The River of No Return

and came over to her, holding out his hands. She gave him one of hers but withdrew it quickly. He looked at her quizzically. “Are you quite well?”
    “Yes, thank you. Shall we sit?”
    “Certainly.” He waited for her to arrange herself on the settee, then sat down beside her, his long legs stretching out, his highly polished black top boots reflecting back the afternoon sun that was pouring in the tall front windows. He took her hand again and audaciously stroked her fingers, sending a silvery shiver up her arm. “What is this mark?” He traced the red stain on the back of her hand.
    She watched him, as if from a distance. “Beet juice,” she said.
    He looked at her, his eyes questioning. “You are in a strange mood. Have you just come home? I thought you had gone to Hatchards, but instead you’ve been messing about with beets. Where have you been?”
    “As Satan says to another lord, I’ve been ‘going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it.’”
    Nick laughed uncomfortably. “Are you Satan in this scene?”
    Julia studied his face. It was weathered by his years in Spain, almost harsh in its angles. It had creased where he used it to smile or frown. His changeable eyes were restful on the surface, stormy in their depths. She supposed his face was like Devon. Rich in places, bleak in others, and always there was the gray-blue moody sky. Again she had that feeling that she did not know him, that he was a stranger. And yet he was hers. She felt it fiercely.
    “I want you,” she heard herself say. “I want to lie with you. Like in the poem.”
    It seemed to her for a moment that time stopped. It wasn’t anything she was doing—time was, in fact, trotting along at its usual pace. Yet the way he sat there perfectly still, his eyes intent upon her . . . the moment might simply go on and on. But then he stood, in one fluid movement. He squeezed her shoulder almost carelessly and went to the door. Was he going to walk out on her? Leave her, pretend she’d said nothing?
    He opened the door to the hallway and called the butler. “When are my mother and sisters expected home?”
    “I am not sure, my lord. Your sisters went to Hatchards with Miss Percy.” Smedley looked past Nick at Julia, and for just one moment allowed obvious disapproval to show on his face. “Perhaps Miss Percy will be better informed than I as to when they will return, and from where.”
    “Thank you,” Nick said reprovingly. “And my mother?”
    “Lady Blackdown is visiting with Mrs. Beauchamp. I cannot say when she may return.”
    Nick turned to Julia and said in bright tones, “We may as well take our walk, then, Miss Percy. There’s no telling when they will come home, and it’s no good waiting for them. Are you ready?”
    Julia heard the light words, but his eyes, bent upon hers with searing intensity, were very serious. He was giving her an order.
    She stood and pulled on her gloves. “Of course, my lord.” In the hallway she pinned her hat on her head again and glanced once more at her face. Did she look different, now that she had dashed to pieces every rule of good behavior? No. Her hair was dark. Her cheeks were pale. Her eyes were brown. She was the same.
    He waited by the door, his own hat already on his head. “Shall we?”
    She sketched him a miniature curtsy and they left the house. The butler closed the door behind them with evident disdain. Not five minutes had passed since she had made her outrageous request, and she was now standing in the street outside his house—in disgrace?
    Blackdown took her arm, and they walked down the marble steps together, turned right, then immediately right again onto Davies Street.
    “Where are we going?”
    Nick said nothing, merely steered her right once again into the mews behind the row of town houses. He led her to the stable door, opened it, and they walked in. The big traveling carriage and three smaller equipages confronted them. The tack room was to the left, and to the right, the row of stalls. The warm, comforting smell of hay and horses enveloped Julia. Down the dim row of stalls she heard horses shifting and one soft, questioning whicker. But Nick was already pulling her forward between the carriages, looking to left and right as he did so. “If we see a stable hand we will have to pretend we are visiting Marigold and Boatswain,” he whispered. “But with any luck we won’t.”
    At the back of the stables was a small, plain wooden