Page 52 of To Marry and to Meddle
Robert sighed, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that reminded Emily strongly of his brother. “Julian—”
“He made perfectly clear—on more than one occasion, might I add—that I was not welcome under his roof so long as I continued to operate the theater,” Julian said quietly, in that moment not at all resembling the man Emily had thought she’d married. She was used to a slightly laughing note to his voice, some amused cadence lurking at the edge of whatever he said—but there was no hint of laughter in his tone now.
“He said that years ago,” Robert said, clearly frustrated. He sounded, in fact, remarkably like Frances had when she had attempted to speak to her brother of their parents—specifically of their father. “Does it never occur to you that people are capable of changing their minds?”
“He’s never said a word to me that would indicate that he’s done so,” Julian said stubbornly.
“Of course he hasn’t,” Robert said, obviously growing more exasperated by the moment. “Have you met the man? He wouldn’t know how to admit he’s made a mistake if his life depended on it—really, it’s a miracle he and Mother remain so happy together, all things considered. But I thought that you—being, you understand, an adult yourself now—could perhaps see your way to making the first overture.”
“I think not,” Julian said, his tone leaving no room for disagreement. Robert clearly recognized this, because he merely sighed again before departing, at least managing to spare a last smile and bow for Emily.
Emily, who was now left alone in the room with a distinctly ruffled husband, and no clear idea of how to smooth his feathers.
The aforementioned husband, for his part, did not seem to expect anything of the sort from her, instead devoting a considerable amount of time to staring moodily into the amber liquid that remained in the glass before him. Emily had seen this look on a man before, and knew from careful observation that no good could come of interrupting Julian when he seemed hell-bent on working himself into a proper brooding sulk, but she did, as it happened, have practical matters to discuss with him—matters that, given the conversation she had just witnessed, could be viewed as extremely fortunatelyorextremely unfortunately timed. She just wasn’t sure which yet.
“Er,” she said, and he looked up, the lines of his face softening a bit as he focused on her. “I’ll just be going to check with Mrs. Larkspur that everything is ready for this evening, then.” The blank look he gave her confirmed what she suspected—that he had no memory whatsoever of the event that was shortly to occur. “When my parents come to dine?”
Julian muttered a rather foul curse, which seemed to slip out beforehe quite realized what he was saying. “Christ,” he added, pressing his fingertips to his temples. “I’m sorry. Still not used to having a wife I need to watch my language around at all times.”
“You don’t need to watch your language around me,” Emily said, a bit hesitant. “I don’t mind if you swear sometimes. My ears won’t spontaneously combust at the sound.”
“No, no, I’m supposed to be reforming myself,” Julian said wearily. “It just requires a bit more concentration than I feel capable of mustering at the moment.”
“But,” Emily said, rising from her seat—Cecil gave an indignantmeowas she dislodged him—and slowly making her way around the desk, “what if I don’t want you reformed?”
Something in her tone must have caught his attention, because when he looked up at her then, a bit of the weariness had gone from his face, and there was a gleam of definite interest in his eye.
“I believe I can leave certain things unreformed, wife,” he murmured, reaching out a hand to grasp her by the wrist and tug her closer to him. She felt heat settle low in her belly at the warm, silken note to his voice when he called herwife, and she took several steps closer to him, until she was near enough to loop an arm around his neck and sink down onto his lap.
“Can you?” she asked lightly, tilting her head slightly as she leaned forward to kiss him. She felt wildly, wickedly bold as she did so—even after a few weeks of marriage, she was still usually very much the recipient of Julian’s attentions, he very much the instigator. She was undeniably a willing, enthusiastic participant, but it felt daring to kiss him, rather than waiting to be kissed. To press her mouth to the bare skin of his throat, reveling in the slight hitch in his breathing. To gather her skirts in her hands and lift them, freeing her legs enough that shemight turn herself on his lap, properly straddling him, pressing herself against where she could feel him beginning to respond.
“I—ah—” he said, his voice satisfyingly strangled, “don’t wish to interrupt this interlude, but did you mention something about your parents?”
Emily sighed, pulling back from him slightly. “Oh. Right.” Her hand was still pressed against his neck, underneath his collar, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to remove it. “I believe I mentioned this last week, inviting them to dinner?” Julian looked at her blankly. “In the library, after dinner one evening?” Another blank look. “With the—er—brandy?”
At this, the blank look vanished, replaced by a wicked smile. It had been a rather memorable occasion the week before, when Julian had been so occupied in trying to pull Emily down onto his lap that he’d upended an entire glass of brandy onto his trousers.
Thus necessitating their immediate removal, of course.
So it was perhaps unsurprising that he didn’t recall the conversation in question, given that it was undoubtedly not the most interesting part of the evening.
“I have fond memories of that night,” Julian said, confirming her suspicions, “but I must confess I don’t remember this particular portion of it.”
“Well,” Emily said, leaning back so she could look more directly into his eyes, “they’re coming to dinner, tonight. Which means—”
“I’m not to go back to the Belfry to escape them,” Julian said, his tone bored.
“Precisely,” Emily said, then hesitated. She felt as though she were still feeling her way around this role of wife, unsure of when to press forward, when to relent. It was like wearing a new pair of shoes thatshe had yet to properly break in. “And… if you could be… nice?” she finished, wishing her voice sounded a bit more firm, a bit less hesitant, less questioning.
“I’m always nice,” he said, that familiar gleam back in his eye as he slid the hand that was resting at her waist slowly up her torso. She swatted him away, sliding off his lap before she could become further distracted by creeping hands.
“Notthatkind of nice,” she said. “Just… make them like you. You’re perfectly capable of doing that, when you wish to.”
Julian watched her carefully as she spoke, in that unsettlingly focused way he had sometimes. It was always a bit disconcerting, to realize that this man who gave the impression, half the time, of not attending to much of anything that was being said, was in fact capable of watching her like a hawk.
“Why does it matter so much to you whether they like me?” he asked.
“I—what?” she asked, caught off guard by the question.
