Page 36 of To Marry and to Meddle
“Which shows great wisdom on their part, if this is how you’re going to treat it,” Julian said darkly, tossing his jacket onto a nearby chair and loosening his cravat. He was now in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, and Emily was possessed with a sudden memory of him loosening his cravat the night before, the patch of golden skin it had exposed.
She sat down in one of the armchairs before the fireplace, raised her tumbler to her nose, and sniffed.
“It even burns mynose,” she said indignantly.
Julian gave her a half smile and perched on the arm of her chair, his tumbler back in hand.
“That’s not generally how it’s intended to be consumed.” He tookanother sip of his brandy and tilted his head back slightly, savoring it, giving Emily the opportunity to cast an appreciative glance at the long line of his throat.
Emily looked down at her glass and took the tiniest possible sip. It burned her throat again, but less than it had with the first sip, and this time she was better able to appreciate the warmth that seemed to course through her body as she swallowed. “That’s not so bad,” she said cautiously, and Julian laughed outright at that.
“That bottle cost more than many men earn in a year,” he said, shaking his head at her. “It’s considerably better thannot bad.”
“To you, perhaps,” Emily said. “I think I’d be just as happy with a glass of ratafia, if it came to that.”
Julian grimaced.
“Ratafia is disgusting.”
“No, it’s not. It tastes delicious.”
“It’s too sweet.”
“Says the man who drinks his tea sweeter than any lady I know,” Emily said, feeling somewhat triumphant to have this knowledge to lord over him. Seeing that he had no ready reply to that, she added, “Besides, sweet things taste nice. I’ve never understood why gentlemen complain about ratafia. I suspect it’s simply to look more manly.”
“Oh?” he asked, drawing the word out slowly. “Do I need help in that regard?”
In that moment, Emily had the wild thought that it would perhaps have been better if she’d allowed other gentlemen to kiss her before her marriage. Oh, she would not have wanted to be ruined, of course—though at times, that had certainly seemed preferable to Mr. Cartham’s company—but perhaps if she’d been a bit bolder, allowed gentlemen to take a few more liberties, she would not be so susceptible to Julian’scharms now. She was three-and-twenty, after all; it seemed absurd that she should so easily fall prey to a seductive glance and a rakish lock of hair on her husband’s forehead, and yet here she was, reaching up to brush it away without fully realizing what she was doing.
“If you’re expecting me to compliment you,” she said a bit breathlessly, “I hope you’ll understand that I’m saving all my compliments for the ladies you wish me to impress.”
Julian grinned as he leaned in closer.
“However shall my fragile ego recover?” he murmured, a moment before his mouth descended upon hers.
They kissed slowly, lazily, as if they’d all the time in the world, and it was some time later that they were interrupted by a knock at the door, which was then immediately opened by a maid bearing a tea service. Emily blushed scarlet to realize that, at some point in the proceedings, Julian’s hand had come to rest on her breast, his other hand tangled in her hair.
The appearance of tea, however, put a halt to any such activities, and Emily hopped up so that she might pour for them, though Julian proceeded to pour so much brandy into his teacup that Emily questioned how accurate it was to even call the drink withinteaany longer. Feeling a bit daring, she added the tiniest of splashes of brandy to her own cup before resuming her seat before the fireplace. It was only the middle of September, but it was a brisk, breezy sort of day, and flames flickered cheerfully in the grate.
“Speaking of ladies you wish to compliment,” Julian said, having taken a seat—more appropriately, albeit with less immediate possibility of impolite behavior—in one of the armchairs opposite Emily. “Have you formed a plan of attack yet?”
“No,” Emily said slowly, gazing down at the teacup in her hands,her eyes tracing the floral pattern on the saucer. “I’ve been rather occupied with learning the layout of the household today—tomorrow I thought to draw up a list of names of ladies I know to currently be in town, so that I might strategize as to whom I’ll visit first.” She tried to project some degree of enthusiasm into her voice, although, in truth, the prospect wasn’t terribly appealing. She looked forward to visiting her friends, of course—Violet and Diana and Sophie, and select other ladies of their set with whom she’d enjoyed conversing over the years—but the idea of making polite conversation with some of her mother’s more awful friends was… unappealing.
Still, it was no more than she’d agreed to when she accepted Julian’s proposal, so she didn’t wish to seem reluctant.
“I’ll start with some of the easier ones—ladies who I don’t think will treat me coolly, regardless of any gossip that might swirl surrounding our marriage—and then tackle some of the fussier ladies a bit later.” She tried to keep any note of uncertainty out of her voice, hoping to give the impression that she’d thought carefully about this course of action before deciding upon it. It would take some getting used to, not having to look questioningly over her shoulder to see her parents’ reaction before doing something. Julian was her husband, of course—legally, he could command her to do anything he wished—but he didn’t seem like the domineering sort.
She was… lucky.
“Whatever you think is best,” Julian said equably, sipping his brandy-laced tea. “I’ll spend my days at the Belfry, making certain everything with the show is going well, you’ll spend your days courting favor with society wives, and before we know it, we’ll be the toast of theton.” His tone was one of smug satisfaction—that of a man who thought he had everything arranged perfectly to his liking.
It was not, Emily thought with another slight pang of disappointment, exactly toherliking, but it was still worlds better than the future she had imagined for herself a month ago. Who was she to complain?
A plaintivemeowemerged from the window seat, and she glanced over her shoulder, having momentarily forgotten Cecil was there. “Hello, darling,” she called. “Are you hungry?”
“I’m famished,” Julian said. “Thank you for asking.” He paused, mock-thoughtful. “Oh. Were you speaking to the cat? How charming.”
“Cecil is ababy,” Emily said protectively. Logically, Emily knew that Cecil was probably more than capable of fending for himself—any kitten who had been wily enough to make his way from whatever barn or alleyway he had previously called home into a warm bed at an inn clearly had finely honed survival instincts. And yet, she could not help worrying over him. She’d never had anything that washersbefore—not like this. She had, in her own quiet way, taken care of her family—soothed her parents’ moods and ruffled feathers, tried her hardest to ensure a peaceful home—but it wasn’t the same. Cecil was her responsibility, hers to protect. Hers to love.
