Loving Julia Read online

  “Would it be too much fer ya ter tell me where we be goin’?” If more than a trace of sarcasm laced her voice, the earl, looking down at her as if he had forgotten her existence, seemed oblivious to it.

  “To the country,” he said briefly. Jewel’s lip curled.

  “T’anks,” she said, and there was no hiding the sarcasm this time. But he still gave no sign of noticing. Glaring at him, she scratched her midriff for what must have been the hundredth time that morning. This time he looked at her with an impatient frown.

  “What the devil are you scratching about? Surely you don’t have fleas!”

  This unfair attack sent Jewel’s temper flaring.

  “Listen, yer ’igh-and-mightiness, I agreed ter do wot ya say, but that don’t mean ya got the right ter insult me!” Clutching the side of the curricle with one hand to steady herself as they hit a series of particularly bad ruts, Jewel glowered at him. The earl looked down at her in some surprise, rather as if a piece of wood had talked back to him.

  “I beg your pardon. But perhaps you could explain to me why you keep, uh, tugging at the waist of that dress?”

  “Because it bloody well itches!” His apology had not improved her temper one iota. She still glowered at him, and he, damn him, had the gall to look amused.

  “Yes, I assumed that. But, er, why?”

  “’ow should I know? It’s yer bleedin’ dress!”

  His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and he transferred the reins to one hand before reaching to lightly prod the material of her skirt. Jewel, glaring, twitched her skirt out of his reach, then had to grab the side of the curricle again to keep from being jounced from her seat.

  “What are you wearing underneath it?”

  Jewel stared at him. “My drawers, what else?” Surprisingly, making such a statement before the great “my lord” did not embarrass her at all, but she suddenly remembered the listening ears of the groom behind them and colored to the roots of her hair. The earl’s lips twitched.

  “Is that, er, all?”

  “I don’ think this be a fittin’ subject for us ter discuss,” she said primly, feeling proud of her new dignity. His lips twitched again, and then he grinned. Jewel, looking up at him as he laughed, was amazed at the transformation it wrought. He looked young, carefree, handsome, charming. She stared, dazzled. Then she frowned fiercely at him as she realized that he was laughing at her.

  “I believe that in addition to drawers a young lady generally wears a chemise, stays, and several petticoats beneath her outer garment. The material of the dress is not designed to directly touch the skin. This dress in particular seems to be of wool; no doubt that explains your, er, itching.”

  Jewel glared at him, fiercely resenting the grin that still lurked around his mouth. Handsome or not, earl or not, he didn’t have the right to laugh at her. But even as she scowled, she reached automatically to scratch her itching belly, catching herself just in time.

  “I know that,” she muttered, angry and embarrassed at the same time. “Wot do ya think I am, an ignoramus? I jes’ didn’t ’appen to ’ave my underclothes wit’ me.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Mrs. Masters should have seen that you were provided with the proper garments. No doubt she overlooked the necessity.”

  “No doubt,” Jewel said sourly, thinking that Mrs. Masters had probably put out the scratchy wool dress and nothing else on purpose. But the soothing tone of the earl’s voice insensibly made her feel a trifle better. Jewel said nothing, but her hand made another abortive movement to relieve the discomfort of the scratchy dress. The earl’s lips twitched, and her temper heated all over again.

  “Please feel free,” he murmured, and grinned. Jewel glared at him, and with a heroic exercise of will managed not to scratch.

  The rest of the journey passed in almost total silence. The earl, apparently caught up in his own thoughts, said nothing as he drove with more speed than care over muddy rutted roads. Jenkins blew a blast on a shrill horn whenever they approached a toll, and that was the only sound he made. Jewel herself, growing colder by the moment and exercising enormous self-control in the matter of her itchy dress, contributed a series of sniffs.

  The day warmed only slightly as it passed into afternoon, and she was freezing. Frowning direly, she wrapped her arms around her body to provide what meager warmth they could, but before long she realized the cold was the least of her problems. The carriage lurched and jolted horribly as the earl raced them on. Jewel pressed herself back against the cold seat, feeling more and more seasick with each passing minute. She shut her eyes as the curricle drove on, jolting through the ruts with complete disregard for her increasing misery. If it did not stop soon, she realized, she was going to be sick.

  Finally she was. All over the natty leather inside of the curricle, and the earl’s highly polished black boots.

  “Good God!” said the earl as he reined in his horses. When she had finished retching, and sat leaning weakly back against the seat with her eyes closed, she heard him say, “Hold ’em for me, Jenkins.” Then she felt the warmth of his hand beneath her chin. She only wished she could wrap that warmth around all of her. She was so sick, and so cold, and so bloody miserable.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling unwell, you foolish chit?” The earl sounded only a trifle testy, which against all reason had the effect of sending Jewel’s temper soaring.

  “If ya ’ad the sense of a bloody goat, ya would have known it! Not bein’ a sailin’ man, I’m not accustomed ter ’avin’ my insides shook about like they was caught in a ’urricane on the ’igh seas!” She opened her eyes and glared at him. Behind her, Jenkins gave a brief cough that might have been a muffled laugh.

  “I’ll thank you to watch your tongue, my girl,” the earl responded, his eyes narrowing on her face.

  “Push and tosh,” Jewel said rudely, and closed her eyes again. At this point she didn’t care about offending the earl. She didn’t care about whistling a home and food and care down the wind. All she cared about was letting this impossible, arrogant man know that she was not quite a nothing, to be subjected to horrible discomforts as though she didn’t matter at all.

  “My lord,” he said quite calmly as though he was merely instructing her again in the correct form of address. She had half-expected him to respond to her rudeness with anger. But instead she heard the creak of springs as he climbed out of the carriage, then to her surprise felt his hands beneath her armpits. Opening her eyes wide, she stared at him as he lifted her down.

  “See to the carriage, would you, Jenkins?” he threw over his shoulder as he pulled her arm beneath his so that it was pressed close to the hard warmth of his body. He urged her to walk back the way they had come. Jewel did, feeling stronger as she gulped in the cold air and felt the solid ground beneath her feet.

  “Sorry about yer boots. My lord,” she surprised herself by muttering. Then he smiled, that warm charming smile that lit up his eyes. She stared, dazzled by the impact of it at close range. He was too beautiful to smile—what it did for that gorgeous face was unfair.

  “They’ll clean,” he said, and fished in the pocket of his coat for a silver flask.

  “Drink this,” he said, handing it to her, and Jewel obeyed. The straight scotch burned going down, but the effect was warming and she took another long swallow.

  “Enough, or we’ll have you drunk.” He took the flask from her, regarding her with cold eyes that she found almost comforting because they were familiar. “If you are fond of the bottle, you’ll have to learn to do without. Ladies do not drink hard liquor.”

  “Ya shouldn’ve give it ter me if ya dinna wan’ me ter drink it,” Jewel retorted, and was rewarded by an easing of his expression. He didn’t smile again, but he no longer looked so cold.

  “TouchÉ. If you think you can bear up now, we should be getting on. I dislike spending nights on the road.”

  “I dislike riding,” Jewel muttered, but was not surprised to be escorted back to the
now cleaned carriage and lifted aboard. He was a moment or so behind her, and Jewel took perverse pleasure from watching his high-and-mighty lordship wipe his stained boots on what few tufts of grass remained in the mud. Then he jumped up beside her, reclaimed the reins from a pokerfaced Jenkins, and clucked to the horses. The carriage lurched forward again. With a low moan Jewel clutched the side of the curricle and resigned herself to enduring more hours of misery.

  By the time dusk fell, Jewel was resigned to death. In fact, she longed for it. She had never been so physically miserable in all her life. She prayed for a crash, for the earl to suffer a heart attack, anything that would cause them to stop. But still the benighted vehicle lurched and jolted and jerked on and on through the freezing wind of an approaching winter’s night.

  They entered Norfolk, and after a while rattled through the little village of Bishop’s Lynn. Jewel felt too ill to do more than notice the spires of the two churches situated on the opposite ends of the town. Then they seemed to be drawing close to the sea because Jewel heard a faint roaring that she had at first thought was in her own head, and then decided was the sound of waves breaking on the shore. The idea would have excited her if she hadn’t felt so ill. She had never seen the sea.

  “Are we nearly there?” she was finally compelled to ask as her body seemed frozen through, and her stomach threatened to turn itself inside out again, though it was now quite empty.

  “Not nearly. We are there,” the earl responded briefly, pointing ahead with his whip. And thus, silhouetted against the backdrop of a darkening sky, did Jewel get her first glimpse of the house that she would learn was called White Friars.

  VIII

  After the misery of the journey Jewel was briefly cheered when the enormous pile of gray rock that the earl indicated was their destination appeared against the mountain of charcoal clouds that shrouded the horizon. At last, she thought, a bloody end to this ’ellish rockin’, and before it rained again, too. Maybe her luck was changing for the better.

  But that was before the curricle bowled down the avenue and Jewel got her first good look at the house. It was composed of three wings in the shape of a rectangle with the bottom bar missing. The driveway closely followed the shape of the house, forming a semicircle so that one could drive up to the front entry and away from the house again without ever turning around. Dozens upon dozens of mullioned windows stared down at the driveway, their arched shape embellished by elaborate carvings of gargoyles that seemed to be laughing gleefully at the folly of those who approached.

  The house itself exuded a presence. As ridiculous as the thought was, it seemed to brood; its shadow, barely distinguishable from the deepening gloom of falling night, nevertheless fell over the curricle with a chill dampness that sent a shiver running up Jewel’s spine. Curiously, in the whole massive place only three windows were lit. Two, high up in the center wing, seemed to stare down on the approaching curricle like unblinking eyes.

  Jewel chided herself for her folly, but all the common sense of which she was capable did not help. The house looked colder and more desolate than the night it would shelter them from.

  The massive door swung open before the curricle came to a stop. A swarm of servants carrying lanterns descended the steps. The earl, who had perceptibly tensed as soon as the house was in view, reined in, jumped down from the curricle, and curtly told Jenkins to go to the horses’ heads. Then he turned to look up at Jewel, who still sat in the curricle, staring wide-eyed at the house.

  “Get down,” he said, his voice terse.

  “Eh, it be uncommon grand, but it gives me the willies,” she breathed before she could stop herself.

  He drew in a sharp breath. “It’s only a house.”

  Then she looked at him. The light from the lanterns cast an orange glow over his features, making him look far more devil than angel. His gilt hair seemed to flame. A devil master for a devil house, she thought, and shivered.

  “Get down,” he said again, and she had the feeling he was forcing the words between his teeth.

  For the benefit of the expressionless servants, she thought, he held up a hand to help her alight. With one more look at that bleakly forbidding face, she placed her hand on his, and was struck once again by the warmth of his skin that penetrated even through their gloves. Then she was standing beside him, trying not to look as ill at ease as she felt. The swarming servants didn’t help. She felt them looking at her curiously.

  “Hello, Johnson. How have things been?” The earl addressed this low toned question to a tall, majestic, completely bald figure in a severe black suit. Jewel had now seen enough of the way a gentleman’s establishment was run to guess that he was the butler.

  “Not so good, my lord. Miss Chloe—well, not so good.” The man’s voice was as low as his master’s, and he sounded troubled.

  The earl looked suddenly more glacially remote than Jewel had thought was humanly possible.

  “This is Mr. Timothy’s widow,” he said brusquely, ignoring the butler’s last comment completely. “Miss Julia. She’ll be making her home here for a while. She requires a maid, a bath, and some clothes for sleeping and for the morrow. And dinner on a tray in her room.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Johnson seemed not the least offended by the earl’s coldness. His spaniel-brown eyes ran over Jewel with interest. She tried not to show how self-conscious she felt under that expert assessment. After all, there was no way he could tell just by looking that the clothes she wore were not her own, or that the meal the earl’s household had provided for her the previous night had been the most she had consumed at one time in her entire life. Her true station in life was not stamped on her forehead, was it?

  “Bring a bottle of scotch to the library, Johnson,” the earl said, turning away.

  “And dinner, my lord?” The butler’s question was quiet, but the earl rounded on him like a tiger flicked with a lash.

  “Just the scotch, Johnson.” The icy voice was nowhere near as cold as the glacial glint in his eyes. The butler bowed his acquiescence. Then, without another word to anyone, he turned, striding up the steps and into the house. Jewel stared after him, trying hard not to feel abandoned. From the almost approachable companion he had been during their journey, he had turned in an instant to the cold, remote, heartless noble she had at first thought him. Bloody rude bugger he was, even for an earl, she told herself.

  “This way, Miss Julia.” Johnson stepped back and gestured toward the house, obviously waiting for her to precede him. Jewel did, gathering up her skirts in hands that felt clumsy and walking slowly up the dozen or so shallow stone steps that time and generations of aristocratic feet had hollowed out slightly in the middle. With a sense of unreality she took in the carvings of gargoyles and angels, lutes and garlands of roses that formed a great arch of stone around the massive oak door. The door itself was decorated with finely wrought iron. Jewel stared at it and beyond into a great stone hall hung with tapestries where a black uniformed maid was lighting dozens of candles. Jewel felt her stomach turn over as she took in the soaring ceiling festooned with swirls and flourishes, the elaborate staircase that wound its way up one side of the hall, the huge unlit chandelier suspended above flower strewn carpets and gilt chairs and ebony tables. The grandeur of the place overwhelmed her with the feeling that she did not belong. The lowliest mongrel dog born and bred on the estate had more right here than she did. Then she stiffened her spine. She did, too, belong. She had a piece of paper in her possession that gave her as much right here as any of them. More, in fact; she was not a servant but a member of the family.

  Holding that thought firmly in mind, she made it inside the arched entryway with scarcely any hesitation at all. She then found herself confronted by a small plump woman clad head to toe in black bombazine. Neat wings of white hair were smoothed back on either side of her head beneath a ruffled white cap to form a bun at her nape. She had sharp black eyes that seemed to see right through Jewel. Surrounding her eyes and mouth was a wr
eath of wrinkles that Jewel guessed came from smiling. As far as appearances were concerned, this was a hale and hearty country woman who looked as if she should be someone’s grandmother.

  “Good evening, miss.” The woman smiled a warm welcome,

  then looked over Jewel’s head at Johnson with concern in her eyes. “His lordship?” Johnson shook his head with a frown, and the smile faded from the woman’s face as she returned her attention to Jewel.

  “This is Mrs. Johnson, the housekeeper and my missus.” Johnson made the introduction. “Miss Julia is Mr. Timothy’s widow. My lord has brought her home to live.”

  “Mr. Timothy’s widow!” Without the earl’s chastening presence, this particular servant apparently felt free to show her surprise. Her eyes ran over Jewel again, her expression keen. But she kept to herself whatever thoughts may have occurred to her as she took in Jewel’s thin form, the too large black dress, the black hair mussed from the journey and once again falling from its upsweep so that wispy tendrils straggled around a too white, too thin face.

  “You look fagged to death, Miss! I always had a kindness for Mr. Timothy, a nice lad, that. Pity about him dying so tragic. But enough of that! I’ll show you upstairs myself, the green room I think, it has a nice view. Johnson, you tell Emily to organize a bath for Miss Julia. She can maid Miss until her own maid arrives.” She peered over Jewel’s shoulder. “I’m right in assuming your maid is not with you, Miss Julia? Will she be coming in the coach with his lordship’s valet? He always arrives a day or so after his lordship with all his lordship’s things.”