Loving Julia by Karen Robards Page A

said, as she prepared to leave, having seen the items into Emily’s hands. The maid, excited by the prospect of her lady’s having a real wardrobe at last, was already opening the boxes and laying the contents out on the bed. Out came white linen petticoats, white silk chemises, white lawn nightgowns, white silk and cotton stockings, garters, stays, and then dress after dress in unrelieved black. Emily’s face fell and Jewel’s eyes widened.
    “But miss, they be all black!” Jewel protested faintly to Miss Soames.
    The seamstress’ eyebrows rose as her eyes ran over Jewel with condescension. “But of course they are, my dear Mrs. Stratham. On his lordship’s orders. He led me to understand you recently lost your husband.”
    “Oh. Oh, ayeh, me ’usband,” Jewel mumbled, having almost forgotten that she had been married, let alone widowed. She had seen fat shopkeepers’ wives walking about in black dresses after their husbands had died, but they were old women, married a long time. But she couldn’t dress in black for the rest of her life! And considering the quantity of garments the earl had had made up for her, he was apparently expecting her to do just that.
    “Wait right ’ere, would ya? I ’ave to go ’ave a lil talk wit’ somebody.” Jewel’s eyes gleamed with determination as she marched from the room in search of the earl. Dressing in black for the next half century for a husband she had scarcely known was ridiculous.
    “May I help you, Miss Julia?” One of the footmen—or underfootmen, she could never tell—materialized out of the shadows beneath the stairs as she stepped down into the grand hall.
    “I be lookin’ for ’is lordship,” she announced, staring right into his eyes as if daring him to put a rub in her way.
    “His lordship is in the library, I believe, Miss Julia.”
    “And where’d that be?”
    “On the first floor of the north wing. But, Miss Julia, he gave specific orders that he is not to be disturbed.”
    “Well, bully for ’im,” Jewel muttered as she marched in the direction of the north wing. Her earlier exploration of the house paid off, as she easily found her way through the labyrinthian corridors to the one door on the first floor that was always closed. Hardly pausing to draw a deep breath, she rapped her knuckles sharply on the polished oak door.
    “Who is it?” the earl answered, irritation plain in his voice.
    “It be me, Jewel—uh, Julia, yer lordship,” Jewel answered. After a slight pause she heard a distinct, “Go away.” Her temper heated. Just because he was an all-powerful earl didn’t mean he could dismiss her as if she were nothing! The light of battle flared in her eyes as she turned the knob and opened the door.
    He was sprawled in a big wing chair before the fire, one booted foot resting on a footstool while the other was planted solidly on the rug. A glass holding an amber liquid was in one hand while a bottle containing more rested on a table at his elbow. A long thin cigar lay in a gold dish on the same table, a white drift of smoke rising lazily from it. On the footstool an open book lay face down. He was in shirtsleeves, without coat or cravat, and wore buckskin trousers instead of the breeches she had expected. The fire gleamed brightly off the silver-gilt of his hair, but left his face in shadow. Jewel could only see the gleam of his eyes as they ran over her slowly from head to toe.
    “Do you know, I had almost forgotten about you? If you were to take yourself off again, I might succeed completely.” His voice was slightly slurred, and if not actively hostile was certainly not welcoming. Jewel’s chin came up, and she took a couple of steps into the room.
    “Do come in,” he said ironically.
    She ignored that, too, advancing determinedly until she stood beside the stool where that one booted foot still rested. He sat without moving, looking up at her through narrowed eyes that Jewel could see now were more than a little