A Tale of Two Lovers (16 page)
“You are not suggesting what I think you are,” she said with a little laugh. She had a pretty laugh, he noticed for the first time. It seemed she rarely laughed, and that she ought to more often.
“Earlier in this carriage ride I proposed a toast to ruining each other’s lives. I have done so to yours, and you have mine.”
“All right, Roxbury. Cheers to that,” she said, and they clinked their bottles of brandy together. Her sip was ladylike, his was not. The quick flash of a heated gaze between them was anything but proper.
“But now, Julianna—”
“It’s Lady Somerset to you,” she said. Could he really stand to live with such a contrary woman? Could he afford not to?
Julianna would never bore him—she might drive him so insane that he’d be carted off to Bedlam, but life with her wouldn’t be dull. The same could not be said of Lady Hortensia Reeves.
He had a feeling, too, that Edward would have approved of a spitfire like Julianna.
“Since I am about to propose marriage, Julianna, I think I’ll use your given name,” he replied.
Her eyes widened and her lips parted in shock—for once, the lady was speechless. He smiled and savored the moment.
“As I was saying, my dear, maddening, beautiful, terrifying Julianna. We have ruined each other’s lives, but we can also set them to rights. Before you refuse me or declare me mad, hear me out . . .”
She opened her mouth, and again she was speechless. He rushed on before she could find her words.
“If we were to marry, I would be assured of my fortune. It would repair my reputation.”
“A top consideration for me,” she remarked.
“If we were to marry,
your
reputation would also be restored. You would be a married peeress. One day you’ll be a countess. Of course, you would also be provided for.”
She appeared thoughtful as he explained this strange bargain. Except that it wasn’t that unusual at all—the circumstances were different, but deals like these were made in drawing rooms every day. He, a great lover of women, was proposing a marriage of convenience.
“And if I could fix my reputation, I could get my column back,” she added, after thinking about it.
“If that’s what you’d want,” he answered. It might be problematic to
live
with a gossip columnist, but that was a consideration for another day.
“It is,” Julianna answered firmly. Her chin lifted high and her mouth set in a firm line.
“So you see that everyone wins if we are to marry,” he said carefully.
“And the matter of those heirs you mentioned?” she questioned. He was relieved she asked about that—it meant she was considering it. He suspected that her considerations were different than his—more clothing involved, most likely.
“I have many cousins,” he answered.
Julianna nodded thoughtfully, and then turned to look out the window. Was she considering it? She must be. Why was his heart pounding, as he waited for her answer? And what was there really to think about? Everybody would win with this marriage.
Roxbury deliberately was not thinking past the wedding, other than to consider the money and the restoration of their social status. In the vague images of married life, he pictured them attending parties together and perhaps waltzing a time or two, but otherwise keeping to themselves. What did married people do, anyway?
He’d only ever had lovers, and they were usually confined to the nighttime, with exceptions made for a few in the morning or late afternoon. He knew all about bedding, but knew nothing about building a life with someone.
Roxbury was afraid that she—who had already been married—was considering the day-to-day life of a gossip columnist living with a rake, when neither of them cared very much for the other. Any affair of his wouldn’t be secret for long, and given her gun-wielding ways, his first affair as a married man would likely be his last.
This marriage had all the makings of a disaster; that much was clear as day to anyone, even him.
What was she thinking? He longed to know with an intensity that surprised him. Julianna’s silence was rare; lovely as it was, there was something comforting about how she always said exactly what she thought, so he always knew where he stood with her.
Julianna’s brow was slightly furrowed, and she nibbled on her lower lip. It was probably an unconscious act, and he found it decidedly erotic.
If they were to marry . . .
Roxbury forced himself to focus on their future, and how it was in her hands—small, feminine gloved hands that grasped and released fistfuls of her red dress.
He waited as patiently as he could when his fate hung in the balance, and all depended upon the heart and mind of a most vexing woman. The temptation to down the entire bottle of brandy was great, so he put it away. This was not the time to get sodding drunk. He’d wait until after her reply. Whether yes or no, a drink would definitely be in order.
Finally, as the carriage pulled to a stop before 24 Bloomsbury Place, she spoke. Her voice was smooth like velvet as it shredded his hopes to nothing.
“Thank you for your offer, Roxbury. But the answer is no.”
24 Bloomsbury Place
S
ophie had married and moved out months ago, and Julianna had never felt the loneliness of her absence as she did now. If she were here, they would curl up on the settee with a pot of tea and Julianna could rail against Roxbury, and all the problems he caused. Sophie would offer some insight and make her laugh.
“You would not believe the day I’ve had, Penny,” Julianna said to her maid, hoping to engage her in a conversation. Fired by Knightly, and proposed to by Roxbury! Quite an unexpected turn of events, and Julianna needed to tell someone to make it real.
“I’ll draw a hot bath,” Penny answered efficiently, eyeing Julianna’s wet hair and soaking garments. “There is tea in the drawing room.”
Julianna poured a cup of hot tea, added sugar, and settled in. If only Sophie were here! But she was across town, snug and cozy in Hamilton House (as much as one could be, given the size of the place). It wouldn’t be long before she and Brandon had a brood of children and then Sophie would have even less time for Julianna and the other Writing Girls.
Julianna, however, lived alone. No husband or suitors—no serious ones, anyway. Roxbury was a desperate fool and did not count. The Writing Girls were true friends, but everyone else had turned their backs on her at the first hint of scandal. Aye, it was a bitter taste of her own medicine. She didn’t want to complain, for that wasn’t in her nature, but the fact remained that she was lonely and alone. In the far recesses of her heart and mind, she thought she might deserve it, given her line of work.
If she said yes . . .
She sighed, wishing for any distraction from her thoughts, but it was impossible not to think of Knightly’s betrayal and Roxbury’s proposal.
Your services are no longer needed,
Knightly had told her plainly. The cold-blooded, logical part of her could understand it, but oh! It made her heart hurt. Her pride had suffered a mighty blow today. She was a Writing Girl! She was blazing a trail for history to follow. Julianna knew the satisfaction of putting a roof over her head and food in her belly. She knew, deeply, the satisfaction of being her own mistress, her own protector.
Knightly gave and Knightly took away. She thought—hoped—that he might be more supportive of the women who made his paper such a success. And now how was she supposed to pay for said roof and food?
If she said yes . . .
She stood and took a turn about the room. When Sophie lived here, every available surface was covered with an explosion of female things: hair ribbons, Minerva Press novels, shoes, earbobs, issues of
La Belle Assemblée
and
The London Weekly
, invitations, letters, and little trinkets.
Now the surfaces were clear. Now one could see the room itself—the blue-and-white-striped upholstered chair next to the black-and-white
etoile
chair. The walls were pale blue, and the curtains were always tied back so Julianna might spy upon the neighbors.
If she said yes . . .
It would solve all of their problems, wouldn’t it? A marriage certificate and a little time did go a long way toward soothing any social crisis. Even Sophie and Brandon, who had quite possibly the most scandalous marriage and wedding ceremony in recent history were welcomed everywhere. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the man in question was a double duke.
Roxbury was a viscount, and would inherit an earldom. That had to count for something, she thought, as she took another turn about the room, with a long pause before the fireplace.
Yes, marriage and a title and a little time could change things significantly, but it couldn’t change everything. Old dogs didn’t learn new tricks, and tigers didn’t change their stripes and everyone knew it was foolhardy to attempt to change a man.
Perhaps another woman might be able to accomplish such a herculean feat, but Julianna had already tried and failed at that particular challenge.
Julianna remembered a particular afternoon just a few months ago, in which she gossiped with Sophie about a rumor she’d heard and subsequently printed. It was about Roxbury carrying on an affair with two mortal enemies simultaneously—they were the best of friends now, of course. Two women at once—and that was just what was known. Lord only knew what he really did get up to in the dark of the night. Or perhaps, she thought, still pacing, it was better if the Lord did not know.
Roxbury loved women—many women. The thought of Roxbury remaining faithful to her was ludicrous. In the marriage he had proposed—one purely of convenience that would likely outlive its need—she could not reasonably expect his fidelity, especially if she would not go to his bed.
Or perhaps she would.
She was hotly, wildly attracted to him. She relived that moonlit kiss more often than was seemly. She could join the legions of Roxbury’s women—loved quickly, intensely, and then forgotten. Which would be one thing if she weren’t bound to him for life.
Julianna ceased her pacing and returned to the settee, collapsing upon it and pulling a pillow to her chest.
Oh, Somerset,
she thought.
Somehow, this was his fault. If he hadn’t swept her off her feet when she was just seventeen. If he hadn’t gone and made her fall in love with him. If he hadn’t fallen in love with her! If she’d only been enough for him so that he wouldn’t need to satiate his desires with all manner of questionable women.
Penny knocked upon the drawing room door. “Ma’am, your bath is ready.”
As she was passing through the foyer, Julianna noticed that there was no post awaiting her. Not even an offer of a suppression fee (as if she could afford it) or even a missive from her mother.
A short while later, she sank into a steaming bath. Outside, the rain was as cold, wet and relentless as ever.
It was inevitable that her thoughts would turn to Roxbury.
His offer was shocking. Gentlemanly, in an odd way, when so little about him was. His kiss was not that of a gentleman, oh no. She could still taste him—like brandy, anger, adventure, and passion. She could still smell the hothouse flowers and see the silver light of the moon.
Such an unexpected, passionate encounter contrasted sharply with the marriage proposal that was nothing more than a business transaction. It made a measure of sense—except that her heart rebelled and her stomach ached at the thought. Like how she felt on the dueling field.
As if he might be lost to her.
But what did she care if she lost him? Or did her heart know something her head did not?
Roxbury was handsome. Charming. Wealthy. He had an immeasurable talent for kissing. He was insufferable and infuriating, but he definitely was not dull.
That kiss
. . .
Oh, it was too dangerous! Heartbreak was too likely. He’d likely tire of her, and would turn to other women, and it would be like being married to Somerset all over again.
She could not foresee a happy marriage with him, yet the alternative seemed bleak, too. Sophie would naturally provide for her, but she didn’t want to be the poor auntie living on charity for the rest of her days.
Upon the demise of her first marriage, Julianna turned to writing. She wrote for money. She wrote for her dignity. She wrote to keep a roof over her head, to feed her belly, and fire up her soul. She wrote to pay for her late husband’s indiscretions. She wrote so that she would be beholden to no one.
She wanted to be
The London Weekly
’s Lady of Distinction. But would she become Lady Roxbury to do so?
