Chapter Nineteen
In the evening three weeks later, Rafe sat in the library with Hart, where they’d repaired at the conclusion of a Parliamentary meeting to continue the discussion about the latest matter under study in the Lords.
‘…don’t think Singletary has enough votes to carry the matter,’ Hart was saying, while Rafe sipped his brandy, his attention wandering.
‘I believe, after all, he might win women the right to vote.’ When Rafe gave no response to that outrageous comment, Hart shook his head in exasperation.
‘You’re not even listening to me! Where have you been all evening?
You barely spoke a word at the meetings and since we’ve returned here, you’ve been as grumpy as a bear with a thorn in its paw. ’
Rafe turned to his friend apologetically. ‘Sorry, I know I’ve been…distant.’
‘You’re missing your wife, I expect. It’s amazing how quickly a sweet lady can inveigle her way into your heart and home, so that you wonder how you ever managed without her! I hate it when Claire and I must be separated.’
With his friend so besotted with his own wife, Rafe felt he could admit, ‘I do miss her rather dreadfully.’
‘Well, why not go to Cornwall and fetch her? She’s had several weeks to roam about, sketching all the beguiling wildlife she’s seen.
She may be ready to leave. Or in any case, you can stand to miss the last few weeks of Parliament, if it comes to that.
I think we’re agreed that the Opposition hasn’t enough votes in the House to risk bringing any of their measures to a vote this session. So your absence shouldn’t be missed.’
After an initial flare of excitement at the prospect, Rafe sighed.
‘But if I go, she’ll feel obligated to entertain me or perhaps cut short her exploration there.
I did faithfully promise to support her work and give her as much time as she needs.
You’ve seen her sketches, you understand how talented she is. ’
‘Then go and support her! You’re not doing much good, moping about here.’
He sighed again, tempted but trying to resist it. ‘I’ll consider it.’
‘Please do,’ Hart said, setting down his glass. ‘Now, not to rub it in, but I shall go home to my own delightful wife. Who can entertain me in ways you cannot compete with.’
Rafe smiled ruefully. ‘I can well imagine. Lucky dog.’
Hart shrugged. ‘You have a perfectly lovely wife of your own whose charms you might avail yourself of. If you want to enough. Even a wife with whom you only share “friendship” and “affection.” That is all you still want to share with her, isn’t it?’
Rafe looked up quickly but couldn’t read his friend’s expression. ‘Still—always—a good basis for marriage,’ he floundered.
Rising to walk out, Hart clapped him on the arm.
‘Just remember, it isn’t the only one. Don’t let an unfortunate experience from years ago prevent you from enjoying the full richness a life together can offer.
Love doesn’t have to mean excessive emotion and agony.
It can be profound but quiet joy. I’m gone!
’ he concluded, holding up a hand before Rafe could ask him to cease.
‘Thanks for the unsolicited advice,’ Rafe said acidly as his friend exited the library.
‘No extra charge,’ Hart threw back with a grin.
After his friend walked out, Rafe poured himself another glass and sank back into his chair.
There was no denying that he missed Juliana far more acutely than he’d anticipated.
There was the unfulfilled physical hunger, of course.
She’d spoiled him so thoroughly with her sensual, responsive nature that he’d foolishly come to take daily lovemaking for granted.
The sudden loss of it had been more unpleasant than he’d anticipated, making him wonder how he’d survived all those celibate years with the army.
His dissatisfaction stemmed from much more than just a lack of passionate fulfillment, though.
He missed her voice, the charm of her laughter, the surprise of her unusual insights, her calm and quiet presence.
She made all the difficulties he faced easier, at Thornthwaite and in London, smoothing his way, never asking for thanks or demanding special attention.
Never cajoling for treats or favours, sweetly grateful for a simple sketchbook, a pair of entry tickets to the Royal Academy exhibition or a set of etchings by Turner.
Closing his eyes, he could imagine the feel of her skin under his fingers as she lay on his shoulder in the aftermath of loving. Her faint lavender scent. The sound of her light step in the hallway approaching the library, which always made his heart lift.
His heart. His friend had hinted rather broadly that he’d been letting the long-ago affair with Thalia stop him from fully enjoying the relationship with the wife he now knew suited him much better than his former love ever would have.
Was he—had he been from the first—letting that long-ago pain blind him to the life he might lead now with Juliana?
His initial strong reaction to seeing Thalia again, he was slowly realizing, had been the result of being transported in those first few moments back to the time when he’d been heartbroken and despairing over a future that didn’t include her.
For, though he’d been briefly tempted by her suggestion that they renew their relationship—certainly her offer had assuaged his bruised pride—he’d never truly considered accepting it.
Indeed, repulsed by the idea of replacing what had been a pure, stainless emotion with a furtive illicit affair, he’d been able to dismiss the possibility with no regret.
Would he be able to dismiss Juliana from his life so easily?
The intensity of his rejection of the mere possibility brought him up short. Had he fallen in love with his wife and been too burdened by the pain of the past to realize it?
Love doesn’t have to mean excessive emotion and agony. It can be profound but quiet joy.
He’d thought his brother had cheated Juliana by offering her a marriage devoid of passion. Was he not cheating her just as much by denying her a marriage based on a full measure of love?
He couldn’t imagine a lady more deserving of having a husband who loved her completely and totally.
The more he considered the matter, the more he realized what a complete dolt he’d been.
Secretly burnishing this image of a failed Grand Passion, which he was now coming to realize had been more a young man’s romantic infatuation with an unattainable princess who, after a month of squiring her to dances and a few stolen kisses, he still barely knew.
It hadn’t been a real love based on a thorough knowledge and appreciation of the character and qualities of the lady.
Then he’d stubbornly held on to that mirage as the definition of love, instead of cherishing the passion he’d been gifted with.
Recalling now the slow, steady development of their relationship since their marriage, he realized he’d long since gone beyond mere affection for Juliana; he loved her with a deep, abiding passion far stronger and deeper than the adolescent fixation he’d had for Thalia.
He smiled, then threw back his head and laughed. What an idiot he’d been.
Time to rectify the matter.
But as he jumped up in a fever of enthusiasm, fired by the idea of rushing to Cornwall and pledging his long-held but only newly discovered love for Juliana, he hesitated.
She’d accepted his hand believing their marriage would be based on respect and friendship.
Certainly that was what she had expected to share with Ian.
Despite her deeply sensual nature, she was often a solitary, self-contained little thing.
She might not be comfortable with expressions of great emotion.
He’d promised her as much time as she wanted to sketch and explore.
She might not want him hanging about, feeling she must curtail her time in the woods and fields of Cornwall, as she’d felt it necessary to end her day at the Royal Academy exhibition, despite admitting later that she could have remained until closing.
He didn’t want to hem her in or put a damper on her creativity. That wasn’t the way to treat someone you liked, much less loved.
But then, he was a clever fellow. There was always the magic of passion, with which he knew he could easily distract her.
He truly would be happy to accompany her on her forays up on the cliffs or into the woodland shadows.
If she preferred to go alone, he could be content to remain at Mrs Earnshaw’s house, awaiting her return, eager to view her day’s work.
Still irresolute, he wandered into her sitting room and over to the desk, intent on finding Mrs Earnshaw’s invitation. He’d need directions to the estate in Cornwall if he did decide to set out.
Somehow, the love he’d so suddenly realized seemed to fill him to bursting—joyous, exuberant, hardly able to be contained. He wanted to see Juliana, be with her, even if he had to restrain himself from expressing his feelings.
The note wasn’t perched against the inkwell, where she’d kept it before. He opened a desk drawer, pleased to discover it—and surprised to also find one of her new sketchbooks.
Knowing how excited she was to capture as many images as possible—and how she’d crammed little sketches into every corner of her previous, inadequate book—he wondered why she hadn’t taken it with her. Perhaps she’d forgotten it in the drawer.
He could bring it to her. That should win him an appreciative smile when he arrived, he thought happily.
He’d thought the book empty, but as he lifted it out, he realized that she’d already made some drawings. He flipped it open to find a few pages of studies, smiling as he recognized them as Hart and Claire’s son, Andrew, and Claire’s niece, Arabella.
Affection for the children was evident in every stroke and shadow, he thought. No rats. I only draw what I love.
He turned to the next page and his breath stopped. On that page, the next and the next were more lovingly rendered drawings.