A Tale of Two Lovers (20 page)

Julianna scowled at him, but he saw that she was fighting a smile. It must be damned hard to be her—scowling when she wanted to smile, biting back laughter, and Lord only knew how else she restrained herself.

“We’re fighting, Roxbury,” she reminded him, dropping back into position.

“Yes, dear,” he replied. “When you are ready, go ahead and hit me.”

“I’ve dreamt of this,” Julianna told him. She dreamt of pummeling him and he dreamt of making love. How splendid.

“Are you ready?” she asked, waving her little fists around.

“Ready,” he answered.

Julianna’s fist shot out and landed squarely, but lightly, on his chest. He barely felt it, and she knew it.

“I hit you harder in my dreams.” Her mouth twisted into a scowl of annoyance. It was irritating when a punch didn’t hit with enough force.

When Edward taught him to fight, Roxbury had the same experience—he could never hit hard enough. To teach him, Edward taunted him by calling him a sissy, a weakling, a missish twit, a sapling. And then, by God, did he land a damn good punch in his gut. His older brother had collapsed and, lying on the ground, gasped, “Well done.”

That was not a method he was going to employ with Julianna out of fear she would get frustrated and call for her pistols.

“I’m sure you did hit harder in your dreams, because that punch was nothing. Do you want to know why?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“You’re not using all of your strength. Right now, you’re hitting from here—” And to indicate exactly where, with his fingertips, Roxbury lightly traced the length of her bare skin from her shoulder to her elbow, and then to her wrist.

She shivered under his caress, and he heard the faintest gasp from her lips. He resisted the urge to smile in triumph. He also fought to keep her pleasure from affecting him. They were fighting now, but it was a prelude to making love. He should not move too fast but slow down and deeply enjoy Julianna melting under his touch.

He carried on, tracing that same line on the soft sensitive skin inside her arm. She bit her lower lip. His voice was raspier than it usually was.

“But you have much more muscle to put behind it. When you throw a punch, it should come from here,” he said, stepping closer to her and placing his hand squarely on her lower back.

He was tempted to lean in and press his lips to that secret spot on a woman’s neck, just below the earlobe. And that was just to start . . .

With just his fingertips, Roxbury skimmed his palm up from the dip in her lower back, valiantly ignoring the great temptation to move his hand farther down. Gently and slowly he traced the line around her hip and up along her side, all the way up to her shoulder before going the length of her arm again. Soft, bare skin under his hot, bare hands.

A gentleman did not touch a lady thusly in a drawing room. But they were married and the hideous drapes were closed to the outside world. They were quite alone.

Julianna shivered again. She might have just been ticklish, but it could also be the shiver of pleasure from his touch. The man dared to dream.

“And a good punch should also come from your heart, from your gut and from your head,” he added. The mechanics and muscles weren’t everything. Without passion, it would never work. He was no longer strictly on the subject of boxing.

“With everything I’ve got,” she said succinctly.

“Yes,” he said. Her eyes met his. All the smoldering glances and delicate, secret caresses in the world couldn’t match true longing. That initial spark could never be forced.

Rule:
Throw out all the rules and just feel it.

“Now try again. Hit me here,” he said, indicating his chest, right above his heart.

First, Julianna pushed a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes. Then she took a deep breath and assumed the position. She rocked on her feet for a second, with her fists up near her face. And then, so fast he barely saw it, her arm shot out, landing hard on his chest and knocking his breath away.

He gave in to the urge to double over, for her sake.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

Julianna fluttered over him, wrapping her arms around him. It was such a lovely feeling—that of her tending to him and embracing him—that he shamelessly added a groan to encourage her. She wrapped her arms around him and “helped” him over to the settee.

“You must lie down,” she demanded. Simon resisted the urge to smile or tell her that he did not need to lie down after taking a little hit from a lady—that would definitely result in a smack that would do serious damage.

So he let her fuss about, fluffing pillows and resting her hand on his chest.

He added a new rule to his repertoire:
Act hurt; encourage their tendency to nurture.

For the very first time, she gave a damn about him. It was hilarious and wonderful all at once.

“I’ll call for the smelling salts,” she said, leaving him sprawled on the settee.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. That was taking things too damn far. He was a man, for Lord’s sake!

“I didn’t hurt you very badly?” Julianna asked cautiously, as she took a seat beside him. “Not that you would admit it if I did.”

“No, and you did very well. Now you have another manner of defending yourself,” he said.

“In the event that I do not have my pistols,” she remarked, grinning.

“That, too, though I was thinking of that sharp tongue of yours,” he said, with a wry smile.

At that, she laughed, and it was a pretty laugh. She really needed to do it more often.

“Thank you, Roxbury,” she said genuinely. He got up from his sprawl and sat up next to her.

“You might as well call me Simon,” he said. “After all, we’re married and have just enjoyed a good tussle in the drawing room.”

She rolled her eyes like a young girl, but she was smiling.

At this moment, he was fairly certain of a good reception if he were to kiss her. She was clearly happy and feeling fond of him—more than she’d ever done, at least. She’d exercised some of her anger, making some room for pleasure.

To test the waters, he rested his hand on hers. Julianna looked up at him, curiously, but she did not move or tug her hand away. She didn’t scowl, either, or make some wisecrack about his proclivities or vast previous experience in the gentle caress of a woman’s hand.

This was progress.

Nevertheless, he decided he would not try to kiss her tonight, even though her lips were luscious and slightly parted. Even though he wanted to keep feeling close to her, and even though he ached to be with a woman. More startlingly, he ached to be with this one, his wife, and no other.

No, he would not kiss her tonight because these things should not be rushed and because once they began down that road, of kisses and caresses and lovemaking there would be no going back.

“Let’s call it a night, shall we?” he suggested, before he changed his mind and attempted to have his way with her on the drawing room floor.

“Very well,” she said promptly, and he could not detect any regret or longing in her tone.

As he followed her up the stairs, he took tremendous pleasure of the view—she had a very shapely backside. By the time they reached the top, he was sorely regretting his suggestion to end the evening, especially when she glanced over her shoulder at him, with a little suggestive flash of her green eyes and a coy smile forming on her lips.

Chapter 37

W
hen her fellow Writing Girls arrived for afternoon tea, Julianna reluctantly showed them to the drawing room.

“How nice,” Eliza said, her voice hollow, and looking around at the harvest gold damask, and the red velvet furniture, and the horrible everything. Her expression was such that
nice
was a hyperbole—and she hadn’t even taken a close look at the drapes.

“Indeed,” Sophie managed. “How nice.”

“It’s very bright,” Annabelle said, making an effort to be cheerful. “And this dog is darling,” she said, standing before one of the portraits of an English bulldog. For some reason, the decorator had decked the walls with an assortment of portraits of various canines.

“The house is good, and one can understand why he was loath to give it up,” Julianna said. Underneath all the rubbish, it was a good home in a fashionable neighborhood.

“But the decorating is horrific,” Sophie said, surveying the room again with her hands helplessly by her side. “Tell me the rest of the house is not so bad.”

“You should see my bedchamber. It’s very pink,” Julianna said distastefully.

“Oh dear,” Annabelle said with a sigh, holding a handful of drapery.

“I wonder what angry mistress did this to him,” Eliza said, now examining a row of blue-and-white porcelain Chinese vases along the mantel.

“I keep meaning to ask,” Julianna said. “Unless he did this to himself?”

“When do we redecorate?” Sophie asked. “Please say today.”

“I’m not planning on staying here long, and I do like the idea of leaving him with this,” she said, with a sweep of her hand to indicate the drawing room. She took a seat on one of the horrible velvet chairs, and her friends joined her around the tea tray.

“I was going to ask how your marriage was faring, but if you are leaving soon, I suppose that’s my answer,” Sophie said. Julianna handed her a cup of tea, and then poured for the others as well.

“Was it worth it?” Eliza asked.

“That depends. Is there still talk about his preferences?” Julianna asked. “When those rumors are silent, my job here is done.”

“Brandon tells me that on the whole, most gentlemen are too uncomfortable to discuss it, but some of the younger, drunker lads still enjoy jokes about it,” Sophie shared.

“Oh dear,” Annabelle murmured before taking a bite of a ginger biscuit.

“And the ladies of the ton?” Julianna asked, with a heavy heart.

“They’re all shocked, simply shocked,” Sophie declared. “They never saw any of this scandal coming. But there are a few former paramours with suspicious husbands that are fully embracing the rumor that Roxbury might have only been chatting with their wives, rather than . . .”

Annabelle blushed and sipped her tea.

“So this is all progress, I suppose,” Julianna said even though it wasn’t, really. She had so badly wanted to hear, “Oh, no talks about you or Roxbury anymore, except to wonder where you are.”

“It will die down eventually,” Sophie said. “It always does.”

“And my reputation, dare I ask?” Julianna ventured.

“It’s all quite confusing,” Eliza said.

“Many are shocked at the marriage, for they never saw it coming,” Sophie explained.

“None of us did,” Annabelle said. “I still can’t quite believe that you married the great rake Roxbury.”

“No one believes it was a love match,” Eliza said plainly.

“And they are having great fun at speculating what secret, scandalous reason drove two people to the altar, when they had so rarely been together publicly. Well, save for that serenade . . .” Sophie said.

“I’m not sure ‘serenade’ is the word for what happened,” Annabelle mused.

“I’m not sure there is a word for it,” Eliza replied.

All Julianna could think of were the missed opportunities for “Fashionable Intelligence.” If she’d only written about her own scandal as Eliza advised and Knightly wished, she could have led the conversation among the ton. She could have introduced exclusive details, false leads, and fictitious stories that could have changed everything.

Julianna suffered hot, shooting pangs of regret.

But no—she’d been too stubborn. She had tried to ignore it, hoping it would go away. She was trying to protect the name of Somerset—and when had that ever done anything good for her? Now she didn’t even have that anymore. Oh, how it burned.

“So my marriage is discussed,” she summed up bitterly before taking a sip of her tea.

“In drawing rooms and ballrooms all over town, I’m afraid,” Sophie replied breezily, and reaching for a ginger biscuit.

“That must mean that I haven’t a hope of reclaiming my column anytime soon,” Julianna said glumly.

“Not necessarily. It’s not going so well without you, in fact. At least, not as well as Knightly had hoped.”

“Grenville just doesn’t have the same deft touch with society gossip as you,” Annabelle added.

“Grenville! They gave my precious “Fashionable Intelligence” to that cranky old bat?
Grenville
?”

The man in question covered parliamentary reports and other
very important
but
very boring
news and business. Not only did he not love gossip, he thought it trivial, frivolous, and a tremendous waste of time.

That he should compose editions of her precious “Fashionable Intelligence” truly made her burn hot with regret. What had she done?

“Alistair and I are doing the bulk of it, but I’m afraid we just don’t have the same wit, either.”

“Oh, my baby . . . My poor, precious baby,” Julianna lamented.

Thankfully, no one said something to the effect of “oh, it’s just a newspaper column” because the Writing Girls—and only the Writing Girls—knew it was so much more. It was their identity, their livelihood, and their income. It was a point of pride and a source of deep satisfaction. It was anything but some column inches in news rag.

“I created ‘Fashionable Intelligence’ from nothing,” Julianna began passionately. “Before I went to see him that day, Knightly was publishing ‘News from Court’ that was about as interesting as a schoolboy’s grammar lesson and as widely read. I built up my own network of informants—Penny and her six sisters, and my favorite penny-a-liners. Within a year, I was rivaling a gossip columnist who had been at work for forty years!”

She paused in her rant only to take a breath.

“And it’s not just gossip, or silly frivolous society news! Other people’s business is a valuable commodity and a reflection of our deepest held values. If I write that red silk is the latest fashion of the fabulous, people will demand it and markets will shift to supply it. If I claim that jaunts to Gretna Green are all the rage, I can guarantee even among couples with parental approval and no need for the lengthy trip will elope there,” Julianna said.

“You’ll be back in no time,” Eliza said, smiling broadly, and the others nodded resolutely.

“You never did tell us about how your marriage is faring,” Sophie said again.

“Oh. That.” Julianna sipped her tea. She eyed one of the ginger biscuits but found she had no appetite.

“You have spent almost a week together now,” Annabelle added.

“You have every comfort available to you,” Eliza said. “Except good taste in decorating.”

Julianna had to crack a smile at that.

“Where is he, anyway?” Annabelle wondered, idly looking around as if Roxbury had been overlooked in a corner or something.

“I have no idea! He’s not here!” Julianna exclaimed. She had woken to discover him missing. His slovenly attired valet refused to talk free of charge, and Penny still hadn’t uncovered Roxbury’s whereabouts. She had to wonder, did rakes go to visit their mistresses at first light? Most men probably didn’t, but then again, she hadn’t married most men—either the first time or the second.

It rankled that there were secrets in her marriage. It also rankled that she could have sworn he was about to kiss her last night, and he did not. Why, oh, why had he not done so? She’d been so certain that he was considering it. And, terrifyingly, she wanted him to!

Even at the best of times, Julianna’s store of patience was not vast.

“He insists that I must stay here for the sake of appearances, which I know is the thing to do. But then he goes out, where I know not. He left at dawn this morning and no one will tell me where he has gone. Yesterday, he spent hours at Gentleman Jack’s.”

“Do you think . . .” Eliza dropped her voice “. . . that he might not be where he says he is?” Julianna knew what she was really asking—could he be with another woman, already?

“I think he was just boxing,” Julianna said resolutely. “But if he’s betrayed me already, I will murder him.”

“Quite a vehement response,” Eliza mentioned, while pouring another cup of tea.

“Especially since you don’t really care for him at all,” Sophie said, but she was looking again at the curtains—and not looking Julianna in the eye.

“What are you saying?” Julianna asked of her friends. She looked at Annabelle for an answer.

“I think they are remarking that you seem to care more deeply for Roxbury than previously admitted. But I could be mistaken,” Annabelle hastily added.

“You are mistaken. I care not. It’s my pride that I’m concerned with, that’s all,” Julianna said dismissively—or as much as she could manage. “And it’s barely been a week since we’ve exchanged our vows. Really, it’s too soon to start ignoring them.”

“When is it acceptable, then?” Eliza wondered, sipping her tea.

“I believe it is until death do you part,” Sophie said. “So, never, basically.”

“It’s not acceptable at all. Ever,” Annabelle said resolutely.

“That’s all beside the point entirely. The real issue is that he has left for no apparent reason, and without informing me. He went off yesterday, and again today,” Julianna said. But then she thought of the previous evening’s activity, and knew she had to tell her friends. She grinned and said, “But last night, he taught me to box.”

“Really?” Sophie asked. “And I merely take tea after supper.”

“What was it like?” Annabelle asked, tilting her head curiously.

“It was very . . . oh, just wonderful. I learned how to throw a punch and I got to hit him, which I had been aching to do for weeks now.”

“How did it feel?” Annabelle asked. “I could never imagine striking someone.”

“It was deeply satisfying. At the same time, the lesson was oddly . . . seductive.”

“How so?” Eliza asked, leaning in curiously.

“Just the close proximity, the touching, the shivers. And having my urge to hit him satisfied, so now I feel . . . Oh, I can’t quite explain,” Julianna said. She had enjoyed herself, with him, and wished to do so again. But now he had vanished.

“We’re all dying to know, if . . . you know . . .” Sophie said quietly.

“No,” Julianna said, dropping her voice as well. “I thought he might try last night, but he just said good-night and went whistling on his way to his bedchamber.”

“What does that mean?” Eliza wondered.

“I have no idea. Men generally do not make sense,” Julianna replied.

“He’s trying to seduce you,” Annabelle said flatly. Three pairs of eyes widened in shock at dear, sweet, innocent Annabelle speaking so plainly about seduction.

“How do you figure?” Sophie asked.

“I read it in a Minerva Press novel . . . or twenty,” Annabelle said, sighing impatiently. “Honestly, how have you not figured this out?”

“I don’t follow,” Julianna said. “He taught me how to box. That’s all.”

“No, that’s not all, you ninny! He’s making you want him by giving you a little bit—a gentle caress, the suggestion of more—but not going all the way. At least, that’s what it sounds like. If nothing else, it’s Roxbury, for heaven’s sake! Before you spread those rumors, he was
legendary
for seducing women.”

“And he has you captive under his roof,” Eliza said with a mischievous grin.

“Oh, Jules, you don’t stand a chance!” Sophie exclaimed.

“You’re going to fall in love with your husband!” Annabelle said gleefully.

“I will do no such thing. I will not be seduced and I will not fall in love. And if he should try anything . . .”

“You know how to fight now,” Eliza finished.

“I wish I knew how to box,” Annabelle said.

“I’ll teach you,” Julianna offered. “Let’s do it right now. First, let’s move the furniture out of the way.”

Annabelle sensibly rang the bell to request assistance from the footmen.

“Can we move it outside of the house entirely?” Sophie asked, once they began pushing tables and chairs aside.

“I know it’s awful, but it’s pointless to redecorate when I won’t be staying to enjoy it,” Julianna said. In another day or two she’d return to 24 Bloomsbury Place. If her legendary husband was indeed bent upon seducing her, it would be far too dangerous to stay, because . . .