A Tale of Two Lovers (10 page)

Chapter 15

O
nce outside on St James’s Street, the little minx attempted to walk away in the opposite direction than he—alone, and without saying goodbye. Roxbury grabbed a fistful of her coat, tugged her back, and chided her as if she was his slightly daft country cousin.

“This way, Julian.”

“I’m not Julian,” she grumbled.

Roxbury feigned shock.

“Oh, I am
terribly
sorry. Did you want me to announce you as Lady Somerset, otherwise known as the Lady of Distinction from
The London Weekly
?”

She pursed her lips, and her eyes narrowed. She was seething because he was right and she knew it. Roxbury paused to savor the moment.

“You are welcome,” he said graciously.

“Thank you,” she mumbled so quietly that if he had not been watching her lips move—her luscious, pink, undeniably female lips—he would have missed it.

Roxbury opened the door to his carriage and indicated she should join, but the maddening, stubborn, impossible woman stood her ground. She folded her arms across her chest.

It was immediately clear what this was about: she wanted to gallivant across London dressed as an idiotic country cousin all in some quest for “news” or “gossip” or “adventure” not at all realizing that people got killed for that sort of thing, especially when the person in question was a woman, a lady. Especially when the woman was drunk. He and his chaperoned ride put a stop to that.

“You do look remarkably mannish,” he said, and he took pleasure in the way her eyes widened in shock and her lips pursed in vexation. “But it’s getting dark, and we both know the streets of London are not safe for anyone. You haven’t a prayer of defending yourself.”

To his surprise, she did not immediately leap into the carriage and thank him for considering her well-being.

“Much as it would please me if you never wrote another word, I’m not going to have your death on my conscience,” he said. “Are you coming or not?”

“I’m merely shocked at your chivalrous behavior,” she replied, but they both knew she had wanted to go off alone in search of a dozen different kinds of trouble. “But yes, I’m coming.”

He wasn’t going to assist her into the carriage because it was at odds with her disguise. But out of habit she held out her hand, and out of habit he clasped it. Against all common sense, Roxbury made the grave mistake of looking her in the eye at this moment.

Lady Somerset did not flutter her lashes, or wink, or lift her brow. She did not resort to any such tricks; instead, she looked him in the eye. That was the thing with her, she was direct and honest. So much of flirtation depended upon saying this and meaning that and he found her forthright manner intriguing.

In that moment he wondered how things might have been if they had met under different circumstances.

How had they not? How had he not tried to bed her?

He was probably chasing after light skirts and easy, lovely conquests. Lady Somerset was a challenge.

“Now you needn’t worry for my safety,” she said smugly, sitting primly and properly across from him in the carriage. Even dressed as a boy, she sat like a lady.

Wrong,
he thought. She was alone in the carriage with a rake—and one nearly boiling over with pent-up desire. Perhaps he ought to let her wander the streets alone. But no, the dangers that awaited her there were far worse.

“I should be utterly distraught and sick with guilt if anything were to happen to you,” he replied dryly. But the truth of the matter was that he was, occasionally, a gentleman. He could not, in good conscience allow her out on the streets in her state.

“Oh, the guilt,” she scoffed. “I would hate for it to get in the way of your affairs.”

“Naturally. You wouldn’t have anything to write about if not for my affairs,” he said, shocked at the note of bitterness there. “Unless there is another reason you protest them . . .”

“I don’t care for what you are suggesting,” she said, her hands attempting to smooth out her skirts, but not finding that volume of fabric there. There was only the light layer of her breeches. He forced his gaze back to her face and his attentions to the conversation at hand.

“Unless you have a tendre for me,” he said. “Unless your bitterness toward my lovers—real or alleged—is merely jealousy?”

“You really ought to give up on thinking. You are truly terrible at it,” she retorted.

“Indeed. Attempting the strenuous activity of rational thought gives me headaches. I’m sure you understand.”

The words exchanged between them were sharp, and parried quickly. The glances were hot, searing and fleeting. It was all a method of protection, because if they did not trade cutting remarks . . .

The dimly lit carriage sheltered them from the rest of the world. The urge to kiss her was overwhelming. Her eyes, large, bright, and mysteriously upturned at the corners gave him another warm glance. Roxbury knew how to read a look like that:
It’s dark. We are alone. Are you going to kiss me or not?

“You know what they say is a remarkable cure for headaches?” he queried.

“Silence,” she answered flatly.

Though that was not the answer he had in mind—he was thinking of lovemaking—nevertheless, Roxbury obliged her. One of his “tricks” with women was to give them exactly what they said they wanted . . . because usually it wasn’t what they wanted at all and the sooner they established that, the sooner they could all move on.

If a woman said she could not see him anymore, he did not attempt to see her. It was never more than a few days before she wrote begging for his return.

Thus, with Lady Somerset, he’d wager that it was only a moment before she was chattering away again—on a subject of her choice, and he was very curious to know what that might be.

So they sat in silence as the carriage clattered through London.

As they passed the Burlington Arcade, she stared out the window and he enjoyed a good, long look at Lady Somerset in male attire. She’d done a fine job of it: Her boots were polished, her breeches were exquisitely fitted, her linen starched and white. The cravat was expertly tied. Her hair was tied into some makeshift queue—it would take only one tug of a ribbon to send it all tumbling down. Oh, how he wanted to.

What was it like to undress a woman in male clothing, he wondered?

That night at the theater with Jocelyn, he’d been about to. But that interruption reminded them to return to her dressing room where she had a potential suitor waiting.

The carriage rolled on through town and as they drove by the corner of St. James’s Palace, he began to imagine undressing Lady Somerset, removing those boy clothes layer by layer. The starched cravat was the first to go. The jacket next. There were only four buttons on the waistcoat, significantly less than on a typical gown. The shirt would lift over her head and fall to the floor.

Aye, he knew how to remove clothing. That was easy—and arousing enough—to imagine. But what would it be like with
her
? When the shirt came off, what would he see? Feel? That mystery set his blood on fire.

He’d already seen her creamy white skin, and her gowns showed off her figure exceptionally, suggesting full breasts and a narrow waist. But how soft was her skin? And how would the curve of her hips feel under his fingertips?

As they traveled along the strand, it did not escape his notice that he wasn’t the only one looking. Lady Somerset was eyeing him just as much.

“You’re staring again, Roxbury,” she pointed out.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Lady Somerset.” He’d realized that long ago. Something about her bright green eyes, or her milky skin, or that outrageous mouth of hers. Something about the way she carried herself—strong, proud, and with her shoulders back (which showed off her décolletage marvelously).

“I’d say you are handsome, but you are already well aware of the fact. The last thing you need is another compliment to swell your head,” she said, and he understood that to mean that she found him attractive but would rather expire than admit it to him.

“Bitter, bitter . . .” he said. And for the first time he wondered if he had said or done something to offend her once—so deeply and gravely because she was always having a go at him—or was it something else?

“I’m not bitter,” she protested, which was ridiculous because they both knew that she was.

“Is it something I’ve said or done? Were you always this way or did old Somerset ruin a lovely young girl?”

Chapter 16

J
ulianna had not expected such a personal question and astute insight from Roxbury.

“Old Somerset” had actually been young, dashing, devastatingly handsome, and
hers
. Correction: Harry had been hers in name only. He was the folly of a seventeen-year-old girl’s heart and the source of a woman’s heartache.

Even now, she felt a twinge in her chest thinking of him. For the bright, fiery love they once had, and the dust remaining when the flame burned out.

Julianna glanced at Roxbury darkly and he was watching her curiously. But she could not explain any of it—not aloud and certainly not to him.

The same story had been repeatedly enacted in drawing rooms all over town—a pretty girl meets a dashing rogue. Romance, mystery, magic overwhelms. A mad and passionate dash to Gretna Green, with no thoughts whatsoever to the consequences.

Julianna recalled the night he had died. As was his habit, Somerset had gone out shortly after waking, which occurred late in the afternoon. She had sat by the fire, ever the stoic, restrained lady, wondering where he had gone, with whom, and what degenerate activities occupied him this evening. Rumors informed her that Somerset had turned to opium, and to orgies and the devil only knew what else. She was thankful for that, for how else would she know about her husband?

Occasionally, Julianna attended soirees with friends but the whispers and pitying glances drove her wild with anger. Usually, she had stayed in and attempted to puzzle out where it had all gone so wrong. They had been so in love once.

Late at night there had been an ominous knock at the door, and thus arrived the news that an accident had occurred. Somerset, some wench, copious quantities of alcohol, an overturned carriage.

Other than that grim revelation, it had been a typical evening.

The reading of the will was just as scandalous. Somerset left the bulk of his disposable fortune to various mistresses and his by-blows. For his wife, only a pittance remained in the form of a small yearly annuity, a small house in the once fashionable, now fallen neighborhood of Bloomsbury, a scandalous name in need of reformation . . . and her hard-earned freedom.

Julianna supplemented her meager income by writing, determined to rely on her own wit rather than request support from her family, who had always opposed the match. She vowed never to attach herself—her fate—to a man again.

Roxbury was mostly right. Once upon a time, she’d been a laughing young girl. She delighted in listening to her mother read to her from her correspondence with high society friends as bedtime stories. Growing up together, she and Sophie shared lessons, schemes, and wishes for dashing, loving husbands.

Somerset had wiped the stars from her eyes, after turning true love into a prison. It would make anyone sharp, bitter, and braced for soul-crushing and heart-aching disaster. But she did not wish to explain that.

Roxbury’s question hung in the air, unanswered.
Were you always so sharp and bitter or did old Somerset ruin a lovely young girl?

“What a quaint interpretation. That my late husband has anything to do with this, us,” she mused, searching for a way to turn the tables on Roxbury. “I suppose it hasn’t occurred to you that it is you that I object to?”

“It’s unfathomable,” Roxbury said flatly. “We barely know each other. Until the other week, we had never even met.”

And what an introduction it had been.

“Oh God, or had we met before?” Roxbury asked. “Is that what this is all about? That I had never sought you out for an affair?”

Julianna lifted one brow. Really? He thought that was her problem?

No, she was just trying to do her job and live her life as a reputably respectable widow without a devastatingly handsome rake dodging her heels, making her heart race and muddling her thoughts. She liked sparring with him and she craved his kiss, and that would never do.

“Or did we have an affair?” he carried on, his voice lowering as if someone might hear, even though they were
quite
alone in this carriage. “I swear I’d remember you, if we had . . .”

Her lips parted in shock. They had not, of course. She liked to think that she was
not
forgettable. The evidence from her first marriage did not bode well, though.

“No, we have only recently met and we have never had an affair. I avoid the company of cads and rogues such as yourself, and you apparently labeled me as a bitter old shrew and never gave me a second glance. We both quickly ascertained that we could have no business with each other.”

“You are a bitter shrew,” Roxbury confirmed, to which she gasped. In certain instances it was not polite to agree with a lady. Then again, she was dressed as a boy.

He continued, “Old, I’m not so sure about. However, you are fetching.”

The compliment in the midst of battle stunned her, and for a second, she was speechless. The rake thought she was fetching! Even more shocking was the rush of pleasure, and that left her tongue-tied. Then she recovered, because Lady Julianna Somerset never went long without something to say.

“It’s the men’s clothing you find attractive, is it not?” she said, smiling, and enjoying provoking him.

“If I find it remotely attractive, it’s for the novelty and the fact that it’s on a woman, even if that woman is you,” he replied.

“You said I’m fetching,” she reiterated.

“That doesn’t mean I want to bed you,” he said to her surprise.

“Why not?”

“Why not?
Why not?
” he echoed, flabbergasted. She thought it a perfectly logical query. If he was a man of enormous appetites, she was fetching, why would he not wish to indulge?

Or did she not even want to know? What was
wrong
with her that two notorious, debauched rakes, generally indiscriminate with their affections, did not want to bed her?

No wonder she was a bitter shrew.

“Frankly, Lady Somerset, I’m not sure I would survive it,” Roxbury remarked.

“That makes two of us. I would likely perish from boredom during the act,” she said, because he couldn’t know that she wished him to want her.

“If our lovemaking would prove fatal, we’d better not do it then,” Roxbury said.

“On that, we are in agreement,” she said.

“How strange,” they both said at the same time. There was nothing to do but laugh—together for once, rather than at each other.

When the carriage stopped before her townhouse, Julianna experienced an unexpected rush of disappointment to be home. 24 Bloomsbury Place was a lonely house these days, and she felt it all the more after this afternoon’s adventures—a damsel in disguise! Gossip galore! Even though Roxbury endlessly vexed her, it was good fun to spar with him.

Not that she would
ever
admit that to him.

“Thank you for seeing me home safely,” she said politely, ever the lady regardless of her attire.

“My pleasure,” he said, and she could not discern the ratio of sarcasm to genuine feeling in his tone.

She quit the carriage with Roxbury’s assistance. His hand was warm and strong around hers. Though she knew people were staring at the sight of what seemed to be two men, hand in hand, she didn’t care, because for the first time, there was something in the way Roxbury looked at her that wasn’t anger, or disdain, or immense frustration.

He did have lovely brown, almond-shaped eyes.

Lord help her, because she was beginning to understand the magic of Roxbury and how so many women had fallen under his spell. Most dangerous of all, when this handsome man looked at her, those hard-learned lessons from Somerset seemed to fade.

Perhaps he’s different,
temptation whispered, and logic told her all rakes were the same.

She would never sort all that out today, so instead Julianna indulged in the moment and offered a true smile to the man holding her hand.

P
enny, Julianna’s maid, let her into the house and did not bat one eyelash upon seeing her mistress dressed as a man and escorted home by her nemesis. Only once she was safe inside did Roxbury’s carriage depart. He treated her like a lady even if she occasionally did not act like one.

Julianna collapsed onto the sofa in the little drawing room, and helped herself to the tea tray that Penny had thoughtfully laid out. There was a thick pile of correspondence that made her smile. She loved receiving copious amounts of letters from her vast array of acquaintances (and informants), and invitations to nearly everything happening in London—breakfast parties, afternoon teas, walks in the park, evenings at the theater, balls, soirees . . .

Julianna picked up the first letter in the stack and saw that it was from her mother. The Dowager Baroness Leighton took to her bed after her husband—a complete philanderer, Julianna noted disparagingly of her father—had expired. However, even from her bed the baroness was one of the most informed people in England. All morning she wrote letters to her wide circle of friends, and all afternoon she read letters sent to her.

No one saw the harm in confessing their secrets to the bedridden old lady in Buckinghamshire. Little did they know that she was a worse gossip than her daughter.

“My dear Julianna, I’ve heard things about you and Lord Roxbury
,” she wrote, ever direct and to the point.
“The stories have you two consorting in private rooms, in balls. Mind the rakes, darling; we both know the trouble they can cause a good woman. Roxbury, though, seems ripe for reformation, given the latest scandals about him, which I needn’t bother repeating since everyone knows them.”

“I
started
them,” Julianna grumbled. Telling her mother about her profession was not an option. The woman couldn’t keep a secret if the fate of England depended on it. Also, Julianna feared her mother’s heart might burst—literally—with pride for her daughter.

She reread the line about Roxbury being “ripe for reformation” and decided that her mother must have gone a bit batty after all those years in her bedchamber. The man was as ready to settle down as a rampant bull.

Her mother carried on with news about how The Baron Pinner was forever bringing gorgeous bouquets of flowers to his lady. On the other hand, Lord Brookes was rumored to have ended an affair with Jocelyn Kemble after news broke that she was Roxbury’s backstage, breeches-clad lover. The elderly Earl of Selborne had taken ill mysteriously. And Tuesday last, while deep in his cups, Lord Wilcox admitted to bedding “the last woman in England anyone would expect.”

Julianna set the letter aside to save for her column, having decided to ignore the rest of the invitations and correspondence.

A melancholy mood seeped into her bones, settling in like a deep fog. Returning home to an empty house after a thrillingly adventurous afternoon with Roxbury was likely the cause.

It wasn’t so long ago that Julianna and Sophie would sit on this settee, take tea, and chatter away amidst the clutter of their belongings. But now the room was neat, and there was no chatter because Sophie lived with her husband in a massive house in Mayfair, the center of the haut ton. Julianna lived alone in Bloomsbury, home to the professional class.

Why hadn’t Roxbury tried to take a liberty with her? Why did he not want to bed her?

Because she was bitter . . . but fetching! Because she would bore him. Because she was a gossip columnist and any detail might make its way into her column.

Because she knew better.

Because she was
not
the sort of woman a man took liberties with.

Once, she had been. In those early days of her great love with Somerset, she’d savored more than her fair share of stolen kisses from the handsome charmer. Why, then, for the first time in ages, did she wish for more?

Why did she catch herself daydreaming about that kiss with Roxbury? She remembered it all: the silvery glow of the moonlight, the fragrance of orange blossoms, the linen of his shirt clasped in her palms. And the especially delicious parts made her blush to consider them even now: the heat of his mouth on hers, the wide, warm expanse of his chest under her hands, his strong arms holding her captive, and the way hot, wild desire pulsed through her begging for release.

But it had only been one kiss.

One thing was certain: she could not afford for her column to be second rate, especially after Jocelyn’s confessions to the Man About Town. And so, with a twinge of guilt in her heart, Julianna sat down at her desk and began to compose the next great installment of “Fashionable Intelligence.”