“Have I tired out your voice as well as your legs, Captain?” she asked in jest, only to be taken aback by the grave, pensive set of his handsome features. “Or is something wrong?”
“Miss Ramsay...Julianna...” Upon his lips, her name sounded the most lyrical word in the language. “It is wrong of me to speak, but neither can I keep silent. With the hazardous undertaking before me, it could not be a worse time for romantic distractions...most unfair to any lady... advancing a compact of so long duration, with no assurance of my safe return...”
“Captain Bayard...Crispin...” His name sparkled on her tongue like champagne. “I believe I have kept you too long in the sun. You are not making a particle of sense.”
“No wonder. Since the day we met, I have taken leave of my senses. Sense tells me it is madness to meet with you so often, when I may not tender an honorable proposal. However, the light of your beauty and the music of your voice are too sweet a madness to resist.”
Languidly drawing off her glove, Julianna reached out to push that unruly curl back from his brow, as she had longed to do since their first meeting. Her hand strayed down his cheek. Crispin needed no further invitation to kiss her. Their lips made a delicious confection of berries and cream.
“Crispin, are you asking for my hand?” Julianna asked breathlessly, when he drew back.
“Could you consider it? Two years without you stretches ahead like a lifetime. Could you wait two years for me, and look to wed upon my return?”
Smiling pertly, she replied, “You have tasted my answer.”
His anxious expression eased into a smile of barely containable happiness. “Ah, but I grow forgetful as well as mad,” he teased. “Give me your answer again, that I may remember.”
Laughing with delight, she obliged. Then, as Crispin held her, she rested her cheek against the soft velvet of his coat.
When Julianna opened her eyes, she saw that Crispin’s dressing room had grown dark in the early winter twilight. She had no wish to roam the eerily echoing galleries of Fitzhugh House in this deep gloom. With a reluctant sigh, she slipped the coat from her shoulders and returned it to the wardrobe. Pausing at the door, she blew a kiss back into the empty room.
In the darkened corridor, Julianna soon became disoriented. After one or two unsuccessful attempts, she confidently pulled open her own door.
Edmund set aside his razor and bolted a swallow of brandy. Dutch courage, he thought, grimacing at his half-shaved face in the looking glass. Nonsense, another part of him countered, just a drop of oil to lubricate my tongue. Raising a skeptical eyebrow, he slid the blade of his razor from ear to chin in a single deft sweep. Not that he’d need to do much talking if that goose of a girl didn’t soon put in an appearance. Where could she have gone? He’d noticed nothing missing during a quick inspection of her rooms. So she couldn’t have run away—more the pity.
Four quick strokes shaved the stiff whiskers from Edmund’s upper lip. Dashedly inconsiderate of the girl, bolting to who-knew-where, after all the trouble he’d taken to secure them a stage-side box at Drury Lane tonight. Odd she’d go missing now. Ever since she’d blackmailed him into letting her stay for Christmas, she had looked in far brighter spirits. It had been everything he could do to keep a sober face when he’d overheard the little chit saucing Mordecai Brock. Thinking back on it, Edmund grinned to himself and tipped another draft of his brandy. About time Brock had somebody to put him in his place.
Tilting his head back, Edmund held the razor poised above his neck. He started at the sound of someone barging into his bedchamber. “Who’s there!” he barked—a wonder he hadn’t slit his throat from ear to ear!
“It is I, Sir Edmund,” came an apologetic squeak. “I lost my way in the galleries and opened your door by mistake. Please excuse the intrusion.”
Before he could reply, Edmund heard the door close again. With a growl of vexation, he dropped the razor and splashed a palmful of water on his face. Tugging on a coat and grabbing a candle, he set off after Julianna.
“No need to run away,” he said, puffing as he caught up with her. “I didn’t mean to snap your head off, but the noise startled me. Even as I called out, I realized it must be you. Ghosts seldom haunt new houses.”
She glanced over at him with a nervous smile, probably wondering if he meant to flay her alive over an honest mistake. Had he given her reason to think him such an ogre? With a spasm of chagrin, Edmund acknowledged the possibility.
“Besides...” He made an effort to allay her fears. “I have been looking for you. I reserved us a box at Drury Lane for this evening. The company is staging a revival of Mr. Congreve’s The Way of the World. It is an excellent piece, very amusing.”
“I have read the text of the play,” Julianna replied eagerly. “I would love to see it performed. This will be my first time at the theater. Papa always protested I was too young. He had finally promised to take me...” Her voice trailed off.
Fearing she might start blubbering, Edmund hurried on, determinedly cheerful. “Then I must keep his promise.”
They reached Julianna’s rooms, where Edmund immediately set to work banking the coals of her sitting room fire.
“You must dress quickly... and warmly,” he called over his shoulder. “They put small braziers in the boxes on cold nights, but it can take a while to heat up.”
Having completed his fire-tending chores, Edmund replaced the screen. He sat on the chaise for a few minutes, twiddling his thumbs. “Have you eaten yet?” he shouted in to Julianna, but received no reply. “I thought we might take a late supper at one of the eating houses around Covent Garden. If you get hungry in the meantime, we can always buy some oranges at the theater.”
Edmund sat for a few minutes more. Then he got up and wound Julianna’s mantel clock, admiring the Flemish craftsmanship. He sat down again, drumming an impatient tattoo with his fingers on the arm of the chaise. Though he had managed to forget many aspects of his first marriage, he still vividly recalled how long it had taken Amelia to dress for any outing. Despite lengthy preparations, the result had never satisfied her.
“Sir Edmund...”
He spun about to see Julianna standing in her bedroom door, the half-secured back of her snuff-brown frock presented to him.
“May I impose upon you to finish hooking my gown?” She gave a deprecatory laugh at her own plight “I’m unequal to the contortions required to reach the two between my shoulder blades.”
“This will be a new job for me,” Edmund quipped, “but I believe I can manage.” He set to the task, resolutely trying to ignore the tantalizing distraction of wispy red-gold curls clustered at the nape of Julianna’s neck.
When, for an instant, his fingertips brushed the warm silk of her skin, he was overwhelmed by disquieting memories of the kiss she had offered him on their wedding night—memories he had ruthlessly suppressed for weeks.
“There, how is that?” He quickly stepped back. “I think I have all the hooks matched with their eyes. Throw on a cloak, girl, and let us go before we miss the first act.”
Julianna fairly danced at his side as they walked down to the foyer of Fitzhugh House and climbed into the waiting carriage. She kept up a voluble chatter about the plays she had read and would like to see performed. Edmund relaxed, sensing that he need not contribute much to the conversation. He couldn’t help approving of the girl’s taste in reading matter and her cogently expressed opinions.
As they took their seats in a prominent front box, Edmund felt many eyes upon them. On the nearest faces he read mingled respect and envy. How curious that no displays of his wealth had ever occasioned such covetous looks as his squiring of a beautiful young woman. Edmund scowled, trying to mask the ridiculous rush of elation that surged within him as the