a bow, and a quick touch of his cravat pin as a salute, the earl retreated, taking all the evening’s excitement with him as he returned to Lady Arabella’s side.
When the three-hour dinner concluded with a gorgeous display of pastillage flowers strewn along the length of the table and poached pears with custard in crystal bowls for their dessert, Julia was more than ready to go home. She’d been unable to disappear for even a second under Jasper’s watchful gaze.
Worse than that, he’d managed to unnerve her throughout the many courses, even from the far end of the table with his direct stares and slightly inappropriate smile. The man could heat her body at twenty paces. She left before he did, not caring a whit for his dinner partner, since by his inattentiveness to Lady Arabella, he didn’t care a whit for her either.
Jasper had a woman on his arm whom in all likelihood he intended to tup for mere sport, or on a whim change his mind. It was by all accounts perfectly normal for him. Julia didn’t like it, but she liked even less how she couldn’t stop torturing herself with thoughts of Jasper undressing and lying with Lady Chandron.
Her Jasper. With that horrid woman! He would touch her, perhaps kiss her. Good God! Would he kiss Lady Chandron?
She was still thinking of him while futilely struggling with sleep. At some point, he would settle between the viscountess’s thighs and take her to the height of pleasure.
Julia wanted that for herself. Who wouldn’t?
The following evening, Sarah’s butler entered the drawing room without his usual calm demeanor. He was fairly fizzing when he handed them a single newsprint sheet from the Times, part of their special evening edition with news that was already blanketing Mayfair and beyond:
A dreadful accident has occurred at Meux's Brewery, about 6 o’clock this evening. Due to a compromise, one of the vats in Banbury Street, St. Giles, said to hold over thirty-five hundred barrels of beer, burst without warning. A wave of liquid flowed down St. Georges Street. Loss of life is still being determined, but amounts so far to six.
Thus, it was with wondering glances, she and Sarah went into the dining room and talked of nothing but the bizarre notion of being at home and suddenly drowning in a veritable river of strong beer.
It certainly stole their appetites. Julia watched her sister move the roast chicken and vegetable croquettes around her plate just as she was doing, while hardly taking a bite. Indeed, it seemed like a long and somber evening, causing them both to retire by eleven.
After dousing the lamp on her bedside table, Julia snuggled beneath the bed linens, feeling unsettled by the strange news. As she closed her eyes, something struck the side of the house close to her window. If she didn’t know better, she would say it was a pebble.
When another one hit, she sat upright. She’d read about this in more than one fanciful, improbable novel, involving simpering females, strapping men, and secret trysts brought about by stone-throwing at some mansion window. Yet right then, it seemed perfectly real. She swiftly re-lit the oil lamp.
Slowly, giving time for another stone to be tossed, she went to the window, drew back the curtain, and pushed up on the sash to raise the lower panes. When she was sure the weight and balance was holding and she wouldn’t be beheaded, she leaned out, surveying the darkness.
Standing in the small yard that buffeted the Worthington home from the mews behind, was none other than the Earl of Marshfield, his visage lit by a lantern.
“Come down here,” he ordered.
Was he a madman or merely in his cups?
“Decidedly no,” she called down, although sorely tempted because the man had become her weakness.
“I have important news,” he said, “and I was passing by on my way home.”
“Indeed!” She was sure now he was spoony drunk. “Can it wait, my lord, until tomorrow?”
“Are you ‘my lording’ me after what we’ve done together?”
His voice had grown louder. If Sarah was listening, Julia was going to be in trouble. If her neighbors were listening, she could be ruined after all.
“Hush, please, Jasper,” she said his name to appease him. “Go home and go to sleep.”
“You cannot order me. I’m an earl. And I’m not impoverished, no matter what those men think of me at Rundell, Rundell, Bridge, and Bridge, and Rundell.”
Then he laughed.
Oh dear! Who would tuck him into bed and give him some quinine