Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)

br /> “I know, Saint,” she’d said quietly, “I know. Honor, fidelity, and all that.”

“I suppose so,” he said. He remembered that dream he’d had aboard ship, and clenched his fists at his sides.

His thoughts veered again to his young wife. Jules had withdrawn from him after that last damned fracas aboard the Oregon, and he supposed he couldn’t blame her. Lord, how should she have reacted when he’d very nearly forced her and called out another woman’s name? Later, when he’d found Lydia unpacking Jules’s clothes in his bedroom, he hadn’t known what to say. He didn’t want to sleep in the spare room—the damned bed was too short for him.

And he couldn’t sleep with her. It was simply too much.

To his surprise and silent relief, Jules had taken the matter out of his hands. He’d been called away to treat a broken hand—the result of a fistfight, of course—and when he returned that evening, he saw that she’d moved all her things down the hall to the spare bedroom.

He didn’t know what to say to her. Thank you, wife, for not forcing me to sleep with you. It was odd, he thought, frowning slightly. He’d never in his life been so damned obsessed with sex. Sex was just something that went along naturally with everything. I guess not having it makes my mind weird, he concluded, hoping it would go away.

And there was Jules, smiling, chattering gaily, primarily with Lydia, until his—no, their—housekeeper had left for the night. Then she’d become quiet and withdrawn again.

He’d settled quickly back into his routine. As for Jules, he wasn’t certain exactly what it was she did when he wasn’t there.

“Spartan, what about Jameson Wilkes?” he said aloud to his horse. Spartan nickered, but at their entry into the city, and not in response to Saint’s profound question. Already, men were up and about. He returned greetings and continued toward Hobson’s Stables on Market Street.

“The bastard,” he continued to his horse after a moment, “is bound to discover that Jules is married to me. What the hell will he do?” He won’t believe she’s a virgin anymore. She won’t have any more value to him. “True enough,” he said in response to his silent observation.

He left Spartan at the stable in the capable hands of John Smith, an unlikely name for an unlikely gnomelike individual, and walked the short ten minutes to Clay Street and his house.

He suddenly thought of Jules pregnant with his child, of Jules giving birth, and he felt a knot of fear. He hadn’t exaggerated his birth size to her. He’d been enormous, but his mother, bless her humorous soul, had been a large-boned woman, capable of carrying him and birthing him without too much danger to herself. Jules wasn’t large-boned, and he realized he didn’t know how wide her pelvis was. He closed his eyes a moment, tripped over a discarded piece of pipe in the street, and cursed roundly. He let himself in quietly, and eased into his bed.

“You have some visitors, Jules,” Lydia Mullens said to her young mistress the following afternoon.

Jules quickly bounded to her feet, her book dropping to the floor beside her chair in their small parlor. “Vistors?”

A bright feminine voice said behind Lydia, “Please forgive us for just barging in like this, but we couldn’t wait for an invitation from Saint! Married! Agatha and I had to meet the new Mrs. Morris.”

A very lovely young woman with high-piled chestnut hair came gracefully into the parlor and thrust out her hand. “How do you do? I’m Chauncey Saxton, and this, my dear, is Agatha Newton. Oh, how beautiful you are—not that any of us doubted it for a moment! Saint has the most stunning taste.”

Jules took the gloved hand. “My name is Juliana, but Michael calls me Jules.”

“Michael?” said Agatha Newton, arching an eyebrow. “Lordy, so the dear man does have a real name! I’m Agatha, my dear.”

“Hello,” Jules said, a bit dazed. Agatha Newton was an older woman, massive-bosomed, with a booming, very kind voice.

“I’ll bring in some tea, ladies,” Lydia said. “You just sit down, lovie, and entertain the ladies.”

“Mrs. Mullens,” Chauncey Saxton said, “must think she’s died and gone to heaven. A lady, finally, in Saint’s house.”

“Please,” Jules said, waving her hand, “please do sit down. Michael told me about the Saxtons and the Newtons, of course. He said you were all dear friends.”

“Yes indeed,” Chauncey said. “Jewels, huh? You mean like diamonds and emeralds?”

“No, actually, J-u-l-e-s,” she said, spelling out her nickname. “Michael didn’t want to distort my real name too much.”

“Just wait until I tell Horace—my husband, you know—Saint’s real name! Lord, the dear boy is in for a thorough razing.”

Jules smiled, relaxing for the first time. “Actually, ‘Michael’ is only one of his real names,” she said with an impish smile.

“Both ladies leaned forward in their chairs, questions on their faces.

Jules laughed. “No, I must have loyalty to my husband.”

“Where is Saint, or Michael, by the way?” Chauncey asked.

“There was a problem of some kind. He said something about having to go see Maggie.”