Page 65 of Atone, Adonis

She looked every inch a Countess. And not one who wore the title as some heavy ornamentation, but rather one of those rare creatures who could carry a coronet so lightly it held all the more weight in the eyes of the spectators. And spectators were everywhere.

It was subtle at first, how heads turned to watch them pass. A barouche slowed just enough that its occupants might look without appearing to stare. A groom tightened his hold on a restless gray whose sidestep forced Fred and Julianna closer to the walkers’ edge. Two young men broke off their conversation mid-laugh as they passed, only to resume it in lowered tones behind gloved hands.

Fred felt the weight of all those eyes on him. He’d known this sensation before—that prickling certainty of being the most interesting scandal within a quarter mile—but he had never experienced it with Julianna at his side. The old instinct rose in him at once: to withdraw, deflect, disappear.

But she’d asked him to be here with her, so he swallowed and kept on, pressing her a little bit more closely to his side as they walked.

“Are you feeling steady, Jules?” he whispered to her, squinting slightly in the sun.

“Never steadier,” she answered and grinned. That smile was probably made up of at least half bravado, but he loved it on her all the same.

Until the first pair of ladies they passed tilted their parasols just enough to permit their inspection. One of them smiled, quick and cruel, and he held his breath at whatever was coming next.

“Well,” the first murmured to her companion, not quite softly enough, “I suppose silk does wonders for anything.”

Fred heard the words clearly, just as he was meant to. As did Julianna. And then he felt as if he could hear every sound in London in excruciating detail: A dog barking somewhere nearby. The clatter of horse’s hooves. The splash of someone or something tipping into the Serpentine. And whispers, whispers everywhere.

His fingers clenched protectively around Julianna’s arm, but she only leaned closer and said lightly in his ear, “How kind of her to admire my gown. I do wear it rather well, don’t you think?”

He found himself breathing again. She was good at this. Perhaps they ought to have hurled stones at foxes a long time ago.

A group of gentlemen on horseback slowed as they drew near. One tipped his hat politely, with only the faintest hesitation before courtesy won out. “Chester,” he said. “Felicitations on your marriage.”

Fred nodded, and thanked him, searching his memory for how he knew the man. And then he recalled he’d bought an Arabian off him once at a very good price. Perhaps, he thought for just a moment, there might be more to London and its inhabitants than just a love of gossip, after all.

But then another couple passed in an open barouche, slowing just enough to look Julianna up and down with open appraisal. The gentleman’s mouth curled in something like distaste. Julianna gave them a single, cursory glance—and then she smiled and lifted her gloved hand in a wave before resting it back on Fred’s arm. He shifted his hand to cover hers, letting every bit of possessiveness he felt come through.

“You’re enjoying this,” he murmured to her.

“I wouldn’t say I’m enjoying it exactly, no. But I suppose it doesn’t matter all that much to me one way or the other what they think. We have the warm air, which I never thought I would say of London over Dorsetshire, and my husband’s company. I don’t need more than that to hold my head high.”

“I doubt you ever imagined saying that of me—that my company was enough.”

He felt the hitch in her step as she paused. “No. But I would have been wrong. And how fortunate that I’ve discovered it.”

He wondered for a moment at her bravery—not only to be here at Rotten Row but to just say words like those, out loud for Christ’s sake—before they passed a family they both recognized. Dorset people, transplanted for the Season. The matron’s lips pursed and her daughters stared with naked fascination. Fred felt his own step stutter.

Dorset—it was always Dorset that undid him.

But Julianna slowed her gait marginally until his feet were back underneath him and she graced the family with her most gracious smile.

“How marvelous to see you here, Mrs. Walton,” she said smoothly. “And with the Misses Felicity and Patience. We wish you well during your Season.”

Fred tipped his hat and onward they went.

“She once had a tendre for my father, I think,” Julianna whispered to him. “But he disappeared to Dominica one summer and returned with my mother. I don’t think she’s ever quite forgiven us for the slight.”

She laughed lightly and Fred joined her. He thought, foolishly, that they were going to win this battle without spilling a drop of blood. But he was wrong.

A horse snorted nearby, the sound impatient as the rhythm of hooves slowed to a deliberate, measured pace. Fred felt the tension of the animal between his shoulderblades, as if he too were being directed in a way he didn’t want to go.

“What is it,” Julianna murmured, her smile fading.

A chestnut mare drew level with them, glossy and restless, its rider sitting side saddle with a languid assurance that would have been attractive had it not been so vain. The horse halted, the reins checked by the Baroness Van Austerleigh, her hand gloved in the finest cordoban leather. Fred felt his chest begin to constrict again and that was before he noticed the younger man who rode half a length behind her, handsome and fresh-faced, watching Fred with open interest.

Had he, he wondered, looked so naive when he’d trod along behind her?

Of course he had.