The Matchmaker (11 page)

"All right," he said immediately, gently. "All right, I
won't say anything more about it.
At least for now."
Before she could reply, he began talking casually about a new exhibit at the museum, asking if she'd seen it. She
replied almost at random, her mind worrying over his
last promise—and it had been a promise. He wasn't
giving up.

When another guest approached them a few minutes later and requested a dance with Julia, Cyrus gave way with perfect propriety and no apparent reluctance. She
saw him numerous times afterward, dancing with several
ladies, married and unmarried, and sitting with at least three others for a brief, socially correct interval. She saw him outside the French doors talking to a group of men
that included Adrian. She saw him dance with Lissa,
who seemed highly entertained by whatever he was discussing with her.

Remembering later, Julia was never sure how she managed to get through the remainder of the evening.
No one looked at her oddly or commented, so she
supposed her behavior was normal enough. By the time the last guest had departed, however, and Adrian had gone up to bed—cheerfully, for him—Julia was so drained she felt she couldn't put one foot in front of the other.

She told the servants they could clear the post-party clutter in the morning,
then
went slowly up the stairs. She met Lissa, already in her dressing gown, on the landing, and her sister's pretty face immediately tight
ened in concern.

"Julia, you look worn out!"

"
Its
the heat, I think," Julia responded with what ease
she could muster. "I'll be all right once I peel away about
three layers of fashion and have a cool bath."

"Didn't Adrian come up a little while ago? You can use
my bath if you don't want to disturb him."

"No." Julia knew she'd answered too abruptly, and fought to keep her voice light. "My
bath's
filled and waiting for me."

Lissa shook her head slightly, a troubled frown on her
face. "You have to stop pushing yourself so hard, especially in this heat."

"I wasn't the one who danced all evening," Julia
returned.

"You certainly weren't a wallflower! And, anyway, I
mostly danced with Mark, except for that waltz with Mr. Fortune. Do you like him, Julia? I saw you dancing with
him. He's very pleasant and amusing, isn't he?"

Casually, Julia said, "Yes, very." Then she looked at
her sister rather searchingly, wondering if Cyrus had
made too strong an impression on Lissa. Other than Adrian, she'd never seemed to notice older men before. Slowly, she said, "It seems to be getting serious with
Mark."

Lissa blushed faintly. "I think it is. He hasn't said anything, really, but—would you mind, Julia?"

Julia was relieved by the reply for a number of
reasons, and this time her smile felt natural. "Why on earth would I mind? I believe he'd be good to you, and he can certainly take care of you properly."

"You don't think I'm too young? I know Adrian does."

"I think you should finish school before you marry, but
I wouldn't object to an engagement," Julia said. "It might
be best not to say anything to Adrian until—if— Mark
proposes."

Smiling, Lissa said, "No, I won't. I just wanted to make sure you approved, even though I thought you would. Get some rest, all right? Good night, Julia."

I wanted to make sure you approved. Moving slowly
down the hallway to the bedroom she shared with
Adrian, Julia wished she could approve. She hoped her marriage was far from normal, but what guarantee did she have that Lissa would be luckier? Mark seemed a
kind and decent man, but so had Adrian before she'd married him.

And girls went into marriage blind in so many ways.
Blind and ignorant.
Julia had been both. Blind to assume
all her problems would be solved and her life made happy with a man to take care of her; ignorant of all the
shocks and painful intimacies of the marriage bed.
Fiercely, she made up her mind to have a talk with
Lissa, whatever it cost her in embarrassment; no girl should go to her wedding night so abysmally ignorant, she didn't even know how a man's body differed from her own. In that way, at least, she could help prepare her
sister.

As for the rest...

She went quietly into the bedroom, hoping desper
ately Adrian was still cheerful. At least then the little torments were almost playful and she could bear them. The lamp beside the bed was on, and he sat up as she closed the door. He'd kicked the covers to the foot of the bed because of the heat, and his nightshirt left his rather thin legs bare. He was frowning, but only with mild irritation.

"What the hell took so long? You should have known
I'd want to talk to you." He gestured impatiently,
beckoning her to the bed.

Julia went to the bed and sat down on the edge,
turning her back to him. She bowed her head as she felt his fingers unfasten the row of tiny buttons that began at the high neckline of her gown and continued all the way
down her back. "I sent the servants to bed and then
talked to Lissa for a few moments," she said quietly.

Adrian grunted, but still with only mild irritation.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" she asked when she
rose
to her feet a couple of minutes later. She didn't go into the dressing room, but began getting out of her clothes in the bedroom because that was the way he always wanted her to undress. She left her gown and
petticoat lying over a chair, and tried not to show the
utter relief she felt when she'd unfastened her stockings, unlaced her stays, and dropped the corset on top of the
gown.

"How would you like to be First Lady of Virginia?"
Adrian asked, lying back on the bed and linking his
fingers together behind his head as he watched her.

Julia had no real idea of what kind of politician he was,
but everything inside her recoiled at the thought of him
sitting in the governor's seat. She made certain that tangle of emotions didn't show on her face, however.

"Do you have the backing you'll need to run?" she asked
calmly.

"I will have. It'll be a few years, naturally. But Fred Daulton's agreed to
supporting
me, and Peter Reynolds.
Adam Prescott, of course.
I'm not sure about Fortune
yet. Leave the door
open
while you have your bath."

Since the command had followed immediately on the
heels of Cyrus's name, she was, just barely, able to keep herself from reacting to it. She nodded, remaining in the bedroom as she removed her shoes and stockings, the chemise, bust bodice, and knickers. Then, naked, she got a clean nightgown and carried it into the bathroom, her expression tranquil. She knew it was tranquil be
cause she saw her face when she walked past the
dressing mirror in the corner.

Dear God, she hated this! Of all the torments he inflicted on her, she felt this one most deeply. Raised to
be modest and naturally a bit shy, her personal privacy
had always been important to her, but Adrian had lost no
time in stripping her of it. She was his, he'd said, his to look at whenever and however he pleased—and he wanted to look at her naked as often as possible. To Julia, it was a ruthless invasion of her deepest self, and it hurt her so badly that she wanted to sob with the anguish of
it.

It wasn't only that he looked at her naked in the light. It was the way he looked at her.
Coldly greedy and lewd.

Almost gloating, as if he'd won some prize, even though
he made frequent disparaging comments about her body
whenever he was in one of his moods.
She could feel his
eyes on her now as she stepped into the tepid bathwater,
and though her flesh didn't betray her, inside she
cringed.

"What did you think of Fortune?" he asked, watching
as she settled into the tub.

She couldn't relax with his gaze on her, but the cool water at least made her feel she wasn't going to melt into a puddle. "Polite," she answered. "Lissa was right about that." For an instant she was conscious of a hysterical
urge to laugh. How she kept harping on the man's
manners! It was as if it were the only safe thing she could
think to say about him.

Perhaps it was.

"He's a cagey bastard," Adrian said with a slight touch
of resentment.
"Couldn't pin him down.
He kept saying he wasn't inclined to politics, but he sure as hell knew about everything that's going on, in Washington as well
as here. Hurry up, Julia, it's late."

She glanced through the open door to see him frowning, and quickly began washing. Were all men like Adrian? She didn't know. His facade was so convincing; perhaps every man possessed a public and private side so dreadfully opposite. Her own father had been a stern man, and Julia had no idea if her mother's frequent "spells" during which she'd kept to her darkened bedroom had been the result of abuse. There was no other married woman Julia felt close to, not close enough to
ask such terribly personal questions, so she had no way of knowing if her situation was unusual.

Not that it really mattered, except that she was afraid for Lissa.

She got out of the tub and dried herself, then pulled
on the thin nightgown with a sense of relief. He usually
allowed her to keep the nightgown on, and even if the thin cotton was a frail covering, at least she wasn't naked. She put out the light in the bathroom and went into the bedroom, sitting at her dressing table to take down her hair and brush it. He was silent while she smoothed the heavy, waist-length mass, but she could feel his eyes. She could always feel them. She began to braid her hair for the night, but Adrian spoke from the bed.

"No."

It wasn't an unusual command; he liked her hair to be
loose in bed, and had forbidden her to wear a nightcap.
But something she heard in his voice made nervous
tension steal through her despite the normality of the order. She laid her brush aside and got up, going over to
the bed, feeling chilled now. She crawled onto her side
and lay back on the pillow without reaching for the
sheet.

He extinguished the light, and in the darkness his
voice was thoughtful. "Would you like to be First Lady,
Julia?"

"I suppose any woman would," she answered neutrally, conscious of the heat of his body beside her.

"I want to go to the White
House,
you know that,
don't you?"

"Yes."

"A man should leave his mark on the world. And he
should leave a son behind to carry on his name."

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, her stomach
churning. God, no! He was in that state again, his mind filled with grandiose schemes and plans to "leave his mark" on the world, so strong and sure of his superiority.

He excited himself with those thoughts, aroused himself physically as a sense of power and promise filled him.

It had happened only a few times since their wedding night, but she dreaded it above all else.

"It's your fault I haven't been able to get a son on you,
Julia. You know that, don't you?" His voice was growing
thick, his breathing faster. The material of his nightshirt
rustled as he pulled it up.

He hadn't touched her.

"Yes," she said from between dry, trembling lips,
taking the blame because any other response from her
made him furious. In the dark, it was always in the dark.
Maybe because he couldn't bear to look at her then.
Maybe because he couldn't bear for her to look at him.
Or maybe it was because on some deep level of himself, he believed what Cyrus had so bluntly stated most gentlemen believed, that there were only two kinds of women—ladies and whores.

Adrian could—and did, she supposed—treat her like a
whore, in private, most of the time. Like a possession he'd bought and paid for, his to use as he wished. But when he was like this, when he wanted a son, then she had to be a lady. They had to be a gentleman and a lady
making a baby in their marital bed.

The problem was Adrian didn't really want a lady in his bed.

Julia felt him shift suddenly, heard the whisper of
cloth as he tugged his nightshirt higher, and sickness rose in her throat so strongly she nearly choked. Not tonight, please God, she couldn't bear it tonight. She'd
rather be beaten.

"Lift your nightgown," he said hoarsely, and rolled on
top of her, his hands fumbling.

The stable smelled of sweet hay, leather, horses, and
manure. It was hot and dusty, but she didn't notice
either. She didn't care that hay made a poor cushion for her naked back and surging buttocks, or that the white blouse he'd taken off her would get dirty, or even that
he'd torn her knickers instead of removing them. Her skirt and petticoats were rucked up around her waist, her stockinged legs wrapped about his hips, and the
fingers of one hand were clenched in his thick hair while
her other hand was pressed to her mouth to muffle the sounds she made.

He had pulled the top of her chemise down to bare
her breasts, and the rough cloth of his vest rubbed her tight nipples rhythmically as he heaved on top of her.
She hadn't worn her corset; the last time he'd taken
her, the unnatural constriction of the garment, combined with his forceful passion, had caused her to faint dead away and left her feeling she'd been nearly broken in half.