The Romantic (2 page)

“You are not a man much given to social intercourse, are you, Mr. Hampton?” Her throaty voice carried a Spanish tinge, and nuances of other, more primitive cultures. Her dark eyes flashed humor at him, and her skin, the color of shelled almonds, appeared very exotic in her very British blue dinner dress.

“I regret that I was not blessed with the natural ease in such situations that many others enjoy.”

“That is not true. I watched you in the drawing room. It is not lack of ease. You do not care for it. No doubt you
know that your reserve is often misunderstood, but you do not care about that, either.”

“Is it misunderstood? I would have thought it not worthy of notice at all.”

“Men think you are proud, and just as dull as you claim.”

“Perhaps they are correct on both counts.”

“Women, however … well, women wonder what is in that head of yours, and what lurks under that armor of indifference, and what you think as you watch our human comedy play out on life’s stage.”

She exuded a carnality that no man could ignore, no matter what his armor. She wore her own lack of reserve like a flag, in the way of her more expressive culture.

“Is that what you wonder, madame?”

“Yes.”

“Would it please you if I confide it all? Reveal the truth? Admit the contemplations that emerge in my silence?”

“I would love to know.”

He cocked his head conspiratorially “I think about …”

“Yes?” she encouraged.

“I think about what I will have for supper the next evening.”

She leveled her dark eyes on him. “I consider it a great triumph that you deign even to tease me. I understand men such as you very well. Your reserve is more like that of my people than your own, you see. The silence smolders. I think with time that you would indeed reveal all, however. With the right incentive.”

She let him know what incentive she meant. Her leg pressed his beneath the table.

Julian took a sip of wine and gazed through the flickering candles at Lady Laclere.

That night, back in his house on Russell Square, Julian sat down at his writing desk to compose another letter. This time he used pen and ink.

The events of the evening caused the words to flow in a rush of scratches. It was an outpouring to relieve an agitation of the spirit that needed release before it provoked bitterness and resentment.

The last phrase came much more slowly. The admission was essential to write, however. He had sworn to himself half a lifetime ago to have no illusions where this woman was concerned.

He did not bother with his signature. Calmer now, oddly so, he gazed down at the letter for a long while, then carefully folded it.

Opening a desk drawer, he glanced at a thick stack of similarly folded papers. Some contained letters like this, written to ease a brooding restlessness or explosive fury. Others held poems or stories in which love thrived in worlds much kinder to deep sentiment than this unromantic, practical Britain. The ones at the bottom, the oldest ones, already showed changes in the color of the ink as a hallmark of their age.

It had been a very long time since he had added anything to this drawer. Why tonight? Why had this mood gripped him as that dinner party wound its way through the dark hours?

Maybe it had been those two women. He normally
did not mind that he could not accept what each offered, but tonight, as the evening wore on, he had minded very much. He resented like hell that playing the besotted lover was a role he could no longer pull off. For years he had pretended he could, but eventually the dishonesty of feigning the expected affection had disgusted him.

So it probably had something to do with the women. Each was tempting in her own way. Too tempting, in the case of Señora Perez. He had spent the night in a state of mild but aggravating arousal, and that had only fed the storm rising in him. Tomorrow he would deal with that part of the tempest in the efficient, soulless way he chose now, with a professional woman who did not want love and revelations.

He looked at the letter resting between his fingers. A cold resolve entered him. He would burn it, and the others. Destroy them all, and marry Mrs. Morrison and have an affair with Señora Perez and live a normal life. He was too old to be writing letters and poems that were never sent.

He gazed at the pile of papers, then to the low flames in the fireplace.

“Sir.”

Julian barely heard the salutation and hardly felt the nudge.

He emerged out of a dream in which he was doing scandalous things to the sweet widow Mrs. Morrison. Since she had been talking all through it, he was not entirely sorry to have the fantasy interrupted.

“Sir, I regret to wake you, but she will not leave.” His valet’s face hung over his own, doleful in its distress, hovering like a ghost’s in the night lamp’s glow.

“Batkin, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I only heard the rapping on the door because my chamber is over the street and my window is open and I do not sleep well. There it was, this sound. Not even loud. Well, I stuck my head out and there was this person at the door, and I went down and it was a woman, a lady, and now she is inside and won’t leave.”

Julian sat up and his valet came into fuller view. Despite being dragged from his bed, Batkin looked pressed and perfect, but then if a valet could not get presentable quickly, who could?

“What is her name?”

“She will not tell me. She only insists that she must speak with you at once.”

“Does she have an accent?” He did not think that Señora Perez would come here in the dead of night with so little encouragement, but one never knew. Considering that his body was taking time to recover from that dream, a ruthless part of him hoped she had been so bold.

“No, her voice is that of an English lady. Her hat has a veil that obscures her face, so I am at a loss to describe her. She does claim that she is one of your clients.”

Julian swung his body and sat on the bed’s edge. He doubted any client had business so vital it could not wait until morning, but if this one would not leave he had no choice except to meet with her.

“Put her in the library. I will dress and be down.”

A half hour later he descended to the library, both annoyed and intrigued by the mystery of this invasion.

The lady in question sat on the divan facing the fireplace, with only her hat visible when he entered. He could see only the crown of the green millinery and its fluff of blue feathers and the edges of the blue netting hung from the brim.

But he knew who it was.

The night’s earlier restlessness returned, only now as a glorious tumult of euphoria.

The Countess of Glasbury had returned to England. Penelope had come home.

Contrasting emotions assaulted Penelope as she sat in the library.

The strongest reactions, the ones that felt so good that it seemed her soul exhaled a long-held breath, were those of relief and safety. She might have emerged at port after a dangerous sea voyage.

Beneath that peace, however, lurked a distinct awkwardness, and a growing concern that Mr. Hampton would be shocked by her presence in his house.

She could not ignore that she had intruded on a man’s abode in the dead of the night. It was a scandalous thing to do. After all, Mr. Hampton may be her confidante and adviser, but he was unmarried.

She had never seen where he lived before. He had moved to this large house five years ago, but he did not entertain and she had never entered it, just as she had never seen the rooms he kept prior to buying this handsome home.

Tonight that struck her as odd. After all, she had known him since they were little more than children. He
was a good friend of her brothers, and the family solicitor, and was usually present at their parties. But his private life remained a mystery, just as he was in many ways an enigma.

A large watercolor on the left wall caught her attention. Despite the low lighting, she recognized it as a study by Turner. This wash of hazy, romantic brushwork was even looser and more amorphous than his oils.

It was not the kind of painting that one would expect Mr. Hampton to favor. His crystalline reserve implied that he would prefer clearer, more classical works. Yet she had always sensed that other things lurked in him, and this watercolor appeared to confirm that. She had always suspected that with Julian Hampton the waters not only ran deeply, but they also carried unseen currents. The potentially dangerous lure of those depths had always made her slightly uncomfortable with him.

There were other little touches that fascinated her. Some Turkish pillows and a long narrow painting that looked Chinese. Had Mr. Hampton chosen those items himself, or had his friends, Adrian Burchard and Daniel St. John, who had traveled to those exotic lands, given them as gifts?

The library distracted her enough that she was startled to realize she was no longer alone. She sensed a vital presence, as if an invisible power began affecting the air.

Her spirit reacted in the oddest way, as it had for years with this counselor and friend. Indescribable calm washed through her, but other emotions pricked her instincts, too. Happiness. Fear. Melancholy. There was also that unsettling something that had no name but which placed her at a vaguely breathless disadvantage.

She turned her body on the divan to look to the door. He stood there, tall and dark and strongly lean, dressed as if he had just returned from a dinner party even though she suspected she had woken him from his sleep.

It had been a long time since she took specific note of how handsome he was, but she did tonight. Perhaps that was because she had not seen him in half a year. His dark hair and smoldering eyes and crisp features created a very romantic image. Her dear friend Diane St. John had once said he looked as if he would speak in poetry, should he ever deign to speak at all.

His expression was both curious and stern. She realized that the veil still obscured her identity. Balancing her hip against the divan’s back cushion, she folded the veil back from her face.

“Countess.”

The greeting did not even carry a tinge of surprise. It acknowledged her presence and welcomed her as if they had arranged this meeting.

He came forward. Still twisted on the divan, half kneeling, she extended her hand. He bowed to kiss it. She could feel his warm lips through her glove. Little sparkles danced up her arm.

“I apologize for intruding at this hour, Mr. Hampton. I know that it was a reckless thing to do, but events have left me no choice and I did not know where else to go, or whom to consult.”

He was not a man who smiled easily, but he did so now. It was a nice smile, rather dazzling in its subdued, masculine way. It was a wonder he did not use it more with women, considering the girlish flutters it inspired.

“I would have been wounded if you had even considered
turning elsewhere.” He made a little twirling gesture with his finger to suggest she should right herself on the divan. As she did he walked around it and sat in a comfortable, heavily upholstered, wine-colored chair that he angled to face her.

Those keen eyes slowly took her in. “I have sent for tea, but you appear so distraught I wonder if something more fortifying is in order.”

A liquid much more fortifying than tea would have been welcome an hour ago, but she did not need it now and said so.

His long look made her awkwardness spike. She wondered what conclusions he was drawing with his inspection. That she was showing her age? That she wasn’t very pretty at all? He had not seen her in half a year either, and no doubt was noticing such things anew just as she had.

“I did not realize you had returned to England.” His voice had a wonderful timbre. It always had. Even as a girl she had loved hearing it. “Laclere said nothing.”

“My brother does not know I am here. No one in my family does. I have only been back several days and have been staying at Mivert’s Hotel. I thought I could hide there while I contemplated what to do, but I was wrong. I am fairly sure that I was recognized today despite the veil. That is why I came to see you tonight. Once it is known I am back in England, I fear my situation will become perilous.” She heard her own voice, not at all calm like his.

His lids lowered in a way that she recognized. The mind that had protected her better than any sword was sharpening itself to meet the challenge.

“Since you risked both our reputations and your own
independence visiting me like this, I assume you are in great need of aid, madame. Tell me what has happened.”

Fear and frustration branched inside her. So did guilt, that she was so helpless that she had indeed risked his reputation for her own need.

“Glasbury is trying to abduct me. After all these years, he wants me back and is demanding that I give him his heir.”