Page 15 of Better Love Next Time
Special as in wanting a wanton woman, loose with her favors. A sinful woman who lifted her skirts for acts devoid of love. Love had been the basis of the physical acts she had shared with Julian long ago. Without love, there was no joy, no pleasure.
“Do you care for advice?” Anthony asked.
There was no need to answer. Advice was coming regardless.
“Forget about love,” he said. “Run away with me.”
Kitty rolled her eyes.
“I had to try,” he drawled, nudging her arm. He sighed. “Remind St. Clair what he is missing with you. The shortest path to a man’s affection is not through his stomach or his mind. That comes after.”
“If ever,” she said.
Anthony reached into his coat, proffering a folded paper between his fingers. “My advice, Saint Katherine.”
She took the paper, and unfolding it, reddened over the script. She stuffed it in her purse with the laudanum while Anthony chuckled.
Julian stood from the table. Instead of searching out Anthony or the rest of his friends such as Lord Greville in conversation with the enigma Adrian Blackwell, or Lady Sybil, Julian offered Madame Allard his escort.
The courtesan took Julian’s arm. Together, they turned to the salon door and were gone.
Kitty’s champagne dropped with a thud to the carpet.
She had imagined this moment so many ways. A long, drawn-out flirtation over days with a beautiful woman. Kitty sitting by as Julian conversed with another under candlelight, with heated glances and laughter. Yet Julian hadn’t laughed, looked, or even spoken to the woman. It had happened so fast. So unbearably fast.
“Excuse me,” she managed in a trembling voice.
CHAPTER FOUR
Julianand the courtesan had boarded a gondola, pushing off into the canal before Kitty had forded the stone stairs leading to the water door. In her haste, she slipped on the algae-covered step and gripped the railing, watching them float away surrounded by water glittering like diamonds.
Awash in torchlight, Julian lazed back upon the cushioned seat and removed his bauta. Such a face. Angles of masculine symmetry. And Madame Allard, lounging next to him, her face was beautiful beyond measure.
Kitty turned from the scene and trudged back up the stairs, through the portego and out onto the street. She wandered, her costly hem dragging on stone, through puddles of unknown substances. She stole inside the Chiesa di Santa Maria, slipping off her shoes and padding down the deserted nave. She went where her memories took her often, easing to her knees and staring in earnest at the mournful sculpture of Mary holding her son in death. No prayers came. No tears. She cursed her faith even as she was drawn to the Holy Mother and the lingering scent of incense. Her Catholic faith had marked her as different. It had killed her dreams.
She pressed to her feet and continued her journey across islands and bridges surrounded by light and muffled conversation coming from the homes stacked along the narrow streets. By the time she reached the pale pink door to their let palazzo, the fog had begun to roll in and her hair was damp from the sea air.
Inside, she kicked off her shoes, smarting at a blister gnawing at her right heel. She greeted the footman, Pietro, and climbed the marble staircase. Down the length of the long corridor abutting the waterside, candlelight flickered over the muraled walls.
A door clicked shut.
She retrieved a candelabra and tread down the Gothic hall.
She had assured herself for two years that it was a foregone conclusion that her husband would satiate his needs with another. She had prayed on it. Asked the Holy Mother for strength and understanding. Patience. She was prepared for this moment.
Her throat tightened at the image of Julian in the arms of another woman. Kissing her. Touching her. Fitting himself inside her.
She opened Julian’s chamber door and halted at the black. Stepping in, she lifted the light toward the bed. And felt his gaze upon her before she saw him.
“Good evening, wife.” Julian rested against the pillows, a leg bent and his arm draped over his knee. He was still in his evening breeches and hose. He had untied his shirt, the hard lines of his chest visible in the open V. Sinews and veins bulged at the back of his hands where he clasped his knee.
He was alone? His gaze was hot, too hot for a man to be alone.
Turning, she lofted the candelabra and peered in the shifting light and shadows, over a lacquer armoire, an intimate placing ofcushioned chairs at an empty hearth, a chaise of oak and white velvet.
“Are you unwell?” he asked, canting his head.
“I cannot go on like this,” she said in the quiet.
