At times she felt as if she were divided into two selves, one part of her wanting isolation from the rest of the world, and the other aching to be possessed and loved as she had never been in her life. Her father, with his dominating nature, had precious little love to offer anyone. Her mother had always been too timid, too lost in the shadow of her husband to give Julia the attention a child required. And the constant inflow and outflow of servants from the Hargate household had prevented Julia from forming a close attachment to any of them. Love was something to be feared more than desired.
Realizing that she had been silent for an unaccountably long time, Julia glanced warily at Lord Savage, worrying that her thoughts might have betrayed themselves.
“We're almost there,” was all he said, in a murmur that somehow relaxed her.
The carriage traveled along Upper Brook Street and turned to ascend the long drive leading to a massive white and cream-colored house. The building was cool, beautiful and perfectly symmetrical, with towering Grecian columns and a wide portico adorning the front. Two graceful white wings fitted with rows of gleaming Palladian windows stretched out from the central structure. It was entirely different from the dark, gothic estate Julia had grown up in.
Savage preceded her from the carriage and reached in to assist her. Their gloved fingers caught firmly until she reached the ground, and he offered her his arm. Walking with him up the wide marble steps and into the house, Julia was intensely aware of the hard muscle in his forearm, and the way he checked his long stride to match her shorter ones.
A narrow-faced butler welcomed them inside, taking Julia's hooded pelisse and Lord Savage's hat and gloves. Julia was amazed by what she saw of the entrance hall and the rooms beyond, the forty-foot-high ceilings and antique columns, the exquisite floors tiled in green, blue, and amber. “How beautiful,” she exclaimed.
“Yes.” But Savage was staring at her instead of their surroundings.
“Show me around,” she urged, eager to see more.
Obligingly Savage escorted her through several rooms, pausing to describe the history of certain painted panels or furnishings. It was clear that the Savage family had a great appreciation of art. Many of the ceilings were studded with medallions of delicately painted angels, clouds, and mythological figures, while nearly every corner featured a piece of rare sculpture. There were walls decorated in gold and white to display portraits by Van Dyck and Rembrandt, and landscapes by Gainsborough, Marlow, and Lambert.
“I could stare at these for hours,” Julia said, regarding a wall of paintings with delight.
“I don't often have the time to enjoy them.”
“What keeps you so busy, my lord? Supervising all your investments and business interests, I suppose.”
“There is a lot to be managed,” he admitted, staring thoughtfully at the Van Dyck before them.
All of a sudden Julia was mortified by the indiscreet growling of her stomach. She placed her hand over her midriff. “How unladylike. I'm afraid I haven't eaten since this morning.”
The corners of his mouth twitched with a smile. “Shall we go in to dinner?”
“Yes, I'm famished.” Taking his arm once more, Julia accompanied him through more gleaming, art-filled rooms. Though it would have been best to find a neutral topic, she couldn't resist prying. “Surely you could hire estate agents and managers to take care of your business, my lord.”
“I prefer to handle most of it myself.”
“You don't trust other people very easily,” she observed.
“No,” he said quietly. “Particularly when my family's finances are at stake.”
Julia glanced at the uncompromising line of his profile, her brows lifting in mild surprise. Why would he admit such a thing to her? Without exception, all members of the aristocracy pretended that their money sprang from limitless sources, to be squandered without a trace of worry.
Savage continued without a change in inflection. “My father insisted on managing the family's affairs by himself until he fell ill several years ago. When I assumed control of everything, I discovered that the Savages were heavily in debt, and all our financial dealings were in shambles. The duke had a taste for gambling. If he ever made a sound investment, it was purely by accident.”
“You seem to have done very well for the Savages since then. Your father must be pleased that you have righted the situation.”
Savage shrugged. “The duke never admits that he was wrong about anything. He doesn't acknowledge that he made mistakes.”
“I understand.” The words came out almost in a whisper. But Savage couldn't know exactly how well she did understand. As Julia had always suspected, their fathers were two of a kind. Like Lord Hargate, the Duke of Leeds had tried to control his family with an iron hand. When it had become clear that he was a poor manager of property and people, he had sacrificed his son's future in exchange for a large settlement from the Hargates.
Julia suspected that long ago Lord Savage had decided that he would never be controlled by anyone again. She felt a touch of sympathy for him, even kinship…but she suspected that as a husband, he would be inflexible, untrusting, and remote. A highly undesirable mate, at least for her.
The sumptuous dishes at dinner would have satisfied a dozen people. Julia sat to Savage's right at a long table laden with silver trumpet-shaped vases filled with orchids and trailing nasturtium. The first course consisted of vegetable consommé, followed by salmon rillettes covered with cream and dill. Afterward the servants brought steaming trays bearing pheasant stuffed with truffles and hazelnuts, and veal scallops swimming in Bordeaux sauce.
Julia protested as more dishes arrived; puddings, open tarts, sweetbreads, and vegetables. “This is far too much. I can't possibly do justice to it!”
Savage smiled and coaxed her to try a quail egg stuffed with cream and lobster. Indulging herself as she hadn't in a long time, Julia drank from a selection of French wine and applied herself to the feast with pleasure. Savage proved to be a charming dinner companion when he chose, conversing agreeably on a variety of subjects.
“Why become an actress?” he asked near the end of the leisurely meal, leaning back as their plates were removed and tiers of pastries and fresh fruit were set before them.
Julia toyed with a scarlet strawberry on her plate. “It was a desire of mine since childhood. I left my family's home when I was eighteen, worked in a company of traveling players, and then performed at a theater in the Strand until I was fortunate enough to be hired by Mr. Scott.”
“Does your family approve of your career?”
Julia snorted at the idea. “Decidedly not. They wanted me to remain at home…but only if I abided by certain conditions which I found unacceptable.”
“When did you marry?” he asked. “While you were at the Strand?”
She frowned at him. “I never discuss my marriage.”
A half-smile played on his lips. “I'm not convinced your husband actually exists.”
“He does,” she assured him, sipping her wine. He exists as much as your wife does, she was tempted to say, but kept her silence.
“Will he ever want you to leave the theater?”
“He would be a bloody hypocrite if he did,” she said pertly. “He's an actor himself.” She suppressed a smile as she saw the spark of interest in his expression, knowing that he took her meaning literally. It was the truth, however. Lord Savage was undeniably skilled at hiding the truth and presenting a false facade. He was as accomplished an actor as any of the Capital players.
He seemed about to ask something else, when suddenly his eyes narrowed, and he stared at her bare upper arm.
“My lord?” Julia asked, puzzled by his expression.
Before Julia could react, Savage had grasped her arm in his warm, broad hand, and turned it upward toward the light. The smear of paint over the bruise-mark was clearly visible. Julia tried to twist away, spluttering in confusion. “It's nothing…I-I'm perfectly all right…the performance, you see—”
“Hush.” He turned to an approaching servant and brusquely requested a tin of salve from the housekeeper's supply.
Julia watched in dumbfounded silence as Savage dipped the corner of a napkin into a glass of cool water. She stiffened with surprise as the damp cloth passed carefully over the bruise. Savage found another dark fingermark, and a shadowy blotch on the tip of her shoulder. He wiped away the dabs of concealing paint with exquisite care.
A warm rush of color spread over Julia's skin, rising past her throat to her face. No man had ever touched her like this. His face was so close that she could see the grain of dark whiskers in his closely shaven skin, and the thick fan of his lashes.
A pleasant smell clung to him, the scents of cologne and warm skin mingled with starched linen. His breath was laced with the sweetness of after-dinner wine. Julia's heart began to thunder as she thought of smoothing her fingertips over his black hair, the neat curve of his ear, the bold sweep of his eyebrow. She'd had too much to drink. She was dizzy, flushed…she wanted to pull away, and yet…
The servant returned with a small tin of salve, handing it to Lord Savage. As he departed, he closed the door and left them in seclusion.
“There's no need…” Julia began unsteadily. Her voice faded as Savage uncovered the waxen pink salve, which held a strong herbal odor.
Savage's gray eyes lifted to hers. For the first time she noticed the subtle hints of blue and green in their depths. When he spoke, his voice was a shade deeper than usual. “Scott should be more careful with you.”
“He is,” she whispered. “It's just that I bruise very easily.”
His gaze remained fixed on hers as he touched his fingers to the salve and leaned forward. It seemed as if he was waiting for her to object. A denial trembled on her lips, but somehow she couldn't make a sound. She felt his fingers on her arm, smoothing salve over the bruises. He touched her as if she were made of porcelain, the brush of his skin barely perceptible against hers. Julia had never guessed that a man could be so gentle.
He moved to her shoulder, tending to the bruise there while she held absolutely still. Wild impulses flooded her…she wanted to lean against him, to feel his entire hand against her skin, to guide his long fingers over the curve of her breast. She held her breath, willing the feeling to go away, but the craving grew until her ni**les drew tight beneath the smooth silk of her gown. Helplessly she waited for him to finish, staring fixedly at his downbent head.
“Are there any more?” he asked.
“None that I'd care for you to see,” she managed to say.
A smile flashed across his face. He covered the tin and gave it to her. “My gift to you, Mrs. Wentworth. Apparently you'll need more of it before Taming of the Shrew completes its run.”
“Thank you.” Julia picked up her black gloves, discarded at the beginning of dinner, and used them to fan her burning face. “It's very warm in here,” she said lamely.
“Shall we walk in the garden?”
She nodded gratefully and left the dining room with him, crossing an anteroom to a pair of wide French doors that led to a paved garden path. It was dark and cool outside, crisp breezes rustling the leaves of fruit trees and whispering through the hedges.
They walked in silence past dense yew hedges and a line of flowering plum trees. Near the center of the garden was a large fountain filled with sculpted angels. Julia paused to admire the scenery, and became aware of a chest-high rose hedge bordering the path. The blossoms were familiar to her, large bursts of pale pink with an indescribably sweet perfume.
“Summer Glory roses,” she murmured. “My mother's favorite. She used to spend hours in her garden tending them. The most beautiful and by far the most thorny, she told me.”
Savage watched as she leaned close to a rose and inhaled its heady fragrance. “That particular variety is quite rare, especially in England. It was given to my family a long time ago from…” He stopped, a strange alertness infusing his expression. “A friend,” he finished. The two words seemed to hang between them, punctuating the air with a question.
All at once the air left Julia's lungs, and she struggled for a replenishing breath. Summer Glories were indeed a unique variety. Now that she thought of it, her family's estate was the only other place she had ever seen them. She realized that in all likelihood her mother Eva was the one who had given the cuttings to the Savages all those years ago. Before turning into an invalid, Eva had prided herself on her skill at cultivating exotic roses…she had often made gifts of plants to friends and acquaintances.
Rapidly Julia considered ways to cover up the blunder, and decided to change the subject as quickly as possible. She walked past the shrub with feigned indifference. “Is Lady Ashton aware that I'm here with you tonight?” she asked abruptly.
“Lady Ashton,” Savage repeated, sounding bemused at the unexpected question. He followed her along the path. “No, I haven't told her.”
“If she finds out, will it cause a problem for you?”
“She has no claim on me.”
“Oh, yes…your ‘understanding’ with her…” Julia winced as a bit of gravel slipped inside her silk shoe. She paused and removed the shoe, shaking it to remove the unwanted bit of stone. “Does Lady Ashton entertain hopes of marrying you, my lord?”
“You're asking very personal questions, Mrs. Wentworth.”
“I'm certain she does,” Julia said in answer to her own query. “You're quite an eligible man…aren't you?”
Savage took the shoe from her and bent to replace it on her foot. “I have no intention of marrying Lady Ashton.”
Hopping a step or two, Julia reached for his shoulder to steady herself, making the discovery that there was no padding in his coat. His muscles felt like oak beneath her palm. “Why not?” she asked, looking down at the seallike gleam of his hair in the moonlight. “Doesn't she suit your high standards?” Her breath caught as she felt his fingers on her ankle, gently guiding her foot back into the shoe.
His voice was slightly muffled as he replied. “I intend to marry for love.”
A pang of empathy mingled with Julia's surprise. So underneath his practical, self-controlled exterior there was a private dream, the same dream that had been stolen from each of them. “I wouldn't have expected such a romantic notion from a man like you, my lord.”
“What would you expect of me?”