to face her, she saw he had calm hazel eyes and nondescript features. With his unassuming manner, he exuded a feeling of tranquil commonsense.
‘You are a clergyman, sir?’
‘A most fortunate one. I was a scholar, with little hope of advancement, then my godfather secured me the patronage of an old friend of his and I find myself with the most delightful country parish. It will be lonely at first, I have no doubt, to be a bachelor rattling around in a large vicarage.’
Julia murmured something polite, her mind racing. Was Mr Smyth, on the strength of two minutes’ conversation, telling her that he was available? Surely not.
‘Perhaps, if I were to find your chaperone, we could be properly introduced?’ he asked. ‘I have hired a horse and curricle for the duration of my stay: you might care to take a drive one afternoon?’
He is! Oh my goodness, one party and I have already met a respectable gentleman who is interested in me! Mama will be so pleased.
‘That would be most pleasant,’ she said, smiling. ‘Thank you. Lady Geraldine Masters or, if she is not free, Lady Marriott.’
She watched his well-tailored back as he left the gallery, contrasting his restrained neatness with a certain flamboyant gentleman. There was no comparison, of course, and no doubt which a respectable young lady of modest means should be associating with, she thought with a certain wistfulness.
Chapter Three
Hal had the reputation of never losing his temper. It was a valuable characteristic, whether on a battlefield, in a gaming hell or looking down the barrel of a duelling pistol. He reminded himself of it, while his friends ragged him about his assignation with Mrs Horton.
‘So you can’t describe her boudoir?’ Captain Grey said, pushing the bottle across the table to Jameson.
The major caught it as it rocked perilously. ‘Too caught up in the toils of passion to notice, old chap?’
‘You must recall something,’ Will wheedled. ‘Don’t be a spoilsport, Carlow. Mirrors on the ceiling? Silken drapes? Golden cords? A bath with swan-headed taps?’
‘I cannot describe it, because I have not been in it,’ Hal said, taking a swig of claret.
‘What?’ The captain’s chair legs hit the ground with a thump. ‘But we saw you, last night. Damn it, the way you were looking at each other, you might as well have called the town crier in to announce what you’d be doing later.’
‘I changed my mind.’ Hal stretched out and took hold of the bottle, just as Major Jameson reached for it again.
‘You changed your mind? Bloody hell.’ Grey stared at him. ‘Are you sickening for something?’
‘No. Are we going to the Literary Institute, or not?’
‘We’re not moving until we hear why you didn’t stagger out of the luscious Barbara’s bedroom, weak at the knees after a night of passion,’ Jameson said, obviously fascinated. ‘Cards can wait.’
‘I never stagger weak at the knees after a night of passion,’ Hal said. ‘I stride. Last night I changed my mind and, no, I do not intend telling you why.’
‘My God,’ said Grey, awed. ‘She’ll be hissing like a cat this morning.’
‘You are welcome to go and try putting butter on her paws, if you like,’ Hal suggested, making his friend blush and grin. ‘But naturally, I sent a note of apology.’
‘Citing what reason, exactly?’
‘Pressing military duties.’
They subsided, agreeing that even Lady Horton would be placated by such an irrefutable excuse under the present circumstances. Lieutenant Hayden, silent up to this point while he demolished the remains of the fruit tart and cream, looked up, his chubby face serious. ‘Turning over a new leaf, Carlow? New Year’s resolution or something?’ The others laughed at him, but he just grinned amiably. ‘I know, it’s May. Thought you might be getting into fighting trim—early nights, clean living.’ He sighed. ‘It’ll be the betting next and then we’ll all be in the suds. How will we know what to back if you give it up?’
‘I am not giving up gambling or betting and I am not giving up women,’ Hal said, trying to ignore the strange sensation inside his chest. It felt unpleasantly like apprehension. Or the threat of coming change.
He had watched Julia Tresilian walk away from him in her modest little home-made gown, her nose in the air, her words ringing in his ears, and he had laughed. It was funny, it genuinely was, that a notorious rake should give his head for a washing by a prim nobody who had about as much clue about the things she was lecturing him on as the canary in a spinster’s parlour.
And then he saw her cross diagonally in front of Barbara Horton and felt suddenly as though he had eaten too much rich dessert: faintly queasy and with no inclination to dip his spoon in the dish for another mouthful. What he wanted was a draught of sharp, honest lemonade.
He wanted Miss Julia Tresilian. As he stood there staring blindly at the chattering crowd, it hit him like a thunderbolt. He wanted Julia Tresilian.
It was impossible. It had sent him back to the hotel last night with his head spinning, and it woke him up at hourly intervals all night with waves of panic flooding through him. He was losing his mind, he told himself at breakfast, washing mouthfuls of dry toast down with cup after cup of strong black coffee. He never spent nights tossing and turning—not before battle, not before a duel. He, Hal Carlow, did not lose sleep over some prudish little chit.
She was an innocent, respectable young woman. A gentleman did not toy with such a woman—not unless he meant marriage. Hal did not want to marry, and he most certainly could not marry a girl like that. Not with his reputation, all of which had been hard-earned and was entirely justified.
He was not fit to touch her hand, he knew that. She might be almost on the shelf, she might be dowerless and of no particular family. But decency and integrity shone out of those expressive brown eyes and all he had was his honour as a gentleman—and that was telling him to run a mile before he touched her, physically or emotionally.
Hal drained his glass. If he had fallen in love with her, he could understand it. But he had not. He hardly knew the girl. Men he knew who had fallen in love mooned about writing poetry, or lost weight, or likened their beloved to a moonbeam or a zephyr.
Not his brother Marcus, of course, Marcus had spent most of his courtship in a state of violent antagonism to Nell, but they were obviously the exception. Marcus was the sort of virtuous son and heir who did things properly, took his pleasures discreetly and then settled down, married and produced heirs. But a second son did not have that obligation, although that did not stop family disapproval when he acted on his freedom.
Hal shrugged away memories of tight-lipped arguments, sighs and youthful disgrace. He wasn’t a youth any more, he didn’t feel like mooning, he couldn’t think of a line of poetry, and Julia was neither a moonbeam nor a zephyr. She was innocent, sharp-tongued, painfully honest, intelligent and pleasant to look at. He was not in lust either. In fact he shocked himself even thinking about physical passion in the same sentence as Julia’s name. And he could not recall the last time he had shocked himself. And yet, he wanted her.
