Page 57 of Atone, Adonis

No, he wasn’t going to ruin Julianna’s happiness with more of that old tale. Not now, when the vise of guilt and fear and anger that had held her so tightly for so long seemed to be easing. The past was the past. And whatever had happened between himself and the Baroness had happened too long ago to bother recounting.

He clenched his jaw and fixed his gaze on the opposite corner of the carriage, as if staring at the upholstery would somehow rid him of his former choices. And when that didn’t work he dug his short nails into his palm until he made himself hurt. Good. He wanted that pain. Deserved it.

“Damnation,” he muttered, dragging in a harsh breath. Trying to settle his whipsawing emotions before his wife returned.

And then, as if he’d somehow called her, she came out of Tremaux’s and was climbing up into the carriage with him. Her dark eyes met his. They were luminous in the shifting light, liquid pools of unplumbed depths. And worse—much worse—there was something in them that looked a great deal like passion.

Fred’s heart slammed against his ribs. He found himself jerking back, his chest constricting again. He really couldn’t breathe.

“Fred?” Suddenly Julianna was beside him, his hand clasped tightly in hers and she was murmuring, “It’s alright.” And, “Just breathe, Fred, breathe.”

The carriage had started to move again and all he could do was sit there, his lungs heaving as he tried to get the air he needed into them. Sweat dampening his shirt beneath his waistcoat. Every muscle in his body clenched tight.

The carriage jolted over a rut and Julianna pointed at something outside—a pair of street performers with juggling knives. “Look at that,” she whispered to him.

He did and it eased that damned constricted feeling in his chest ever so slightly. “Talk to me, Jules,” he said. “Just talk to me, please.”

So she did. She narrated their entire trip through London as she saw it. Marveling at the crowds and carriages jockeying for space on the crowded streets. At the children who darted among legs and the horses that pranced. At everything and nothing at once until the coiled tension within him began to relax, bit by bit.

By the time the carriage slowed to a stop he could breathe again.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Simpson’s-in-the-Strand,” he said, allowing his lungs the pleasure of a full inhale and exhale. “London is finally coming around to the idea of dining outside one’s home. It was a favorite pastime in Paris and I thought you’d enjoy it.”

“I’m certain I will,” she said.

And then she slipped her arm in his and he deliberately pushed all thoughts of the Baroness aside. He shoved them deep down into the shuttered corner of his heart where he kept them, and concentrated on his wife.

Inside, the maître d’ bowed and whisked them to a private alcove screened by rich drapery. Candlelight glowed on silverware and crystal, casting Julianna in a halo of warm light. She looked radiant, her cheeks flushed with the cool evening air. A new gown—an order that had never been picked up from the modiste’s and that could be quickly altered—clung to her spectacularly.

Even through the tension that was slowly ebbing out of his body, he could see how beautiful she looked this evening. He ought to send flowers to Madame Tremaux for that gown. Or, hell, he might purchase the woman a Mayfair townhouse for the way Julianna smiled when she looked down at it.

She was reading the menu when he realized he’d been staring at her. He jerked his gaze back to his wineglass and lifted it, though his throat was still too tight to swallow.

“Fred?” Her voice was light and soft, slightly teasing. “Where has your mind gone? You’re elsewhere.”

“Nowhere.” He forced his mouth into a half-smile. “I’m precisely where I ought to be. Here with my wife.”

The words pleased him more than they should have. My wife. He felt himself relax just a little bit more. And more still when he saw her luminous eyes soften, the candlelight catching them until something in his chest gave a slow, dangerous lurch.

The first course arrived—a rich and fragrant beef broth—and Fred drank his down. Julianna, however, barely lifted her spoon. Which would not do. Not tonight. Not here.

He tore a piece of bread, dragged it through the broth, and held it out to her. “Try that. The kitchen does bread well. I believe their chef is Lyonnais.”

She leaned forward and took the bread from him, her fingers brushing his as they touched. It was a brief, accidental skim of skin against skin that made his pulse leap treacherously. He felt arousal bloom in him again but it was still edged with panic.

He forced himself to breathe as she bit down on the broth-soaked bread. Her expression changed when the taste of it overwhelmed her senses. It was subtle but he saw it, and he was filled with a primal kind of satisfaction that he’d put that expression there.

Good.

He gave her another piece before he returned to his own meal with renewed purpose.

The next course soon arrived: thick slices of roast beef, potatoes slick with butter, greens that were bright and tender—still sweet before the summer sun made them bitter. And a Yorkshire pudding that had risen so high it nearly collapsed under its own weight.

Fred cut through the roast beef and placed a slice on his tongue. He made a sound of delight that would have been embarrassing were he paying any attention to it. He wasn’t.

“By God, Jules,” he said, cutting off a tender chunk for her. “You have to try this.”