The Perfect Mistress (29 page)

“Yes! No.” She heaved a heavy sigh.

“There’s nothing wrong in pursuing what you want, you know.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

Hermione studied her but held her tongue.

“And we’re not talking about the men. We’re talking about the disposition of the memoirs.”

Hermione shrugged. “One goes hand in hand with the other. You can’t possibly sell the memoirs to Benjamin for publication and marry Harrison.”

“Who said anything about marrying Harrison?”

“I believe I did, right from the beginning,” She shook her head. “You may be able to continue to lie to yourself but you cannot lie to me, dear. You have very strong feelings for him.”

Julia stared at her for a moment then sighed. “Perhaps. I suppose. I don’t know.”

Hermione nodded in an annoyingly perceptive manner. “Marriage to him would solve all your financial troubles.”

“I have no intention of marrying anyone to save myself from poverty.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because it’s not …” She searched for the word. “Right. Honorable.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hermione scoffed. “Women have always married for money. We have no other way of bettering ourselves. It’s what we have always done. Why, it’s what we are expected to do.”

“You didn’t,” Julia said pointedly. “From what I’ve read, you certainly could have married again for money or other reasons. Why didn’t you?”

“I had offers through the years,” Hermione said, completely disregarding the last part of Julia’s question. “Most quite attractive from gentlemen I could have easily spent the rest of my days with.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I married once,” Hermione snapped. “Once was … enough. And, no, I did not marry your great-grandfather for his money.”

Julia stared. “Did you love him very much?”

For the first time since she’d begin her visits to Julia, Hermione’s demeanor was less than her usual assured self. She drew a deep breath. “We’re not talking about me.”

“We are now.”

Hermione rose to her feet. “You’re trying to change the subject away from the fact that you’ve fallen in love with a man who drives you mad.”

Julia gasped. “I don’t know that I’ve fallen in love with him!”

“It’s not something one
knows
like one
knows
the grass is green and one
knows
the sky is blue. Not in the beginning. It’s tentative and uncertain. Why, the very uncertainty is part of the joy of falling in love. Knowing comes soon enough. Love has nothing whatsoever to do with knowledge or intelligence or rational thinking. Good Lord, if it did, no one would ever fall in love and certainly never fall in love with the wrong person. And that happens far too often.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why you keep trying to deny it.”

“I don’t either.” Julia snapped then drew a deep breath. “What if he doesn’t love me?”

“What if he doesn’t? Knowing love at all is a miracle.” Hermione fixed her with a firm look. “’Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.”

“You’re quoting Lord Tennyson now? Did you know him?”

“Not intimately but I
knew
everyone,” Hermione said in a superior manner. “And those I didn’t know when I was alive, I have met here. I look forward to renewing Lord Tennyson’s acquaintance upon his arrival.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment, very poetic and all but if he doesn’t love me—”

“I can’t imagine that, having watched him argue with you. You can tell a great deal about a man’s feelings by the way he argues. By what he says and, more, what he doesn’t.” She met her gaze directly. “From what I’ve seen, he is every bit as stubborn as you. I suspect he too rarely loses his temper or raises his voice. The fact that the two of you provoke that sort of passion in one another is nothing short of”—a wicked gleam showed in her eye—“per-fect.”

“Perfect?” Julia huffed. “You expect me to spend the rest of my life with a man who makes me lose my temper? Who makes me say things without thinking? What kind of life would that be?”

“Absolutely blissful.” Hermione cast her a smug smile. “Which is ever so much better than nice.” With that, Hermione vanished.

“I was happy with nice!” Julia said to the now-empty room.

“Content, darling, you were content.” Hermione’s voice drifted from somewhere unseen.

“Come back here. We’re not finished!”

“Things to do, my sweet. It’s rude to keep people waiting, you know.”

“It’s rude to vanish in the middle of a conversation as well!”

“Do try to make allowances for me, dear. I’m dead.”

“Then perhaps you should act like it!” she yelled, although it was pointless. Hermione was definitely gone. For the moment. And Julia knew no more now than she had when they’d begun their conversation.

She sank down on the bed. She hadn’t been herself since the day Harrison walked into her library and demanded she sell him the memoirs. She never lost control of her temper, she was never indecisive, and she was the last person anyone would call overly emotional. From the moment she’d met him her life had changed, and not for the better. Although she did have to admit she enjoyed sparring with him. Even today, there was something quite exciting in the manner in which they’d argued. Why, it was almost as enjoyable as his kiss had been. Truth be told, she wanted him to kiss her again. And again. And for the rest of her—

Good Lord! She was in love with him! With the most annoying man she’d ever met. It was nothing like the quiet, safe,
nice
sort of love she’d felt for William. This was indeed most uncertain as well as confusing and disquieting and, God help her, exciting.

As for whether he returned her feelings, it was obvious given their kiss and his behavior today that he felt something for her. It was possible it was nothing more than friendship. Still, she was fairly certain friends didn’t kiss friends the way he had.

She collapsed back on the bed and stared unseeing at the ceiling. Perhaps she should take a page from Hermione’s book and pursue what she wanted without hesitation or apology. Or regret.

And perhaps it was time to stop reading about her great-grandmother’s adventure and begin an adventure of her own.

Damnation, this must indeed be love. Harrison stared at the pages in front of him. He had read and reread the report from his estate manager at least three times thus far and he couldn’t recall a word it said. Yet he could, no doubt, recite every single word he had exchanged with Julia yesterday. He could as well recall the exact shade of her green eyes when they had snapped with anger. He could hear the sound of her laughter ringing in his soul, feel the pressure of her lips on his and the way her body had fit perfectly against him.

He pushed away from the desk, got to his feet, and paced the broad width of the library. Thank God Veronica had taken Julia to the country. He did indeed need a brilliant idea and he certainly couldn’t come up with one if he had to worry about Ellsworth or Cadwallender writing her notes or popping up on her doorstep or sending her flowers. And how was he supposed to know that roses made her sneeze? It was too much to hope for that that scoundrel Ellsworth and Cadwallender, who was apparently very
nice,
didn’t know about the roses. Blast it all, he had just entered this race and he was already behind.

“You’re wearing out the carpet, you know.” His father stood in the doorway.

“Then it shall have to be replaced,” he muttered. “The carpet is the least of my worries.”

“Indeed it is,” his father said under his breath and moved to take a seat in one of the wing chairs flanking the fireplace. He gestured at the other chair. “Sit down, Harrison, we need to talk.”

Harrison cast him a sharp glance. “Father, I have a great deal on my mind today and I really don’t have time—”

“Sit down, Harrison.” The order reverberated in the room. Even when his father was younger, he had scarcely ever issued orders. Harrison sat.

“Very well. What do you wish to talk about?”

“I have just come from a luncheon at Lord Ferncas-tle’s.”

“Of course.” Harrison groaned to himself. Once a month, his father gathered with a group of men who’d been friends since their youth. A group that grew smaller every year and now consisted only of his father, Lord Fern-castle, and three other elderly gentlemen. From what his father had said in passing, the conversation at these gatherings consisted mostly of telling tales of their long-ago misdeeds that no doubt grew more daring and amusing and disreputable with each passing year. “How are your friends?”

“Old and getting older.” He sighed. “But it’s not the old that was so interesting today. Or rather I suppose it was.”

Harrison nodded although his father’s words made no sense. “Go on.”

“Someone, I have no idea who, brought up Lady Mid-dlebury’s name.” His father chuckled. “And not for the first time I might add.”

“And?”

“And Lord Ferncastle had heard gossip. No, Lady Fern-castle had heard it and passed it on to her husband.” His father leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “She heard about the memoirs.”

Harrison blew a long breath. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. It was inevitable given the number of people who know about them.”

“That’s not the worst part. Rumor has it they weren’t written by Lady Middlebury at all.”

Harrison drew his brows together. “Surely it’s not being said that that blasted Ellsworth wrote them?”

“Would that it were that simple.” His father shook his head. “No, the gossip is that Lady Winterset wrote them.”

“What?” Shock coursed through him.

“And that they are based, not on Lady Middlebury’s experiences”—he cleared his throat and cast his son a knowing look—“but on her own.”

“That’s absurd. Ridiculous. No one would ever believe such a thing.”

“No one who knows Lady Winterset perhaps. But those who know of her great-grandmother’s reputation might well believe she is simply following her ancestor’s path.”

“Good God!” He rubbed his forehead. “Where did this come from?”

“Who knows where it started and it scarcely matters now. I did tell Ferncastle that I knew for a fact, given the accuracy of the pages I read, that it could have been written by no one save Lady Middlebury. Information I am confident he passed on to Lady Ferncastle within moments of our leaving the house. As she is quite an accomplished gossip, and does love knowing what no one else does, I am certain she is even now spreading my assertion as to the legitimacy of the memoirs far and wide. I can count on my other companions at our luncheon today to do the same. However …” His father chose his words with care. “It does seem to me, if indeed I was concerned about being named in Lady Middlebury’s book, discrediting its veracity would be one way to mitigate the scandal. Which means this will spread like fire.”

“Scandal sells books,” Harrison said under his breath.

“Then this will fly off the shelves if it is indeed published.” He studied his son for a long moment. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.” Harrison got to his feet and resumed pacing. “It does seem more important than ever that the book not be published. Indeed, if I were to purchase the memoirs, with nothing to fuel the gossip, the talk about them will soon fade. But if they’re published …” He shook his head. “The scandal will be enormous.”

“I’m not concerned about scandal.”

“I am,” he said sharply. “Julia has lived a relatively conservative life up to now. She has no idea what being at the center of a storm of scandal will mean. Everywhere she goes, she’ll be stared at. People will whisper, hiding their mouths with their hands as if that will prevent her from knowing she is the topic of discussion. She won’t be welcome among respectable people. Dear Lord, she’ll be an outcast.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, you know.”

He cast his father a narrowed look. “Done what?”

“Taken what I’ve said and assumed it was in reference to Lady Winterset.”

“But you said—”

“I said I was not concerned about scandal and I’m not for myself. You said you were concerned about scandal but obviously that concern has nothing to do with me. There is only one person you are worried about.”

Harrison stopped in midstep then pulled a deep breath and met his father’s gaze. “I love her, Father.”

“I know that,” his father said impatiently. “But what are you going to do?”

An unfamiliar sense of helplessness washed through him. “I don’t know.”

“Seems to me you need a brilliant idea.”

“Needing one and having one are two different matters.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

The older man aimed his cane at his son. “Rescue her, my boy.”

“Rescue her?” He shook his head. “How?”

“Don’t ask me, I am long past the day of rescuing damsels in distress.” His brow furrowed in thought. “You might start by telling her of these rumors. You wouldn’t want her to be caught unawares.”

“Quite right. But she’s no longer in London. Veronica took her to her country house.”

“Even better. There are few distractions in the country.” His voice was firm. “Follow her.”

“Follow her?”

“Bloody hell.” His father laughed. “You’re indecisive. I’ve never seen you indecisive before. Even as a boy you always knew precisely what you wanted and never hesitated to pursue it. If I had any doubts about your feelings, this proves it.”

Harrison cast him a weak smile. “I’m glad you’re so confident.”

“The fact that you are not is yet another convincing factor.” His gaze met his son’s. “Don’t let not knowing what to do prevent you from doing anything at all. Don’t make the mistakes I did. Love, my boy, often requires action.” He chuckled. “Go to the country, Harrison. Tell her what’s happening. Tell her of your feelings for her. And tell her as well that together you can weather any storm.”

He stared at his father for a long moment. “We can, can’t we?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“Nor do I,” he said slowly, the helplessness of a moment ago swept away by resolve. “You’re right. I shall leave at once.”

His father nodded. “It’s scarcely two hours by train, which will give you enough time to think of what you will do upon your arrival. You will be there by evening.”