An unidentifiable expression crossed his face as he leaned forward to clasp the back of the chair. She found herself unaccountably staring at his hands, large and long fingered. “Ah yes,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Botany is an acceptable womanly pursuit that fits within a woman’s sanctioned role as helpmeet of man, educator of children. Botany poses no danger of inflaming the imagination, unlike, shall we say, a radically new creation like photography.”
Julia would curse the moment of weakness later, but she couldn’t deny the pull of curiosity. “And what do you know of it? I believe that dabbling in the fine arts is generally acceptable among ladies of leisure,” she countered. He wore no rings and carried no timepiece, she noted, before returning her eyes to his.
“Daguerreotypy requires a special knowledge of chemistry and a certain manual dexterity, hardly ladylike accomplishments.”
That had not stopped any number of women from completing outstanding series of photograms of plant specimens. “And what of it?” She sat up higher in the bed, pulling the sheet closer around her shoulders. “This discussion is not helpful in the least. It brings us no closer to resolving this situation.”
He smiled slightly.
More impatient than ever, she pressed on. “If it’s money you want in exchange for my freedom, I can arrange—”
His gray eyes widened speculatively, the pupils flared.
Julia froze. Dread filled her chest. Trying to keep calm, she studied the man the way she would any of her projects, placing him in an imaginary frame, looking for useful details, but finding none.
“You should not have changed the subject,” he said, his tone even. “There is no possibility of negotiation.” His gaze stripped away every last layer of reserve she possessed. “It’s for your own good,” he said softly.
The lamp glowed low, throwing his solid, hard body into shadowed relief on the wall. Unwillingly, she inhaled his scent of smoke, forest, and desert. An exotic, contradictory combination and far outside her ken. Who was this man sent by Montagu Faron?
Julia swallowed the thickness that welled unexpectedly in her throat. Memories of a childhood spent in blissful but willful ignorance, cocooned in the warmth of Montfort, flooded over her. She blinked rapidly at the pain in her heart, at the sense of sudden, poignant loss. At that moment, it seemed the entirety of her life was a palimpsest, fragile truths built upon layers of secrets and lies.
Meredith’s warnings rang in Julia’s ears. Meredith had never before spoken directly of her past, or of the shadow that Montagu Faron had cast over her life. It was the unholy power of secrets—what was left unsaid.
Julia had made a fatal error in ignoring the threats. But Faron would get no closer to her aunt or her sister despite her own lack of judgement, her uncharacteristic impetuousness. Staring into the shadowy depths of the room, Julia had never been surer of anything in her life. Meredith, who had given her shelter, given her back her life, was under threat of this man. Faron. Her gaze rested on the bank of windows, each and every one surely locked against her, and she came to a decision.
“I shall do it,” she said abruptly, bracing her back against the pillows, bracing herself for battle. “I shall attend this debauchery.” Her words shattered the silence like stones dropped into a pool.
Alexander’s eyes narrowed, his gaze holding hers. “Why the sudden change of heart? It’s difficult to believe you’re suddenly keen to accept Wadsworth’s invitation.”
“My motivation should be of no interest to you.” She was tired of hiding—she, her sister, and her aunt so fearful of stepping out into the world. There was always a threat, something, someone—Faron—holding them back. She remembered the argument with Meredith, her aunt’s insistence that publication of her photographs would lead to unwanted attention. Guilt and then a fierce protectiveness flooded Julia’s heart.
“Fair enough,” he said, finally looking down at her with a cynicism that was galling. He didn’t trust her.
Laughable, given the situation, she thought, tensing her shoulders. As though she could trust herself or even begin to explain her actions. Ignoring Meredith’s warnings. Accepting Wadsworth’s invitation. Launching herself at the footman. It was all a form of madness.
She shook her head silently and slanted a look at her adversary, his hands resting on the back of the chair. She expected him to reach for her at any moment. Nothing about him suggested inaction.
“At least we can dispense with force,” he said with a trace of a smile in his voice. “I’m much relieved.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said, suddenly suspicious. She eyed the tray at the foot of the bed. “I take it the wine was not laced with opiates?” Despite the mockery in her tone, her stomach tightened further.
“Entirely unnecessary, as it turns out,” he said lightly, straightening away from the chair. She noticed again how tall, how broad he was. That this Alexander was anyone’s lackey, even a man as powerful as Faron, was preposterous.
She stared at him, her suspicions lending her courage. “So what will it be? What is expected of me?” She forced out the words, pulling the sheet over her shoulders. Her mind cringed at what was in store for her. “Attend a few hours of this wretched evening, feigning enjoyment?”
“You may surprise yourself,” he said, appearing unmoved, as far from mortification as the sky was wide. He was utterly at ease in the outrageous, dangerous situation.
Blood drained from her cheeks. “I’m not entirely the country mouse you take me for, sir. I have heard of this unfortunate taste for licentiousness among the upper classes.”
“Truly? I’m amazed.”
Unreasonably irritated, she said, “I have read de Sade, Laclos and the like. My aunt saw to it that my sister and I received a thorough and comprehensive education. She does not believe women should be kept in ignorance of the world.”
“Your credentials are impressive.”
“You would mock me.” She wished she could order him to quit the room. As though that would do a whit of good. “I am simply well read,” she said, hating the pinched tone of her voice.
“Clearly,” he replied, and miraculously retreated from the massive bed. He strolled toward the windows hung with heavy damask curtains, casting a quick glance to the courtyard below. When he looked up again, he said, “If you permit me to say it, you are an unusual woman, Miss Woolcott. Shy and retiring on the one hand and yet ready to take up a letter opener upon the slightest provocation.”
“Provocation? I should say in self-defense.”
“You appear to be a creature of extremes, Miss Woolcott. You have just assured me of your familiarity with what many would deem salacious texts, yet you cringe like an untried maiden at the specter of carnal behavior.”
Carnal behavior. The room might as well be spinning out of control. Taking a deep breath, Julia schooled her features into passivity. She prided herself on her breadth of knowledge. “I am, of course, familiar with Ovid and Catullus.” She had the uncomfortable sense that he meant to test her.
His glance was assessing. “One cannot hope to learn everything from books or from the Western canon of knowledge. We seldom think to include the knowledge and wisdom of the East.”
Needing to defend her scholarship, she sat up straighter, ignoring the numbness in her leg. “Of which you have some small knowledge, I am persuaded to believe?”
“Yes, some small knowledge.” He shoved both hands into the pockets of his trousers and looked at her expectantly. For one moment, she believed she’d seen a glimpse of something personal in his eyes.
She