“I’ve killed many men, Henrietta.”
“That’s to be expected,” she said. “As a soldier, one must kill or be killed. It’s a sad reality of war.”
“It is reality,” he said. “Thomas almost couldn’t bear it. He once confessed that every man he killed took a small piece of his soul to the grave with them. If that is truly how it works, then I have no soul left. Maybe that’s why I feel nothing anymore.”
“Nothing, Julian?” she asked softly.
“It’s true, Hen. Killing makes one less human.”
“You appear perfectly human to me.” Unable to resist the urge, she reached out her hand to cup his bristled face. He drew in a sharp breath as she placed her other hand on his chest right over his heart. “It beats strong and steady.” She glanced up at his face. Hers was growing warmer as the heat of his body permeated through the linen of his shirt into her fingers. “Yes,” she said. “You feel perfectly human too.”
“You shouldn’t touch me like that,” he warned, his voice low and gruff.
“Why not?” she asked, growing a bit breathless. And reckless.
“Because I’m a man. Because I’ve been drinking.” His pupils were huge, turning his brown eyes almost black. His gaze drifted slowly lower, as if burning through the thin linen of her shift. “Because that thing you are wearing is nearly as transparent as the shift you wore swimming.”
Her chest constricted as if her stays were too tight, but she wasn’t wearing any stays. Her breasts were free of confinement beneath her night rail.
“Do you remember what I told you before?” he asked.
“That men are easily aroused by the sight of a woman’s body?” she replied. Her nipples tingled with awareness, hardening into tight peaks. Had he noticed?
“Yes,” he confessed, his whiskey-scented breath fanning her face. His gaze locked with hers and then dropped once more to her mouth.
Would he kiss her? Would she let him? Yes. She would. Worse, she feared she’d let him do very much more. She gasped as his hand came up and fisted in her hair. Then his mouth was on hers. There was nothing warm or tender in Julian’s kiss. It was fierce and marauding. His hot tongue demanded entrance, and she yielded to his plundering. This was not the kiss of her dreams but something dark and dangerous, but her body responded to it in a way she didn’t understand. Her heart pounded inside her chest as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Her legs grew weak and unsteady. He gripped her buttocks, jerking her closer, tighter. She grasped his broad shoulders and clung tightly as if to a runaway horse. Her breath hitched at the sudden awareness of his manhood, hard and hot, pressing against her body. Then suddenly, he pushed her back from him with a growl. “Now do you understand why you shouldn’t have touched me?”
“No.” She licked her swollen lips in confusion. “I don’t.”
“Bugger it all! I’ll sleep in the coach.”
“You’ll freeze your arse off in the coach.”
“Mayhap so, but if I don’t leave now, I may do something we’ll both sorely regret.”
Regret? She jerked back as if dashed with cold water.
“We wouldn’t want my brother to have to call you out now, would we?” she replied tartly. “I’m afraid we don’t have an extra blanket. Take it and go.” She tore a pillow from the bed and tossed it at his head. In truth, she wanted to beat him with it.
“Good night, Julian,” Henrietta said tightly and then climbed into the bed beside Millie, who was still dead to the world. Julian had only desired her because he was drunk. He’d as much as admitted it. She turned her back to him and shoved her fist in her mouth to stifle her sob.
A moment later came the heavy clomp of Julian’s boots on the wooden floorboards, followed by the click of the door. For hours after, Henrietta lay in bed fighting the tears that had threatened to choke her. She envied her maid the serenity of sleep, but that peace of mind eluded her. She’d all but offered her precious virginity to a man who didn’t even want her.
Cursing herself for being ten kinds of fool, she finally fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
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HENRIETTA AND JULIAN ARRIVED AT CHESWICK HOUSE in Chelsea just before afternoon tea. Dispatching the under footman to look after the baggage, the majordomo, who stiffly introduced himself as Clemmons, escorted them to the salon where the grande dame awaited, reclining on a chaise longue. Taking skirts in hand, Henrietta dipped into a full curtsy while Julian followed with an equally formal bow.
“Pshaw!” Lady Cheswick waved an obscenely bejeweled hand. “We shan’t stand on ceremony here. Come and greet me properly, child.”