The Matchmaker (24 page)

"I want very much to stay with you tonight, love," he
said in a gentle tone. "Hold you. May I?"

Julia was surprised, first, that he asked. This was his
house, his room, his bed, and he had every right to be
there, after all. Then she became aware of a crack in her
numb cocoon as warm gratitude rushed in. Whether he
was sensitive to the moral awkwardness of her presence in his bed on her first night of widowhood or was merely
concerned about her state of mind, at least he was kind
enough to ask her preferences.

Without thought she reached out a hand to him. "Please."

He carried her hand briefly to his lips, then rose and began undressing.

She lay still and watched him. Some part of her mind considered the idea that this should have seemed wrong.
Every proper feeling should have been outraged, she thought. Women didn't sleep in the arms of their lovers
on the very night they were widowed, it just wasn't
done. It wasn't decent. She would be expected to mourn Adrian for at least a year; everyone she knew would be extremely disapproving if she didn't. And they'd be utterly shocked she was even in Cyrus's house—no less his bed.

Her upbringing insisted she conform to certain standards of behavior and obey society's rules.

But being with Cyrus, even tonight, didn't seem
wrong. Every instinct told her she belonged with him. If she'd been offered another choice, she wouldn't have wanted to exercise it. How could such a strong certainty
be wrong? How could she pretend to mourn a husband
who had treated her as Adrian had, or feel any need to
show respect for his memory? How could she bring
herself even to simulate grief for the end of a marriage
that had been nothing but hell?

Julia knew she couldn't do it. She thought fleetingly of
the probable consequences, but when Cyrus slipped
into bed beside her she dismissed them from her mind. He was naked, which somehow didn't surprise her; she couldn't imagine him in a nightshirt, and felt her lips
twitch of their own volition at the very idea.

He gathered her into his arms, and her body instinc
tively molded itself pliantly to the hardness of his. Her
head was pillowed on his shoulder, one of her hands
rested on his broad chest, and she felt mildly surprised
she could be so comfortable. He had left the bedside
lamp burning, and she blinked with the same detached
surprise as she watched her fingers toying with his silky
black chest hair.

"I love you, sweetheart," Cyrus murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

She didn't respond, except to sigh softly and relax
completely in his arms. It had been a long time since
she'd been able to give herself up totally to sleep; Adrian had found more than one rude or violent way of waking
her, and she'd never been able to feel safe enough to
sleep peacefully. But tonight she did. She slept so
deeply and dreamlessly, she never moved all night.

It was nearly noon the next day when Julia woke, alone in the big bed. She lay drowsily for a while, dimly
puzzled,
then
sat up slowly as she realized where she
was.
In Cyrus's house.
In Cyrus's bed.
The clothing
she'd removed last night lay neatly over a chair near the bed, obviously clean and pressed. Only the soft ticking
of a clock on the wall disturbed the silence.

Julia looked at the clock for a moment, then threw
back the covers and slid from the bed. As she got dressed
and put her hair up, she gradually became aware she wasn't numb anymore. The feelings were somewhat distant, hazy almost, but they were there.
A lingering shock over the violent suddenness of Adrian's death; a sense of loss for her belongings gone in the fire; worry
about Lissa; and worry about the future.

Choosing to deal with one matter at a time, she
focused her attention on her sister. It wasn't until she left
the bedroom that she realized she didn't know her way
around the big house, but Lissa's voice made the matter
academic.

"Oh, good, you're up. Cyrus said you were, but I
couldn't figure out how he knew since he's just come
back." Lissa was a little pale as she came down the hall toward her sister, and the left side of her face was faintly
discolored from the bruise Adrian had given her, but she was smiling.

"Are you all right?" Julia asked.

Lissa nodded reassuringly. "I'm fine. I still shake
when I remember—but I try not to think about it.
You?
Cyrus said you slept well."

Julia's first impulse was to rebuke Lissa for so casually using Cyrus's given name, but even as the thought
occurred she chided herself wryly. We're in his house,
and I slept in his bed! It's a little late to worry about
propriety. Still, she glanced at her sister a bit uncom
fortably as they began walking toward the stairs to
gether. "I'm... much better. Lissa, I know what you
must think about—about—"

"About you and Cyrus?"
Lissa's smile widened as she
linked her arm with her sister's. "I think it's wonderful."

Uncertain if she should feel amused or appalled by Lissa's acceptance of the situation, Julia said, "For
heaven's sake, you weren't raised to think anything of the
kind. I hope you know how improper the entire situation
is."

"Why, because people will say so?"
Lissa's voice was calm. "Julia, people said you had a perfect marriage, and
they were certainly wrong about that. Besides, you're
going to marry Cyrus so it's not as if you're living in sin."

Julia stopped at the head of the curving staircase,
staring at her sister. "Did he tell you that?"

"Well, he said he'd asked you, and he meant to
persuade you. I don't know why on earth you'd say no."

Somewhat weakly, Julia said, "I've been widowed less
than twenty-four hours." To her own shock, it was the
best reason she could think of.

Lissa smiled a little, but her eyes were grave. "Julia, I saw what Adrian was yesterday. I saw it. I can't even begin to imagine what you went through these last two years, but I can guess the idea of another marriage—
especially so soon—scares you to death."

Julia knew that was true; tangled with her painful awareness of the scandalous situation was a frightened reluctance even to think about binding herself legally to another man. Haltingly, she said, "Cyrus has been very kind. And I know I should be grateful he wants to marry me, but—"

"Grateful?" Lissa looked bewildered. "You talk as if
he's being noble in asking you! Why? Because you've—
what's that prim phrase I heard old Mrs. Hunt use
?—
Oh, yes, just because you've anticipated the wedding night? Or is it because you were leaving Adrian anyway? Julia, for heaven's sake, Cyrus loves you, don't you know
that?"

"You don't understand," Julia mumbled, too dismayed by Lissa's extremely frank comments to pay much atten
tion to the last confident statement. She wasn't much surprised at Lissa's muted cheerfulness. Her sister had always been able to adjust quickly to even the most disturbing changes in her life. But this complete acceptance of Cyrus, and Lissa's cool disregard of all the proprieties, was definitely upsetting.

Oddly, Lissa laughed, and took her sister's arm again as they started down the stairs. "I think you're the one who doesn't understand, Julia. But Cyrus should be able
to make things clear to you. I like him so much.

Julia sent her a puzzled glance, but before she could say anything Lissa was going on.

"His servants are wonderful, aren't they? Sarah went
to one of the shops last night to get those nightgowns for
us—I think Cyrus knows the shopkeeper, because he opened up after hours just so Sarah could get the nightgowns—and she and another of the girls got a
complete list from me this morning before they went out
shopping for us. Cyrus didn't think you'd feel much like going out, so he asked me to tell them what colors you preferred so they could get what we needed for now—"

"Wait." They had reached the bottom of the stairs, and
Julia kept a hand on the newel post as she stood looking at her sister. She felt a little dizzy. "He's buying clothes for us?"

Lissa looked as if she'd had a feeling this wasn't going to be easy, but her voice was matter-of-fact. "Our clothes
went up in smoke, remember?"

"But he shouldn't. It isn't right."

"Mrs. Stanton thinks it is," Lissa said firmly.

Julia felt even
more dizzy
. "Felice Stanton? I barely
know her. How can you be privy to what she thinks?"

"She called to see you this morning, and I talked to her." Lissa eyed her sister for a moment,
then
said, "Her
husband is Cyrus's best friend. She said she was de
lighted he'd finally found a woman he could love, and that he'd make you a wonderful husband. Reformed rakes always do, she said. And she agreed with me that
after Adrian was so cruel to you, you certainly deserve a
wonderful man like Cyrus."

"Oh, my Lord," Julia murmured, almost wishing she
was still numb. This turn of events was utterly unnerv
ing.

Lissa looked a little guilty. "Well, perhaps I shouldn't have been quite so talkative, but she was nice. And she didn't think there was anything at all bad or improper in
us being here. She said that sometimes rules had to be broken, because under some circumstances they were
idiotic. After all, nobody could doubt you'd been living
with a lunatic, not after what Adrian did yesterday. So
why should you wear black and refuse to marry anyone
else for at least a year? It doesn't make sense."

"Lissa, are you busy spiking my guns?" Cyrus asked
calmly as he crossed the entrance hall toward them.

She turned to him with a questioning lift to her brows.
"I'm not perfectly sure what that means," she confessed
naively.

His gaze went to Julia's face,
then
returned to Lissa's. "It means a man likes to do his own proposing," he told her in a wry tone. Before she could do more than look
guilty, he added, "The parlor's filled with packages; don't you think you should go sort through them while I take
Julia to the luncheon waiting for her?"

"I suppose I'd better," Lissa murmured.

As Lissa walked to the parlor, Cyrus tipped Julia's chin up and kissed her, very slowly and thoroughly. When he finally raised his head, she felt breathless and dizzy.

"Good morning, love," he whispered.

Julia cast about among her scattered thoughts and chose one at random. "I have to flee the country," she
said.

Undisturbed and apparently unsurprised by the statement, Cyrus took her arm and led her through the house to a small breakfast parlor near the rear. "Where would
you like to flee to?" he asked politely. "I'm partial to San
Francisco, but since that's U.S. territory, I suppose
you'd rather go somewhere else. London is nice.
Or Paris."
He seated her at a cozy table, sat down on her right, and poured two cups of coffee from a silver pot.

Julia had the strangest impulse to laugh, and chided
herself with silent severity. This was not a laughing
matter. She felt absolutely appalled that Lissa had talked so freely to Felice Stanton—even if the older woman did
seem kind and wasn't known as a gossip.

She took a sip of coffee,
then
looked at Cyrus with
wondering eyes. "You talk as if nothing's happened."

"Nothing more terrible than shooting a rabid dog has
happened," Cyrus said with utter calm. "The poor
brute's out of his misery, and everyone around him is out
of danger
. "

"I should feel that way, shouldn't I?"

"Why?' Cyrus took one of her hands and held it, his black eyes serious as they rested on her face. "Did you
have one moment's peace or pleasure in your marriage?"

Julia didn't have to think; she shook her head slowly.

"Did Drummond ever show you even the barest hint
of any sort of kindness, or do anything to make you sorry
he's dead now?"

Again she shook her head.

"Then why should you feel anything except relief? Julia, if you plan to live your life as others think you should, you'll never be happy. Did it make your situa
tion any easier to pretend your marriage was a successful
one?"

"No," she murmured.

"Then don't pretend now. He was a brutal, demented bastard, and the only decent thing he ever did was to die. '

She looked at Cyrus for a long moment and, slowly, a
heavy weight lifted from her shoulders. What did the opinions of others matter? She valued Lissa's opinion
and, she realized, she valued his. What anyone else thought didn't seem very important any longer.

"Would you really flee to Paris with me?" She smiled.

"Just say the word, and I'll book passage on the next ship, love." He was smiling as well, his velvety eyes
warm.

Julia was tempted. At the very least, Adrian's death would be a nine-day wonder, with curiosity and specu
lation running rampant; removing herself, for a while at
least, would be the most painless solution. But as she
looked at Cyrus, she realized she didn't want to run and
hide—because of him. If she ran, it would be as good as
proclaiming she was ashamed of her relationship with
him because there was something wrong with it, and she
couldn't feel that way no matter her upbringing.