Hold Me Close Read online

  “What?”

  “Brayles approached me one day in Calcutta, not long ago. He told me he’d received a letter from the earl. It seems Christopher’s good conscience required him to inform Brayles that I’d seen the record of his debts, that I’d brought them with me to Grantleigh Hall. You know how honest Chris was, how noble. He felt Brayles had a right to know how his behavior was being perceived. Being misperceived, as Christopher understood the situation. He wanted to be sure Brayles kept to the straight and narrow from then on.” Holsworth shook his head. “And now I fear that letter might get you killed. Brayles is coming for the ledgers. I know he is.”

  Julia stared at Holsworth long and hard, trying to read his expression. But where he stood, a beam of sunlight just past his shoulders threw the bulk of his body into silhouette. His face, turned halfway toward her, was cast in harsh relief, part blindingly bright, part in deep shadow. He might as well have been one of the marble carvings.

  A wave of exhaustion washed over her. She wanted to go back, to turn everything back, to last night when he was so warm and tender with her, when his eyes had seemed kind and his motives clear.

  “This is madness, Holsworth,” she said. “I cannot let you go on like this.”

  “You cannot ask me to leave. Not now. Brayles and his family disappeared from India just before I did. No one seems to know where they were heading, only that they were gone.”

  “What of that? They might be going anywhere.”

  “He’s coming here.” Holsworth’s voice was dark, and so certain.

  Her confidence wavered.

  “I’m telling you, Julia,” he said. “I feel it in my gut. The Peshwa’s kingdom is falling apart, and the rats are rushing out from the woodwork, eager to sell whatever scraps of information they can. Brayles is afraid of being exposed, and he’s coming here.”

  She shook her head desperately. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this, Holsworth. You’re angry at this man and men like him, resentful of the way you were treated as a boy. It was unfair and horrible of them, but that does not make Brayles a traitor and—and a would-be murderer now.”

  Holsworth’s hands sliced the air in what looked like severe frustration. “Forget the way I was treated as a boy! Bloody hell, Julia, I’m not doing this because of Brayles, or Christopher, or any other man!”

  “Then why?”

  Holsworth went very still, the only part of him in motion the harsh rise and fall of his chest as his breath roared from his lungs. He closed his eyes as if in agonizing pain. “I’m doing it because…because…”

  “Why?”

  “Good God, Julia, don’t you understand?” He sounded utterly miserable. “Isn’t it obvious yet?”

  “Nothing about this is obvious.”

  “Damn it all, Julia! I’m doing it—I’m doing it because I love you.”

  The world reeled around her. “What?”

  “I love you. I have always loved you.”

  Always? She waited, paralyzed, willing his words to resolve themselves into some other, different form, some other meaning than the one she had just heard. “You can’t mean that.”

  “I do mean it.” All the furious tension seemed to drain from his body now—his fists uncurled, his shoulders slumped. “I never said a word about it because—because you belonged to Chris. You loved him, and it was clear you were the center of his world. I wouldn’t have tried to come between you.”

  She shook her head disbelievingly. “You couldn’t have come between us.”

  “I don’t deny that.”

  “I don’t understand this—you loved me when I was married? While I was Christopher’s wife?”

  “I loved you before you were married,” he said, his voice bleak. “From the first time I laid eyes on you.” Astonishingly, he took a step closer, not crowding her this time, but stepping forward just enough to allow him to reach out his arm and run a finger across the rim of her bracelet. “And you never would have known, Julia, if it weren’t for this—this damnable troublemaker around your wrist.”

  Then he swung away, and turned his back on her, becoming a dark shadow once more.

  Dear God, how could she ever have felt numb in her life—waves of pain and shock coursed through her now, so strong and relentless she felt they might tear her open. All the edges of her world were fraying, unraveling at once.

  And she was the one who’d let it happen, who’d made the first tear in the fabric last night, when she’d kissed Holsworth. When she’d given in to the weakness of her body.

  That had been her fault.

  That had been her mistake.

  She gripped the edge of the bracelet with the fingers of her other hand and gave a ferocious tug, wishing she’d never slid it on her wrist, never found the thing.

  “Well,” she said bitterly to the man standing before her, “You’ve had me now, haven’t you?”

  And then another horrible thought struck her. “Oh, sweet heaven, you knew about the poetry,” she said. “About Bharati’s poetry. You helped Eleanor with the translations. She must have told you the tale. Did you—did you know about the bracelet as well? Did you put it in my room, knowing I’d hear that story? Did you think me such a sentimental fool that I’d swallow that fable whole and let it delude me into falling in love with you?”

  “What?” He whirled back to face her now, his face incredulous. “No—I was out on campaign when Eleanor and Mr. Maji met. They were married and on their honeymoon before I returned to the city. I never saw that bracelet...never heard a word about it until you did. I have no idea how the blasted thing got into your room.”

  Could she believe him, or not? Could she even trust her own senses at this point? Everything was jumbled, scattered, broken into pieces. “I think you should leave now, Holsworth. I think you should leave and never see me again.”

  His fists tightened again. “Oh, God, Julia. Is it so unforgivable, that I should love you?”

  “Of course it’s unforgivable!” she cried, and she knew the accusation had to be directed against herself as well as him, after what she’d done with him last night. “I was Christopher’s wife. He might as well have been your brother.”

  “Julia, please. Hate me if you like, but don’t ask me to leave. Not now. Brayles will—”

  She shook her head frantically. “I don’t care. I don’t care if he’s a villain. I don’t care if he’s coming. You have no right—no right to protect me. I am the Countess of Grantleigh, and I will take care of myself.”

  Holsworth took one step forward, his eyes locking on hers.

  He didn’t speak, he just stared at her for a long moment, an excruciating moment, and in that space of time, she felt the pull of him again, felt that weakening deep within her, a mad impulse that said she shouldn’t shouldn’t shouldn’t send him away, that if she had any sense at all, she would throw her arms around him and cling tight and beg him not to leave her.

  It would be so easy—easy as falling from the top of a staircase after a single, soft push.

  But she wrenched herself backward, remembering who and what she was.

  “Go,” she said. “Just go.”

  Holsworth stood fast, his eyes still boring into hers, so black and fathomless and unyielding. “I’m sorry, Julia. I can’t do that.”

  “Then I will go,” she said, taking a step towards the archway. “And if you try to block my path, I will scream. I’ll scream so loud, they’ll hear me down in the valley.”

  He didn’t move.

  So she darted past him and ran as fast as she could down the hill, trying not to remember her last sight of him, and the agony she saw in his eyes.

  10

  Julia rushed through the servants’ entrance and up the back stairway so she wouldn’t have to speak to anyone. When she reached her chamber, she shoved the door shut behind her and collapsed at the foot of her bed, without strength even to lift the covers and crawl inside.

  Anger and guilt twisted and curled inside
her, burning and icy all at once—she felt betrayed, and also somehow that she’d committed a horrific betrayal, and she couldn’t sort out who was to blame.

  So she lay there, curled in a ball, gripping her knees against her chest, while the beams of the afternoon sun made their full, slow circuit across the length of the room, deepening into the heavy gold of end of day, and finally into the purple of evening.

  As the sunlight vanished, the wind blew up, rough and raucous, bringing a pattering of rain against the windows, which slowly strengthened into a heavy shower. And then it poured, the rain rattling the windows and thundering on the roof. The path to the folly would be turning to mud now, and water would be sluicing over the folly itself, chilling the marble, washing it clean. Julia shivered.

  She stayed where she was, unable to will her muscles to function, until eventually the rain ended, too, and the world was quiet and dark again.

  How much time had passed since she’d come up here? How many hours?

  Was Holsworth gone from Grantleigh Hall by now?

  She didn’t hear him come, or go, but he wouldn’t really have dared to stay, would he? Not after that awful scene up on the hill. Not after she’d told him he must go. Surely he’d left without her hearing, under cover of the storm.

  She closed her eyes, burrowed her face into the softness of her bedcoverings.

  Just when she thought she might actually drift off into sleep, though, a quiet tapping sounded at her door. A jolt went through her—he wasn’t still here, was he? He wasn’t going to try to talk to her again?

  But the voice she heard through the door was a woman’s. “Julia?” It was Eleanor. “Julia, please, may I come in?”

  It was almost too exhausting to sit up and take the few steps to the door. But she could hardly leave an elderly woman standing out there in the hall.

  Eleanor’s face, lit by the candle she was carrying, was etched with compassion and worry. “What on earth is going on, child? You’ve been holed up here forever. Everyone else has had their supper and gone to bed.” Not stopping to ask permission, Eleanor bustled about, finding the oil lamp on the side table by the door and using her own candle to light it.

  “In-including Major Holsworth?”

  “No, dear. I have not seen Holsworth since this morning, but his valet came in mid-morning to pack his bags and go, without a word of explanation to anyone.” Her tone suggested a question, but she did not ask it outright.

  Julia walked numbly back to stand beside her bed. “Back to India, I suppose.”

  “India? No, he’s not returning there.” Julia must have looked shocked, because Eleanor hurried to add, “Didn’t he tell you? He gave word to the General before he left that he plans to resign his commission. He’s come home to Devonshire for good.”

  Julia’s limbs instantly froze. “He what?”

  “He’s already made arrangements to purchase Clement House—that lovely place along the river Lord Barrow’s wanted to sell for a decade now.”

  “But that’s—scarcely five miles from here!” Her pulse went thready, and she had to sink down onto the edge of her bed before she slumped to the floor. It hadn’t occurred to her that Holsworth hadn’t planned to return to India.

  Good Lord—he’d known they were going to be neighbors when he went into the hothouse room with her last night, when he’d allowed her to seduce him. He’d known they’d see a great deal of one another from here on in, that they couldn’t possibly avoid it in the very small society of the local families.

  I’ve always loved you, Julia.

  Her vision faded to near black—she didn’t realize Eleanor had moved until she felt the mattress dip beside her, and Eleanor’s arm slip comfortingly around her waist.

  “What is it, dear?” said the older woman kindly. “Does that news upset you?”

  Julia caught her breath. It would do no one any good for Eleanor to realize just how upset she truly was, or why. “It—it surprises me, Aunt,” she said. “How could Holsworth possibly afford to purchase such a place?”

  “He’s become a wealthy man, child, in his own right. He’s won a great deal of prize money in the wars—and rich rewards from Indian princes and nobles grateful for defense against Pindari raids. Besides, he will almost surely have a knighthood at the very least before the year is out, if not a better title than that. He needs a proper English home.”

  He will live in Devon again. He will be near me.

  Her heartbeat throbbed in her throat, down the length of her arms and legs, and up through the curve of her skull. Her body was traitorous, warming despite everything at the thought of Holsworth’s nearness, remembering the solid weight of him against her flesh. But that can never be. That can never be again.

  Julia squeezed shut her eyes, trying to regain her composure. “Well, I suppose he will be happy,” she said, forcing the words, “back in the part of the world where he was born.”

  “Oh, please! Don’t give me platitudes, girl!” Eleanor made a harrumphing noise. “You certainly don’t have to be polite with me. Something happened, didn’t it, between the two of you, when you went walking today? Marcus had all his belongings rushed out of Grantleigh Hall without so much as a fare-thee-well to any of the family, and you’ve been locked up here ever since, looking as pale as your sheets. Did the two of you…argue?”

  Julia’s throat closed. Awful tears were rising, and she fought them down as best she could. “You might say that.”

  “For pity’s sake, Julia. What about?”

  She couldn’t bear to hold it all in anymore. If anyone could see the full complexities of the situation, it was Aunt Eleanor. And Eleanor, at least, would not be likely to pass judgment on anyone else’s behavior. Julia lifted her chin and looked Eleanor square in the eye. “Have you had much contact with George Brayles in India?”

  “Ah,” said Eleanor, with a knowing look. “Marcus told you of his suspicions.”

  “Then he must have told you, too.” Her breathing quickened. “Do you—do you think Brayles could have…turned against king and country?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know, dear. George Brayles always seemed a rather spineless sort to me. But a traitor? That’s harder to say. I had almost no contact with him in Calcutta.”

  “No?” Julia’s heart fell.

  “I had a visit or two from his sister when she first arrived, but she was none too keen to visit again when she learned I spent time in the library of Mr. Maji’s aunt. Consorting with the natives, as her sort would say. Once Miss Brayles learns of my marriage, I’ve no doubt she’ll give me the cut direct should we ever meet again. I don’t consider it a loss, frankly. I’d just as soon not have to listen to her natter on about the latest Devonshire gossip from her sister-in-law’s letters.” Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Dreadful boring stuff.”

  “But Mr. Brayles?”

  “As much a snob as the sister, I’m sure. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. Englishmen get up to strange entanglements in India, that’s all I can say—things they wouldn’t necessarily do at home. And Marcus has a keen eye for all the goings-on. He’s a hard man to fool.”

  Julia’s hands twisted anxiously in the fabric of her skirts. What if she’d been wrong? What if Holsworth judged George Brayles rightly, and Christopher was wrong, and everything Holsworth said about the man was true?

  She swallowed hard. Could it be possible? She’d been so upset when he suggested the idea to her, so horribly shocked, she’d just wanted to make the whole business go away. Her brain ached now, as though several pairs of hands had plunged inside and were squeezing hard, pulling in different directions.

  She turned to Eleanor more urgently. “And those other Englishmen?” she asked. “What is their opinion of Major Holsworth?”

  “Oh, now that’s a complicated question, to be sure. His enlisted men would die for him, without a doubt. He’s more than earned their loyalty. All men of intelligence respect him greatly, both British and Indian. Unfortunately, not all British o
fficers fall into the category of men of intelligence. A few treated him quite badly.”

  “And he resented that?”

  “Who wouldn’t resent that? To be so very capable, and to be questioned and harassed by men of far less talent? I’d have chewed through my sword-belt in frustration. If you ask me, Marcus has always shown far more patience and forbearance than any man should be asked to muster.”

  Patience and forbearance? Or just the opposite, in the end?

  “Oh, I don’t know what to believe.” Julia’s voice broke, and her tears rose so fast, there was no stopping them from spilling onto her cheeks.

  “Julia!” cried Eleanor in surprise, turning to embrace her. “Oh, poor child!” She pulled Julia close, her gardenia powder a soft cloud of comfort, and patted her back with a surprising degree of motherly warmth. “Poor dear. My poor, darling girl. This isn’t just about Brayles, is it?”

  Julia dug in her pocket for a handkerchief, and dabbed it across her face. “Yes, it is,” she said, sniffling. “It’s all about Brayles.”

  “No, dear. I mean, Marcus told you, didn’t he? He’s let you know at last.”

  “Told me what?”

  Gently, Eleanor set Julia a bit more upright so she could look her in the eye again. One hand stroked a loosened lock of Julia’s hair back behind her ear. The other squeezed Julia’s hands in what felt like encouragement. “He told you about his feelings for you. Didn’t he?”

  Julia’s handkerchief dropped from numb fingers. “He—his feelings? Good Lord, he told you about that?” Hot embarrassment steamed its way from the top of her head down to her knees. This was Christopher’s aunt sitting here, apparently well aware of Holsworth’s desires. And also maybe…but, no, surely he hadn’t told Lady Eleanor what happened in the hothouse room. Even Holsworth had more self-control than that.

  “Oh, no darling,” said Eleanor. “He never said a word. But I’ve known him a very long time, since he was a boy. He may conceal his more tender feelings from most people, but he can’t hide them from me. I watched him at your wedding, and back in India, whenever I read aloud the letters you sent me, I watched his face. He was happy for Christopher, I know he was, and he respected the bond between you. He wouldn’t have let you know of his feelings for all the world, not while Chris was alive. But he yearned for you, always.”