Loving Julia by Karen Robards Page B

bloodshot.
    “You be holed up in ’ere drinkin’!” The discovery that he was at least a trifle bosky surprised her, or she would never have said it out loud.
    “What the bloody hell business is it of yours?” he growled. As she watched he deliberately lifted the glass to his lips and drained the contents, then poured himself another.
    His tone more than his words angered her.
    “It ain’t me bizness a-tall, if ya wan’ ter get soused,” she
    agreed cordially, and his eyes glinted at her for an instant before shifting to his glass.
    “Damned right, it isn’t,” he muttered, and took another long swallow.
    Watching him, Jewel thought that he didn’t look much like the complete to a shade lord whose acquaintance she had made in London. This man was just as handsome, but it was a surly, mussed handsomeness instead of the sartorial perfection she had thought characteristic of him. His hair was disordered, his cheeks showed a trace of stubble, and his white shirt was faintly crumpled. All in all, Jewel thought that she could like this man better than the other—if looks were everything. In this state he was not nearly so intimidating; at least, accustomed as she was to loud, abusive, imbibing males, she didn’t find him so.
    “Did you want something?” He was looking at her again. In the shock of finding him like this, she had nearly forgotten her errand.
    “Them new dresses ya got me, they be all black!” she accused, her grievance resurfacing with a vengeance.
    “So, what of it?” It was clear from his tone that he had lost what tiny vestige of interest he might once have felt in her reason for barging in on his privacy.
    Jewel glared at him. “If ya ’ad asked me afore ya went ter orderin’ ’em, I’d ’ave tole ya that I don’ like black. I wan’ ter tell Miss Soames to make ’em over again, in colors.”
    He made a negative gesture with his head. “Impossible. In case you have forgotten, you’re a widow now. You’re in mourning.”
    “So are ya if Timothy be yer cousin, but I don’ see ya goin’ aroun’ all in black,” Jewel flared.
    “What I choose to do and what I choose for you to do are two different things,” he said, looking up at her with hooded eyes. “The correct period of mourning for a young widow is one year. During that time you will observe all outward conventions of respect for your deceased husband, including dressing exclusively in black. Do I make myself clear?”
    Jewel stared at him, her lips tightening. His eyes met hers just as she was about to explode. Their expression checked her outburst as effectively as a splash of cold water. She scowled at him as he continued to regard her with cold blue eyes and faintly lifted brows. Finally, she nodded reluctantly.
    “Yes, my lord,” he prompted, speaking to his glass.
    “Yes, my lord,” she repeated, hands clenching as she turned to go. She would like to tell him what he could do with his “my lords,” but she didn’t quite dare.
    “Wait,” he said, and she turned back to look at him.
    “I had really almost forgotten your existence,” he said, sounding as if the words were meant more for himself than her. He looked up at her, his eyes sharpening. “But now that you’ve reminded me, something really must be done about your atrocious accent. And your manners. I will have Johnson engage a governess for you as soon as possible, certainly no later than the end of the week. Then you may begin to learn to speak and behave like a civilized human being.”
    Jewel bristled. Maybe she didn’t talk as fancy as he did, but at least she didn’t insult him with every breath she uttered.
    “Ya got ter be the rudest man I’ve ever met,” she said through her teeth, and turned to leave him again. This time he stopped her with a snap of his fingers. Thoroughly affronted—she was not a dog!—Jewel turned to glare at him.
    “My lord,” he corrected softly. Jewel ground her teeth.
    “My lord,” she managed, seething,