The River of No Return

today, and she had yielded, as a ripe peach yields to the teeth. She wanted to be back with him in the woods, she wanted to feel his rough cheek against hers, his hair tangling in her hands, his hot kisses on her throat.
    Julia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her temper had always been her besetting sin. Now she knew that anger and desire were drawn from the same well. He had gripped her strongly, kissed her harshly, and she had met him with equal strength. Then he’d made her angry, and her anger had felt good, as good as the passion.
    The sound of the approaching carriage grew louder and Julia opened her eyes. For a moment she simply stared, and then she laughed; an ostentatious red-bodied coach was bowling out from under the trees, a gilded coat of arms on its doors. The coachman was in full Blackdown livery, and he was driving a perfectly matched four of chestnuts. It was all very splendid, and utterly ridiculous for an afternoon visit among near neighbors. She laughed again as the coachman deftly avoided the bump in the drive. But her laughter died in her throat as the horses swept the coach up in front of the house, and she was biting her lip by the time the coachman climbed down, opened the door, and lowered the step with a flourish.
    Clare’s foot emerged first, clad in a satin shoe, and then the rest of her, her gloved hand grasping the coachman’s for support, her calm face tilted to look up at the house. She wore an elaborately ruched chocolate-brown spencer over a dress of rust-red net, its deep hem richly embroidered in browns and blues and golds. Her red turban sported a glorious dark blue ostrich feather affixed with a golden brooch. She looked so magnificent as to appear slightly theatrical, which Julia knew to be the goal.
    Next to emerge was a tall, older man with a full head of wild white hair. This had to be Count Lebedev. He stood beside Clare and looked at the house with a slight sneer, one hand on his hip, the other clasping his black beaver hat, which Julia could see had a garish red lining.
    Finally, after what seemed like a year, Blackdown climbed out of the coach. He was a few inches shorter than the Russian but dressed identically, in a blue superfine coat with bright buttons, buff pantaloons, and tasseled Hessian boots. The men’s snowy cravats were even tied in the same stiff and intricate oriental style.
    She reached out and put her hand against the glass, covering the party of visitors with her fingers for just a moment. She let her hand drop, and the three callers reappeared. As if he sensed her, Nick turned his head and looked straight up at her window. She held her chin high. He nodded to her curtly.
    The trio paused together and gazed at the house, rather like three generals surveying a battlefield, Clare with unruffled certitude, the Russian with contempt, and the marquess with impassive determination. Without speaking to one another, they moved toward the door and out of Julia’s line of sight. She now simply had to wait, and hope that Eamon would receive his guests in the Yellow Saloon.
    * * *
    Pringle tried to turn them away at the door, as he had been instructed. But his obedience to his master was suitably overawed by the sight of Nicholas Falcott, returned so gloriously and miraculously from the war. The young marquess was sadly weathered by his years spent in the hot sun, but he was so finely dressed, and his elegant Russian friend was a true dandy, Pringle could tell. After some debate, he agreed that the earl might be persuaded into receiving his guests.
    Five minutes later he returned. The earl would see them in the Blue Drawing Room. “Which is in and of itself a miracle, my lords and lady. But not Miss Julia. He orders that she must wait upstairs. She will not be permitted to join you.”
    “Where is Miss Julia?” Clare put her hand on Pringle’s arm. “She is expecting us.”
    “In the Yellow Saloon, my lady.”
    “Does she yet know that she is not to come downstairs?” Clare asked.
    The butler shook his head.
    “Then I shall go up to her,” Clare said, all brisk efficiency. “You may explain to the earl that I insisted upon seeing my old friend and would not take no for an answer. I’ll then bring her down to the Blue Drawing Room. I shall simply tell his lordship that I couldn’t bear not to see her.” She turned to Nick and Arkady. “Good luck, gentlemen. I’ll be down with Julia in a trice.” She caught up her skirt in one hand and