Deborah Hale - My Lord Protector

Holding her new cap and other Christmas bounty behind her skirt, Gwenyth withdrew. Once the steward had turned his back on her, she flashed Julianna a broad grin and a wink.

“I will also be taking my leave within the hour,” Brock informed Julianna. “Do you require anything in the meantime?”

He presented such a grim aspect, she could not resist a gentle jape. “I only require, Mr. Brock, that you endeavor to enjoy your holiday. I promise to refrain from mischief in your absence—so far as in me lies.”

The teasing did not sit well with Brock, who stalked off, wearing a look that told Julianna he would love to upend her over his knee and whip her like a naughty child. In reply, she abandoned decorum, thrusting out her tongue at his retreating back.

Spying through the frosted pane of her window some time later, Julianna confirmed Brock’s departure, along with the last of the other servants. Momentarily overcome by the giddy freedom of a prisoner set at liberty, she let out a loud whoop and danced a clumsy pirouette across the sitting room before collapsing upon the chaise in a heap of helpless mirth.

When her laughter subsided, Julianna began to consider what to do with herself for the next two-and-a-half days. She thought of looking for Sir Edmund, but decided his reluctant company held little appeal. Then another idea seized her. What better opportunity to explore Fitzhugh House? Tossing a wrap around her shoulders, she set off.

She passed a pleasant hour lingering in the dim galleries, viewing Sir Edmund’s collection of paintings—an eclectic mixture of landscapes, portraits and still-life studies.

Gradually, Julianna noticed how quiet and empty the house had become without the muted comings and goings of the servants. Her footsteps on the parquet floor reverberated down the wide, shadowy corridor, and she felt a sudden shiver of nameless unease. Pulling open the first door that came to hand, she happened upon Sir Edmund’s suite. As he was not there to find her prying, she decided to indulge her curiosity with a furtive look around.

Though Sir Edmund’s apartment lacked a separate sitting room, his bedchamber looked much larger than her own. An enormous, old-fashioned bed occupied a considerable space. Tall and boxlike, with plain posts of dark wood and hangings of a somber olive hue, it was practically a room unto itself. Besides a chaise and armchair, the only other furnishings were a battered sea chest and an open-shelved cabinet that housed a collection of exotic-looking statuary and lacquerwork, together with a set of brass navigational tools. Framed maps and charts adorned the walls. It gave Julianna the distinct impression of standing in a captain’s cabin on some great ship. She could have sworn she smelled a faint tangy odor of the sea. A spartanly masculine domain, Sir Edmund’s apartment did not invite her to linger.

On her way back to her own rooms, Julianna suddenly inhaled a familiar scent. Even before she realized it was Crispin’s favorite pomade, her heart gave a happy lurch of recognition. Following the smell, she discovered his chamber. She had known, in an abstract fashion, that she was living in Crispin’s home. Yet it had never felt that way, until now. The bedchamber appeared tidy and impersonal, but the cluttered little dressing room looked as if its tenant had just stepped out and might return at any moment.

A brush held strands of Crispin’s chestnut curls among its bristles. The wardrobe bulged with coats that Julianna knew like old friends. Taking out a well-cut dark blue velvet, she drew it around herself. Eyes closed, she nuzzled her cheek against the soft nap of the lapel, inhaling the essence of Crispin that clung to the fabric. At that moment, Julianna returned to the gardens at Vauxhall, and the fragrant summer afternoon when Crispin Bayard had proposed to her.

In early June, the gardens were awash in a palette of pastel flowers, on a backdrop of dewy green foliage. Attended by the gallant captain, Julianna savored her first taste of the amusements offered there. They hummed along with popular airs, performed by a string consort. They viewed statuary and displays of Mr. Hogarth’s engravings. They nibbled from a bowl of strawberries in the refreshment pavilion. By far Julianna’s favorite diversion was wandering the verdant footpaths on the captain’s arm, absorbed in polite flirtation. Finding a secluded bench, they paused to rest. Her escort grew unwontedly quiet

“Have I tired out your voice as well as your legs, Captain?” she asked in jest, only to be taken aback by the grave, pensive set of his handsome features. “Or is something wrong?”

“Miss Ramsay...Julianna...” Upon his lips, her name sounded the most lyrical word in the language. “It is wrong of me to speak, but neither can I keep silent. With the hazardous undertaking before me, it could not be a worse time for romantic distractions...most unfair to any lady... advancing a compact of so long duration, with no assurance of my safe return...”

“Captain Bayard...Crispin...” His name sparkled on her tongue like champagne. “I believe I have kept you too long in the sun. You are not making a particle of sense.”

“No wonder. Since the day we met, I have taken leave of my senses. Sense tells me it is madness to meet with you so often, when I may not tender an honorable proposal. However, the light of your beauty and the music of your voice are too sweet a madness to resist.”

Languidly drawing off her glove, Julianna reached out to push that unruly curl back from his brow, as she had longed to do since their first meeting. Her hand strayed down his cheek. Crispin needed no further invitation to kiss her. Their lips made a delicious confection of berries and cream.

“Crispin, are you asking for my hand?” Julianna asked breathlessly, when he drew back.

“Could you consider it? Two years without you stretches ahead like a lifetime. Could you wait two years for me, and look to wed upon my return?”

Smiling pertly, she replied, “You have tasted my answer.”

His anxious expression eased into a smile of barely containable happiness. “Ah, but I grow forgetful as well as mad,” he teased. “Give me your answer again, that I may remember.”

Laughing with delight, she obliged. Then, as Crispin held her, she rested her cheek against the soft velvet of his coat.

When Julianna opened her eyes, she saw that Crispin’s dressing room had grown dark in the early winter twilight. She had no wish to roam the eerily echoing galleries of Fitzhugh House in this deep gloom. With a reluctant sigh, she slipped the coat from her shoulders and returned it to the wardrobe. Pausing at the door, she blew a kiss back into the empty room.

In the darkened corridor, Julianna soon became disoriented. After one or two unsuccessful attempts, she confidently pulled open her own door.

Edmund set aside his razor and bolted a swallow of brandy. Dutch courage, he thought, grimacing at his half-shaved face in the looking glass. Nonsense, another part of him countered, just a drop of oil to lubricate my tongue. Raising a skeptical eyebrow, he slid the blade of his razor from ear to chin in a single deft sweep. Not that he’d need to do much talking if that goose of a girl didn’t soon put in an appearance. Where could she have gone? He’d noticed nothing missing during a quick inspection of her rooms. So she couldn’t have run away—more the pity.

Four quick strokes shaved the stiff whiskers from Edmund’s upper lip. Dashedly inconsiderate of the girl, bolting to who-knew-where, after all the trouble he’d taken to secure them a stage-side box at Drury Lane tonight. Odd she’d go missing now. Ever since she’d blackmailed him into letting her stay for Christmas, she had looked in far brighter spirits. It had been everything he could do to keep a sober face when he’d overheard the little chit saucing Mordecai Brock. Thinking back on it, Edmund grinned to himself and tipped another draft of his brandy. About time Brock had somebody to put him in his place.