A tight knot of tension eased inside Sophy. She smiled tremulously, knowing what it had cost him to make the concession. "Thank you, Julian." Impulsively she stood on tiptoe and brushed her mouth lightly against his. "I will never betray you," she whispered earnestly.
"Then there is no reason we should not do very well together, you and I." His arms closed almost roughly around her, pulling her close against his lean, hard length. His mouth came down on hers, heavy and demanding and strangely urgent.
When Julian finally raised his head a moment later, there was a familiar look of anticipation in his eyes.
"Julian?"
"I think, my most loyal wife, that it is time we went home. I have plans for the remainder of our evening."
"Do you, indeed, my lord?"
"Most definitely." He took her arm again and led her toward the ballroom with such long strides that Sophy was obliged to skip to keep pace. "I believe we will take our leave of our hostess immediately."
But when they walked through the front door of their own house a short time later, Guppy was waiting for them with a rare expression of grave concern.
"There you are, my lord. I was just about to send a footman to find you at your club. Your aunt, Lady Sinclair, has apparently taken very ill and Miss Rattenbury has twice sent a message requesting my lady's assistance."
FIFTEEN
Julian prowled his bedchamber restlessly, aware that his inability to sleep was a direct result of the knowledge that Sophy was not next door in her own room. Where she should be. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair and wondered exactly when and how he had arrived at a state of affairs in which he could no longer sleep properly if Sophy was not nearby.
He dropped into the chair he had commissioned from the younger Chippendale a few years ago when both he and the cabinetmaker had been much taken with the Neoclassic style. The chair was a reflection of the idealism of his youth, Julian thought in a rare moment of insight.
During that same era, which now seemed so far in the past, he had been known to argue the Greek and Latin classics until late at night, involve himself in the radical liberal politics of the Reform Whigs and even thought it quite necessary to put bullets in the shoulders of two men who had dared to impugn Elizabeth's honor.
Much had changed in the past few years, Julian thought. He rarely had time or inclination to argue the classics these days; he'd come to the conclusion that the Whigs, even the liberal ones, were no less corrupt than the Tories; and he had long since acknowledged that the notion of Elizabeth having any honor at all was quite laughable.
Absently he smoothed his hands over the beautifully worked mahogany arms of the chair. Part of him still responded to the pure, classic motifs of the design, he realized with a sense of surprise. Just as part of him had insisted on trying a few lines of poetry to go with the diamond bracelet and the herbal he had given Sophy. The verse had been rusty and awkward.
He had not written any poetry since Cambridge and the early days with Elizabeth and in all honesty he knew he'd never had a talent for it. After one or two tries he had impatiently crumpled the paper in his fist, tossing it aside in favor of the brief note he had finally written to accompany the gifts to Sophy.
But that was not the end of it, apparently. Tonight he had received further, disquieting evidence that some of his youthful idealism still survived even though he had done everything he could to crush it beneath the weight of a cynical, realistic view of the world. He could not deny that something in him had responded to Sophy's demand for proof that he respected her sense of honor.
Julian wondered if he should have agreed to let her spend the night with Fanny and Harriett. Not that he could have influenced her decision to do so, he reflected wryly. From the moment Sophy had received Guppy's message, she had been unswervable in her determination to go immediately to Fanny's bedside.
Julian had not argued the matter. He was genuinely worried about his aunt's condition. Fanny was eccentric, unpredictable, and occasionally outrageous, but Julian realized he was quite fond of her. Since the death of his elderly parents, she had been the only member of the Ravenwood clan he genuinely cared about.
After receiving the message, Sophy had delayed only long enough to change her clothes and wake her maid. Mary had bustled about, packing a few necessities while
Sophy had collected her medicine chest and her precious copy of Culpeper's herbal.
"1 am almost out of several herbs," she had fretted to Julian in the carriage that he had ordered to take her to Fanny's. "Perhaps one of the local apothecaries can provide me with some good quality chamomile and Turkish rhubarb. It is a shame that Old Bess is so far away. Her herbs are by far the most reliable."
At Fanny's they had been greeted at the door by a distraught Harriett. It was the sight of the normally placid Harriett in a state of anxiety that brought home to Julian how ill his aunt must be.
"Thank God you are here, Sophy. I have been so worried. I wanted to send for Doctor Higgs but Fanny won't hear of it. She says he is nothing but a charlatan and she will not allow him through the door of her room. I cannot blame her. The man loses more patients than he saves. But I did not know what else to do except send for you. I do hope you don't mind?"
"Of course I do not mind. I will go to her immediately, Harry." Sophy had bid Julian a hasty farewell and flown up the stairs, a footman hurrying behind her with her medicine chest.
Harriett turned back to Julian who was still standing in the hall. She looked at him anxiously. "Thank you for allowing her to come out like this at such a late hour."
"I could not have stopped her, even had I wished to do so," Julian said. "And you know I am fond of Fanny. I want her to have the best care and I rather agree with her about the doctor. The only remedies Higgs knows are bleeding and purging."
Harriett sighed. "I fear you are right. I have never had great faith in bleeding and believe me, poor Fanny does not need any further purging. She has already experienced quite enough of that sort of treatment because of this vile ailment she had contracted. Which leaves only Sophy and her herbs."
"Sophy is very good with her herbs," Julian said reassuringly. "I can personally testify to that. I have the healthiest, most robust staff in town this season."
Harriett smiled distractedly at the small attempt at humor. "Yes, I know. Our staff is getting along very well, too, thanks to her various recommendations. And my rheumatism is much more manageable since I began using Sophy's recipe for it. Whatever would we do without her now, my lord?"
The question brought Julian up short. "I don't know," he said.
Twenty minutes later Sophy had reappeared at the top of the stairs long enough to inform everyone that she believed Fanny's distress to be caused by bad fish at dinner and that it would take hours to treat her and monitor her progress. "I will definitely be staying overnight, Julian."
Knowing there was nothing else to be done, Julian had reluctantly returned home in the carriage.
The restlessness had set in almost as soon as he had dismissed Knapton and finished preparing to climb into a lonely bed.
He was wondering if he should go down to the library to find a dull book when he remembered the black ring. Between his concern over discovering Sophy in the gardens with Waycott and Fanny's illness, Julian realized he had temporarily forgotten the damned ring.
Daregate was right. It must be gotten rid of immediately. Julian determined to remove it from Sophy's small jewelry case at once. It made him uneasy even to think about it being in her possession. She was far too likely to give into the impulse to wear it again.
Julian picked up a candle and went through the connecting door. Sophy's bedchamber seemed empty and forlorn without her. The realization brought home to him just how accustomed he was now to having her in his life. Her absence from her bed was more than enough to make him curse all sellers of bad fish. If it were not for Fanny's illness, he would even now be making love to his stubborn, gentle, passionate, honorable wife.