Hold Me Close Page 11

  “They wouldn’t say it to your face, my lady, or to any of the Grantleighs. You are too important to insult. But they find ways to let such comments slip just within my hearing. As a child, if I fell behind the family walking home from church, I could be sure some boy from one of the more genteel local families would seize the chance to fling mud at me, or try to push me into the river. And Lord knows, at Cambridge, I had to spend half my time behind the Pembroke kitchens pummeling some snot-nosed peer or other with my fists.”

  “You didn’t! Christopher never told me any of that!”

  “Christopher never saw it. And I never spoke of it to him.” He flexed his hands now, remembering the bruised and split knuckles he’d so often concealed beneath fine kid gloves—gloves he’d never have owned in the first place without the generosity of the Grantleighs. “Eventually, my reputation for winning those fights brought me some measure of peace. And in the army, at least, most men have cared less about my parentage than my skill at keeping their hides intact. But get a few drinks in them, and the more well-born officers still joke as they please.”

  “Fellow officers? They wouldn’t!”

  “They do.” He shrugged resignedly. “The simple fact, Lady Grantleigh, is that I will never truly belong in the circles in which I live.”

  Her eyes flashed with outrage. “How dare such men insult you!” she exclaimed. “You have more than proved yourself as an officer, as a hero!”

  “You yourself called me a bull.”

  Her jaw fell. “I said you were as big as one. I was speaking metaphorically!”

  “You were shocked I read poetry.”

  “Oh, that’s unfair! I merely meant you never seemed the sentimental sort, not that you were a—a barnyard animal. I swear to you, if I ever did hear anyone suggest such a thing, I’d knock them down and scratch out their eyes!”

  Her hands were balled into fists, her expression ferocious. She looked angry enough to round up the entire haut ton and give them all a sound beating for his sake.

  Oh, Lord. Slim and delicate as she was, a good-sized kitchen cat could beat her in a fight, and yet she wanted to defend him against the most powerful people in the world.

  And just like that, the wall of self-righteous indignation he’d been building up around himself for the last few minutes, perhaps the last few hours, probably for years and years before that, crumpled away to nothing.

  “Oh, Julia,” he said, drinking in the sight of her. A sudden, unaccountable bubble of mirth burst through him, and he found himself shaking with laughter. “Julia Grantleigh, you are formidable. And loyal to the core. And I swear, one day you will be the death of me.”

  She gaped at him, dumbfounded, and her fists unfurled. “Why on earth are you laughing?” she asked, a note of hurt in her voice. “And what do you mean, I will be the death of you? I was—I was trying to be supportive.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, clutching a hand to his abdomen, against the laughter rumbling there. “Yes, I know you were supporting me. Of course you were. You have always been the very best of women.”

  She still stared at him as though he’d turned lunatic.

  And perhaps he had.

  He thought he’d never seen her lovelier—standing there in the sunlight in her sweet yellow frock, the wind teasing black curls loose from her upswept hair. Her eyes still blazed, and her concern for him was vivid on her face.

  She was so utterly beautiful.

  And more than anything else he’d ever wanted before in his life, he wanted, achingly, desperately, to wrap her in his arms and kiss her again.

  He sighed. The laughter stopped dead inside him.

  Of course he wasn’t going to kiss her. He had more than enough regrets from the previous night, and honor wouldn’t allow him to draw Julia further into something that could only end in disaster for her.

  But he gave himself a moment, just a moment more, to gaze at her.

  Then he reached deep for the reins of self-discipline.

  “Come now,” he said soberly. “Let us walk on up the hill to the folly. It’s time I told you something more, and it would be best if you had a place to sit down.”

  9

  Julia felt dizzy, and it wasn’t just from the exertion of the climb.

  It was the man beside her.

  Every moment spent in his presence seemed to spin her round faster, until she could scarcely be sure her feet were touching the ground. Each time they spoke, he revealed yet another unexpected layer of himself. And the more he revealed, the deeper he worked his way into her heart.

  He’d always seemed so fierce to her, so impenetrably strong, it never occurred to her he’d once been a little boy coming home spattered in mud, or a young scholar having to defend his dignity with fistfights when men like Christopher could be happily at peace with their books.

  The very thought unleashed a fury in her that she didn’t know how to contain.

  And, dash it all, it made her want to throw her arms around him and pull him close to her breast and whisper soothing words into his thick, dark hair.

  And that…well, that led to other thoughts of what might happen if she pulled him close. Very dangerous thoughts, especially considering they were quite alone up here on the hill, where no one could see them.

  Oh, great heavens—what was she going to do about him?

  She’d meant what she told him earlier, that she still loved Christopher. She did. She couldn’t imagine she would ever stop loving her husband. And yet this man…this man…

  Was it possible—could it be possible, for one heart to open itself, to care so deeply, for two men at the very same time?

  That thought made her dizzier than ever.

  To her relief, he said nothing more to her as he led the way up through the stately elms and white-flowering rowan trees that lined the path to the folly. She hurried to keep up with his long strides, fighting to master the turmoil inside her. Whatever it was he needed to say, whatever required the distance and privacy of the woods, she owed it to him to listen with her full attention.

  At long last, they reached the little clearing where a former Earl of Grantleigh had built his own miniature, half-ruined Greek temple—three pairs of fluted Corinthian columns around an arched doorway, leading into a chapel-like space with a domed roof. Artful holes were knocked in the marble here and there to let in streams of sunlight and fresh breezes, and allow English lords and ladies to imagine they’d stumbled upon some fabled, long-lost grove of Arcady.

  On summer evenings, she and Christopher had often strolled up to sit under the arch and watch flocks of starlings fill the sky above the valley, flying in their shimmering, pulsating, twisting formations.

  They thought they’d have a lifetime to share such sights together.

  Since Christopher died, she hadn’t had the heart to come here, and her knees felt a little weak as she approached the spot. But Holsworth didn’t stop at the threshold; he ushered her through the doorway beneath the arch, into the more shadowy space inside.

  The hush of it, at least, was as soothing as it had ever been, the heavy marble shutting out the noise and worries of the rest of the world. Along the walls, graceful carved maidens in flowing Grecian gowns formed pillars lifting up the small dome, their serene faces utterly untroubled by time.

  For once, Julia envied the carvings, so certain of their place in the universe. They knew exactly where they should be, what they should do, today, tomorrow, forever.

  A restless pulse went through her and she turned—and was surprised to find Holsworth closer behind her than she expected.

  Good Lord. Did he not understand how the sheer size and strength of his body affected her? A sort of dark current seemed to urge her towards him, as though he were able to pull her close without so much as touching her with a fingertip. Perhaps he felt it, too, for his gaze locked on her eyes, and the rhythm of his breath rising and falling matched itself to hers.

  For a moment, she felt suspended, her body w
avering.

  If he kissed her again now, she wouldn’t resist. Far from it—she would give herself over completely, let him lift her in his arms, let him back her against the wall if he wanted. Sweet longing rushed through her, to have him do exactly that, to lift her skirts and urge her legs to wrap around his waist, and, oh, to push himself inside her as he had last night, so impossibly large and thick and hard, to fill her so completely, and drive her to that perfect state of ecstasy once more.

  A hot blush swept over the whole surface of her skin. What a wanton she had become.

  But Holsworth didn’t kiss her. Far from it.

  Just when she thought he might lean closer, he took a step backwards instead. His hand indicated one of the long marble benches built into the walls. “You should sit down,” he said.

  And, at that, the sensual spell was broken. Equal parts shaken and relieved, she did as she was told. Holsworth, though, remained standing, looming over her, dark and ominous as a mountain.

  And silent as one, too.

  Something in his eyes told her he was struggling with whatever it was he had to say. For heaven’s sake—what topic could possibly be more delicate, or more painful, than the conversation they’d already had this morning, with his rather surly offer of marriage should the physical consequences require it?

  Holsworth paced a few steps back and forth now, fists behind his back, his face bent in shadow. He seemed quite deliberately to be avoiding the shafts of sunlight that shot through the holes in the roof, as though he didn’t want to reveal more of himself than he absolutely had to.

  Why? What was so difficult about what he had to tell her?

  Or was he trying to keep something from her? Her pulse thrummed a little faster.

  At last, Holsworth planted his feet again, and said, “You know my return to England this time was quite sudden.”

  “Quite sudden,” she echoed.

  “I did so to attend to an urgent and complicated matter.” He paused, and swallowed audibly. “Involving one of your near neighbors.”

  She startled. “My neighbors?” The neighbors had drawn Holsworth all the way from India? “Which neighbors?”

  He fell silent again. It seemed to require some effort to bring up any further speech. “Brayles,” he said at last.

  “Brayles?” Good grief—was she going to have to repeat back each small fragment he gave her before he would grant her any more?

  Holsworth heaved a sighed. “George Brayles, specifically,” he said, and now his voice held a distinct note of distaste. “The Honorable George Cuthbert Brayles, who left Devonshire for India three years ago, bringing his unmarried sister and two young daughters with him.”

  She blinked a few times. George Brayles? The utterly unexceptional, boring George Brayles? The most interesting thing the man had ever done was to light out for foreign shores, and she’d heard nothing of note of him since. “What about George Brayles?”

  Despite the shadows obscuring Holsworth’s face, the intensity of his gaze on her was palpable. “How well would you say you know him?” he asked.

  “Moderately well, I suppose,” she said cautiously. “He’s brother to Viscount Edgerton, of course, and, before he went abroad, a frequent guest at Grantleigh Hall. But surely you knew him better than I ever could, having grown up here at Grantleigh yourself.”

  “I’d prefer to hear your more recent impressions.”

  What on earth was Holsworth up to? His expression—what she could make out of it through the gloom—was awfully grave.

  “I have very little to say about him,” she said. “I was friendly with his wife, Caroline. You wouldn’t remember her; they married while you were in India yourself. And, well—poor thing—she died soon after their second girl was born. But as for George, all I can call to mind just now is that striking auburn shade of his hair, and a rather unpleasant habit of getting cross with partners during games of whist.”

  Abruptly, Holsworth laughed. “An apt description, my lady. May I ask if you know why he came to India?”

  “To seek his fortune, I presume.” An irritable pressure was building along her temples. “He’s a fourth son who made only a modest marriage, and he has those two little daughters to support. He didn’t seem cut out for the church or army, and when Caroline died…well, I believe he was rather at loose ends for a time.”

  “He took her death hard?”

  “Why wouldn’t he? Caroline was the sweetest of souls.” Julia sighed. True, there’d been some talk among the servants that, after he lost his wife, Brayles perhaps took to drinking more heavily than was his wont, but that was nothing unreasonable for a grieving widower, and, in any case, not the sort of gossip a lady carelessly passed on. “Good heavens, Holsworth. Why on earth are you putting me through this interrogation? Did you have some dealings with George Brayles in India?”

  Holsworth paused again, then slowly nodded. “As it happens, we crossed paths in Calcutta. I will not say we socialized—he was one of the mud-slingers when we were boys in Devonshire—but I was aware of his comings and goings.”

  Her brows flew up. “Brayles threw mud at you? How dare he!”

  Holsworth waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not his boyhood behavior that concerns me. From what I saw in India…well, let us just say the Honorable George Cuthbert Brayles is not entirely honorable.”

  “Not entirely honorable?” Her hands twisted impatiently in her lap. “Please, Holsworth. I beg you to speak more plainly. Did Brayles commit some outrage against you overseas?”

  Holsworth blew out a long, hard breath and at last came to sit beside her on the bench, propping his fists on his knees.

  His sudden nearness sent a fresh wave of unsettling feeling through her. His body seemed at once alien and all-too-familiar. A bright stream of sunlight fell upon him now through a hole in the ceiling just above them, but it somehow only made his hair seem more black, the set of his face more fierce and immobile.

  He turned towards her, regarding her somberly, and the impact of his gaze at such close quarters sent a shiver through her.

  “Very well, Lady Grantleigh,” he said. “I shall speak plainly indeed. Brayles, I fear, is a thoroughly black-hearted villain.”

  “A what?”

  To Julia’s surprise, Holsworth reached his hand toward hers as if about to clasp her fingers, but it stilled in the air at the last moment, then retreated again. “A villain,” he repeated sternly. “And it’s not his behavior toward me that I’m concerned with. Instead, I believe he may pose a particular danger to you.”

  Now her mouth fell open in surprise. “A danger to me? George Brayles? Good Lord, the only harm he’s ever done me is trampling on my slipper in the midst of a yuletide ball. He might do damage to a leg of mutton, but never to me!”

  “Hear me out,” said Holsworth, and the fingers that had so nearly touched hers began drumming out an urgent rhythm against the top of his leg. “I suspect Brayles came to India not so much to improve his fortune as to save himself from very dire straits indeed.”

  “What do you mean? What sort of dire straits?”

  “Financial ones,” said Holsworth. “He and daughters and the unmarried sister who accompanied them arrived in an oddly shabby state for close relations to a viscount.”

  The pressure at her temples was growing painful, beating along with her pulse. “Oh, don’t be absurd. Lord Edgerton is a generous man, and has always cared very well for his relatives.”

  “I tell you, it did not look it, not for George. His clothes, and those of his daughters and sister, were at least a season out of date, and the only ornament worn by any of them was a ruby heirloom ring Brayles wore on his little finger.”

  Julia frowned. That detail was one small anchor in what seemed to be an ocean of odd claims. “Yes, I know that ring—he often boasted how it passed down through his forefathers from the time of Queen Elizabeth.”

  “Precisely.” Holsworth’s fingers were drumming still, drumming relentlessly, as t
hough some unaccountable anger were building in force within him.

  Their motion made Julia oddly self-conscious of her own fingers, and she balled them tightly to keep them from twitching.

  “I tell you, my lady,” Holsworth said, “George Brayles must have fallen out of his brother’s favor somehow before he left England. Are you sure you heard nothing of the sort?”

  Goodness, Holsworth was behaving as though his concerns were very serious indeed. If Christopher were here now, what would Christopher tell him?

  Christopher trusted Holsworth. Christopher would have me say something.

  “Well,” she said tentatively. “One hears things. After Caroline passed, George was perhaps not quite as moderate as he should have been in—in drink.” Embarrassment heated her throat. “But—but he’d just suffered a great loss, and I suppose one must allowances.”

  The lines of Holsworth’s face grew even more severe. “Perhaps his brother the viscount did not make allowances. Edgerton was a military man before he inherited the title, you know. He puts great stock in honor, and has been known to be quite strict.”

  “Well, yes. But…what of that? You must spell this out more clearly for me. You believe Brayles was in financial difficulties when he arrived in India? And this concerns me somehow?”

  Holsworth nodded. “I kept an eye out for him in Calcutta, for his family’s sake, if not for his. It soon became quite clear he had no skill at insinuating himself into profitable business ventures. His clothing only became shabbier, and, far worse, he began frequenting certain less than savory establishments the soldiers enjoy for strong drink and gambling—hoping, I assume, to rebuild his fortunes at the gaming tables.”

  “And?”

  “And one day the ruby ring was gone from his finger.”

  She blinked. Now that was a telling detail—Brayles had truly treasured that ring. “Gambled away?”

  Holsworth nodded. “He was no better a card sharp than he was a businessman, I’m afraid. And no doubt he was frantic at the loss—that ring was his family pride and joy. I have connections of my own in Calcutta, and I set out to see if I might intercede on his behalf, again for the sake of his family. I have always respected Edgerton, and hated to see his family’s honor sullied. It wasn’t hard to get the story, or to discover ledgers at multiple establishments recording the tremendous debts George Brayles had racked up all over town, drawing on the credit of his brother’s good name.”