Page 89 of Atone, Adonis

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The drive leading up to Hawthorne Hall curved through a stand of trees newly green with the coming summer, their leaves still thin enough to let the light through in shifting patterns. Lanterns had been hung along the approach, glass chimneys flickering with the dancing flames as dusk settled in earnest. The air smelled of damp earth and flowers in their earliest blooms, and Julianna could hear the tinkling sounds of music and laughter before she even saw the house.

“Well,” she said quietly, peering out the carriage window. “It certainly is beautiful. Even if my nerves are a bit overwrought.”

Fred squeezed her hand but he was still staring out the window, his brow creased. “We’ve done all we could to ensure this evening goes our way.”

“I know. But I worry.”

“So do I. Although skullduggery is much more fun when one is in charge of it instead of its victim. And no one deserves a comeuppance more than the Baroness Van Austerleigh.”

“Absolutely true.”

“And,” Fred went on, “you look exquisite.” His gloved hand reached down and brushed the folds of her sapphire gown. “Truly. Madame Tremaux has cut it exactly right.”

That did make her smile. “You’ve missed your calling as the next Henry Poole, my love.”

Fred only arched an eyebrow. “I believe if I were a tailor I could do a great deal better than establishing Savile Row.”

“Fred,” Julianna said, amused despite his slip back into the veneer of the snide aristocrat. “I refuse to spend the entire evening with Chester. I know he’ll be required for some of tonight’s entertainment but do put him away when he’s not needed, will you?”

He leaned over, his breath warm against her skin, and bit down on her earlobe, sending a shiver through her. “Of course. Now look lively, dearheart, we’re approaching.”

The carriage rolled to a stop beneath the portico, where footmen in Hawthorne livery moved about with practiced ease. They looked rather like how she imagined the corps de ballet would. Not that she’d ever been to the ballet but she would like to go, one day, when all this was behind them. She’d like to sit in a darkened room, watching art and music made before her eyes, her husband’s hand clasped in hers. And then she’d like to return home with him, to Dorset.

Good memories, she thought, awaiting them in the future, just like he’d said he wanted on the evening they’d decided to travel to London.

Fred descended from the carriage first, turning to offer her his hand. She reached down and grasped it, thinking only briefly of those early weeks in their marriage when he refused to touch her. And how far they’d come since those awful, cold, lonely days.

Her deep-blue gown rustled as she stepped down, the jewel-like color of it unmistakable against the pale stone of the house. She felt eyes turn as they approached the enormous double doors, the recognition of who they were rippling its way inevitably through the crowd.

Fred’s grip tightened on her fingers, just slightly. “You’re magnificent tonight, Jules,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

She smiled up at him. “Onwards, my lord.”

Inside, Hawthorne Hall glittered.

The great entry hall was just as she remembered it from the last occasion when she’d been here. She hadn’t been more than a girl of ten when the Hawthornes had commissioned a piece of music from her father, and the family had been in attendance at the musicale where he’d played it for them.

Tonight, like then, the flowers had been arranged in abundance and there were candles everywhere. But that long-ago evening had not seen the rugs rolled back in preparation for dancing. Nor had the chandeliers blazed overhead, their light reflected in polished floors and jeweled bodices, with the heat of bodies and the scent of perfume hanging heavy in the air.

“Chester,” a voice called and Julianna felt her husband stiffen at her side as they glimpsed the evening’s host make his way toward them.

She and Fred turned together to face Lord Hawthorne. He was as tall as Julianna remembered, but age had softened his frame, padding his middle and graying the dark hair at his temples. Fred slipped his hand down to her lower back and left it there. A warm reminder that tonight the two of them faced the very worst of Dorset Society together.

“He’s coming this way,” she whispered.

“Indeed.” Fred’s eyes scanned Hawthorne’s attire as he approached before he leaned down to whisper, “Too bad about the evening suit. That fabric is a tragedy.”

She hid her smile. Perhaps Chester did have more uses than just her husband’s prickly persona. He could be quite funny, too.

Her eyes fell on Lady Hawthorne, now walking a few paces behind her husband. “Perhaps that is why his wife chooses to trail behind him instead of standing at his side?”

Julianna had always thought the woman beautiful but tonight the ugliness of her character colored her features. Julianna could no longer see the elegant planes of her face nor the confident glide of her walk. She saw only the picture of haughtiness before her. And a glint in her hostess’s eye that could only be read as malice.

Isobel Hawthorne must have been four-and-twenty or so when she married the Earl and moved to Dorset. A year or two older than Julianna was now, but without the respite of Farrow Cottage or her vegetable gardens or, she felt Fred press closer to her, a husband who loved her. Lord Hawthorne barely seemed to notice his wife’s presence at all.

This was a woman, Julianna thought, who had found herself stranded in the country in an unhappy marriage and had taken to amusing herself at the expense of other people’s lives. Fred had told her that Lady Hawthorne had first introduced him to the Baroness. She had, Julianna now suspected, pushed him into the Baroness’s arms purely for sport. Why else would they have invited a young man of only ten and five years to dine with them, without his stepmother’s presence? Why else ply him with wine and sherry and then push him into the gardens with the older woman after the meal concluded?