“My pleasure.”
Since Gemma and Bess were last minute guests, neither had dance cards to sign. This detail didn’t pose much of a barrier. Bess had no desire to dance with anyone besides Julius, and Gemma wasn’t given a chance to catch her breath between sets before one of his brothers or cousins led her back on the floor. Her effervescent giggles suggested she didn’t mind.
Julius’s hand rested lightly on Bess’s upper back while they waited for the quartet to play. “You look beautiful tonight,” he murmured. When his hungry gaze locked on her and glittered like obsidian in the light of the chandelier, she felt like a goddess—desirable, wanted.
A slight change in pressure on her back signaled her that the dance had begun. She’d missed the opening bars of music. As he guided her around the floor, their movements were natural, as if they had been partners for years. How odd that it felt like they had known each other a lifetime when they were strangers only a week earlier.
Bess delicately cleared her throat. “I never thanked you for inviting us to spend Christmas with your family.”
“I assure you”—he drew her closer and smiled—“my motive was selfish, love.”
She knew it wasn’t true. Gemma said he’d been compassionate and kind when she cried at Davensworth Cottage. He was a good man, even if he didn’t want it acknowledged.
Instead of challenging him, she said, “I enjoyed spending time with your family yesterday. They made me feel welcome.”
“The feeling is mutual. My mother even complimented you.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “She finds it admirable that you took in your cousin and her servants.”
“I did what anyone would for family.” Or should.
“Believe me, Mother agrees with you. She values family above all else.”
Bess smiled. She expected no less from a woman who had inspired her son’s respect for the fairer sex. “I am pleased I met with her approval.”
“As long as you recognize her authority at Everly Manor, you will remain in her good graces.” He grinned. “I wouldn’t advise taking me to task within earshot, even if I deserve it. She can be fierce when defending her offspring.”
“In that case…” Bess cocked an eyebrow, teasing him as he often did to her. “If I were you, I would be careful not to cross me.”
“I offer no promises.” The waltz came to an end. He threaded her hand through the crook of his elbow and murmured, “You are irresistible when you’re passions run high.”
She shushed him, although no one was close enough to eavesdrop.
“I have a gift for you.” He drew her toward an arched door at the end of the great hall. “I know a quiet place where we can talk.”
The music and merrymaking faded as they walked along the corridor. A footman came into view. He inclined his head as they neared. “My lord, the room is as you requested.”
“Very good, Ned. Thank you.” Julius kept his gaze focused straight ahead and led her inside. A fire blazed in the hearth, and candelabra glowed from the mantel. Bess strolled to the middle of the formal drawing room. It was a feminine space with ornate furniture upholstered in pastel floral fabrics, thick coordinating carpets, and gilding everywhere. The decor was tasteful, but designed to impress. She imagined Julius’s mother, the Marchioness of Seabrook, receiving important guests in the room. Clove studded oranges were nestled into a crystal bowl with sprigs of holly and filled the room with the quintessential scent of Christmas.
The sound of the door latching caught her by surprise. She spun on her heel and discovered she and Julius were alone. He sauntered toward her with a wicked twinkle in his eyes.
“Julius, there are dozens of guests on the other side of that door.”
“No one will disturb us. Ned is keeping watch.” He gathered her in his arms, leaning his forehead against hers. “I’ve wanted to kiss you all evening.”
She twined her own arms around his neck and lifted to her toes. He held her securely against his chest. “I’ve wanted the same,” she admitted.
Over the last few days, Bess had come to accept that she was a woman who took risks. She always had been, even when others attempted to stifle her nature. Passion flowed through her veins, as steady and constant as the River Thames. She couldn’t change who she was any more than she could reverse the river’s current, and she refused to pretend otherwise any longer.
Julius placed a sweet kiss on her lips before releasing her. “That must satisfy us for now. Have a seat on the sofa. I said I have a gift for you.”
With a groan of protest, she dropped her arms and trudged to the sofa. “I don’t have anything to give in return.”
He opened a drawer in the side table and aimed a smile at her. “When I am with you, what more could I want?”
She rolled her eyes. “You really are a silver-tongued devil, you know. It is unfair to ladies everywhere.”
“You didn’t find me charming when we first met.”
“I was in possession of my faculties back then,” she teased. “Although I am much happier now that I’ve lost them.”
He extracted a small leather box tied with a blue ribbon from the drawer, plopped on the sofa beside her, and offer it to her as if delivering it on a serving tray.
“What is it?” She shook it gingerly next to her ear. “It sounds like metal.”
He propped his arm across the back of the sofa and crossed his ankle over his knee. “You can guess all night or open it. Your choice.”
His relaxed posture suggested he meant it. It felt strange to be afforded power to make her own decisions, and it was intoxicating. She dropped the box on her lap and captured his face for a big smacking kiss on his lips. “Thank you.”
He laughed. “You haven’t opened it yet.”
“I know.” She grasped the edge of the ribbon and untied the bow. Inside the box, lying on a bed of red velvet, was a familiar cameo set in gold.
“I saw you admiring it yesterday when the peddler came around,” he said.
Gypsies had an encampment on the far reaches of Lord Seabrook’s estate. The family had been coming for years, according to Julius, and as long as the gypsies didn’t poach on the neighbors’ property and caused no trouble in the village, Lord Seabrook saw no reason to summon the magistrate.
Bess had asked the peddler where he acquired the piece, and he’d told a fanciful tale about Caesar having gifted it to Cleopatra. When she challenged his story, he narrowed his eyes and slipped the necklace into a pocket before she could examine it.
“Do you like it?” Julius asked.
She nodded and traced the lady’s milky white profile before flipping the pendant to view the back. It was a blank oval with no engraving. In her heart, she’d known it couldn’t be her mother’s necklace. It had been years since Bess’s father had stolen the piece from her jewelry box and vowed she would never see it again. She’d dared to defy him, so he punished her by taking away the only evidence her mother once existed.
He’d destroyed her mother’s portrait and sent her clothing to charity days after her death. Years of suppressed heartache and frustration swelled beneath Bess’s breastbone. Scalding tears flooded her eyes.