Page 51 of Atone, Adonis

“That’s a difficult question. I have good memories here. And I would like, I think, to make more. But as it stands Dorset is where the very worst moments of my life have been made into fodder for public consumption and I—” He shuddered. “Do you know the Hawthornes are throwing a ball to honor those afflicted by the war in Crimea?”

Julianna shook her head. “I had no idea. But why would I? We certainly would never make the invitation list. Thomas and I were much too lowly for them to take notice of after Mother and Father died. But it is kindly of them, I suppose, to help those in need.”

He scoffed and she was surprised at the anger she heard there. “It is anything but kind. And you have been invited, Jules. You are the Countess of Chester now. Not that you’ll have occasion to go. I asked Gilbert to burn the damned invitation.”

“What?” Irritation spiked within her. He’d decided on a course of action without a word to her, again. “They are honoring men like Thomas. Of course we must go.”

He laughed once but it was a sound entirely without mirth. “Jules, why do you think they’re holding such a thing now? Four years after the war?”

“Because the war isn’t over for men like Tom. Nor for their families. Suffering doesn’t end, Fred, just because a General says so. Or because the papers are no longer printing dispatches.”

“They will cut you to shreds. It’s not charity, it’s—hell and damnation—it’s theatre. No. I won’t do it.”

“Are you afraid of scandal, Fred? You?”

“Jules—” His voice had a warning tone in it she did not care for. “You know what the papers will say. Christ, The Poisoned Quill says far too much already and I’ve no idea how they manage to know half of what they know. But this…absolutely not.”

“Then I’ll go without you.”

“Julianna, do not make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

“Fred, there is not a single thing about this situation in which we find ourselves that is not difficult.”

The candle flames on the table danced between them. Fred sliced into his chicken and ate it. The silence between them dragged on and on until she whipped her head up to look at him. “Wait a moment—are you ashamed of me? Is that why you don’t want to go?”

She’d never considered it before but now that she had, the thought tore through her exposing a vulnerability she had been unaware of until that very moment. She cared now what Fred thought of her and it was painful to think that he might not want her on his arm.

“Never. Don’t even think such a thing. I have no idea why you would.”

Her eyes fell down to the navy gown she was wearing. It was plain, certainly. Practical.

“Jules.” He watched her face as the storm of irritation melted into embarrassment. “You’re a Countess now. You can have whatever dress or jewelry you want. But—” He paused to gather his words. “But trust me when I say those are not the adornments you need. You’ll outshine any other person in that room even in a charwoman’s apron.”

“No, you were right. We probably ought not to go.”

He narrowed his gaze at her then. “We will go. But first we’ll visit London because I won’t have you acting small now. Not you. And certainly not in the face of Isobel Hawthorne.”

And then she smiled. She couldn’t help herself, even though she knew it wasn’t the right reaction. Because Fred was still making their decisions, was still being overbearing. But—it felt different, she supposed, when he was being overbearing for her.

And honestly, Isobel Hawthorne was now and had always been a wretched woman. “She is awful,” Julianna said, before another thought occurred to her. One she couldn’t believe she hadn’t considered before. “Will it be alright for you to go to the Hawthornes again?” She reached for his hand before she knew what she was doing. “I’m sorry, I should have thought to ask before.”

He looked down at their hands, clasped across the table, and he smiled. A genuine, dimple-filled smile that overtook his entire face and made her stomach swoop with desire. “I believe,” he said finally, “that it will be bearable if I was there with you.”

Something unfurled low in her stomach at those words, something more perilous and with a great deal more gravitas than just desire. She could feel the weight of it in his gaze, hanging heavy in the air between them.

Even hours later, long after she had climbed into bed, and long after the house had settled around her, she could still feel it, as if she’d carried it up the stairs and tucked it beneath the covers with her.

CHESTER UNLEASHES HIS BRIDE UPON LONDON

The Poisoned Quill – May 27th, 1860

Printed on Cheap Paper for the Dearly Interested

Dearest Readers (and how keenly we adore you when you savor your morsels of mischief),

While Dorsetshire still shivers beneath unseasonable snow and the county’s good sense freezes solid in its skull, our Local Adonis has done what he does best: prepared to flee the scene.

Yes, gentle reader, Lord Chester has plans to whisk his new Countess away to London under the thinnest veil of “necessity.” We are told it is to outfit the bride for public inspection—though one wonders what manner of appearance is intended, and for whom. Certainly not for his benefit, if the rumors that his bed is still cold and his marriage still unconsummated are to be believed.