anything had happened to him.’
‘Not necessarily. He has little family—an orphan, he was brought up by a childless couple who would serve as his next of kin, should ill befall him. If anything did happen, Hart, with his contacts at Horse Guards, would be more likely than me to hear of it. As you know, I’ve been very anxious to see Hart and have you meet him and Claire.
No, please!’ he urged as she opened her lips, doubtless to forestall him.
‘I know the matter distresses you, but we must talk about it. It’s quite important to me. ’
She stilled and looked at him warily. ‘Are you going to harangue me until I agree to accompany you?’
‘No. I apologize if it seemed I was “haranguing” you when I mentioned this before. I can’t undo in a few weeks the negative view of your abilities instilled in you by years of your mother’s reproofs.
All I can ask is that you give some weight to my opinion, which contradicts hers in several important particulars. Will you listen?’
She looked unhappy, but at least she didn’t object—or flee the room. ‘Very well, I’ll listen.’
‘I want you to meet the people who matter to me, and have them meet you. And though I hope, finding yourself welcomed and accepted by them, that you will feel more confident about venturing out into Society, you may participate in the Season only as much—or as little—as you choose. Whatever events you approve, we’ll attend together.
Not everyone in Society is like your mother and sister, overly concerned about rank and fashion.
There are intelligent, thoughtful females, too.
Lady Fenniston is one, certainly. Wasn’t your friend, Lady Fellsham, one as well? ’
‘Yes,’ she affirmed reluctantly.
‘We’ll only go to entertainments given and attended by sensible people, friends or associates connected with Parliament or the army.
Neither your mother nor your sister will be in Town, so you needn’t fear their scrutiny.
We can visit the theater. Ride in Hyde Park in the early morning, which while it isn’t wild like your beloved Lake District, is pretty enough.
You can return to the British Museum as often as you like and do more sketching. ’