A Tale of Two Lovers (17 page)

Chapter 30

St. Bride’s Church

T
he first time Julianna married, it had been for love. The second time, she married for money, security, and a desperate attempt to salvage her reputation. In short, all the typical reasons a member of the ton betrothed themselves. She was not hopeless, but she wasn’t exactly optimistic, either.

“Are you certain of this?” Sophie asked. They were waiting in a small room off the main room of St. Bride’s Church. Julianna had wanted to wear a dove gray gown, the color of half morning but Sophie talked her out of it, saying that if the new couple could pass themselves off as a love match, they might have a chance at a quicker welcome from society.

Thus, Julianna wore a fawn-colored silk gown from Madame Auteuil’s. It set off her auburn hair and green eyes rather nicely, she thought. Her bonnet had a veil of white lace; a stark contrast to the veil of black net that had covered her face that evening at Drury Lane when this whole debacle began.

“Of course I’m not certain of this,” Julianna replied, in her typically forthright manner. How on earth could she be certain of marriage to a man whose sole aim in life had been to live and die a wealthy bachelor?

“You needn’t go through with this. You’re always welcome with us,” Sophie offered. “Lord knows we have the space.”

They exchanged faint smiles. Hamilton House was the size of a small village.

“Thank you,” Julianna answered. Knowing she had a refuge of last resort meant the world to her, but Julianna was the kind of woman who, for better or worse, needed a challenge. Eloping at seventeen. Moving to London. Staying in London as a single woman, and writing. Aye, she couldn’t fall back on the convenience of a room with her friend. Besides, Sophie deserved a home and husband and a family of her own—without her widowed, penniless friend moping through the endless expanse of marble-floored halls.

“Besides,” Julianna continued, “as Roxbury’s wife, I shall have infinite opportunities to make him regret ruining my reputation.”

“Or will he regret salvaging it?” Sophie asked with a lift of her eyebrow.

“He gets something out of this, too,” Julianna added, as she smoothed her skirts and adjusted her veil.

“Yes. You!”

“Among other things, yes,” she said. He got his fortune and put an end to those rumors. She got her reputation back, and security, until she got her column back.

In the end, that was why she had written to him saying, “Very well, I accept.” Because it was her best shot at getting what she truly wanted—her column, and the sense of independence that she craved.

“Roxbury’s not a bad man. And he’s not like Somerset,” Sophie said.

“How do you know it won’t be the same thing all over again?” Julianna asked.

With Sophie she didn’t have to explain anything, from the heartache of being left by one’s love, to the terror of walking down the aisle, she just
knew
.

“They are two very different men, and you are not the same girl you were at seventeen. And if my so good and so proper husband has been friends with Roxbury for over a decade, he can’t be completely irredeemable.”

“It’s a marriage of convenience. As long as I keep that in mind and don’t let my heart get involved, it will be just fine,” Julianna said resolutely.

As expected, Sophie snorted with laughter.

“You don’t seem to be suffering your usual pre-wedding jitters,” Julianna remarked in an effort to change the subject.

Sophie had been jilted at the altar, and then had become the author of Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life for
The Weekly.
Weddings made her very nervous and quite ill. The situation had noticeably improved since her own wedding to the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon.

“Surprisingly, I feel quite all right. It must be a good sign,” Sophie said, reaching out and giving Julianna’s hand one last squeeze before she left to join the other guests.

Julianna was left alone, and very aware that this was her last chance to make a mad dash out of the church, to get lost in the crowded London streets and then to . . . well, she didn’t quite know what else to do.

Fate was waiting for her.

The first notes of the organ sounded, loud and strong in the cavernous church, and she took a deep breath and held on tightly to her orange blossom bouquet. The scent reminded her of that night when he had kissed her against the orange tree in the Walmslys’ conservatory.

This was a bit different from a jaunt to Gretna Green.

At the end of the aisle, Roxbury was waiting for her with his hands clasped behind his back. His hair was dark and as tousled as it ever was. His eyes were large, velvety brown, and looking only at her. His mouth was neither smiling nor frowning. It was plain from his expression that this was as surreal and unexpected for him as it was for her. That they possibly had some common ground brought her a measure of comfort.

On her way to his side, she passed her fellow Writing Girls: Annabelle was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Eliza and Sophie smiled on. Alistair sat nearby, smiling as well. Knightly was with them, because she wanted him to see that she was becoming respectable.

The Earl and Countess Carlyle, Roxbury’s parents, had arrived from Bath earlier that week. In a show of optimism they had previously scheduled their journey to conclude in time for their son’s possible nuptials. Julianna had met them fleetingly the other day. How two such sober, upstanding individuals had produced a wild, passionate man like Roxbury was a mystery to her.

They had not quite approved of her, and she saw quickly that Roxbury enjoyed it. Once upon a time, part of Somerset’s appeal had been that her parents disapproved of him. So, she understood.

And then, before she knew it, she was standing next to Roxbury at the altar. Just as she considered running away, he took hold of her hand.

There was something about a man who knew when a woman needed some comfort, and strength, and then provided it. Because of that small gesture, she thought they might have a fighting chance. And so, perhaps, she would stay.

The vicar began. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today . . .”

Roxbury looked at Julianna gazing at him from behind a white lace veil.

It went without saying that he had never imagined that he would marry. He certainly hadn’t pictured this moment—holding hands with his bride before his parents, close friends, a vicar. God. No wonder he felt ill.

His bride was not some missish, biddable thing. No, he did not make this easy on himself. Entranced, he watched as Julianna looked scared, then scowled, or smiled faintly, or schooled her features into an oh-so-determined expression.

Life with her was not going to be boring. That much he was sure of.

If he was not bored, then it logically followed he might not need to seek diversion elsewhere. If
that
happened, he would be a faithful husband, which is to say he was at this very moment promising to be the one thing he never thought he’d be.

He glanced at their guests—his smug parents, her weepy friends. Where was her family, he wondered? There was so much about her he didn’t know. But, oh dear God above, they had the rest of their lives together to discover it.

“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the vicar intoned.

This was it, then. Roxbury rocked back on his heels, contemplating making a run for it. The woman in question squeezed his hand as if she could read his mind. Hell, knowing her, she probably could.

Edward always swore he’d never marry.
A man’s life is his own,
he’d said—before he enlisted in the army, was assigned to France, and died in battle. It logically followed that a man’s life wasn’t his own anymore if a wife and then brats entered the picture. This moment was the end of so many wide-open horizons and endless possibilities.

One of the guests coughed loudly. Brandon, his best man, elbowed him in the back. Julianna appeared to be considering a swift kick to his shins.

For a second time, the vicar asked, “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Chapter 31

I
n the end, Roxbury managed to say, “I do.”

He also survived the wedding breakfast hosted by his parents. The toasts were awkward, as the bride and groom at best managed civility toward each other. Julianna appeared far too interested in the family portrait, including Edward, for Roxbury’s comfort. It was obvious that later there would be questions he did not care to answer.

He took no small measure of delight that his oh-so-proper restrained and uptight parents were hosting the four most scandalous women in London, and one of them as a daughter-in-law.

To have Derek Knightly, a lowborn, self-made man there was also a small triumph, though also quite unexpected since their last encounter was on a dueling field and Knightly’s arm was still in his sling. Underneath his jacket, Roxbury’s arm was still bandaged. They were quite a pair.

His parents acquitted themselves with the utmost politeness. His mother took the women for tea. His father smoked cigars with the gentlemen.

Roxbury had married by their schedule (without a day to spare), but he had done it on his terms—which just happened to be a desperate bargain with his she-devil bride.

Getting his new wife to agree to his terms was another battle entirely.

After a long day, and after all their goodbyes were said, they finally climbed into the carriage to return home. Julianna smoothed her silk skirts and loosened her bonnet strings.

He wished she’d remove the thing entirely. He wanted to see her face without the veil, and he wanted to see her luscious auburn hair instead of a stupid bonnet. He wanted to see Julianna bare, pure, without adornment.

“To 24 Bloomsbury Place, please,” she told the driver. Peter looked warily over at Simon. He knew who paid his wages, but he also knew the lady was capable of wielding a firearm with frightening accuracy.

“Home, Peter, to Bruton Street,” Simon confirmed.

“What do you mean, home?” Julianna queried.

“We are going to our new home, Lady Roxbury, which is at 28 Bruton Street.”

“I cannot. I need my things.”

“Your maid packed them and brought them over during the ceremony and breakfast,” he answered evenly. He had seen this conversation coming a mile away. While she was focused on negotiating the most intricate, generous, and favorable marriage settlement any solicitor had ever created, he was busy ensuring that she actually did marry him.

He also made plans for her to reside with him in his garishly decorated bachelor’s residence because in order for this whole scheme to work, the ton had to believe the marriage was real and that they were in love. They could not just tie the knot and live separate lives across town.

Thus, they would reside under the same roof.

“I did not order her to pack my things,” Julianna said.

“I’m sure you didn’t tell the sun to rise, either, but it did,” Roxbury remarked. “And I asked your maid to do so.”

“This will never work. I cannot have you going behind my back and making plans for me without my knowledge or consent. I am my own person, an adult, and I will not be treated as a child or a servant.”

“Lady Roxbury, if you will be calm and listen to reason . . .” he began, purposely to provoke her.

“Be calm? Listen to reason?
Lady Roxbury?
”

Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were blazing, and she was utterly adorable. It was a delight to watch Julianna practically choking on her fury. Nothing was surer to agitate a woman than to tell her to be calm and listen to reason.

“As I was saying,” he carried on, trying very hard not to break into a grin, “this marriage is for the sake of appearances. So you will stay at my home, not because I wish to claim my marital rights, but because we need to dispel rumors that I enjoy bed sport with other men, that you do
not
enjoy bed sport with
many
men, and to convince the ton that this is a passionate love match and not the mercenary scam that it is.”

“I want a separate room,” Julianna said.

“They’re preparing two chambers right now,” he replied.

“With locks.”

“That will not be necessary,” he said, and then she surprised him by blushing, and turning away. Had he offended her modesty or was she embarrassed that he would not be seeking access to her bedchamber?

His intentions regarding bedding a female were, for the first time, pure. While his body was demanding that he claim her as his own by kissing, caressing, and loving every inch of her, his head and—dare he say it—his heart wasn’t in it. He’d had enough experience with women to know that a kiss too soon could be the end of everything.

Julianna infuriated him. She also amused him. They were married now and he wasn’t quite ready to ruin it all. He ought to give it a week, at least.

“I hope Penny brought my pistols,” Julianna muttered.

“I specifically told her not to,” he said. Because, being a red-blooded, passionate male married to a stunning beauty meant that at some point, he was going to bed her. He’d rather not risk her gunfire—again—to do so. The wrath of Julianna was sufficient to keep him at bay. For now.

She sighed, ever vexed, and he was ever entranced by the glorious rise and fall of her breasts. Perhaps it might just be worth the risk after all.

“I do not care for this,” she said with a sniff. He assumed she was referring to everything. He could not blame her. His own feelings were mixed—terror, a sort of excitement, a sense of adventure, and did he mention he was terrified?

But then there was always the great pleasure of discovering and learning a woman for the first time. To notice when she sighed, or to learn that she smoothed her skirts when she was nervous, or to discover just how she liked to be kissed.

“An excellent start for our marriage,” he remarked.

“Are you going to be faithful, Roxbury?” she asked. He fought the urge to shift uncomfortably in his seat, for had he not just entertained the thought, a few hours earlier, that he might be able to do it? Or was that just delusional? Or was that how he felt at the start of every love affair? Was this even a love affair? He thought it was a bargain with the devil.

“Do you want the honest answer, Julianna, or are you having a vulnerable moment and need to be consoled?”

“Honesty, please,” she answered.

“For now, yes, I will be faithful to you. But ultimately it depends,” he answered truthfully.

“On if I’m a true wife to you?” she asked.

“Yes, and probably a dozen other things. But for now, Julianna, I am yours and only yours.” It was a line he’d said before, but it was different this time: it was
her
and they had taken vows, and because he knew, deep in his bones, that this was not just another passing affair.

“Roxbury, I have another question.”

“Life with a reporter . . .” he jested.

“At your father’s house, that portrait . . .”

His smile faded as her voice trailed off. She was referring to the big family portrait above the mantel in the drawing room, and he had seen her glancing at it frequently before dinner. This question was not unexpected. Nevertheless, he did not know how he wanted to answer it.

“Tell me about how you first met Somerset,” he said.

“Point taken, Roxbury. We shall suffer our curiosity about the other’s deep, dark secrets until a suitable degree of intimacy is established, or—”

“All in good time, darling wife,” he said. They had the rest of their lives together. He swallowed hard at that realization.

Finally, the carriage rolled to a stop before his townhouse. A footman was waiting, but Simon waved him away.

“Julianna,” he said, and he took her hand in his and looked her in the eye.

Her eyes were lovely—bright green, with dark lashes. Her gaze was, as always, strong and honest. Her mouth, however, was another story entirely—here she showed her every emotion. Did she bite her lip in fear or vexation? Smile mysteriously or pout? Now, he found her lips were just so . . . kissable.

There was definitely a very significant chance that he would not be bored.

“Neither of us wanted this marriage,” he began, “but now we’re in it and there is no getting out of it. We have already demonstrated our capacity to utterly devastate the other. I am suggesting we endeavor to make a success of it; I only ask for a truce.”

“Complete honesty and practicality. My favorite kind of romance,” she remarked, sighing, and the smile she offered him could only be described as shy. Such a strange thought—Julianna, shy.

“A truce, Roxbury,” she said, holding out her hand to him.

He lifted her palm to his lips for a kiss, pausing to savor the warmth from her hand and this moment of tenderness. And then he escorted his bride into the horribly decorated bachelor’s abode that was now, suddenly, the newlyweds’ home.