Lady Jane, however, held back. “Thank you for your advice, Your Grace. I found it most enlightening.”

“As did I,” Julia said to herself. Not that it mattered, for Lady Jane was already making her way back to the salon for the games.

Julia followed slowly, her mind lost in her observation of William. He was kind, and always had a way of making her feel safe. Even their lackluster consummation had been the direct result of him not wishing to hurt her. Surely, such a man was trustworthy.

When she entered, the salon’s candles were half snuffed out and a large punchbowl had been set at a table’s center, which the guests gathered around. The distinct aroma of brandy hung in the air.

“Snapdragon.” Nancy clapped her hands. “Who is going first?”

The game had always frightened Julia. The entire bowl was to be lit aflame and people had to pluck a fat raisin from the fiery depths. She had never played the game herself.

“I think the Duke of Stedton ought to take the lead.” A dry, papery voice spoke up. Everyone in the room turned to find Lord Venerton, quite awake, his dark eyes glittering in the semi-darkness.

William gave a charming smile and stepped forward. “By all means.” He rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, the one without the burn.

A servant touched a candle to the brandy, and blue flames leapt to life over the smooth surface amid the gasps and delighted coos of the small crowd. A muscle worked along William’s jaw and the jovial expression on his face looked more carved than natural.

It was cruel to make a man who had narrowly escaped from fire to plunge his good arm into a bowl of it. No doubt Lord Venerton knew as much.

Apparently, he did deserve his wife.

“Come now,” Julia said. “Shouldn’t it be ladies first?”

William startled and glanced down at her, his bared forearm held aloft.

“I’ll have a go of it, if you don’t mind, Your Grace.” Before he could protest, she pushed her sleeve’s dangling lace from her elbow and plunged her hand into the fire.

The brandy was warm, but even the flames were not hot where they whispered harmlessly over her skin. This was not nearly as frightening as she had always assumed. Her fingers skirted along the bottom, seeking out the lump of an unseen raisin. One brushed at her fingertips.

Blast. She’d missed it.

Her hand pushed forward and nudged the thing again. She chased it about the bowl, determined not only to catch the confounded thing, but to win the game. After all, when she won, she could choose her own prize.

Her arm was stretched out over the wide bowl now. The raisin couldn’t escape her now.

“Your Grace, mind your sleeve,” Lady Cecelia said in her gentle voice.

But the hunt was on. And one deft little grab was all Julia needed to grasp the raisin and win the game. Julia straightened and was met with a flash of light.

“You’re on fire,” Lady Bursbury exclaimed.

Julia jerked back, but the flames came with her. She was truly on fire.

FIRE, an all-consuming beast that destroyed everything in its wake, turning lives to ash. Years had passed, and yet still William could recall the torment of it on his skin, the flames licking over healthy flesh and burning it away.

He had lived in fear of it, never even smoking cheroots or getting too close to a hearth.

Until the moment Julia’s arm lit up with those wicked tongues of fire. He acted immediately, tugging his jacket free, wrapping her in it and using his own body to smother the flames.

Everyone stood in a moment of stunned silence before erupting in cheers and gasps of relief. He hardly heard them. He instead stared at the blossoming spots of red on Julia’s arm amid the singed lace. “You’re hurt.”

“Only a little.” She fingered the blackened edge of lace. “My gown is certainly ruined.”

“Oh, Julia, I’m terribly sorry.” Nancy rushed forward and pushed a wad of linen into William’s hand.

It was cold against his palm, the cloth filled with snow to act as a cooling compress. “I’ll see to her upstairs.”

Nancy blinked rapidly and dabbed at her glossy eyes. “Yes, of course,” she choked. “Please do let us know if you need anything.”

Bursbury was at his wife’s side at the show of distress, his arm around her. “Perhaps we should resume games tomorrow.” He snapped his fingers. “Bruiser, out.”

The white fluff of a dog slunk away from the table holding an abandoned pile of raisins.

“Naughty thing.” Julia gave a good-natured chuckle. A solid sign she was not severely injured.

“He must be used to someone feeding him the food meant for his betters,” William muttered and slid Julia a side glance. “Let’s get you seen to.”

In the few moments it took to arrive at their chambers, the Bursbury staff had already delivered a healing salve and fresh linen for binding. Hodges remained as the only servant in the room.

“Edith cannot tolerate the sight of injuries,” Julia said by way of explanation.

“How terribly inconvenient.” He extended her arm. “Let me see.”

Julia obeyed, shifting her elbow to display the burn. “I don’t get injured often.”

William nodded to Hodges, silently conveying he would see to Julia and the servant was dismissed. Hodges slipped from the room, while William studied the splotches of red on his wife’s forearm.

“Was it the fire?” Julia asked.

“I’m certain this did not come from feeding Bruiser under the table.” He lifted his gaze from her injury to meet her wide blue eyes.

“Not my arm,” she said softly. “Your parents.”

And just like that, with the simple reminder, the wound in his chest ripped open anew. “Yes.” He plucked the stopper from the salve.

“What happened?” she asked, her tone the vocal equivalent of a tiptoe.

I killed them. With my indecision and hesitation. I lived, and they died.

“I don’t talk about it.” He dipped his fingers in the greasy salve. “This may hurt.”

He was exceedingly careful when spreading the balm over her arm, almost not touching her at all. He remembered far too well how the slightest of brushes on charred skin brought pain. Her injury was not as bad as his had been, but he would not take any chances.

She did not flinch, not from the touch, nor from his refusal to answer. “Who did you live with after the fire?”

Her words prodded at his wounds, even as he so gently administered a balm to hers. “My aunt.”

“Until your maturity?”

“No.”

She bit her bottom lip and watched him with a quiet intensity. “How old were you when it happened?”

He put the top back on the jar of balm and wiped his hands clean on an extra square of linen. “Seven.”

She gave a soft cry. He jerked his attention back to her, thinking she’d injured the burned part of her arm. Instead, he found her staring at him in horror.

“Only seven?” Her fingertips went to her lips. “You were just a boy.”

He brushed off her concern. “It didn’t exactly happen last year. At any rate, it’s old news that no one need talk about any longer.” He lifted up the gauzy white bandage the Bursbury’s had provided.

She cradled her arm to her chest, keeping it from him. “Frustrated or angry?”

He studied her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you frustrated with me for asking these questions?” She tilted her head in genuine curiosity. “Or are you angry?”

“It isn’t my topic of choice, but I’m not angry with you.” He ran a hand over his jaw and paused, possibly detecting a rough patch. A second pass over the area reassured him there was indeed not a section of his face missed in his last shave. “I’m not frustrated with you, either.”

She held her arm out to him to wrap. “I believe it is well within my right to declare myself the winner of snapdragon.”

He eyed her arm. Balm glistened over the tender skin. “Are you so sure?”

“Yes.” She unfurled her fist to reveal a fat, brandy-soaked raisin at the center of her palm. “And since I am the winner, I have a prize to claim.”

Oh, yes. He slowly, tenderly eased the linen over her skin and tried to ignore how his body went instantly hot at the idea of what she wanted. She had made it clear from the beginning what she would request. And while he had been reluctant at first, his own damnable teasing had stretched his control to the limit and made him nearly shake with the idea of touching her. Loving her.

“Yes, you do have a prize to claim.” He tucked the edge of her binding against her upper arm where the skin was uninjured. He leaned toward her and framed her lovely jaw with his fingertips, his mouth easing closer to hers. “Dare I ask what you’ll request?”

“I want…” Her brow furrowed slightly, and she studied him for a long moment, casting her gaze from his eyes to his lips and back again. “I want…”

She was having a hard time saying it, but he would not have a hard time giving it. He waited patiently, knowing exactly what she would say.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.




CHAPTER 8




JULIA KNEW what she ought to ask for. It was what she’d been after since the beginning.

And yet, things had changed.

Her prior curiosity that had spurred her conversation with Hodges now tipped to concern. She desired William, yes. Especially after what he’d done to her body only hours before. Especially when his mouth hovered so close to her own, the spicy scent of him making her arc toward him with yearning.

But there was so much more. She needed to know not just the man, but also the boy who had made this man who he was.

It was her solitary win and she knew exactly what she would ask for.

She lifted her hand to his face, where the grain of his whiskered jaw had been meticulously scraped to softness. “I want to know about your childhood, about your parents, about the fire, and Maribel.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Forgive me, I know you thought that I would request, you know.” A blush flared over her cheeks. “But I would like to know what happened. It’s part of discovering you, William, and to do that I need to truly understand you.”

He leaned back, putting a more breathable, less heart-catching distance between them. He cleared his throat, then rattled his history off with a swift, detached efficiency. “The country estate caught on fire when I was a boy. My parents died because of me. I would have perished too, were it not for Hodges. I was passed around from house to house because no one wants an orphan. Maribel was my father’s favorite horse. She’s very sick and will soon die.”

The casual lift of his shoulders indicated the end.

But even in that brief tale, there was so, so much.

“Because of you?” Julia repeated. “How could you have possibly caused your parents’ deaths?”

He stared down at his hands. “I was in the study, where I wasn’t supposed to be. I knew there was a fire and I froze.” He rubbed his fingers together, and then balled his hand in a fist. “I was so afraid I would get in trouble for being in the study that I remained there too long trying to decide what best to do to get out of the situation. My parents were calling me and when I finally emerged, they were on the other side of the split-level stairs. Their side collapsed. The one I was on began to sway and Hodges grabbed me. When I awoke, I’d lost my parents. My family.”

Julia’s heart contracted for the boy who spent a lifetime thinking his parents’ deaths were his fault. She reached out and took his hands in hers. “It wasn’t your fault.”