Tarleton's Wife (20 page)

Fine. What a monstrous lie!

A few more reassurances to the surprisingly concerned boarders outside the door…and then time to think. To reason. Part of the nightmare was easy enough to understand. Nicholas did not dissolve into a skeleton because he still lived. The significance of Doña Violante replacing the poor mother and child was equally obvious. But Viscount Albemarle, that pillar of London society and member of the House of Lords? Surely a silly vagary of her imagination, a haunting produced by her intense relief at finding a position at last.

No, it was more than that, she was certain of it. Julia forced herself to recall every look, every gesture, that final brief but blatant flare of anticipation in those amber eyes. Viscount Albemarle had not employed her for his two children. He had hired her for himself.

No, no, no, no!
She could not give up this position on the evidence of a nightmare. She couldn’t. She could not go back to Miss Spencer yet again, pleading God knew what as an excuse for refusing such an advantageous position…

But she would. She would have to.

Julia lay back down, pulling the covers up to her chin. Her lips quivered as she longed for the days when the phantom lover of her dreams had kept The Nightmare at bay, bringing her love and warmth. Cherishing. Days now gone forever.

* * * * *

“I am so very sorry,” said Julia to Miss Portia Spencer the next morning. “I was so pleased to have the position but then…I remembered how he looked at me…” Her voice trailed away as her great anguished eyes met Miss Spencer’s stern gaze across the expanse of her utilitarian pinewood desk. “I suppose I am being foolish, for I know quite well that men do not find me attractive. I am too tall, too opinionated. But—you must believe me!—there was just something wrong. Yes, yes, I am certain his interest was-ah-
personal
.” Julia hung her head, clasping her hands tightly together in her lap as was her habit in moments of extreme stress. “I sent round a note this morning, saying that I was called home due to an illness in the family. I know that was quite wrong of me but I could think of nothing else…”

Miss Spencer frowned, adjusting her spectacles with one long thin finger. Wisps of gray hair flared above her ears, softening the effect of her tightly pulled chignon. Her lips twitched. “You may not see yourself as others do, Miss Leyland,” she intoned. “We have touched on this before, I believe. The day you first walked into this office I nearly stood up and addressed you as ‘my lady’, for even your modest gown could not disguise that you were, as the saying goes, to the manor born.”

Startled, Julia frowned at Miss Spencer’s thin face. “You are not pretty, Miss Leyland,” that lady pronounced. “You are something far more than that. You are regal. Striking. Yours is a beauty which will last a lifetime. Long after prettiness has decayed into soft flesh and a sullen pout for lost admiration.”

Miss Spencer held up a hand, stifling Julia’s automatic protest. “Whatever you were, or thought you were in the past, my dear, you are now a woman whose vibrancy and intelligence cannot be hidden behind dowdy gowns and a thin veil of humility. I wished to help you—it is my job, after all—but I should have told you that very first day that no woman in her right senses would have you in her household. The Duchess of Marchmont wrote to me, praising you highly. She even offered to employ you if a better opportunity did not present itself. But she feels quite strongly that your destiny is to have your own household, the position of wife and mother.” Julia’s eyes widened.

“Yes, indeed, she was quite explicit about the type of employer I should find for you. Which is possibly why—since I too am guilty of a certain modicum of stubborn pride—I have not mentioned the one position which met the duchess’s most specific suggestions.”

“Ma’am?” Julia felt a frisson of excitement. Miss Portia Spencer was not going to show her door. She was, in fact, about to present an alternative.

“There is a gentleman from Somerset who came to me more than a week ago with a request for a governess for his daughter of some six years. He is a widower.” Portia Spencer faltered in her aplomb and was forced to fix her gaze on a portrait of George III hanging on the wall. “In truth, I might not have been so stubborn about the duchess’s advice except that I felt that you and Mr. Thompson would not suit. Too much alike by half,” added Miss Spencer with considerable fervor. “Arrogant. Willful. Each of you walks into a room as if you owned it. My first impression was that you would annihilate each other within twenty-four hours.

“But now…” Portia Spencer took her time surveying Julia from head to foot. A man would have to be dead not to find the girl attractive. Sending her to the home of a widower was reckless. Irresponsible. But then again, the girl was not some delicate schoolroom miss. “I thought Mr. Thompson a man who preferred a milk-and-water miss, a mealy mouthed, namby-pamby chit who would run to do his bidding and gaze worshipfully at him from her humble corner. Unfortunately, I seem to have been mistaken, for he has rejected each candidate out of hand. In truth, I have no one left to send but you.”

“I should try very hard to be humble…”

“I do not recommend it,” Miss Spencer snapped. “You do it badly. Just be yourself and if you have not boxed each other’s ears within the first hour, then you may well suit. It is possible he prefers a woman of, shall we say, strong character.”

Julia fished in her reticule for a handkerchief. “Thank you, ma’am!” She managed a watery smile. “I am truly grateful. I will take your advice, be myself and hope for the best.”

“Mr. Thompson is staying at the Clarendon. I shall contact him immediately. Perhaps an interview may be arranged for later today.”

After a renewed profusion of thanks, Julia took her leave. As she walked back to her lodgings, Miss Spencer’s words kept running through her mind. Was it possible? Could it be that her irregular collection of features and her height had finally assembled themselves into something other than an ill-favored gawk of a girl?

Regal.
A nice word. In truth, she had thought little about her looks, having dismissed them as hopeless at the age of fifteen. She’d settled for being the beloved daughter of the regiment, with a care for her responsibilities, remarkable endurance and a fine seat on a horse. Perhaps…perhaps if she had really looked at herself in the mirror this past year or so, she might have seen a girl now grown into the full confidence and vibrancy of womanhood. A woman capable of running her own life. A woman who had known love.

Who thought she had known love.

That Miss Spencer and the duchess thought her attractive was all well and good but the fact remained that she was not attractive enough for Nicholas Tarleton. And there was nothing else that mattered.

When a message arrived instructing her to meet Mr. Richard Thompson at four o’clock in his suite at the Clarendon, Julia dressed with extreme care. From the three new gowns of half mourning she had brought with her, she selected the most stylish, a soft silver-gray wool with long sleeves and a high waist. A narrow band of black velvet cording and a small frill of black lace adorned the high neck and cuffs and banded the skirt some twelve inches above the pleated hemline. Too stylish for a governess, yet some remnant of feminine vanity had kept her from leaving it behind.

Julia did not pull her hair back as tightly as for her other interviews, allowing a few wisps of shining brown to peek out from under a gray bonnet lined in black velvet. Solemnly she studied her face in the small clouded mirror which was all the room provided, regretting she had no rose petals to rub upon her cheeks. She pinched them instead and rubbed her lips together. Slowly, she pulled on her gray kid gloves, checked her reticule for her references. Over it all she draped her black wool cloak. She was as ready as she was ever going to be.
Be yourself
. Not easy when you were unsure of who
yourself
was. Certainly not Nicholas Tarleton’s wife. For nearly two years she had been a nobody and had not known it. Now she must find not only a new position but a new self.

At the Clarendon her inquiry for Mr. Thompson was tended to with alacrity and respect. As Julia was led along the carpeted hallway to Mr. Thompson’s suite, she attempted to stifle her qualms. Her store of coins was growing slim, her confidence slimmer still. She needed this position badly, not the least of its appeal being that it was in Somerset, which was a long way from Lincolnshire.

The young man who had shown her to the suite announced her, proffered a respectful bow and left. Beyond a blazing fire in the black marble fireplace there was no sign of life. No one emerged from either of the two doors which led into adjoining rooms in the suite. As Julia reexamined the back of the large wing chair set facing the fire, the occupant—obviously frustrated by the long series of failures sent to him by London’s finest employment agencies—snapped, “Well, come here, girl and let me look at you.”

Anger flared. Julia stalked across the room and swung about to face the source of this arrogance.

Steel gray eyes blazed as the man slowly unfolded himself to his full height and glared down at her.

“You led me a damn merry chase, my girl,” said Nicholas Tarleton.

Chapter Ten

She ran. In a blinding miasma of pain Julia bolted for the door. As she reached for the knob, strong hands clamped down on her shoulders. Her frantic struggle was brief, the arms encircling her unshakable, the voice in her ear not at all what she expected to hear.

“It’s me, missus! Daniel. Stop, missus and listen to me! It’s Daniel. There now, missus. Hush!”

Julia leaned her head into his shoulder and quivered, lungs struggling for air. “Let me go, Daniel,” she hissed. “You can’t do this to me. I thought we were friends, you and I.”

“That we are, missus. And if I didn’t know the major be a right ’un, you’d be gone from here in a flash. But you’re his wife and he’s responsible for you. You can’t be going off like a ghost in the night and expect him to let ye do it.”

Julia’s head shot up. Daniel instantly tightened his grip against the wiggle of indignation that shook her. “What you’re doin’ is wrong, missus! The major’s a fair man. Ye’ll sit and listen to him if I have to pin ye to your chair.”

“No!” More a sob than protest.

“I minded your letter, missus,” Daniel added in a gentler tone. “I’ve not told him quite everything. Meg bound me with an oath as well, though I think ’tis crazy you are myself. False pride is what it is. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand—”

“
Told
him?”

“’Tis as you guessed, missus. He doesn’t remember. Not so much as a crumb from those last two days. So sit ye down now and let him talk. He’s a good man, no one knows that better than yourself. Come, now, there’s the good girl…”

Julia let Daniel walk her back across the room, his grip still firm around her shoulders. He sat her down in a chair near the fire, adding one final admonition, “Listen to him, missus. ’Tis certain he’ll do right by you.”

A glass of brandy was placed in her nerveless hand, her fingers gently pressed around the glass. Large hands stayed in place over hers, guiding the amber liquid to her lips. Julia downed a healthy gulp before she realized the long, powerful fingers clasping hers did not belong to Daniel.

Nicholas caught the glass as it fell, setting it down carefully on the tea table in front of her, ignoring the brandy seeping into the carpet. Fearing his towering presence was intimidating, he seated himself opposite his erstwhile wife. He opened his mouth. Once. Twice. Nothing came out, every one of the words he’d intended to say flown from his mind.

Nicholas sipped his brandy without tasting it. “It seems we have a problem,” he ventured at last.

“No,” Julia responded flatly, her voice thin and toneless. “As I said in my letter, our marriage was no more than a noble gesture on your part. There must be a way to arrange an annulment. Just let me go, Nicholas and I shall not trouble you again.”

As an actor rises to the role when the curtain opens, Nicholas suddenly rediscovered his wits. Almost…yes, he was looking forward to this confrontation, this duel of words played and replayed countless times in his head during the long days of his search.

“So here sits Julia,” he taunted, “so calm, so unmoved by her husband’s return that she runs away in the middle of the night. And when she is found, she attempts to fight her way out of his hotel room.” Mockingly, the major clicked his tongue. “Come now, my girl, did you truly think I would allow my wife to go for a servant?”

Julia’s stunned mind heard only one word.
Wife.
He had called her wife.

When he received no answer, Nicholas changed his approach. “Don’t you think you are entitled to an explanation for this highly irregular tangle in which we find ourselves?”

“If you wish it.”

“If I wish it! Damn it, Julia, you’re my wife. No one is more entitled to know how this disaster occurred.”

“You acknowledge our marriage?”

Nicholas snorted. “On the evening of my arrival I was lectured for the space of several hours by nigh on every member of my household. Daniel even produced Ebadiah Woodworthy on my doorstep the following morning amidst the appalling brouhaha occasioned by the discovery of your untimely departure. When I set out for London, I left behind me not only a sullen household but an irate army of hostile tenants and cottagers. I found myself the villain in a play to which I had no clue of the plot.”