Chapter 1
For a bachelor, there is no more dangerous person in the
world than a happily married woman.
To such a female, an unattached man of position and
property is a rough stone sticking out of life's wall. The
more blissful her own union, the more convinced she
becomes that the bachelor stone wants smoothing. She is
sure it would be a much happier stone if it were as neatly
chiseled and mortared as her husband.
So it was that Julian Hampton found himself seated beside
the talkative widow, Mrs. Morrison, when he attended the
Viscountess Laclere's banquet.
He made no special note of the way the viscountess watched
the progress of their conversation, but he did not miss it
either.
"Your occupation must be fascinating, Mr. Hampton," the
comely widow said, when her very detailed description of
her summer holiday in Brighton waned.
"Being a solicitor is very dull employment, in reality."
Actually it wasn't, but the Mrs. Morrisons of the world
would never understand why.
She laughed and her eyes sparkled. She turned so that her
glowing face was fully visible. "I cannot believe that
anything you occupy yourself with is dull, Mr. Hampton."
"I assure you that I am a thoroughly unremarkable man. I
bore myself so much that I can barely stay awake."
"Well, you do not bore me," she said with a meaningful
smile.
He speculated on why the viscountess had chosen to throw
at him this golden-haired young lady of little wit,
submissive grace, and dull loquaciousness. Since he had
not pursued the more compelling women trotted out thus
far, the viscountess and her friends had probably
concluded he did not want interestingcompanionship in his
home.
Since Lady Laclere had opened her circle to a woman she
probably did not overly favor, and just for his benefit,
he dutifully gave Mrs. Morrison serious consideration. She
was more than attractive enough, and he suspected she
would be pleasant to have in bed. She had a respectable
fortune, and lovely breasts partly revealed by her
decollete. Her manner indicated that she would be the sort
of earnestly accommodating wife whom men were supposed to
want. She would be a perfect prospect for a man seeking to
secure domestic tranquility.
Regretfully, he was not such a man.
He lobbed a question about her young son. She took up the
topic with the enthusiasm any good mother would show.
While most of his mind listened to tales of the boy's
antics and brilliance, a renegade corner of it composed a
letter to the Viscountess Laclere.
My dear Lady Laclere,
I greatly appreciate the concern that you show for my
future happiness. The parade of eligible females whom you
have arranged for me to inspect these last few months has
been impressive in its variety. I am touched, nay, I am
moved, by your thoughtfulness. I must regretfully inform
you, however, that your quest is in vain, as is that of
the Duchess of Everdon, and the more subtle efforts of
Mrs. St. John. I will not marry. Therefore, I respectfully
request to be released from the social yoke that you have
placed on me.
Your servant--
"My, she can certainly converse with the best of them,
can't she?"
The low, throaty voice intruded on his letter before he
could add his signature. It came on a hush of breath from
the woman sitting to his right.
Senora Perez. Another married woman, and dangerous in her
own way. One quite different from the viscountess.
Senora Perez was the wife of Raoul Perez, a diplomat from
the young country of Venezuela who lived in London to
promote his people's economic interests. They were present
at this banquet because it was being hosted by the
Viscount Laclere to celebrate the recent passage of the
bill that abolished slavery throughout the British Empire,
an event of momentous symbolism for all people in the
Americas.
Julian had tried to ignore the fact that this married
woman had intimated since their meeting that she found
rough stones on smooth walls appealing and challenging.
He let the comment pass, but soon it was time to pay this
other lady attention, as the conversation shifted to the
right.
"Your English is exceptional, considering you only
recently joined your husband here in London," he said.
"I have been studying your language and customs for years.
I told Raoul that I would not come until I could make him
proud, and not fumble like a peasant at parties such as
this."
"You have succeeded admirably."
While she explained her studies, that mutinous corner of
his mind wandered. He saw the bright colors and sharp
contrasts of her land in his head. Crystal blue waters
stretched along ivory beaches. Pirate ships bobbed in the
surf as daring men hauled booty to shore, and chestnut-
skinned women watched, clothed in reds and oranges and
blues. An argument broke out over some gold, and swords
were drawn, and metal clashed and storms blew in and the
ocean churned in sublime fury and--
"You are not a man much given to social intercourse, are
you, Mr. Hampton?" Her throaty voice carried a Spanish
tinge, and nuances of other, more primitive cultures. Her
dark eyes flashed humor at him, and her skin, the color of
shelled almonds, appeared very exotic in her very British
blue dinner dress.
"I regret that I was not blessed with the natural ease in
such situations that many others enjoy."
"That is not true. I watched you in the drawing room. It
is not lack of ease. You do not care for it. No doubt you
know that your reserve is often misunderstood, but you do
not care about that, either."
"Is it misunderstood? I would have thought it not worthy
of notice at all."
"Men think you are proud, and just as dull as you claim."
"Perhaps they are correct on both counts."
"Women, however . . . well, women wonder what is in that
head of yours, and what lurks under that armor of
indifference, and what you think as you watch our human
comedy play out on life's stage."
She exuded a carnality that no man could ignore, no matter
what his armor. She wore her own lack of reserve like a
flag, in the way of her more expressive culture.
"Is that what you wonder, madame?"
"Yes."
"Would it please you if I confide it all? Reveal the
truth? Admit the contemplations that emerge in my silence?"
"I would love to know."
He cocked his head conspiratorially. "I think about . . ."
"Yes?" she encouraged.
"I think about what I will have for supper the next
evening."
She leveled her dark eyes on him. "I consider it a great
triumph that you deign even to tease me. I understand men
such as you very well. Your reserve is more like that of
my people than your own, you see. The silence smolders. I
think with time that you would indeed reveal all, however.
With the right incentive."
She let him know what incentive she meant. Her leg pressed
his beneath the table.
Julian took a sip of wine and gazed through the flickering
candles at Lady Laclere.
My dearest Viscountess,
Your hospitality at the banquet overwhelmed me. It is rare
for a man to leave his home of an evening, and find
himself within hours sitting with a prospective wife of
handsome fortune and sweet demeanor on one side, and with
a potential mistress of indubitable sensuality on the
other. The opportunities which you have afforded me are
truly generous. Unfortunately, a life of tedium waits with
one woman, and an angry husband demanding satisfaction
with the other. Therefore, I think it best to retreat from
either pursuit and must, with some pain, refuse both gifts.
My sincere gratitude for the honor of the invitation,
etc.; etc.
Julian Hampton
That night, back in his house on Russell Square, Julian
sat down at his writing desk to compose another letter.
This time he used pen and ink.
The events of the evening caused the words to flow in a
rush of scratches. It was an outpouring to relieve an
agitation of the spirit that needed release before it
provoked bitterness and resentment.
My incomparable beloved,
Seven months you have been gone, and I fear you will never
return. I await your brief, infrequent letters like a boy,
desperate for any small indication that you remember I
exist, hoping for evidence that you tire of that foreign
land where you now live. I read your missives a hundred
times for the slightest intimation that you will be coming
home. The part of my mind that does nothing but wait grows
daily, and soon nothing will be left to attend to life's
duties. One word, my love, just one word; that is all I
seek. One word to let me know that you will not stay away
forever, and that I will at least have your presence and
friendship in my life, even if I can never have your
passion and your love.
The last phrase came much more slowly. The admission was
essential to write, however. He had sworn to himself half
a lifetime ago to have no illusions where this woman was
concerned.
He did not bother with his signature. Calmer now, oddly
so, he gazed down at the letter for a long while, then
carefully folded it.
Opening a desk drawer, he glanced at a thick stack of
similarly folded papers. Some contained letters like this,
written to ease a brooding restlessness or explosive fury.
Others held poems or stories in which love thrived in
worlds much kinder to deep sentiment than this unromantic,
practical Britain. The ones at the bottom, the oldest
ones, already showed changes in the color of the ink as a
hallmark of their age.
It had been a very long time since he had added anything
to this drawer. Why tonight? Why had this mood gripped him
as that dinner party wound its way through the dark hours?
Maybe it had been those two women. He normally did not
mind that he could not accept what each offered, but
tonight, as the evening wore on, he had minded very much.
He resented like hell that playing the besotted lover was
a role he could no longer pull off. For years he had
pretended he could, but eventually the dishonesty of
feigning the expected affection had disgusted him.
So it probably had something to do with the women. Each
was tempting in her own way. Too tempting, in the case of
Se-ora Perez. He had spent the night in a state of mild
but aggravating arousal, and that had only fed the storm
rising in him. Tomorrow he would deal with that part of
the tempest in the efficient, soulless way he chose now,
with a professional woman who did not want love and
revelations.
He looked at the letter resting between his fingers. A
cold resolve entered him. He would burn it, and the
others. Destroy them all, and marry Mrs. Morrison and have
an affair with Se-ora Perez and live a normal life. He was
too old to be writing letters and poems that were never
sent.
He gazed at the pile of papers, then to the low flames in
the fireplace.
"Sir."
Julian barely heard the salutation and hardly felt the
nudge.
He emerged out of a dream in which he was doing scandalous
things to the sweet widow Mrs. Morrison. Since she had
been talking all through it, he was not entirely sorry to
have the fantasy interrupted.
"Sir, I regret to wake you, but she will not leave." His
valet's face hung over his own, doleful in its distress,
hovering like a ghost's in the night lamp's glow.
"Batkin, what the hell are you talking about?"
"I only heard the rapping on the door because my chamber
is over the street and my window is open and I do not
sleep well. There it was, this sound. Not even loud. Well,
I stuck my head out and there was this person at the door,
and I went down and it was a woman, a lady, and now she is
inside and won't leave."
Julian sat up and his valet came into fuller view. Despite
being dragged from his bed, Batkin looked pressed and
perfect, but then if a valet could not get presentable
quickly, who could?
"What is her name?"
"She will not tell me. She only insists that she must
speak with you at once."
"Does she have an accent?" He did not think that Se-ora
Perez would come here in the dead of night with so little
encouragement, but one never knew. Considering that his
body was taking time to recover from that dream, a
ruthless part of him hoped she had been so bold.
"No, her voice is that of an English lady. Her hat has a
veil that obscures her face, so I am at a loss to describe
her. She does claim that she is one of your clients."
Julian swung his body and sat on the bed's edge. He
doubted any client had business so vital it could not wait
until morning, but if this one would not leave he had no
choice except to meet with her.
"Put her in the library. I will dress and be down."
A half hour later he descended to the library, both
annoyed and intrigued by the mystery of this invasion.
The lady in question sat on the divan facing the
fireplace, with only her hat visible when he entered. He
could see only the crown of the green millinery and its
fluff of blue feathers and the edges of the blue netting
hung from the brim.
But he knew who it was.
The night's earlier restlessness returned, only now as a
glorious tumult of euphoria.
The Countess of Glasbury had returned to England. Penelope
had come home.
Contrasting emotions assaulted Penelope as she sat in the
library.
The strongest reactions, the ones that felt so good that
it seemed her soul exhaled a long-held breath, were those
of relief and safety. She might have emerged at port after
a dangerous sea voyage.
Beneath that peace, however, lurked a distinct
awkwardness, and a growing concern that Mr. Hampton would
be shocked by her presence in his house.
She could not ignore that she had intruded on a man's
abode in the dead of the night. It was a scandalous thing
to do. After all, Mr. Hampton may be her confidante and
adviser, but he was unmarried.
She had never seen where he lived before. He had moved to
this large house five years ago, but he did not entertain
and she had never entered it, just as she had never seen
the rooms he kept prior to buying this handsome home.
Tonight that struck her as odd. After all, she had known
him since they were little more than children. He was a
good friend of her brothers, and the family solicitor, and
was usually present at their parties. But his private life
remained a mystery, just as he was in many ways an enigma.
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