The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance (57 page)

Not a bad idea. What could it hurt? With her hand still in his, she looked deep into Melton’s eyes and declared, “Do you realize we have never kissed?”

For the fleetest of moments Melton appeared taken aback but quickly recovered. “I do not believe we have.”

Never had she asked a man to kiss her before. In the past, such a request had hardly been necessary, but now, without a qualm, she asked, “Then shall we remedy that lamentable situation right now?”

“But of course,” Melton replied, remaining his usual imperturbable self. He placed his hands on Julia’s shoulders, drew her close, and brought his lips to hers. She placed her hands on each side of his elegant spencer jacket, pressed back with her lips and gave herself over to the enjoyment of the kiss. At last she was in the arms of the man she was going to marry! The man whose bed she soon would share!

She waited for hot excitement to strike. It did not. Instead, kissing Lord Melton was like …

Like …

Dry. Emotionless. Boring.

Indeed, she had hoped to be set aflame by his kiss —
wanted
to be set aflame — but Melton’s arid lips on hers did not stir her in the slightest. And aside from a slight quickness of his breath, he didn’t appear to be set aflame either, for he soon drew away and calmly enquired, “So may I have your answer?”

Again the word “yes” formed on her lips, but try as she might, she could not force herself to say it. So what would be wrong with a slight delay? Give herself some time, then say yes. “If you don’t mind, Lord Melton, I need a bit of time to consider your most kind and agreeable proposal before giving you my answer.”

He smiled. “But of course I don’t mind. As a matter of fact, tomorrow I’m leaving for my hunting lodge in Scotland. I shall be gone two weeks. You can give me your answer upon my return.”

Relief swept through her. He didn’t appear in the least perturbed, as she feared he might.

On his way out of the drawing room, Lord Melton caught sight of Julia’s paintings hung by the fireplace. “Those look like the ruins of Swindon Abbey,” he remarked, stopping to take a closer look.

“They are indeed, sir.”

“Actually I own them now that I’ve bought Hatfield Manor. The ruins are part of my estate.” Melton bent for a closer look, examining her favourite: a full moon hanging low over the jagged walls of the ruined church. “You painted this?”

“Yes.” She readied herself for a nice compliment.

“Very nice.” He laughed indulgently. “You ladies must have your little hobbies.”

Hobby?
Words of protest rushed to her lips.
My painting is more than just a little hobby, my good sir! I take my art quite seriously and have been told it’s very, very good.

But of course she said no such thing and instead forced a smile and declared, “Why, thank you, Lord Melton, how kind of you to say.”

When he bid her goodbye, Lord Melton bent low over her hand. “Good day, Miss Winslow. I shall return in two weeks, quite anxious, of course, to hear your reply.”

He peered at her with knowing eyes that said he wasn’t anxious at all. How could she turn him down when droves of London belles and their mothers pursued him? He was, after all, the catch of the season and had no doubt whatsoever what her answer would be.

“You said what?” Poor Lady Harleigh collapsed in a chair and stared up at Julia with horrified eyes.

“You heard me correctly,” Julia replied. “Lord Melton proposed. I told him I would like time to consider his proposal before giving him my reply.”

“Consider
what?”
Lady Harleigh enquired in complete bewilderment. “What is there to think about? What more could you possibly—?”

“I know, Mama, I know!” Julia knelt beside her mother’s chair and took her hand. “Please try to understand. I am aware how wonderful he is, but somehow I just couldn’t bring myself … It’s hard to explain, but I need a little time. What I would like to do is go home. After all, there’s no point in continuing the season, since everyone says I’ve already caught the best there is.”

Lady Harleigh eyed her with suspicion. “Why? What would you do at Bretton Court that you cannot do here?”

“I want to see Papa. Also, I need time to think, and what better place than the ruins of Swindon Abbey? You know I love it there.”

Her mother gazed at her sceptically. “What you find so fascinating about crumbling walls and messy piles of rock, I have no idea.”

“I just want to go home.”

“Very well.” Lady Harleigh sighed in resignation. “If sitting amidst the ruins of Swindon Abbey will bring you to your senses and make you see how fantastically fortunate you are that Lord Melton has proposed, then I am all for it.”

“Never fear, Mama. All will soon be as you wish. I simply need to clear my mind.”

Despite the gruelling all-day coach ride home, Julia gathered up her sketch pad and charcoal as soon as she arrived and walked the short distance from Bretton Court to the neighbouring ruins of Swindon Abbey. The sun was just setting as she arrived, providing the jagged stone walls of what remained of the nave with a breathtaking background of blues streaked with pinkish gold. How good to be home again, back to these beautiful ruins she loved! She searched for a subject to sketch. As always, she had so many to choose from: the jagged silhouette of the inner cloister, the beautifully arched arcades that once led to the monks’ living quarters but now led to nowhere. She chose one of the arcades and had almost completed her sketch when she heard the canter of a horse and looked up from her sketch pad.

She could not look down again.

A man on horseback was approaching, one of the most common sights imaginable, yet the graceful, easy manner in which he sat in the saddle held her spellbound. When he drew close, she saw he was casually dressed in breeches, an open-necked white shirt and plain Hessian boots. Closer still, she could see he was somewhere in his early thirties, wore his dark, wavy hair on the long side, and was regarding her with compelling brown eyes framed by a strong-featured face bronzed by the sun.

He rode to where she sat on one of the many large, broken stones scattered about. Reining his horse to a stop, he looked down at her and casually remarked, “You must be Miss Winslow.”

“How did you know?” Fascinated, she watched as he swung from his horse, performing an infinitely graceful dismount, which revealed a lean and sinewy body, muscular legs and broad shoulders.

“How did I know?” Touches of humour gathered around his mouth and the corners of his eyes. “My brother has been singing your praises. He has described in great detail your full red lips, your adorable nose and—” his eyes fell to her full bosom where they lingered an extra moment “—other parts of your exceedingly well-constructed anatomy. From what I understand, you are soon to be my new sister-in-law.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, suddenly enlightened. “You must be Lord Melton’s—”

“Ne’er-do-well younger brother, Robert,” he interrupted with a wry smile. While he tied his horse to a nearby branch he went on, “Every family has one. Haven’t you heard?”

Words failed her. “Why, I …”

“Don’t worry about it.” His shrewd eyes regarded her curiously. “Just tell me why you’re going to marry Charles, will you? He’s not too bright, you know, and thoroughly self-absorbed. I doubt he could actually love you since he’s too much in love with himself.”

For a long moment, she stared at him in astonishment, her mind not able to comprehend his outrageous words. When they finally sank in, she realized he was only trying to bait her and burst into laughter. “I take it you’re not overly fond of your brother.”

“He’s my brother and I love him,” Robert replied. “I wouldn’t want to marry him, though.” He rolled his eyes upwards. “My God, what a bore.” He settled himself on the stone slab beside her, stretching his long legs in front of him. “When’s the wedding?”

He’d had her completely baffled, but now her confidence returned. She turned to face him, tipped her head and examined him curiously. “Are you jealous of your brother? I do believe you are.”

“Jealous?” He grew serious. “There was a time when actually I was. How could I not be? First sons get it all. Second sons?” His chuckle held a dry, cynical sound. “In my earlier days, I spent some time in London, leading a dissolute life feeling sorry for myself. After a rather unfortunate incident, I finally realized nobody owed me anything. It was up to me to make something of myself. That’s when I took hold of my life and I’ve not been sorry since. So let old Charles keep his vast estates, his hunting lodge in Scotland, his fine coach and six matched greys, I’m doing what I want to do and wouldn’t trade places for the world.”

“Just what do you do?” she asked.

He shrugged dismissively. “I’ve been talking too much. What do
you
do?”

“What do I do? Only what every well-brought-up young lady does. I embroider. Study French. Play the pianoforte. And also I—”

“Draw,” he said, eyeing the sketch pad she’d laid beside her. “May I see?”

“If you like.” She handed him the sketch pad. “It’s not finished yet.”

The sun had just set, leaving just enough light for him to examine her nearly finished sketch. He examined it carefully, holding it up to catch the last of the light. “This is good,” he said simply, “very good.”

There was something about the way he spoke … It was as if he wasn’t mouthing the usual empty platitudes but instead had judged her work as an expert who knew what he was talking about. “Why, thank you,” she replied. Ordinarily she didn’t care to discuss her artwork. Too many times she’d heard it referred to as her “little hobby”, but now, for some inexplicable reason, she found herself wanting to confide in this veritable stranger. “I come here often to sketch, and often render an oil painting from the sketch. I find these ruins so beautiful I can’t stay away and could paint them forever.”

“Yes, they’re beautiful, and haunting, too.” With heartfelt intensity Robert added, “Henry the Eighth was a despot of major proportions. Between him and his pal, Thomas Cromwell, they managed to destroy virtually every monastery in England. How monstrous. How incredibly greedy. How …” He caught himself and smiled. “But I shall save my outrage for another day. I would like to see your paintings.”

“Why do I have the feeling either you’re an artist yourself, or at least you know what you’re talking about when it comes to painting?”

“How very perceptive,” he said admiringly. “I would like to think I’m a good judge of art. I’m an architect.” With a wry smile, he continued, “That means I’m the family disgrace, of course. We all know a true gentleman does
not
work for a living. When my father learned I actually get paid for doing what I do, he was horrified. I truly believe he would have preferred I continue my dissolute ways in London where I could behave like a true aristocrat — gamble my money away and drink myself into oblivion.”

She asked, “Do you like doing what you do?”

“Recently I’ve had some success in London, designing in the neo-classical style, namely Palladian. Occasionally, when I get my fill of fluted Greek columns and fanciful curves, I turn to the old monastery ruins. My interest started just by chance when I was summoned by a gentleman whose estate included the site of a monastic ruin. He wanted it restored, so I happily obliged.” He paused and gazed around, taking in the ruins of Swindon Abbey. “It’s my fondest wish to restore these ruins, too.”

“But that would be wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I often sit here and imagine what Swindon Abbey must have been like three hundred years ago before the King ordered it destroyed.”

“It was like a small city here.” Robert nodded towards the jagged walls of the church. “The nave with its flying buttresses could be easily restored. Did you know there’s a beautifully tiled floor beneath all that rubbish? I could almost sell my soul to uncover it. Then there’s the kitchen, brew house, bakehouse and kiln house. A lot of agricultural buildings, too, and of course the fields they tilled and the small gardens the monks kept for their vegetables, as well as—” The sudden bleating of a goat interrupted. They both laughed at the small herd of goats nearby. “Things haven’t changed much in three hundred years. The local farmers still graze their animals here.”

She had been so immersed in their conversation she hadn’t noticed the sun had long since disappeared. Suddenly she realized it was almost dark and declared, “Uh-oh! I must be getting home or they’ll start to worry.”

“We can’t have that.” Robert rose to his feet and extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting my sister-in-law-to-be.”

She took his hand. Her pulse quickened when she felt its roughness against her own smooth palm. So different from the soft, pudgy hands of those London dandies who would not be caught dead doing an honest day’s work. He helped her to her feet. They stood face to face, Julia growing increasingly aware that Robert Carstairs was a dangerously attractive man with a commanding presence which positively exuded masculinity. She gulped. Her mouth felt dry. She had a near overwhelming urge to flee before she made a fool of herself. “I was pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, making an effort to sound as prim and disinterested as possible. What was the matter with her? Why hadn’t she told him she had not yet said yes to his brother? Could it be she was afraid to?

They remained facing each other, so close she could almost feel the heat from his body. “Remember, I would like to see your paintings,” he said.

“Of course, Mr Carstairs. You must come to dinner—”

His hearty laugh interrupted her. “I’m the ne’er-do-well younger son, remember? Not received in polite society. I don’t care to impose myself on your family. Bring your paintings here. I’ll meet you tomorrow.”

The very thought of seeing him again caused her heart to flip-flop. But no! What utter folly when she was about to become betrothed to his brother. “I … think not.” She knew she would sound like a prude, but she had to say it. “It wouldn’t be proper.”