Nigel frowned. “But I do not think Dr. Campbell is worthy of you. He should have stayed and fought for you. You are worthy of a dragon slayer. Your doctor may have saved lives, but I don’t know if he has enough courage for you, Julia.”
“Is your earl a dragon slayer?”
She was surprised by how serious Nigel suddenly looked. “I know what he did in the War, Julia. I think he is.”
“So you won’t give me my loan?”
“I cannot distract you, can I?”
“No.”
He sighed. “I want to see you happily settled, Julia. So my answer has to be no.”
She could argue. And fight. Or she could be smart about this. “I will ask Zoe for a loan.”
“In this, Zoe will not disagree with me.”
“Maybe not. But I can at least try.” She turned and walked away.
“Julia.”
She paused at the door.
“Summerhay will not be the only eligible man there. Lady Worthington has invited the Duke of Bradstock, my friend from Eton days. Along with Viscount Yorkville. Three intelligent, interesting men.”
James, the duke, she knew quite well. One of his many houses was only an hour away by motorcar, and he would visit on school holidays. He had been born to be a duke—he could be rather arrogant. Yorkville, she’d never met.
“Nigel, you can’t push me at eligible men at Worthington Park.” She sighed. “It’s bad form when Lady Carstairs will want to do that with her three unmarried daughters.”
“Julia, all I am asking you to do is be polite,” her brother protested.
“That is all anyone wants me to do. Be polite and ladylike and boring. But I am not giving up.”
Then she swept out of his study. But it was not such a dramatic exit—she was leaving to do what was expected of her. To dress for dinner.
But she longed to burst out of her shell. To do something that was more than just wild and frivolous, like dancing and drinking cocktails.
Her sister-in-law, Zoe, could fly airplanes. There were women doctors, singers, artists, clothing designers. A modern woman could now grasp almost any opportunity, take hold of life and become something.
Modern women could change the world. That was what she wanted to do.
* * *
That night, the Daimler took Julia, her mother, sister Isobel and grandmother to Worthington Park. Zoe and Nigel followed in Zoe’s sporty motor.
The car door was opened by one of Worthington’s footmen. A warm early-summer breeze flirted with the gauzy, bead-strewn hem of her skirt as Julia stepped out on the drive and gazed up at the house that might have been her home.
Brideswell Abbey, the house she’d grown up in, was more square and severe. Worthington was sprawling and inviting. It had a long facade, with two wings that came forward like embracing arms. A massive fountain stood in the middle of the circular drive. In the June sun, the house glowed with warm golden stone and hundreds of windows glinted.
With Mother and Grandmama, Julia walked into the foyer. Her heels clicked on the black marble tiles, the sound soaring to the high domed ceiling and its exquisite art, gilded with gold leaf. The newel post and railing of the stairs gleamed with gilt and the walls were covered partway in white and rose-pink marble. Orchids from the greenhouses and roses spilled out of enormous vases.
Julia handed off her wrap to a footman.
It was in here, in the very open foyer, that Anthony had stolen his first kiss. She had been unwinding her scarf while the butler fetched Anthony’s sister Diana, who was Julia’s age and a good friend. From behind, Anthony had swept her into his arms. At the soft, wonderful caress of his lips on hers, her heart had raced and she’d almost melted. Then he’d heard the butler returning, so he’d let her go and run off. But he’d thrown her one last look—a look of pure, hungry, masculine longing that had seared her to her toes.
Two days later, he’d proposed to her.
They had walked to the folly—a temple with white marble columns that stood on a hill and overlooked the house. It had been a rainy, windswept day, but they’d had so few days before Anthony would be leaving for France and war.
She had been not quite eighteen. For a year, since she had come out, everyone expected she would marry Anthony. But she had still been young and there had been time. Then war had come, and suddenly everyone was afraid there would not be time anymore—not enough time to live.
Anthony had said, “Someday I will be the Earl of Worthington but none of that matters if you aren’t with me. Don’t say we’re too young. I’m old enough to go and fight and I want to know things are settled between us before I go. I love you, Julia. I wish I could marry you before I leave, but I should be back soon, and we’ll be married then.”
“We will,” she had said. “I love you.” Then he’d swept her into his arms and kissed her again...
Anthony had died at the Somme in 1916.
Julia let out a long soft breath as she, her mother and grandmother walked toward the drawing room. Worthington Park was special to her. For her, it was filled with the happiness and the excitement of her very first love. It was wrapped up in loss, too.
Even running her hand along a banister or taking a seat in a chair gave her a powerful, electrifying jolt of memory and emotion.
“Julia!”
Her friend Diana came forward, her golden hair bouncing around her lovely face. Her huge blue eyes gave her a helpless look, but her painted Cupid’s bow lips and pencil-straight sheath of gold beads and lace were thoroughly modern.
Julia knew Diana fought a constant battle with her mother, Lady Worthington, over her shocking use of makeup, but because she bought her cosmetics from the counter at Selfridges, not because makeup was scandalous anymore.
Diana clasped her hands. “Come with me and we’ll have a smart cocktail instead of the horrid sweet sherry my mother insists on. I must talk to you!”
Julia followed Diana to one of the bay windows that looked out upon the side lawns. Worthington Park had one of the most ordered gardens in the country. Behind the house, paths followed a delicate design leading through beds to a central fountain.
A footman brought a silver tray with two enormous glasses, truly the size of finger bowls. Bubbles floated up through the liquid, which was tinted pink.
“Champagne cocktails,” Diana said. She took several long swallows.
“Diana—” Julia frowned. “You should slow down.” Diana had been drinking much too much of late. They had been in London together last week and she’d rescued a drunken Diana from a party and taken her to the Savoy to keep Diana from getting behind the wheel and driving when she could barely stand.
“It’s for courage,” Diana protested. “They found the heir and he’s coming here to see exactly what he’s inherited—what he gets to take away from us.”
Diana’s ominous words made Julia shiver. The heir to Worthington had been found. After the old earl had died at the end of the War, Anthony’s younger brother, John, had inherited the title. Tragically, John Carstairs had died a year ago in a car crash and the hunt had begun for the next in line to the title.
“What do you mean, what he gets to take away from you?”
“Mummy believes this man—who’s American—will turn us out to starve. He hates us all.”
“For heaven’s sake, why?”
Diana