Hold Me Close Read online

  She scarcely knew how to name what had happened. Lovemaking with Christopher had always been joyous, so full of sweetness. But last night—that was something else, something more primal, more vigorous, more desperate than what she’d known in the marriage bed. Her muscles trembled even now as she remembered the sheer force of the sensations that had swept through her.

  What kind of woman was she to have responded as she did?

  And where had that side of Holsworth come from?

  Peggy tugged her sleeve to rights again. “Oh, but you mustn’t feel odd, ma’am,” the maid said breezily. “His lordship would be so pleased to see you like this. He always said how pretty you looked in yellow.”

  Julia’s heart gave a painful twist. “Thank you, Peggy,” she managed to say. Lord knows, Christopher did always say she looked pretty in yellow. He said she looked pretty in any color. He’d been as adoring of her in the sixth year of their marriage as he’d been on their wedding night.

  Oh, Christopher.

  Of course, she’d always adored him, truly, in return. She loved him still, and always would. What happened last night didn’t change that, couldn’t detract from it.

  She did not love Marcus Holsworth. She knew she didn’t.

  Marcus, she thought again, despite her better judgment, the unfamiliar name taking on a new shape and solidity, sending strange tendrils of feeling through her chest.

  What was she supposed to think about him? He really had been so…different last night. Passionate, yes. But also kind, and gentle, and full of understanding. Solid as a rock for her, keeping her from sliding over the edge of a dangerous despair.

  And she couldn’t deny that, in his arms, for a few moments at least, she’d felt part of him, merged with him, as he’d made her icy loneliness melt in the heat of pleasure and desire.

  It was all so damnably confusing.

  The inside of her nose began to tingle, along with the pressure of impending tears.

  But, no. She wasn’t a child, and she wasn’t going to cry. Certainly, she’d bring no honor to Christopher’s memory if she gave in to hysterics and made last night’s mad, impulsive act a matter of public knowledge.

  She squared her shoulders as Peggy finished with her laces and tied a bow in the spring-green ribbon around her waist. Julia had never been the sort to wallow in regret. If regret was even what she felt about what happened in the hothouse room. She honestly didn’t know.

  Holsworth, she reminded herself. That was his name, not Marcus. She needed to think of him only as Holsworth again, as her husband’s gruff, unapproachable, cold-minded friend.

  That was all he was ever meant to be to her. All he could ever reasonably be.

  Instinctively, her right hand closed around the bracelet that still hung on her left wrist. She sought out the little pin with her fingertip, pressed down as she had when she finally fell into her bed last night, but the clasp held as stubbornly fast as ever.

  What if she had never slipped it on in the first place?

  None of this would have happened. Even if she and Holsworth had collided in the conservatory, they’d simply have apologized to one another and gone back to the ballroom. Danced one civil dance for Aunt Margaret’s sake and then ignored one another, just as she’d originally intended.

  And I’d still be floating in that cold, gray, numbing fog …

  She heaved a deep, bracing breath. Well, there was nothing to do for it this morning but to put one foot in front of the other and proceed with her life. Keep breathing, that was what he’d said.

  In all likelihood, Holsworth had done the reasonable thing by now and hurried back to London. That was how gentlemen handled themselves after indiscretions with worldly widows, so she understood from the gossip of her friends. Well, Holsworth might not truly be a gentleman, but he was certainly a man of the world who understood such matters. And she was no green girl who would need apologies, or coddling, or hasty, reckless vows.

  Perhaps he’d head right back to India, even. Perhaps they’d never see one another again.

  Her stomach plummeted a little at the thought.

  But as she took the stairs down to the breakfast room, she felt almost steady again. If only she’d been able to take the bracelet off, she’d have felt quite in command of herself—but the gold circlet skimmed against the bannister with a light humming noise, like a whispering voice, reminding her how it had pinned her wrist to Holsworth’s chest, how her fingers had brushed his jaw. How her arms had wrapped around his back, and clung to him so hard.

  Oh, its gleam in the morning sunlight recalled its shimmer in the lamp-light as she buried her hands in Holsworth’s hair while he thrust inside her. Reminded her how, even when she’d squeezed shut her eyes at the end, the stunning pleasure that tore through her had seemed like waves of light rippling, a sunburst of the very same golden brightness as the bracelet itself.

  She had to stop on the stairs now, close her eyes, grip the bracelet tight with her free hand again as though that would be enough to shut out the remembered sensations. It felt warm beneath her palm. Her blood, too, began to heat and hum, and she almost thought she caught the scent of Holsworth’s body in the air. Marcus’s body.

  Dear heaven.

  She really needed to get herself back under control.

  Her thumb jabbed once more against the bracelet’s tiny gold pin. The clasp had better open soon, or she’d have to send one of the footmen to fetch a saw.

  There. That thought brought her self-possession back.

  She took hold of the bannister again, straightened her spine, and descended the rest of the way like a queen.

  But the moment she opened the breakfast room door, she saw how wrong she’d been to assume Holsworth would behave as most Society gentlemen would do: he was sitting right there at the Grantleigh breakfast table, next to Aunt Margaret, the two of them chatting over a spread newspaper.

  Julia’s heart nearly stopped. A sound forced its way out of her mouth that was somewhere between a sob and a squeak. The strength drained from her legs, and for a moment, she thought she might actually pitch forward onto the carpet.

  As Holsworth noticed her in the doorway, gripping the doorjamb for support, he flinched, but he turned the action adroitly into rising to his feet to acknowledge her. His eyes flashed a meaningful look—an apology, perhaps? An unspoken plea to act as though everything were normal?

  Aunt Margaret seemed oblivious to the tension in the air, smiling at Julia and beckoning her to take the closest chair. “Julia, darling,” she said, in her usual good-natured way. “Can you believe Major Holsworth arranged a room for last night at the Boar’s Head Inn? He tried to go there after the dancing ended, but of course I forbade it, and sent his valet to retrieve his luggage.” She laid her age-spotted hand on top of Holsworth’s, patting it as though he were still a small boy. “Grantleigh Hall is his proper home, after all, and he shall sleep in his own bed so long as he is in Devonshire.”

  Sweet heaven. Of course Aunt Margaret felt that way.

  And of course Holsworth couldn’t refuse if she pressed him to stay. He could hardly tell Christopher’s elderly auntie he couldn’t spend the night at Grantleigh Hall because he’d just enjoyed extensive Biblical knowledge of her niece-by-marriage in the hothouse room.

  So, as she crossed the breakfast room, Julia managed a smile of her own. “You were quite right to do so, Aunt,” she said. “Christopher surely would have had it no other way.” The words caught in her throat, wedged down by a sudden knot of guilt.

  Holsworth looked up at her again for a moment, and this time she was quite sure she saw anguish in his eyes. At least he recognized the extreme awkwardness of their position.

  But—oh, Lord—there was a part of her that wanted, even now, to pull him with her back to that secret little room, and resume the very…position they’d been in on the divan.

  Her cheeks burned.

  What sort of wanton had she suddenly turned into?

  Hols
worth cleared his throat abruptly. “May I fix a plate for you, Lady Grantleigh? The—the bacon is quite excellent.”

  “Yes, thank you,” she answered as she hurriedly took a seat beside Aunt Margaret. Anything to have you move to the other side of the room for a moment, so I won’t catch the scent of your cologne again. Or start remembering being held against the extraordinary breadth of your chest.

  It didn’t matter what foods he chose for her. Her appetite had quite disappeared, anyway.

  As Holsworth went to the buffet, Aunt Margaret leaned in conspiratorially, clasping Julia by the elbow. “Dear Marcus was keeping secrets from us last night,” she whispered, though loud enough that the major could no doubt hear her clearly.

  Julia’s shoulders stiffened. “Secrets?”

  “Wonderful secrets!” Aunt Margaret exclaimed, even louder now, her voice vibrating with happiness. “And so unexpected! Such a naughty boy not to tell us directly!”

  Naughty boy? Oh, he knew how to be naughty, that was for certain. But surely that wasn’t what Aunt Margaret was referring to.

  The old lady clapped her hands together, and joyously exclaimed, “Oh, now that I know, I can’t hold my tongue! Can you imagine, Julia? There’s been a wedding!”

  The blood drained from Julia’s face. A wedding?

  Good God—was Holsworth married?

  Had she done what she’d done last night with a married man?

  A wave of nausea swept through her. She might be able to forgive herself for losing control last night, but not if the man she was with was sworn to another living woman.

  Would Holsworth do that? Betray his vows to a lady to whom he was wed? Was he really, after all, so uncivilized?

  Holsworth’s body had gone very still, the plate of food he’d been filling suspended in midair.

  “Major Holsworth,” Julia managed to say, her voice trembling only slightly. “Can it be that I owe you congratulations?”

  “Holsworth?” exclaimed Aunt Margaret. “No, dear, not him. It’s far more startling than that!” She turned her head to the foyer, where footsteps were approaching. “Oh, I believe you are about to see for yourself!”

  Before the sensation of relief had time to sweep its way through Julia’s body, the breakfast room door opened, and a stout, gray-haired woman stepped in.

  In looks, she was virtually the double of Aunt Margaret, though slightly older, and wearing a voluminous sash of gold-embroidered sheer red silk over her white dress, draped across one shoulder and gathered about her hips in the Indian style.

  Great heavens—with everything that had happened afterward, Julia had forgotten the news Holsworth told her last night. “Aunt Eleanor,” she cried, leaping to her feet and hurrying forward, throwing her arms out for an embrace. “Aunt Eleanor! It is you!”

  With a warm laugh, the older woman wrapped Julia in a tight hug, and kissed her soundly on both cheeks. The good familiar scent of the gardenia powder both sisters habitually dusted over their shoulders filled Julia’s nose.

  “Let me get a look at you!” Aunt Eleanor said, and drew back slightly to begin her scrutiny. “Oh, my! You’re lovelier than ever! I was so worried when I was home for the state funeral—you looked pale enough then to be at death’s door yourself. But now! I don’t know what Margaret was complaining of in her letters—you have roses galore in your cheeks!”

  Julia felt herself blush all the more deeply at that. She didn’t really want to consider what exactly had put those roses there.

  “It was the ball last night!” interjected Aunt Margaret. “I told you, Julia, that giving up your widow’s weeds and joining society again would do you a world of good.”

  Now Eleanor’s blue eyes sparkled with rising tears, though the smile didn’t leave her face. “That’s just as Christopher would want it, you know. His Julia healthy and happy again, and embracing whatever life has in store for her.”

  Embracing . . .oh, good Lord. Did she really have to choose that exact word, just now?

  Julia couldn’t help glancing over at Holsworth. He was turned toward Eleanor, a look of composed politeness on his face. The plate of food he held, though, was tipping at a rather alarming angle, with a mound of coddled eggs about to slide over onto the floor.

  “Oh, Marcus!” cried Eleanor, noticing the impending disaster as well. “Be careful, dearest! You’re about to lose your breakfast!”

  He blinked down at the plate in sudden awareness, and hurriedly reached right over the table to deposit it between Julia’s knife and fork. “It’s Lady Grantleigh’s breakfast, actually,” he said, too hastily to be convincingly cavalier about the matter.

  Dash it all. His nerves were as plain as the nose on his face. Eleanor was a notoriously clever woman, and it wouldn’t do to give her clues that the relationship between Christopher’s widow and Christopher’s best friend involved anything a gentleman ought to be nervous about.

  But Eleanor only beamed at the major just as adoringly as Margaret tended to do. “Well, that’s perfect! There’s no one better, Julia, to take care of you than our wonderful Marcus,” she said. “He’s the very most capable of men.” She grinned impishly. “This morning’s plate handling excepted, perhaps.”

  “Beg pardon, Lady Eleanor,” he answered, with a slight bow. “I was distracted, as always, by your beauty.”

  Eleanor and Margaret erupted in identical hooting bursts of laughter. “Oh, yes!” said Eleanor, gripping Holsworth affectionately by the elbow. “And he’s good for turning a woman’s head with compliments, as well!”

  Turning a woman’s head. Yes, he was certainly good at that. And he had considerable talents with a woman’s other body parts as well.

  Oh, dear. The topic of conversation really needed to change.

  And then she remembered—a wedding.

  If it wasn’t Marcus who had gotten married, then…

  Before Julia could ask the question, another set of footsteps echoed in the foyer hallway. And she was quite startled to see the man who entered—a man of about Eleanor’s age, dressed in the tailored clothes of an English gentleman, but clearly not of English origin himself.

  He was little taller than Eleanor, with a similar shade of silver hair, but his skin was a rich copper-brown shade, and his eyes, behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, were the deepest black.

  “Julia, dear,” said Aunt Eleanor, wrapping an arm around Julia’s waist. “Allow me to present Mr. Kalyan Maji, my husband.” She extended her other hand to the gentleman who had just entered, and linked her fingers with his. “Meri jaan,” she said to him, “this is Lady Grantleigh, the wife—the widow—of my dearest nephew, Christopher.”

  Good gracious. The man was Indian.

  Well, Eleanor had never lived her life by the rules other English gentlewomen considered themselves bound by. She’d refused to marry at all, for one thing, for so many years. But now, apparently, she’d chosen to make a marriage that would cause most English nobles to shun her completely.

  For a moment, Julia was too surprised to do anything but stare.

  The gentleman stepped forward, giving Julia a tentative smile. His eyes were kindly, but had same sort of piercing intelligence Eleanor’s always had. “It’s quite all right to be unsure what to do about me,” he said, in a low voice with a rich, musical lilt. “I believe you English would say a marriage such as this is not at all the thing. You can understand why, when we realized the household was entertaining the neighbors last night, we chose to enter quietly, and wait to reveal ourselves until the family was alone.”

  “Oh,” said Julia, feeling herself begin to blush. “Well, I—” So much for knowing what to say on any occasion—none of her careful social training was of any use at all just now.

  “Don’t worry,” said Eleanor, giving Julia a squeeze. “If it makes you feel any better, when I was first presented to Mr. Maji’s mother and grandmother, they were so horrified he hadn’t chosen a proper Hindu bride, they vowed to starve themselves until he changed his min
d about marrying me.”

  Mr. Maji grinned ruefully. “That vow lasted less than a fortnight. Last I saw them, they were stuffing themselves happily enough with a platter of lamb curry and figs, and seemed satisfied with merely ignoring my presence in the room. Until they needed me to pass the sugar bowl, at any rate—and then they were careful to be extremely rude about it.”

  Oh, dear. And now she was being terribly rude. “Forgive me,” Julia said. “You caught me by surprise, that’s all. Of course, Mr. Maji, you are very welcome to Grantleigh Hall. Congratulations on your marriage.” She scrambled through her memories for the word Christopher had taught her, the lovely greeting that was meant to honor the spirit of the person one was speaking to. Ah, yes, she remembered. “Namaste.”

  Mr. Maji smiled again, with a look of great warmth this time. He pressed his palms together at the center of his chest and bowed. “Namaste,” he said.

  “There,” said Eleanor with satisfaction, patting Julia’s back. “I knew you would prove more open-hearted than the typical British lady. As for those who won’t accept us, either here or in India, neither my husband nor I care a whit for Society. You know I’ve a lifetime’s experience ignoring the world’s opinion. And Mr. Maji and I are quite content in our lovely Calcutta bungalow, with a garden full of jasmine and the freedom of our library.”

  “Well,” said Margaret, coming up beside her sister. “I say it is simply wonderful. Imagine finding love at Eleanor’s age!”

  “What has age to do with it?” asked Mr. Maji graciously, bowing now towards his wife. “A lady like my wife is young as springtime, always.”

  Christopher’s aunts both laughed again, delightedly.

  “Goodness, Mr. Maji,” said Margaret. “You’ll give Major Holsworth a run for his money in the compliments department. That was wonderfully poetic!”

  Holsworth had been standing off to the side quietly while the introductions were being made, but he came forward now, inclining his head towards Eleanor’s new husband. “You should know, Lady Lambert, Lady Grantleigh,” he said, “that Mr. Maji is a much-renowned scholar of classical Indian poetry. From a great family of renowned scholars.”