Page 38 of The Rake and Lady Julia
"Too handsome?" he suggested again, with a grin, when Julia shook her head.
"You are a Montague," Julia whispered his name as though uttering a curse.
"And you a Cavendish," Rob returned, shrugging his magnificent shoulders, "What of it? We knew who we were from the off."
"I cannot wed a Montague," she protested, her mouth resolute.
"I am not just a Montague," Robert answered hotly, "I am Robert, the man who burns for you. That is my name, and I will hear you say it."
His arms had slipped around her, seemingly of their own volition, and Rob was now pulling her close, as he stared down into those deep, blue eyes.
"Say it," he repeated, his words a rushed breath.
"Robert," she whispered, a protest upon her lips, but Rob did not allow her to continue .
He stole a kiss; as sure as a thief, he stole it. His lips claimed hers, hungry and wanting, and were met with a hunger and want that matched his own. His senses were filled by her; her radiant warmth, her rosewater scent, the softness of her lips, which were like silk under his.
Oh, how he wanted her. How he wanted to claim her as his, so that she might be in his arms forever.
Alas, the need for breath forced their mouths apart, and Julia pulled away from him, her eyes filled with pain.
"I love you," Robert whispered, his voice now harsh with urgency.
"You cannot," she answered, taking a step away from him, "It is not sensible to think you love me after such a short time."
"Love is not sensible," Rob growled, "It is heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, sick and healthy, asleep and awake—it is everything except what it is. And it is most certainly not sensible. Don't you feel it?"
A silence filled the parlour room, as Julia's eyes flickered between him and the doorway. She was lost to him, he knew it. His impassioned speech had not inspired her, it had frightened her.
"I love you," Rob offered, in one final effort at changing her mind.
"Do not waste your love on somebody who does not value it," she replied, bowing her head once more against the intensity of his gaze.
With that, Lady Julia squared her shoulders and walked past him, her head resolutely high, her every step squashing Rob's bloodied heart which he had thrown on the floor before her.
"Well, that went well," Penrith said cheerfully, as the three men convened at White's for a post-ball night-cap, "Don't you think that went well?"
The duke beamed happily at Orsino and Robert, on such a cloud of love that he failed to notice his two friends looked as though they were about to face the firing line.
Robert said nothing in reply, whilst Orsino merely gave a grunt, and Penrith frowned, as realisation dawned upon him.
"Did something happen?" he asked, glancing between his two friends.
"What makes you think something happened?" Orsino growled, furrowing his brow menacingly.
The tallest of the trio of Upstarts, as well as the broadest, strongest, and most masculine, Orsino was never one to talk about his feelings. In fact, his decade in the military had instilled in him a belief that he should have none. And if by chance a feeling or two was to steal over him, he would deny it, pushing it down until it disappeared.
Which, Robert thought with a frown, must be terribly bad for one's digestion.
"My heart has been smashed to smithereens," Robert offered, always a believer in better out than in.
He waited for his two friends to offer their condolences but was met by bemused glances.
"Again?" Penrith asked, covering his mouth with his hand as he gave a small cough.
"Shall I call for a nostrum, dear boy?" Rob queried dryly, well able to recognise a hidden smile.
"T'was just a tickle," Penrith assured him, having assumed an expression more befitting of a man who thought himself Rob's friend, "My commiserations on your broken heart."
