Free The Secret Life of Lady Julia by Lecia Cornwall Page B

Stewart, then Stephen bloody Ives. If she were a man—like James, for example—she could draw off her glove, call them both out with a slap, and defend her honor.
    But she was only a woman, and a ruined woman at that, forever to be regarded with suspicion. She’d seen it in Lady Castlereagh’s eyes, and even in the eyes of her ladyship’s servants. She put the weapon back into her pocket and turned away, moving woodenly toward the inn to find Dorothea.
    “Is there a problem, my lord?” she heard Stephen ask, his tone brittle.
    She heard Lord Stewart laugh again. “Not at all. I was telling Miss Leighton how nice it is to have a pretty face on the journey,” he drawled. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed yourself by now.”
    Julia pressed a hand to her hot cheek at the innuendo and kept walking.
    After that she’d kept the pistol loaded and made certain she was never without a maid close by when she was not with Dorothea. She did not even glance at Lord Stewart when she was in his presence, but she felt his gaze crawling over her.
    But now they were here, in Vienna, and Stewart was riding far ahead with his half brother, the ambassador.
    She held her bonnet against the sluggish breeze and stared at the city, still distant, but close enough that the church spires were visible, floating above the golden cloud of dust. The channels of the River Danube wove through the landscape like dark ribbons. It was early afternoon and the sky was a clear and cloudless blue against the dusty earth. It was impossible not to feel joy.
    She took a deep breath, trying to catch the perfume of the city itself, the signature scent of the place, but it was still too far away, and all she could smell was dust.
    Stephen rode up alongside. “Vienna at last,” he said, his eyes on the city. He had been cool and correct and distant since the incident at the inn, nearly silent during meals.
    “How marvelous it looks,” Julia replied.
    “But the Danube isn’t blue,” he said. The wind blew a lock of fair hair over his forehead, making him look young and wistful as well as handsome on his tall black horse.
    “No, it’s more purple, perhaps, or even—” She bit her lip.
    Indigo, like his eyes, as he shaded them against the sun. Like Thomas Merritt’s eyes had been by starlight, though they were gray in candlelight. She turned away to look at the river again.
    “At least it isn’t the greenish brown of the Thames,” he finished for her, studying her face. Her cheeks were hot and she was sure she was blushing.
    “A real bath,” he murmured.
    “Pardon?” She looked up at him in surprise, and wondered if she had dust on her cheeks. She resisted the urge to wipe her hand over her skin, but he smiled, the first genuine smile he’d given her in days. The thrill of arrival was contagious, it seemed.
    “I mean that’s what I’m looking forward to when this journey finally comes to an end.”
    She drew a breath. “Oh, yes. Dorothea will also be pleased to arrive. She has heard that Lady Castlereagh has insisted on bringing an English cook.”
    “She has indeed. What would you have him make for you?” Stephen asked.
    Julia rolled her eyes. “Scones with clotted cream—though I hear that Vienna is famous for apple strudel and chocolate confections.”
    “So they say,” he laughed. “Are you game to try the local delicacies, then?”
    “I have heard the way to know a city best is to taste it.” Once you knew it by sight and scent, of course.
    “I think you may be right. Who could understand Paris without tasting the bread, or the chicken cooked with apples and garlic?”
    “Or the snails,” she teased, and wondered if she were being too forward. “And the cheese, and the butter,” she continued quickly, aware that she was babbling. “Though English strawberries are much sweeter than the French ones.”
    He smiled at her as if they were meeting at tea, conversing as equals, and she was still an earl’s daughter, a lady of