"Easy." The cravat drifted to the grass while James moved to wrap her in his arms. "It's just fireworks." Another boom exploded in the sky, accompanied by flashes of red and blue and white. "Your aunt will stop and watch," he said soothingly.
Knowing he was right, she pulled away and sat on the bench to watch the fireworks. But she wasn't soothed, and she didn't feel at ease. Not even after he'd retrieved the cravat and awkwardly knotted it and donned his tailcoat and buttoned it up. Her heart was still pounding, and her stomach felt queer.
Great, fiery streaks of light burst in the heavens, and all around she heard "ooh!" and "ahh!" from all the people in Vauxhall Gardens, but all she could think was thank heavens she hadn't been caught kissing James while half of his clothing was unbuttoned.
They'd have had to marry. And she couldn't marry James. She just couldn't.
I can certainly marry a friend, she remembered him saying. One can kiss a woman and make a child without falling in love.
The duke was falling in love with her, and James wouldn't. He'd said he'd never fall in love again. He'd only kissed her because they were friends and he wanted a child. And if he didn't marry Amanda, Amanda would have to marry Lord Malmsey—and Aunt Frances would be devastated.
She should never have let James kiss her.
THIRTY
JAMES HAD finally kissed Juliana, and it had been better than he'd ever imagined—and God knew he'd imagined it plenty.
Countless times, he'd imagined the feel of her in his arms. Day after day, he'd imagined the taste of her on his lips. Night after night, he'd imagined the heat that would flash between them.
And it had all been better. Amazingly, exceedingly better. So much better, in fact, that it had left him rather witless.
He vaguely wondered what had driven him to unbutton so many buttons. And why he hadn't felt compelled to button them back up particularly quickly. And, most confounding of all, why he hadn't been nearly as relieved as Juliana when, after the fireworks, they'd met the older couple at the front gate of Vauxhall Gardens and her aunt didn't seem to be suspicious.
Now they were in his carriage on their way back to Berkeley Square. Seated across from him and Juliana, Lady Frances giggled like an infatuated adolescent. "Goodness gracious," she said, "when we couldn't find you, I half expected I'd be forced to tell my nephew he would have to demand the two of you marry."
Given that Lady Frances's cheeks were much more flushed than Juliana's, James found that statement somewhat amusing.
But then Juliana smoothed her yellow dress. "We were only watching the fireworks, Auntie. Besides, you know I'm going to marry the Duke of Castleton."
And James found that statement supremely annoying.
And that's when everything began to slowly come clear in his mind.
It was a realization the likes of which he'd never experienced.
He'd unbuttoned so many buttons to tempt her, of course. And he hadn't felt compelled to button them back up particularly quickly because he hadn't been worried that the two of them might be caught and forced to marry.
No, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't that he hadn't been worried they might be caught and forced to marry…it was more like he'd been hoping they would be caught and forced to marry.
Because he wanted to marry her. But he hadn't been able to admit that, not even to himself, because it would be a betrayal of Anne.
Except…it wasn't.
He'd fallen in love with Juliana, and it wasn't a betrayal at all.
He felt like he should be appalled. Or guilty. Or disbelieving.
But he wasn't any of those things. He was in love. And he couldn't disbelieve it any more than he could disbelieve he had two hands and two feet.
He'd been telling himself all along this would never happen, but maybe some part of him had realized he could, indeed, fall in love again someday. Maybe he'd been in denial.
Maybe.
It was a possibility.
He was willing to admit to that.
But if he had thought such a thing—if he'd considered that someday he could fall in love with another woman without desecrating his first wife's memory—he'd thought it could happen only after Anne somehow granted him permission.
Exactly how he could receive permission from a dead woman wasn't something he'd really considered. Maybe he could have gone to her grave and talked to her—he'd read such scenarios in books. Or maybe she could have come to him in a dream—he'd read that in books, too. Or maybe she could have sent him a sign; maybe he could have just seen something—something seemingly insignificant—and somehow known what it meant.
But none of that had happened. Because he didn't need Anne's permission. Because his love for Juliana had nothing to do with Anne.
Nothing.
Loving Juliana didn't diminish the love he'd had for Anne. It didn't mean he wouldn't always cherish the memories of their time together. He didn't love Juliana more than he'd loved Anne or less than he'd loved Anne.
He loved her differently.
She was a different woman, and he loved her for different reasons. Which made sense, because he was different now, too. This new love wasn't better or worse, or deeper or shallower. It was just different.
And it was exactly what he needed right now. What he needed to make him feel whole again, to make his life complete.
Unfortunately, Juliana seemed bent on marrying stuffy Castleton, that ass who wanted her only because she came with a horse.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of her brother's town house.
"Thank you," Lord Malmsey said as he stepped out.
"It was a lovely evening," Lady Frances said and stepped out, too.
Juliana didn't say anything as she stepped out
