The Secret Life of Lady Julia by Lecia Cornwall

on the journey to Vienna, without any questions at all. He hadn’t explained about the scandal, not knowing how to tell his delicate sister such a tale. He was certain she had seen the baby among their party, and Julia with him, but Doe looked past the infant as if he were invisible. He should be grateful, he supposed. Without Julia, he would not have been able to make this trip, since Doe could hardly remain in London alone.
    Julia got Dorothea to the door and turned her over to her maid. To his surprise, Julia took her sodden cloak back and returned to the inn yard to direct the unloading of Doe’s luggage, insisting on her feather bed first, which was wrapped in oilcloth to keep it dry, so Dorothea could rest properly.
    She stood in the rain directing things with little care for herself, and it grew more difficult for Stephen to squelch his admiration. The more he looked, the less he saw the fallen woman and the more he saw the lady, soaked to the skin and still smiling. He left his post under the eaves, gasped at the icy downpour, and crossed the cobbles to assist. They spoke only French here, and perhaps she needed his help after all.
    But Julia was giving orders like a duchess—and giving them in perfect French. He skidded to a stop and watched. Every servant jumped to obey, despite the weather.
    “You speak excellent French,” he said, and she turned with a polite smile. She looked pretty in the rain, with crystal drops on her dark lashes, her lips moist.
    “Bien sûr,” she replied. “My grandmother insisted that I must have a first-rate education, including Fre—”
    A porter screamed a warning as a heavy trunk slipped from wet hands, tumbling off the roof of the coach. Stephen caught her shoulders, pulled her back against his chest just in time. The trunk landed in the mud where she’d been standing seconds before. Muck splashed her skirts, but she ignored it, looking up at him in surprise, her hazel eyes meeting his—wide, beautiful, very wary eyes. A shock went through him. Good God! Surely she didn’t think that he— He set her on her feet at once and stepped back.
    “Watch what you’re doing!” he snapped at the porters in English.
    “Take it upstairs, third room on the left,” Julia said quietly, ignoring the stains on her gown and the obsequious apologies of the servants. She drew her dignity around her like a cloak and moved away from him, concentrating on the rest of the trunks.
    He didn’t take her arm when they finally went inside out of the rain, once everything had been seen to. Instead he clasped his hands behind his back, walked beside her. She was soaked to the skin, her jaw clenched to keep her teeth from chattering. “Would you like something warm to drink?” he asked.
    “Thank you, but I had better go upstairs, see that Dorothea is settled.” She met his eyes, her hazel gaze unapologetic, bold. “And my son.” The reminder—the warning—was clear.
    “Of course,” he said, feeling his cheeks heat at the rebuke. “Order what you like, have it sent upstairs. Good night, Miss Leighton.” He stressed the word Miss.
    “Good night, Major Lord Ives.”
    He watched her go, a lady to her fingertips.
    Yet she wasn’t.
    The very fact that she had been seduced, had given in to passion and possession, suggested she had a sensual side. It was intriguing, even if he must ignore it as her employer.
    He was still a man, and as curious as the rest of the ton about the affair.
    He looked away from the slender figure of the enigmatic Lady Julia.
    Like she did, he had duties to attend to before he could rest. They had at least a month of hard travel ahead, and anything might happen on the road between here and Vienna.
    He had to be on his guard.

 
    Chapter 6

    Paris
    D orothea’s face was as white as the lace handkerchief she held over her nose. “How horrible this city smells!” she cried. “Make the coachman go faster!”
    But there was no way to do that. The narrow streets and