A Tale of Two Lovers (19 page)
Oooh! For him to come into her bedchamber, order her around, and threaten her was intolerable! Words were not sufficient to express her aggravation. Julianna picked up the nearest object, which happened to be a bejeweled satin shoe and threw it at him.
But it only hit the door closing behind him as he left.
Gentleman Jack’s
Later that day
T
hat woman—his wife—was maddening. Julianna could understand logic and good sense when it was presented to her, but it did not seem to occur to her on her own. It was strange, because she was such a clever, witty, sharp woman.
Dear God, to explain to her their situation again and again . . . it made him violent. Since venting his frustration upon her was out of the question, he came here, to Gentleman Jack’s.
Roxbury stripped off his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt in preparation for a fight.
Julianna had tried to leave their marriage after only two days. Even he, who was renowned for fleeting affairs, usually stuck it out longer than that, by at least a week.
Julianna was intriguing, maddening, a touch demented, stunningly beautiful, and unlike any woman he’d ever experienced.
Roxbury had nearly lost a fortune because of her. Was it worth it? It was too soon to know, but there was something about a woman in the house. Temptation was always just within reach, just a room or two away. . . . It could be damn frustrating. Or damn satisfying.
But if he had that woman in his bed then he wouldn’t need to be here, venting said frustrations in the boxing ring. Lord Brookes was there, and he raised his fists in an invitation to fight; Roxbury nodded yes. At first they just circled, fists ready. Unlike most, Roxbury had disregarded mufflers. Brookes didn’t use them, either. This would be a good fight.
He grunted as he dodged one punch and then another.
Roxbury could just imagine Julianna naked between the sheets. He could see such a vision perfectly—her dark red hair against white linen sheets. Her full pink mouth and green eyes, dark with arousal. He could practically feel her soft skin and he could just about taste her kiss.
If he seduced her there was no doubt it would be one hell of a tumble. Julianna had that fire. Every word was a spark. Her glances, like smoldering embers.
And he could just tell—because he knew these things—that when she really made love, it would be akin to a long, hot roaring fire. He doubted she knew what she was missing, and what pleasure she was capable of.
He could show her. As a reward, he’d be the only one to see the great, invincible Lady Julianna with her hair down, her heart pounding and lips parted, murmuring
please
.
Roxbury’s hair was falling into his eyes, obscuring his vision. Sweat was beading on his skin and he struck out, landing a blow on his opponent’s abdomen.
Brookes struck back, and Roxbury dodged it, barely.
Roxbury was an expert at seduction. This was a well-known fact. If he were so inclined, he need only apply his experience and techniques to Julianna. Jewelry accomplished wonders, but an empathetic expression while listening, or a heated and suggestive glance went further toward conquering a woman’s heart. And then a gentle touch here or a whisper there . . .
Did he dare seduce her? He had seduced wives before. Just not his own.
And if it all went wrong? It went without saying that he’d never kept a love affair going for very long, let alone until death did they part. With his own wife, there was no escape.
The fight continued, around and around, dodging blows and throwing punches until Roxbury was distracted, yet again, by thoughts of his own wife naked and happy in his bed. At that moment, he took a fist to his gut and doubled over, breathless, but not sure if it was the thought or the blow that did it.
In the drawing room
I
f Julianna could not go out into the world, the world would come to her. Thus, she invited Alistair over for tea this afternoon and the Writing Girls promised to gather tomorrow. Had she been certain of her invitation being accepted, she would have thrown a dinner party.
She was desperate to avoid being alone with her husband. Or, since he was out—God only knew where—to avoid being alone with herself. When they were together she was plagued by desire to curl up in his arms, or to push his tousled hair out of his eyes. She nibbled her lip, recalling their one good kiss, and wondered what lengths she’d go to for a repeat of that experience.
When she was alone, she was plagued by thoughts of the men that vexed her: Roxbury, Knightly, the Man About Town. Her feelings toward the lot of them were a messy combination of passion, lust, violence, and intense curiosity. It was exhausting.
Later that afternoon, Alistair was officially the first guest she’d entertained as Lady Roxbury. It was only fitting since he had also witnessed that fateful scene that ultimately brought her and Roxbury together.
“What interesting choices in décor,” Alistair remarked lightly. “Who is responsible for . . .”
“For this atrocity?” Julianna supplied.
“I was going to say abomination against beauty, but atrocity works as well,” Alistair said, and she laughed for the first time in days.
“I have no idea, and I suspect it was a vengeful former mistress,” she replied.
“A drunk, blind, vengeful former mistress?” he questioned. His tone was polite though his question was anything but.
“Quite possibly,” she murmured.
They sat on the red velvet settee in the drawing room and silently surveyed the room. The walls were papered in gold damask. The chairs were upholstered in a shade of velvet that could only be described as cherry. The artwork consisted of portraits of dogs, in heavy wooden frames. And the curtains and drapes . . . Julianna shuddered. There were no words.
“This is all my fault,” Alistair lamented, and Julianna wasn’t sure if he meant this room, or that she had to live in it, or something else entirely. “I never should have escorted you backstage.”
“Alistair, do not be ridiculous. We both know you couldn’t have stopped me,” she said, handing him a cup of tea.
“A depressingly accurate fact,” he replied. She sipped her tea. Thus far, Roxbury was the only one who dared—and largely succeeded—to impose his will upon her.
“Oh, let’s not discuss it. Tell me some gossip, Alistair. I’m
desperate
for news of other people’s problems.”
“My pleasure,” he said with a grin. “The latest is from last night. Lady Stewart-Wortly caught young Miss Montagu in a very delicate situation with the Duke of St. Alban’s youngest, in the library at a party. They were in various states of undress, completely disheveled, etcetera, etcetera. When Lady Stewart-Wortly discovers them, she naturally launches into one of her—”
“Tirades?” Julianna supplied, resting her hand on Alistair’s.
“Impassioned please for decency, she would say, but ‘tirades’ is certainly more accurate. So she is delivering this grand speech to a young couple, partially clothed and scared out of their wits. And in this grand speech, she mentions at least four times that if they had read her book,
Lady Stewart-Wortly’s Daily Devotional for Pious and Proper Ladies
, this never would have happened. Of course, it immediately turns into a mob scene—and you know how it goes from there.”
“When is the wedding?”
“Next Saturday,” Alistair answered. “The highlight was Lady Charlotte Brandon asking Lady Stewart-Wortly directly—in front of the crowd that had gathered—if she could talk more about the chapter in her book about how a woman ought to be seen and not heard.”
Lady Julianna burst into laughter at that. She laughed long and loud because it’d been some time since she had done so. Because she could so easily imagine the expressions—Lady Charlotte had perfectly mastered the look of feigned innocence and employed it often. Lady Stewart-Wortly probably turned beet red, pursed her lips, and narrowed her eyes to look more pinched and peevish than usual.
And then she noticed that Alistair wasn’t laughing. Then she noticed it was because Roxbury had arrived and he didn’t seem amused, either.
Speaking of indelicate positions! She was sitting alone with a gentleman who was not her husband, and her hand was resting affectionately on his. Her cheeks were pink with laughter.
Roxbury stood in the doorway, so handsome that her breath caught in her throat. Something about him was different.
He wore no cravat, and his shirt was open at the neck, offering her a glimpse of his bare skin. Just a hint of the wide expanse of his chest; her memory could supply the rest. He wore no waistcoat and his shirt clung to him. His fists were reddened and slightly bruised.
There was Roxbury in the evening, so very fine. There was Roxbury in the morning, tousled and imperfect and wonderful. Then there was Roxbury in the raw, as he appeared now. He’d been fighting, it seemed.
She had never seen him thus before. It was thrilling, terrifying, and reassuring all at once.
It was his expression that entranced her—Roxbury eyed Alistair with a strong, questioning glance, and then blatantly looked her up and down, as if searching for hair out of place or a stay left unlaced. No one had ever examined her thusly. If she was not mistaken, he seemed possessive and protective of her.
How bewildering. What did that all mean? Was that why her heart pounded?
It was a moment before she recovered her voice and manners and performed the introductions. The gentlemen acknowledged each other with the barest concession toward politeness.
“How kind of you to take the time to amuse my wife. If you’ll excuse me,” Roxbury said flatly and then he left. How impossibly rude of him to be so dismissive of her friends.
“My God, did you land a handsome one, Jules,” Alistair murmured.
“I suppose,” she replied casually, even though he had voiced her thoughts exactly.
“He clearly wanted to tear me from limb to limb,” Alistair added.
“Do you think so?” she asked, keeping her voice light. She’d thought so, too, but wanted to confirm. It was strange and lovely that Roxbury should feel possessive of her.
But what were the implications of that? Somerset had been jealous of her conversations with other gents at first, but not long after their marriage he had ceased to care.
“I should go. But I see what your evening’s entertainment will be,” Alistair murmured suggestively. She gasped in shock—and it was only partially feigned.
“Lovely to see you, Alistair. Please call on me again. And one of these days we shall return to the theater.”
“This time, we will stay in our seats instead of gallivanting backstage. You’ve had enough scandal and trouble—for now,” he said with a grin.
F
rom his position in the window at the house across the street from Lord Roxbury’s residence, The Man About Town arrived just in time to watch as Lady Roxbury entertained not one, but two, gentlemen that afternoon—her husband and a flamboyantly attired unidentified man.
Or was she just the cover? Was the Lady of Distinction right about those rumors about Roxbury’s preferences after all? Or was the new Lady Roxbury already embarking on an affair?
More sleuthing was required, and he had plenty of experience at that. Years of practice had honed his instincts for eavesdropping, and watching suspicious behavior. He’d been blessed—or cursed—with a face that was unremarkable and utterly forgettable. Given his practiced talents and natural attributes, it was only a matter of time before he—and the rest of London—knew all the secrets of Lord and Lady Roxbury.
S
upper that evening was a quiet affair. Roxbury barely tasted his food and favored the wine instead. In the absence of conversation, his thoughts strayed to the afternoon. A good fight at Gentleman Jack’s had done wonders for his irritable temper. Lord knew if he hadn’t gone and then had arrived home to find another man in his drawing room, things would not have gone so civilly.
That the man was obviously no danger to his wife’s virtue was beside the point. For a hot, fleeting second Roxbury registered only three facts: his woman, other man, urge to kill. That had to mean something.
It was certainly a novel sensation to him.
The deep meaning and true significance of that was not something he wished to consider. But it couldn’t be ignored. Was he beginning to care for her? He had not yet drunk enough wine to think about the implications of developing deep, passionate feelings for a woman he had married for only convenience.
“You’re quiet this evening,” Julianna remarked. She sat at the far end of the long dining table. Until she moved in, he had never used this room. Now they were enjoying a formal dinner, complete with dozens of candles and fine china he didn’t know he owned.
“I’m thinking,” he said.
To bed or not to bed his wife? That was the question.
“I shall not disturb you during such a challenging endeavor,” she remarked as graciously as a devoted wife might, except for how insulting the words were.
Roxbury set down his cutlery, took a sip of wine, and paused thoughtfully. Always cranky, his wife. Which probably meant that she was in need of a good bedding. Which meant he would have to do it. Which was not, in fact, such a horrid idea anymore.
If he did it for the sole and noble purpose of improving her mood and thus to improve their quality of life, it would have nothing to do with whether he cared or not.
Roxbury took a sip of wine and then acknowledged that he did
care
. The woman was his wife, and she carried his name, was under his protection, and she was beautiful and too smart for her own good. Yes, he cared. It just wasn’t
love
.
He’d fallen in love dozens of times before, and had tremendously loved those fleeting, passionate affairs. He loved the first spark, and the slow burn, the wild highs, and the crushing lows. Roxbury thrived on that; a new woman was a new adventure and he did love to explore.
But now there was no escape when that heady intoxicated state ended. When the loved faded, and his interest in her waned, then what? She’d still be here, or around, forever plaguing him. He really should not fall in love with his own wife. It would be a disaster.
Either way, Roxbury did not want to ponder that now. His only thought was making her happy so he could have some peace of mind.
There was only one problem with his plan to bed her into a better mood: she hated him.
Roxbury glanced at her. She took a sip of her wine and boldly met his gaze as if she could read his thoughts and was daring him to attempt to win her over.
Julianna had dressed for dinner, which was remarkable since it was only the two of them. Her hair was done up in some arrangement with a few curls side swept to brush against her shoulder. That was one of his favorite parts on a woman—the curve of her neck to her shoulders; the expanse of décolletage and the swell of her breasts.
He noted that her blue gown was, unfortunately, modestly cut. Instead he used his imagination, piecing together images of her in that low-cut gown upon their first meeting at Knightly’s office. Or how she looked that night when he had kissed her in the moonlight. His mouth went dry, and he reached for his wine again.
Roxbury noticed that she did not wear any jewelry, save for the plain gold wedding band that Timson had been sent to acquire.
His wife didn’t need adornment, but the lady ought to have some jewelry.
Julianna raised the crystal glass to her lovely lips and took another sip of her wine.
Aye, he thought, there was only one thing to do: seduction. The corners of his mouth curved into a sly grin. Fortunately, he was a master at that.
“I sense trouble,” she said suspiciously. His smile was a dangerous one, and she knew it. His wife was a smart one.
“As you ought to, my lady,” he replied smoothly.
She opened her mouth and closed it again. He knew she was going to say “I’m not your lady” but thought better of it. He was learning her. This was progress. It was also the first rule of seduction: Every woman was different. Observe, discover and act accordingly.
That was what distinguished him from other rakes—women, to him, were not indistinguishable specimens of the female sex, but lovely, maddening, wondrous, and unique.
“How was your day, Julianna?” he asked. Another rule: Ask her about herself. Many a man failed here, especially since ladies were often brought up to ask a gent about himself.
Roxbury also indicated to the footman to refill her wineglass. For all his noble strategies for seduction and insights into women, a little alcohol intoxication never hurt.
“Are you going to have a go at me for inviting Alistair to the house?” she asked suspiciously, and reached for her wineglass. The question unnerved him for a moment. What kind of ogre did she think he was? What the devil had her last husband been like? From everything he’d heard, Somerset was in no position to complain about his wife’s companions when his own were numerous and of dubious quality.
“Of course not. My home is yours. If it were a man who might be actual competition, that would be different,” he couldn’t resist adding.
“Perhaps I shall invite some competition over for tea,” she replied.
“I would think you were trying to get my attention,” he replied.
“Of course you would,” she said witheringly. But it was fair; he did tend to flatter himself.
“I’ll take my brandy in the drawing room with the lady,” he told a footman.
Rather than stalk ahead and expect her to follow, he stood and offered her his arm and escorted her to the drawing room like a proper gentleman.
“You are acting strangely,” she said, eying him warily.
He could only grin wryly, thinking,
I’m trying to seduce you, woman! It’s a privilege most ladies in London would have given their reputations for.
But he did not mention other women; he’d long ago discovered that rarely led to a romantic conversation.
She linked her arm in his and together they proceeded all of twenty steps into the other room. Roxbury liked how tall she was. It meant that his neck probably wouldn’t ache went he lowered his head to kiss her, as often happened with more petite women. That was another topic of conversation he declined to introduce.
With their arms linked, Roxbury could feel the tension in the way she carried herself. She definitely needed a good bedding or something.
“A good session at Gentleman Jack’s always improves my mood. You ought to try it,” he suggested.
“Honestly, Roxbury,” she said with a little sigh, “I think I would like it.”
The possibilities were immediately obvious to him: a boxing lesson would satisfy so many of his rules of seduction.
Rule:
Do something together, be it a carriage ride, a waltz, a walk in the park together, or a boxing lesson. If the activity was fraught with danger, so much the better. Roxbury often preferred to take a lady out for a carriage ride not on a sunny day, but one with a threat of rain for that reason. A woman and a weapon—even if only her fists—certainly counted as danger.
Rule:
Employ affection wherever possible—a slight caress of fingers and hands, or a discrete touch at the small of a woman’s back was perfect for igniting those delicious shivers of anticipation.
With this boxing lesson, he would need to correct her form, and that would provide infinite opportunities for a quick caress, a slight touch, or standing closer than was proper. At the thought he experienced one of those shivers of anticipation himself—and that was rare indeed. He had to remind himself that this was to excite her, not him.
“Shall we?” he offered, even though he knew he was going to suffer mightily for it. He suspected she was freakishly strong and he knew she owned a deep-seated anger that was always threatening to bubble to the surface.
“Are you bamming me?” she asked. “Are you really offering to teach me, a lady, to box in our drawing room?”
“Yes, although I’m absolutely certain that I will live to regret it.”
The smile that lit up her face was so pure, so bright, and so rare that he knew it would be worth the pain of every blow. She was a beautiful woman, but when her lips curved up and her eyes sparkled like that . . . radiantly happy were the words that came to mind.
Roxbury, again, had to remind himself that he was the one seducing her, and that he was not to succumb himself.
“Shall we begin this evening? Right now?” she asked eagerly.
“Why not?” he responded.
With the help of footmen, they cleared a space in the drawing room by pushing all the wretched red velvet furniture against the equally awful gold damask papered walls. In the center of it all, Julianna stood in a silky blue dress with a big smile, bright eyes and little, ladylike fists at the ready.
Roxbury couldn’t help but grin, and he barely suppressed a laugh.
Rule:
Enjoy it.
“First, it’s important to maintain a strong stance. Watch,” he ordered. He stood with his feet comfortably apart, and his knees slightly bent.
“Done,” she said, but he couldn’t discern any difference, thanks to her voluminous skirts.
“I cannot tell if you are doing it correctly with your dress in the way,” he said.
“Are you just trying to catch a glimpse of my ankles?” she asked, stunning him with the flirtatiousness in her voice.
“Perhaps,” he admitted with a grin. It hadn’t been his intention, but he wouldn’t let the opportunity pass him by.
Julianna’s only response was a sly smile and to lift her skirts inch by taunting inch. He saw that she wore dark blue satin slippers, decorated with silver embroidery and a few jewels, suggesting a vanity he had not attached to her. Her ankles were lovely and shapely but most entrancing of all—Lady Julianna, his former tormentor and architect of his downfall, was flirting with him.
“Now you’ll also need to put your weight on the balls of your feet,” he instructed. She followed. How strange. “A good stance is important because it’s the source of your strength, and so you can be steady and ready for anything that comes at you.”
She dropped her skirts and lifted her little female fists.
“When do I punch you, Roxbury?” she asked, so sweetly he had to smile. This was a far cry from the rough-and-tumble world at Gentleman Jack’s. This was a far cry from how she usually was.
“Not yet. First you need to make a proper fist.”
“Like this?” Julianna held her hand out, all balled-up and he could only think of how tiny and delicate it was. He suspected that he’d be thankful of her small, ladylike fists when she started throwing punches.
“It’s important to keep your thumb on the outside,” he said, taking her fist in his hands and gently urging her fingers to open.
Had they even held hands before? He didn’t think so. Her soft hands felt so fragile in his. There were a few fading ink stains on her fingertips that he dared not question now—not when they were having a pleasant time and she was about to hit him.
Roxbury glanced at Julianna and saw that she, too, was staring curiously at the sight of her hand in his.
Rule:
Affection.
Check.
Gently, Roxbury pressed her fingers into a proper fist, with her thumb on the outside.
“There. That’s how to make a fist,” he said. “Never keep your thumb on the inside, otherwise you’ll risk breaking it.”
“That would never do—I wouldn’t be able to write,” Julianna said. So she still hadn’t given up on her column.
“On second thought . . .” he drawled.
“Oh, you devil!” she exclaimed, punching him lightly on the shoulder.
But Roxbury noticed that, she, too, was laughing.
“So you have your strong stance, and you have a fist. Now, you want to hold a steady, ready position. Like this.” He demonstrated with his feet slightly apart, knees a bit bent, elbows, too, with fists out in front of him. He was an agile, strong boxer, but in the drawing room, surrounded by breakable things and a female, he felt like a clumsy giant that might inadvertently cause mass destruction merely because of his size.
Julianna studied his position, adorably nibbling on her lower lip, and then tried it herself. He burst out laughing when he saw it.
The sight of a woman—with skirts, embroidered and bejeweled satin slippers, “done” hair, and small, delicate hands—in such a bloodthirsty pose struck him as utterly unexpected, comical, and charming.
“What is so funny?” she asked, lowering her fists and straightening.
“You’re adorable,” he said.
