“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 Up 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 embar-rassed 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 dis-tastefully 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 conge, not the other way around.
He
