“Julia!” Her name came out in a roar of shock.
The creature in front of Nigel was nothing like the demure English lady who had climbed into Zoe Gifford’s motorcar that morning. Several feet of her dark hair had been cut. Her face was made up like an actress on Drury Lane. As for her dress—
It revealed so much of his sister’s legs that his hands clenched into fists. Julia’s entire body moved with the jazz beat, her hips flowing back and forth in shocking invitation.
Nigel grasped her wrist and hauled her off the floor. “Did she do this to you?”
Tugging against his iron grip, Julia’s expression became one he readily recognized. She glared. “If by ‘she,’ you mean Miss Gifford, then yes. And if by ‘this,’ you mean that she is trying to coax me to have fun, then yes. This is fun, Nigel.”
“Fun.” He spat the word. “You are barely dressed.”
“This dress is fashionable. And not quite shocking if every other woman in the room is wearing the same thing.”
Someone tapped on his shoulder. It was Julia’s partner—a pasty-looking young man who was obviously at university. “Look here,” the lad began. “She’s my partner.”
“Bugger off,” Nigel snarled.
Quaking, the boy retreated. Nigel rounded on Julia. “You were giving him ideas.”
She burst out laughing.
“What is so funny?” he barked.
“Nigel, he is a sweet young man. We were simply dancing. You think my behavior is shocking? That young man is the son of Viscount Hardley and, to quote, you just told him to—”
“Never mind what I told him.” This was Zoe Gifford’s fault. He refused to lose control due to her—even control over his language. “That is not what I would call dancing. Married people have less contact during their private relations.”
This made Julia double over, helpless with laughter. It was good to see her enjoying herself. Irritating to have it at his expense.
“What has she done to you?” Two days. That was all the time Miss Gifford had spent under his roof, yet Julia’s hair was now gone, her demure face was painted, and she was making rude gyrations in a public place. He hauled off his coat and threw it around Julia’s shoulders. It reached her knees and engulfed her in an envelope of decency. “We are returning home.”
“I am not leaving, Nigel. I want to dance.”
A slender hand landed on his arm, and the scent of exotic roses surrounded him. As he jerked around, Miss Gifford, the culprit, smiled up at him.
“You are making a scene, Your Grace,” she said. “Why don’t we discuss this at our table?”
“I am making a scene?” The words came out with all the calm that pervaded the atmosphere before men rushed out of a trench with rifles. “My sister is cavorting half-naked on a public dance floor.”
“Which is perfectly natural in a dance club,” Miss Gifford pointed out. “Dragging her off the floor and throwing your coat over her is more fitting to the last century. If you are so concerned about appearances, look around you, Duke. You are creating the scandal here.”
Dimly, he became aware of the stares. Hundreds of them. Grunting with anger—how dare she be in the right?—Nigel watched Miss Gifford lead Julia to a table. Sebastian was there, along with a group of rainbow-colored drinks. Two glasses in front of his brother were already empty.
Miss Gifford handed him a full one in a revolting shade of yellow-green. Nigel put it down. He didn’t drink things the color of urine. “What in hell were you thinking?” he growled at her. “Julia is in mourning.”
Julia threw off his coat so it landed on the back of the chair and sipped a pink drink.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miss Gifford said. “Lady Julia can’t be mourning for the rest of her life.”
Julia set down her drink and Sebastian whisked her onto the dance floor. Damn his brother.
Miss Gifford jumped to her feet and stood in front of him. From this view, he could see a considerable amount of her smooth, bare thighs. He grabbed his drink, downed it and sputtered. “Sweet,” he choked.
“You certainly are not. Dance with me.”
“I do not dance.”
“I can teach you.”
“Leave me alone, Miss Gifford.”
“I won’t. Not until you have one dance with me.”
The loud, raucous music pounded in his head. It grew louder, slamming through his skull like relentless explosions. The thunderous beat became the burst of shells. It was engulfing him. Nigel shut his eyes—a fatal mistake. With every screech of the music, he could see the endless showers of flying mud and men. Roaring filled his ears and sweat trickled down his back.
“Dance with me, Your Grace. Surely you can’t be afraid of attempting to dance.”
His hands were shaking hard now. He had to get out—
He jolted to his feet. Turning his back on Miss Gifford, he ran to the stairs and took them three at a time. The dining room was a roar of noise. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like fog, like the ash-filled air of no-man’s-land.
He shoved past the doorman, slammed open the door and stalked out into the night.
A car horn sounded and Nigel plastered his body against a brick wall beside him. His entire body shook. His mind was like Pandora’s box—demons poured out and he couldn’t jam them back in.
“Nigel, what is wrong?”
He whirled. Miss Gifford came up to him and put her hands on his arm. “Nigel—”
“Langford. The appropriate form of address is to refer to me by my title,” he snapped, turning his back to her. What in hell would she see in his face? Why had she come after him? “Go dance with my brother,” he barked.
“No.” Her hand skimmed up his arm and rested on his shoulder. “You are shaking and are pale as a ghost. You ran out of the club as if someone was chasing you.”
“Stop touching me.”
But she did not listen. Her body moved closer until he could feel her softness pressing against his side. He felt the warmth of her bare skin through his clothes. Her breath brushed over the back of his neck.
He needed distance. Grasping her hands, he propelled her back. He had to face her to do it.
“What happened to you?” Her large violet eyes searched his face.
He fumbled for a cigarette. A mistake, for it revealed how much his hand still shook. It would take a long time for the physical reaction to subside. But he got the damned smoke out and stuck it between his lips. “I was upset at the sight of my sister.”
Miss Gifford shook her head. “No, this is not anger. This is panic. I understand now. You’re suffering from shell shock.”
“I am not. There is nothing wrong with me.”
“There are many things wrong with you, Langford, and this explains them all. No wonder you didn’t want to talk about war. I apologize for everything I said. You’re obviously suffering.”
“I am not suffering.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of—”
“I am not ashamed. And I am not weak.”
Her plucked brow arched. “You’re afraid to admit there is anything wrong with you. Good heavens, how could there not be? My brother died