Rogues and Ripped Bodices (6 page)

“I’m sorry if I shocked you. You should know
from our letters that I am not the best at holding my tongue or watching my
actions. I shall try better I promise, particularly if we are to be ma—” She
clamped her mouth shut and threaded her hands in front of her.

Bells rang in his head. Those carefully honed
senses he’d been mastering since he had turned sixteen and had inherited his
father’s title went on alert. Ambitious mamas and simpering misses had all
whispered that word behind his back. She didn’t need to finish the sentence to
make him realise what she had hoped.

“Married,” he finished for her, numb shock
working through his body and making the word toneless.

“Well...” She lifted her shoulders.

“Viola...” He shook his head. “We are not to be
married.”

He felt foolish saying the words. He hadn’t
asked for her hand, hadn’t even implied he was looking for a wife. Which he
wasn’t. He would rather die old and lonely than be responsible for the death of
another woman. Julian did not know how or why, but he was bad for women.

Her mouth opened and closed for some time. “You
mean... did you want it to be a surprise perhaps? Or... or...”

“No,” he snapped and regretted it when she
jolted back against the bookcase. “You misunderstand me. I have no want of a
wife. Forgive me, Viola, but I have no want of you.”

“But... your letter...” Her lashes fluttered
several times then she fished into her shirt before drawing out a crumpled
piece of parchment. He recognised the quick flash of handwriting. It was his
own.

“Viola...” he warned, his voice growing deep
with horror.

This woman had come here with the expectation of
marrying him. For whatever reason, she had travelled across the ocean for him.
He didn’t want to know why. All he wanted was her gone. It was too much. He
wished she’d never come here, wished he’d never been faced with the reality of
what was behind those letters. The reality was too tempting by far.

With shaking hands, she held out the paper and
read from it. “I...I have fervent hopes that when my business is completed with
your father, you shall not forget me...” A sob broke her words and she thrust
the paper at him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and read the
rest of it.

I have come to appreciate your letters and find
myself looking forward to reading of your news and ambitions. I have great hope
that you shall come to England soon and enjoy what it has to offer. May I
recommend the National Gallery in London and, of course, the splendid
Kenilworth Castle in my own home county—of which we have discussed. Your
passion for English history will make this visit a delight. I hope your passion
will be enough to persuade you to make such an arduous journey.

Whilst our families will marry in business this
April, I hear tell of another such happy event from your father. I confess I
fear the end of our correspondence. Will you assure me of your devotion to our
letters? 

Yours humbly,

Julian

He couldn’t quite believe those were his words.
Had he truly spoken like that? Julian supposed so. He always expressed himself
much better on paper. Yet he’d never mentioned their marriage. And the news of
the happy event—he’d been told there was a likelihood she would be marrying the
son of another shipping merchant. A merger as it was. He recalled the deep ache
that had struck him and how he’d been deliberately charming in his tone,
determined not to show his anguish.

“Damnation,” he muttered. His words were
misleading. He could only blame gut-clenching jealousy and the idea of marrying
another man for his ridiculous turn of phrase.

He lifted his head and heaved a sigh. But what
woman would come halfway across the world in the hopes of marrying a man she
didn’t know?

“I never intended...”

Her chin wobbled but she lifted her head high.
“To mislead me? Well, you did, Julian. You played me cruelly.”

“Now, wait a moment. I never meant to play you.
How was I to know you’d get it into your head that intended for us to be
anything other than friends?” He waved the letter. “Hell, we were barely that.
Why would I marry a woman I’d never laid eyes on? We wrote to each other,
nothing more.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes. Viola’s throat
worked. She drew in one long audible breath. “Nothing more,” she murmured,
dropping her gaze. “Of course, nothing more.” She surprised him by dropping
into a quick curtsey, muttering a farewell and dashing away from him.

Julian watched her go. His lungs seemed to
deflate while she hastened down the spiral steps and out of the library door.
All the heat that had built up under his skin vanished, leaving him cold and
empty. He glanced at the creased letter in his hand and imagined he could feel
the warmth from where it had been pressed to her breast.

Nothing more.

He shook his head. He knew better than that but
it was dangerous to admit more. Dangerous to suggest that he could possibly
have fallen in love with her simply through her letters. Perhaps she had felt
the same, but he’d never know now. If this was indeed love, he had to protect
her from him. For God’s sake, he’d just ranted at her for a misunderstanding.
He’d watched her hopes crumble before his eyes and still managed to tear her
down further. Even if he wanted to marry her and didn’t fear for her safety
around him, how could he subject her to a man like himself?

Folding the paper once more, he tucked it into
the inner pocket of his jacket. He couldn’t. Viola Thompson had to leave and
forget he even existed.

Chapter
Six

Where
was her dratted handkerchief? Viola sniffed noisily and stuffed her slippers
into her travel bag along with her nightgown and the evening gown Jenny had so
carefully hung. Who cared if it got creased? She’d bought it especially for
this trip and what a waste that had been. Heat singed her cheeks and she paused
to cover her face with her hands.

What a fool she must have seemed. This
starry-eyed American hoping for a love-match with an eloquent English lord.

“Foolish, foolish, foolish,” she muttered to
herself. “Oh stop it.” The tears were coming again. She drew in a noisy breath
and scanned the room for her handkerchief again.

Her gaze landed on the one on the table at the
bedside. Jenny must have had it washed and pressed as it was folded neatly. She
picked it up and ran her fingers over the embroidered monogram. To think she
had imagined their initials together on their own linen. Oh God, could she get
any sillier.

What would her friends say? They expected her to
return with at least a proposal, if not a husband in tow. Her brothers would
take great delight in her failure. And society would have yet another thing for
which to look down upon her. Her broken engagement had given the gossips and
society columnists a great deal of delight. What would they say about her now?

New York Heiress Scares Away Yet Another Man.

She had so wanted not to be a failure for once.
She had one job as a daughter—first it had been to be useful on the farm and
once her father had gained wealth, it was to marry a rich man. Her share of the
inheritance would do her nicely but of course, her father wanted more for her.
She’d already lost one rich man, and now all her dreams had come to nought. The
worst of it was, she had really, truly come to care for Julian. Or at least the
Julian she knew on paper.

She dabbed her nose with the handkerchief. He
didn’t seem at all like that man in real life.

The door creaked open. Viola waved a hand. “I
don’t need any help, thank you.”

A clunk sounded and she released a breath. She
really didn’t want to be seen in such a state, even by Jenny. She’d been crying
for the past two hours before deciding to pack her belongings. Her eyes felt
sore and swollen, and she hadn’t dared to look in a mirror to see the damage
yet.

“I am sorry.”

She swivelled at the sound of the three low,
soft words. A hand to her mouth, she staggered back and her legs struck the
bed. To prevent herself from falling onto the mattress, she put her hand to the
bedpost. Humiliation struck her anew at the sight of this handsome marquess.
She couldn’t decide if she preferred him with a necktie, without or with it
tugged loose as it was now. He had clearly been running his hand through his
hair as it was mussed.

Good. The man had the most foul of tempers. She
hoped he felt awful for what he’d said. If his lowered gaze and shifting feet
were anything to go by, he did. Or perhaps he was simply concerned about her
doing something foolish, like trying to force him into marrying her. Well, she
had no intention of marrying a man like him.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Viola turned and snatched her perfume and cold
cream from the dressing table and flung it into her bag. She eyed the white tub
for a moment and decided she would pack it more carefully later. Knowing her
luck, it would spill onto her clothes and it would be nearly an eleven-day
journey home if the weather was fine. She certainly didn’t need any more
disasters.

“I never intended—”

“To mislead me, yes, you said.”

She kept her back to him. Julian was entirely
too handsome and dashing. She could only guess at what he would look like when
she’d been writing to him and of course, she hoped he would be handsome, but
she had been prepared to accept him no matter what. A man who wrote letters as
he did was more beautiful than the handsomest of men, regardless of how he
looked.

But Julian didn’t need inner beauty. He embodied
her every idea of how an English lord should look. And, blast him, he drew her
in. Even now she’d seen the ugliness inside, her hopeful heart wished fervently
to see that man from the letters, to believe that he even existed beneath that
foul temper and awful manners.

For want of anything else to do, she closed her
bag and began to buckle it. She still needed to pack a few last bits but that
meant turning and viewing him.

A set of warm fingers curled around her wrist.
“Don’t.”

Viola snapped her head around to view him. He’d
stepped closer and swallowed up the small gap between them. Her breath stilted.
Her skin under his finger tips felt warm and goose bumps pricked along her arm.

“Don’t,” he repeated. “Don’t go.”

Darting her tongue out along her lower lip, she
tried to summon a response. Her indignation vanished at his touch. How
frustrating. She so wanted to shout at him for how horribly he had dealt with
their misunderstanding, but her body seemed to melt into a puddle of candle wax
once he touched her. It was the same sensation she’d felt when he’d kissed her.

He’d kissed her. Oh dear, that had been the most
romantic, exciting moment of her life. After months of dreaming and imagining
what it would be like, it had happened. And it had been so much better than she
expected.

But then he had to ruin everything. And, of
course, she had to be a fool to have assumed he ever meant to do anything more
than kiss her. No doubt he deeply regretted that kiss once he’d realised it had
given her the wrong impression. Perhaps he often kissed girls but they were
smart enough to know he did not mean anything by it.

“I should return home,” she said softly, keeping
her gaze on the brass buckle of her bag.

“But...” He drew in an audible breath and
released her hand. She saw him take a step back out of the corner of her eye.
“You have only been in England a matter of days. You should stay and... and see
the sights.”

Viola rotated slowly. She glanced at him from
under her lashes and tried to forget the utter humiliation she’d just
experienced. Her main aim of this trip had been to secure herself a husband.
But she couldn’t deny she’d been dreaming of visiting England ever since she
was old enough to read about it. The history simply fascinated her.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll show you around,” he offered. “You can
stay here.”

She let her brow rise. Was this simply him trying
to apologise or something more? Why had he gone from wanting her gone to asking
her to stay? No, she wouldn’t read more into it. She had already made a fool of
herself enough as it was. The likelihood was he did not want her running home
and telling Papa what an awful man he was and how they shouldn’t do business.

“In your house,” she clarified.

The thought of being able to explore the
beautiful house appealed greatly. She tried not to smile at his stiff nod.
Having been sick for all of her stay here, she hadn’t managed to see even a
quarter of the house and from his letters, she knew there was much to explore.
The gardens, the woods, the secret passageways. Then, of course, there were the
castles of which he had talked and the abbey, and even his home by the sea.
Perhaps she could talk him into taking her to the seaside.

“Will you take me to the castle?”

“I will.”

He didn’t look pleased about it. Was it simply
because it was her or was there something more to it? Jenny had implied the
marquess had only been like this since the death of his last wife. Was this
grief taking its toll on him? Maybe, if she tried hard, she might be able to
find that man who had written such beautiful letters. Even help him out of his
grief perhaps.

Well, there she went again with her fanciful
thoughts, but either way, she would at least have some wonderful memories and
experiences to carry her through her embarrassment when she returned home
empty-handed.

“Very well, I shall stay.”

A hint of a smile tilted his lips and he nodded.
“Excellent. I shall let Mrs Whittleworth know.” He cleared his throat and
shuffled his feet a little. “I hope you will join me for dinner tonight so we
can plan your outings.”

“I would like that, thank you.”

He gave her a formal dip of his head. It surprised
her as Julian had been so far removed from the rich, powerful marquess she’d
expected him to be. But the movement didn’t seem like that of a man constrained
by rules and society. Instead it was a simple movement of respect, and one that
sent her heart skittering up into her throat.

“Until this evening.” He retreated from her room
and shut the door.

Viola twisted to unbuckle her bag. Poor Jenny
would have to press her clothes again. Still, even with the thought of all her
crumpled clothes and having nothing to wear for the evening, she couldn’t
resist a smile. She might not get her husband but she would get the experience
of a lifetime, all on the arm of a handsome Englishman. It was not what fairy
tales were made of but it would do.