that you would not allow us to announce the betrothal formally, though I thought you monstrous cruel at the time.”
Jack had heard enough. His face white and grim, he drew back the draperies which had concealed him and stepped into the room.
“I think that says it all, does it not?” he said in a soft, deadly voice.
There was a small flurry as the two absorbed what he might have heard. There was no telling how long he had been outside. Jack limped quietly to the door and pointedly held it open for Julia’s father to make his exit.
“I believe your presence is no longer required, Sir Phillip,” he said. “If you would be so good as to leave us alone, sir?”
Sir Phillip Davenport began to bluster. “Now see here, Carstairs, I won’t be ordered about in my own house. I can see it must be a nasty shock for you, but you are no longer in a position to support my daugh—”
“Thank you, sir.” Jack cut across him. “I understand what you are saying, but I believe I am owed the courtesy of a few moments alone with my betrothed.”
The voice which had spent years commanding others had its usual effect. Julia’s father began to look uncomfortable and took a few steps towards the door.
“Oh, but…” Julia began.
“As far as I am concerned our betrothal has not yet been dissolved and I believe I have the right to be told of it in person.” Jack gestured again for her father to leave. Observing that gentleman’s hesitation and concern, his lip curled superciliously. He added silkily, “I assure you, Davenport, that, while I may be changed in many respects, I am still a gentleman. Your daughter is safe with me.”
Sir Phillip left, leaving his daughter looking embarrassed and angry. There was a long moment of silence. Julia took a quick, graceful turn about the room, the swishing of her skirts the only sound in the room. The practised movements displayed, as they were meant to do, the lush, perfect body encased in the finest gown London could provide, the fashionable golden coiffure, the finely wrought jewellery encircling her smooth white neck and dimpled wrists. Finally Julia spoke.
“I am sorry if you heard something that you didn’t like, Jack, but you must know that eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves.” She shrugged elegantly, glided to the window and stood gazing out, seemingly absorbed in the view of the fashionably landscaped garden beyond the terrace.
Jack’s face was grim, the scar twisting down his cheek standing out fresh and livid against his pallor.
“God damn it, Julia, the least you could have done was told me to my face—what’s left of it,” he added bitterly. “It’s partly because of you that I’m in this situation in the first place.”
She turned, her lovely mouth pouting with indignation. “Well, really, Jack, how can you blame me for what has happened to you?”
His lips twisted sardonically and he shrugged, his powerful shoulders straining against the shabby, light, superfine coat.
“Perhaps not directly. But when my father ordered me to end our betrothal you cast yourself into my arms and begged me to stand firm. Which of course I did.”
“But how was I to know that that horrid old man truly would disinherit you for disobeying him?”
His voice was cool, his eyes cold. “That horrid old man was my father, and I told you at the time he would.”
“But he doted on you! I was sure he was only bluffing…trying to make you dance to his tune.”
His voice was hard. “It’s why I purchased a commission in the Guards, if you recall.”
The beautiful eyes ran over his body, skipping distastefully over the scarred cheek and the stiffly extended leg.
“Yes, and it was the ruination of you!” She pouted, averting her eyes.
He was silent for a moment, remembering what she had said to her father. “I am told that I will never dance again. Or ride.”
“Exactly,” she agreed, oblivious to his hard gaze. “And will that horrid scar on your face go away too? I doubt it.”
She suddenly seemed to notice the cruelty of what she had said. “Oh, forgive me, Jack, but you used to be the handsomest man in London, before…that.” She gestured distastefully towards the scar.
With every word she uttered, she revealed herself more and more, and the pain and disillusion and anger with himself was like a knife twisting in Jack’s guts. For this beautiful, empty creature he had forever alienated his father. Like Julia, he had never in his heart of hearts believed his father would truly disinherit him, but it seemed his father had died with Jack unforgiven. It was that which hurt Jack so deeply; not the loss of his inheritance, but the loss of his father’s love.
Feeling uncomfortable under Jack’s harsh scrutiny, Julia took a few paces around the room, nervously picking up ornaments and elegant knick-knacks, putting them down and moving restlessly on.
Jack watched her, recalling how the memory of her grace and beauty had sustained him through some of the worst moments of his life. It had been like a dream then, in the heat and dust and blood of the Peninsula War, to think of this lovely, vital creature waiting for him. And that’s all it was, he told himself harshly—a dream. The reality was this vain, beautiful, callous little bitch.
“Oh, be honest, Jack.” She twirled and stopped in front of him. “You are no longer the man I agreed to marry. Can you give me the life we planned? No.”
She shrugged. “I am sorry, Jack, but, painful though it is for both of us, you must see it is just not at all practical any more.”
“Ahh, not practical?” he echoed sarcastically. “And what exactly is not practical? Is it my sudden lack of fortune? My ruined face? Or the idea of dancing with an ugly cripple and thereby becoming an object of ridicule? Is that it, eh?”
She cringed in fright at the savagery in his voice.
“No, it is not practical, is it?” he snarled. “And I thank God for it.”
She stared as she took in the meaning of his last utterance.
“Do…do you mean to say you don’t want to marry me?” Her voice squeaked in amazement and dawning indignation. It was for her to give him his congé, not the other way around.
He bowed ironically. “Not only do I not wish to marry you, I am almost grateful for the misfortunes which have opened my eyes and delivered me from that very fate.”
She glared at him, her bosom heaving in a way that had once entranced him. “Mr Carstairs, you are no gentleman!”
He smiled back at her, a harsh, ugly grimace. “And you, Miss Davenport, are no lady. You are a shallow, greedy, cold little bitch, and I thank my lucky stars that I discovered the truth in time. God help the poor fool you eventually snare in your net.”
She stamped her foot furiously. “How dare you? Leave this house at once…at once, do you hear me? Or crip—wounded or not, I’ll have you thrown out!”
He limped two paces forward and she skittered back in fright.
“Just give me back my ring,” he said wearily, “and your butler won’t be put to the trouble and embarrassment of manhandling a cripple.”
She snatched her left hand back against her breast and covered the large diamond ring with her other hand.
“Oh, but I am very attached to this ring, Jack,” she said in a little-girl voice. “I did love you, you know. Surely you want me to have something to remember you by?”
He looked at her, disgust filling his throat, then turned and silently limped from the house.
Chapter One
London. Late autumn, 1812.