“Do you not believe in love as the great equalizer?” he asked. He could hardly believe that he, Rannulf Bedwyn, was actually asking such a question.
“No.” She shook her head. “Besides, there is no real love. Only some liking, I believe, and some ...
some lust.” Her eyes held his.
“That was why this just happened?” he asked her. “It was just lust?”
For the merest moment her glance wavered.
“And liking,” she said. “We do like each other, do we not?”
He sat up on the edge of the bed and buttoned up the flap of his breeches. “I do not usually bed women simply because I like them,” he said.
“But there is also the lust,” she said. “The mutual lust. You found it hard to lie in bed with me, Rannulf, without touching me. I found it hard too. Lust is not something only men feel.”
He did not know whether to be furiously angry or to laugh. If he could ever have predicted this conversation, it would have been with their roles reversed. He would have been the one carefully deflecting any suggestion that it had been a love encounter and not simply sex.
“I take it we are done sleeping,” he said, getting to his feet. “Get dressed, Judith, while I see about hiring a carriage for the rest of our journey. And do not run away this time.” “I won’t,” she promised.
It was late afternoon by the time they reached London. They had exchanged no more than a dozen sentences all day. Judith had had one more bleakness to add to all her other worries.
She could not marry him. She had almost been seduced by madness a couple of days ago. It had seemed almost possible. But no longer. No, she could never marry him. Nevertheless she was glad the events of the past week had at least enabled her to like him and to admire his nobler qualities— and they were many. She was glad of this morning. She was glad she loved him. Her stolen dream had been restored to her and would surely sustain her for a lifetime once the pain was over. There was going to be pain, she knew.
She had never been to London before. She knew it was large, but she had never dreamed that any urban area could be this large. It seemed to go on forever and ever. The streets were all lined with buildings and crowded with people and vehicles and the noises of wheels and horses and people shouting. Any wonder she might have felt was quickly submerged beneath terror.
However was she going to find Branwell?
She had, she supposed, expected that she would simply stop at some inn or other public building, ask for directions to his lodgings, and follow them without any trouble at all— and all within a few minutes of her arrival in London.
“Does it ever end?” she asked foolishly.
“London?” he said. “It is not my favorite place in the world. Unfortunately one sees the worst of it first.
You will find Mayfair quieter and cleaner and more spacious than this.”
“Is that the area where Branwell lives?” she asked. “Will we find him at home, do you suppose?”
“Probably not,” he said. “Gentlemen do not usually spend much of their time in their rooms.”
“I hope he comes home sometime this evening,” she said, all of yesterday’s anxiety returning in full force again. “Whatever will I do if he does not? Will his landlord allow me to wait in his rooms, do you think?”
“He would probably have an apoplexy if you were even to suggest it,” he said. “It is not the thing for young ladies to call upon young gentlemen, accompanied only by another gentleman, you know.”
“But I am his sister.” She looked at him in amazement.
“I daresay,” he said, “landlords meet any number of sisters .”
She stared at him, speechless for a minute.
“What will I do if I cannot see him today?” she asked. “I cannot ask you to sit outside his rooms all night in the carriage. I—”
“I am not taking you to his rooms,” he said. “I’ll go there alone some other time.”
“What?” She looked at him in incomprehension.
“I am taking you to my brother’s,” he said. “To Bedwyn House.”
“To the Duke of Bewcastle’s ?” She stared at him in horror.
“Bewcastle and Alleyne may be the only ones in residence,” he said, “in which case I’ll have to think of somewhere else to take you—my Aunt Rochester’s probably, though she is something of a dragon and would have your head for breakfast if you did not stand up to her.”
“I am not going to the Duke of Bewcastle’s,” she said, aghast. “I came here to find Branwell.”
“And find him we will,” he said, “if indeed he came to London. But you are in London now, Judith. This is the height of impropriety, our riding alone together in a carriage without any maid or chaperon. But it will be the last such impropriety while you are here. I have my reputation to think about, you know.”
“How absurd,” she said. “How absolutely absurd. If you will not take me to Bran, then set me down and I will find my own way there.”
He looked maddeningly cool. He was slightly slouched down in the seat, one booted foot propped against the seat opposite. And he had the gall to grin at her.
“You are afraid,” he said. “Afraid of facing Bewcastle.”
“I am not.” She was mortally afraid.
“Liar.”
The carriage lurched to a halt as she was drawing breath to make a sharp retort. She glanced beyond the window and realized that they were indeed in a quieter, grander part of London. There were tall, stately buildings on her side of the carriage, a small park on the other, more buildings beyond it. It must be one of London’s squares! The door opened and the coachman busied himself setting down the steps.
“This is Bedwyn House?” she asked.
He merely grinned at her again, vaulted out of the carriage, and reached up a hand to help her out.
She was wearing a shapeless cotton dress that had been folded inside her bag all day yesterday and worn inside a carriage all day today. She had not brushed or replaited her hair since this morning. It had been squashed beneath her bonnet all day. She must look an absolute fright. Besides all of which she was Judith Law from the rectory at Beaconsfield, fugitive and suspected thief, on her way to meet a duke.
The door was open by the time she alighted from the carriage. A moment later a very stately looking butler was informing Lord Rannulf that his grace was indeed at home and was in the drawing room. He led the way up a grand staircase. Judith thought her knees might well have buckled under her if she had not just been called a liar when she had claimed not to be afraid and if Rannulf’s hand had not been beneath one of her elbows.
A footman opened a set of huge double doors as they appeared at the top of the staircase, and the butler stepped between them.
“Lord Rannulf Bedwyn, your grace,” he announced. His eyes had alit on Judith downstairs for one brief moment but had not drifted her way since.
Horror of horrors, Judith saw as she was led through the doors, the room had more than one occupant.
There were four to be exact, two men and two women.
“Ralf, old fellow,” one of the men said, jumping immediately to his feet, “are you back already? Did you escape Grandmama’s clutches intact yet again?” He stopped abruptly when he saw Judith.
He was a tall, slender, dark, remarkably handsome young man, only his prominent nose identifying him as Rannulf’s brother. One of the ladies, a very young, very beautiful one, looked very much like him. The other lady was fair, like Rannulf, with long, curly hair worn loose. Like him she was dark-complexioned and dark-browed and big-nosed.
They were fleeting impressions. Judith studiously kept her eyes from the other man, who was just then rising to his feet. Even without looking at him she could sense that he was the duke.