A Tale of Two Lovers (18 page)

Chapter 32

In the lady’s bedchamber . . .

O
nce upon a time, Julianna had thought that Roxbury possessed plain brown eyes like anyone else. She never understood the sighs and raptures from other women about his chocolate-colored eyes with their sparks of mischief and desire and all that rot. The legions had fanned their hot cheeks at the merest mention of his tall, lean, muscled physique. What hogwash, she had thought.

She was beginning to understand. When he held her hand and looked at her with beautiful, warm brown eyes, she noticed that he really looked at her. He really saw her.

Somerset had stopped seeing her after a while. She’d forgotten what it was like to be noticed, and that it was lovely.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, my lady,” Penny said. Julianna stood in the center of her new bedroom—a very pink room—awaiting her maid’s assistance in removing her gown.

“It’s been a big day,” Julianna replied.

“And now a big night . . .” Penny said, and Julianna caught her maid’s grin in the gold-framed full-length mirror.

“No, not exactly,” Julianna said. But she was very aware that he was just across the hall, and at this very moment he was probably undressing that tall, lean, muscled physique of his. A blush stole across her cheeks.

“But he’s your husband now, and so handsome,” Penny went on. Her maid had been completely charmed. Wonderful.

“And the last time I had had a handsome husband . . . you know how that turned out, Penny.”

“Just fine,” she said briskly, tucking a stray strand of red hair out of her eyes before beginning to unlace Julianna’s corset.

“Just fine? Whatever do you mean?” Julianna asked.

“He conveniently removed himself from your life. He got out of your way so you could be happy,” Penny said. Julianna had been thinking more along the lines of utter calamity, but the point was taken. The worst was after the love had gone, but the marriage remained.

“You make it sound as if he did me a favor, when in fact he was merely an idiot. He was killed because he was trying to make love to an actress while driving a carriage. While drunk,” Julianna said. Every so often she had to repeat it aloud to confirm it. What a stupid way to go.

By the end, Somerset liked his vices in pairs, at the minimum. Alcohol and women, opium and fornication, gaming and smoking.

“But the point is he is no longer around to hurt and embarrass you with his infidelities,” Penny added.

“I have Roxbury for that now,” Julianna said forlornly—and yet glancing at the bedchamber door as if he might knock at any second. Would he knock? Why wouldn’t he?

“Oh, my lady,” Penny said with a laugh. “He’ll never get away with it! You have a network of spies and informants, starting with my six sisters and me. We’ll watch out for you.”

Penny spoke brightly as she worked efficiently to remove all the hairpins. She didn’t seem quite aware of the revelations she had just shared.

With her network of information gatherers, Julianna would know about any infidelities of Roxbury’s before they even happened. And if he were the promiscuous rogue that she feared he could be, it would be different this time because she would not be in love with him.

This marriage might have a chance after all.

In the bedroom across the hall . . .

“S
he’s a stunner, my lord. Well done,” Timson said. Roxbury removed his jacket and handed it to his valet.

“That is my wife you’re talking about. And she’s the devil in disguise.”

“Aren’t all women?” Timson asked with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I have to live with this one. I cannot just leave before morning light and be done with it,” said Roxbury.

This part, in particular, worried him. He fell easily into love, and easily out of it. Because he did not engage in long-lasting binding affairs, it was of little to no consequence at all to walk away whenever he felt like it.

Though he knew little about marriages, Roxbury knew that he could not just walk away and be done with it once he was bored.

“A wife, Timson. My wife.”

“Never thought you’d say that, did you?” Timson asked with a grin. Roxbury handed his waistcoat and cravat to him and wondered what his valet did besides collect clothing and offer his unsolicited opinions. Certainly not tend to his own slovenly attire.

“No, Timson, I did not.”

“So now what? We all know this marriage is a sham. How long does she stay for?” Timson asked, leaning against the armoire.

There was something about the way Timson spoke of his wife, and his marriage that struck Roxbury as troubling.

Just because it was a marriage of convenience didn’t make it any less valid. Just because he did not love his wife did not mean that he wouldn’t act as a husband ought to—loyal, caring, protecting.

Until now, Roxbury had not considered these things. His only focus had been on the papers—the marriage license, the contract, and the settlements. But now that Julianna was the lady of the house, Timson could not ask, in so many words, how long he had to tolerate her for.

In that instant Roxbury saw that if he treated her, and the relationship, lightly then the rest of the world would, too. She did not deserve that. Apparently, a gentleman’s work wasn’t concluded after the proposal, either. It was a relentless display of decency, righteousness, responsibility, and command. Roxbury empathized with Brandon in that moment more than he had in any of the years of their friendship.

“That’s my wife you’re talking about, Timson.” There was a heavy dose of warning in his tone.

His wife, who was terrifying and lovely and likely in some state of undress just across the hall.

That image was one he dwelled on. At first, he suspected that her state of undress compromised some spinsterish nightgown covering every inch. But then Roxbury recalled the infamous night of the serenade. According to his blurred vision and hazy memory, she wore something cut low across the bodice and perfectly fitted everywhere else. And silky—he could tell by the way the fabric caressed her skin, propelled by the wind.

His mouth went dry imagining it. He glanced at the door, and considered knocking on hers.

The pistols, though. He recalled that part with stunning clarity. But those had been left in Bloomsbury at his explicit instructions to her very flirtatious maid.

How on earth had he acquired a wife, and such a dangerous one at that? What the bloody hell was he doing standing in his shirtsleeves, alternating between lusty thoughts and talking to his valet on his wedding night?

Roxbury had half a mind to go knock on her door this minute.

He would not, though, because he was an experienced rake and he knew a thing or two (or twenty) about women. For example, they did not like to be rushed. A successful seduction was a slow waltz, a long walk, and a prolonged courtship. A patient man was a lucky man.

When Roxbury decided he wanted to win her heart and a place in her bed, it would be his for the taking—it would not be forced or hurried. Hell, they were married! They had all the time in the world to tumble into bed and maybe even fall in love.

Chapter 33

F
or the second day in a row—and the second day since the wedding—Julianna woke up experiencing an intense wave of homesickness. Roxbury’s house was nice (though the decor left much to be desired), but it wasn’t
hers
. She missed her own bed and the view of Bloomsbury Square from her window.

Pink was the color of choice for her bedchamber: a dark magenta carpet with matching velvet drapes. The walls were papered in a pattern that consisted of pink roses over pink stripes. The chair was pink, the blankets were pink. There were ruffles on everything, too. It was an explosion of femininity and it was utterly strange that such a room should exist in the house of a rake.

The decoration in the rest of the house, that she had seen, was horrifying.

She wondered who had inflicted such damage. An angry former mistress? A blind person? His mother? Someone on his staff?

Never one to complain when something could be done, Julianna rang for Penny. After a short conversation about their plans to cure her homesickness, Julianna dressed and went downstairs (skipping the stair that creaked). She shuddered passing through the foyer, and cringed upon viewing the dining room in daylight. The particular shade of green on the walls was alarmingly similar to some bodily fluids that a lady dare not mention.

Then she sat down to breakfast with the company of
The London Times
. It was important to keep track of her rival.

She was halfway through reading all about England’s news in the column “Domestic Intelligence” when Roxbury joined her.

She managed a slight smile and a “Good morning” before she returned to the paper. Well, she looked at it, but read nary a word. His mere presence had set her heart racing. With his mussed up hair, unshaven jaw and brown eyes that were still heavy-lidded from sleep, there was something dangerously attractive about him.

Yet it was just so bizarre to see her former nemesis across from her at the breakfast table. How had this happened? Stranger things had happened, but Julianna could not think of any.

She turned the page on her newspaper and arrived at the Man About Town’s column. It was no surprise to see that news of their marriage had made its way into print.

“I swear, that if I do one thing before I die, it will be to discover and expose the Man About Town,” she muttered when she concluded reading.

“You do not care for him?” Roxbury asked. He was drinking coffee after having devoured a large plate of eggs, ham, and bread generously slathered with butter.

“I think I might despise him more than you,” she replied, sipping her tea.

“What did he write this morning?”

Julianna read the following aloud:

“The Man About Town reports: This just in . . . the two people least likely to marry have done just that. I am, of course, talking about Lord R—and Lady S—. By all accounts, they had never even met until last month. No one will own to introducing them. After his midnight serenade and subsequent visit to her home, a marriage was all but assured—eventually. We wonder what finally drove R—to come up to scratch and make an honest woman out of the gossiping widow.”

It was almost the perfect picture of domesticity: the lady reading the paper aloud to her husband at the breakfast table. Except that they were reading the gossip column, in which they were the principle subjects, and their new marriage was already labeled suspicious.

It was a slight change from
before
. Somerset’s antics were frequently reported—it’s how she kept track of him. If she had a coin for every time a gossip column had concluded another one of her late husband’s exploits with “Poor Lady Somerset” she’d have no need of Roxbury’s money.

At least now she was an equal partner in scandal. She sipped her tea and took a small measure of comfort in that.

Roxbury’s gaze met her own. His eyes were very beautiful. She was beginning to understand, Lord help her, all those ladies sighing about “getting lost in his eyes and the depth of his gaze” and other such stuff she had dismissed as utter cork-brained nonsense.

Oh Lord, what was happening to her?

She noticed more, too. This morning, he hadn’t yet shaved, so he looked more rugged and less refined. He did not wear a jacket, either—only his shirt and waistcoat. This was not how society saw him. Only her—and however many women there had been before.

The thought of them brought on a rush of jealousy, even though she told herself she couldn’t possibly care.

“Sophie is breaking the news in her column,” Julianna said. “She will have all the details the Man About Town does not. It will be a
London Weekly
exclusive.”

“And your column?” he asked, and she heard the hesitation in his voice.

“One of the other staff writers will take it over, with help from Sophie and the penny-a-liners,” she answered. She frowned; it felt like giving the care of her child over to another.

“Who are they?” he asked.

“Penny-a-liners provide news about all sorts of things for a penny per line of text,” she answered, always eager to talk about her favorite subject—gossip, the news, and secrets. “They give reports of fires, or arrests, or deaths and other crimes. They often weasel their way into the best houses so I rely on them for my work. Jem Jones—he’s one of the best—and his crew usually come in once or twice a week with all sorts of delicious information.”

“I had no idea,” Roxbury said, and he looked genuinely interested.

She enjoyed a warm, pleasant feeling at being able to share this part of her life with someone new. Given that her identity was supposed to be unconfirmed, she could not speak of her work with
The Weekly
. There was nothing she hated like keeping a secret.

“You didn’t think Knightly—or anyone else—would pay actual reporters when poor youths will volunteer the information for next to nothing, did you?” she asked.

“Now that I think about it, no,” Roxbury said, and then he leaned in across the table in the manner one does when they wish to gossip. It made her grin and lean in closer, too, so she might meet him halfway.

“So,” he asked, in a low voice, “how did you get all your gossip? How did you do it, Julianna?”

“Well,” she said in a hushed whisper, still leaning forward. She caught him glancing at her breasts but decided not to chide him for it. “It is amazing what people would confide in me. Or what I would observe.” She gave him a pointed nod, and he smiled ruefully. “There are other ways of course . . .”

“Those rumored networks of spies and informants?” he asked with a lift of his brow.

“A lady never tells,” she said with a sphinxlike smile and he scowled.

“The Man About Town has his calling hours at St. Bride’s, or so I’ve heard,” Roxbury added.

“It’s genius, I must admit, even though it hurts me to do so,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “Oh, what I wouldn’t do to best him once and for all!”

“Why don’t you?” Roxbury asked.

She opened her mouth to reply in the negative, but quickly closed it when she realized that she did not have a reason not to. She’d always wanted to, but gleaning material for her own column had always taken precedence. But now she certainly had time to spare.

What if she did try to unmask him once and for all? She took a sip of tea and pondered this.

The Man About Town’s column had been running thrice weekly, continuously, for forty years. His true identity was one of the great mysteries. In all that time, no one had been able to definitively discover who he really was. Many had just accepted that it would remain a secret forever.

By now, he had to be an old man. While that did exclude most of the population, there were still many old men in London. What if the Man About Town, whoever he was, took his secret to the grave?

Then she would never know! Oh, how that would vex her! She’d never get a decent night’s sleep again.

And if she succeeded—Knightly would definitely take her back. And that was what she wanted most of all.

“Roxbury, I think I just might,” she said with a smile.

“Did you notice that we just had an entirely civil conversation?” he remarked.

“I can’t think how to make sense of it,” she said, “but it’s a lovely note to end things on, really.”

She gently set down her teacup in the saucer, while he slammed his coffee cup down on the table.

“End things?” he echoed.

“I’ve spent the wedding night, and one extra for the sake of propriety. I shall return to Bloomsbury Place this morning.”

Roxbury stared at her, but she knew better than to interpret his silence as acquiescence. Did he want her to stay? She did not think he would care, now that his fortune was secure.

But his expression grew dark, and she became nervous and thought only to stand her ground and not allow him to intimidate her into changing her mind. She would not bend and mould to her husband’s will.

“Penny is packing my things right now,” she added defiantly.

Roxbury said nothing but stood and quit the dining room.

“Where are you going?”

“To order your maid to cease packing,” he answered.

“I will not stay,” she insisted, and she followed him out of the garishly painted dining room, into the black-and-white foyer and up the stairs. He stomped up each step, hitting the creaking stair particularly hard.

Once they reached the next floor, she repeated herself, “I’m not staying.”

Roxbury spun around to face her. She tilted her head back, daring to look him in the eye and refusing to be bullied. He did not seem enraged, but then she noted the tension in his jaw and the fire in his eyes.

She wanted to confide in him, but found herself speechless at the intensity of his response.

He did not want her to leave. Did that mean he cared, she wondered? Why would he wish her to stay? Any other thoughts fled as he closed the distance between them.

Few men towered over her. This one did, and standing in his shadow, she experienced the rare sensation of feeling small. He took another step toward her.

Before she knew it, Julianna was backed up against the wall with Roxbury blocking her path. She could feel the heat radiating from him. It was not altogether unpleasant to be so near. She wanted to curl up against his chest, tug his arms around her, and just be still.

“Yes, you are staying,” he said in a low voice that left little room for disagreement. “Two nights is not enough to repair the damage. You started those rumors about my
preferences
and now you will quiet them.”

“So you can sleep with other women!”

“If not you, wife.” His tone was suggestive. Shivers ran up and down her spine. She hoped he did not notice, but there was a flash of triumph in his eyes and she knew that he did.

“I’m not your wife, not really,” she whispered. Couldn’t he see that she had to get out before more than their reputations were on the line? Before she became his wife in truth, and before he returned to his rakish habits?

“Exactly. Do you think society will welcome either of us after a marriage that was born in scandal and ended within a week?”

Julianna looked away. He was right and she knew it, much as she was loath to admit it.

But she couldn’t fathom explaining to him that she was homesick, and scared of this marriage and how it might change her. Yet she longed to be lost in his embrace. But that would be as dangerous as it would be comforting.

When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “For better or for worse, Julianna, we need each other. For a little while longer, at least.”

And then Roxbury dared to push a strand of hair away from her face. It was such a gentle, possessive, affectionate gesture and that surprised her, especially given that she had been in the process of leaving him. It took all of her self-restraint not to pull him closer for an embrace, or to tilt up her lips for a kiss.

What utter madness. It would be delicious, but no good could come of it.

Julianna slipped away and sauntered off to her room. He followed her—not just to the threshold, but straight into her outrageously pink bedchamber. He cringed upon seeing the pink.

Penny was surrounded by an explosion of Julianna’s gowns, all heaped into piles of rose, green, gray, and blue silks and satins. Two trunks were open as well, with shoes and hair ribbons and underthings spilling out.

“Your mistress will remain, so you may desist with the packing,” Roxbury ordered.

Penny, bless her, looked to Julianna for approval. Reluctantly, she nodded her agreement, though anger simmered inside her because Roxbury was right and it contradicted her own desires, because her bedchamber was so damned pink, and because she craved his touch and could never indulge. If she were to succumb, it would swiftly turn to love and then devastation when her renowned rake of a husband got bored with her.

She did not want to be here and she did not want to be ordered around.

“If you leave, my lady, I will go directly to St. Bride’s and inform the Man About Town who you are. Then you can really kiss your column goodbye and you’ll be stuck in this marriage forever,” Roxbury threatened.