A Tale of Two Lovers (25 page)
A
fter a good, strong cup of tea, Julianna turned to the Man About Town’s column in
The Times
. She read it aloud to Roxbury, who quietly sipped his coffee. Breakfast could wait. Gossip came first.
“Is the R— union a love match or a marriage of convenience? The couple was recently seen taking a drive along Rotten Row seeming very much in love and acknowledged by society matrons Lady S—W—and Lady R—. In fact, word has it that the scandalous couple will even be attending Lady F—’s soiree Thursday next.”
“What the devil is he talking about? Those old apes stuck their noses up at us,” Roxbury said grumpily.
“I know, darling. Which is exactly why I told the Man About Town that they had greeted us,” she said, delighted with her simple revenge.
“And Lady F—’s party?”
“I wish to go to Lady Feversham’s ball. She has no choice but to receive us now.”
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he grumbled.
“You already did, and look at you now,” she pointed out.
“Touché. Impressive social maneuvering, too, madam. Now keep reading.”
“But consider this: while it is not at all unusual for upper class couples to keep separate bedrooms, in the case of the R—s it is all the more notable given those rumors that plagued his Lordship about his preferences . . . Perhaps his stunning wife is not to his liking? Is it a love match? Or a sham marriage of convenience? London, place your wagers! Only time will tell on this one.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Julianna said immediately upon concluding her reading. She did not like the insinuations that her husband found her unattractive.
“No, you are not because I am going to,” Roxbury said darkly, probably still angry about those pesky rumors about his preferences.
“How could you deny me that satisfaction?” she asked.
“Very well, my dear wife, we shall seek and destroy the Man About Town together,” Roxbury agreed.
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” Julianna said sweetly, and her husband grinned.
“What did you discover about him on your visit yesterday?” he asked.
“His hands are those of a young man, which is significant considering that the column has been running for forty years. All this time I’ve been looking for an old man . . .”
It was idiotic of her. She generally trusted nothing unless it was verified, and here she just assumed that some old man filled his days and nights in gaming hells and following young girls and rakes at parties.
Instead, he was a young man.
“It might be a few men. Or women,” Roxbury pointed out.
“It’s been a mystery for
forty years
,” she marveled. That was one hell of a close-kept, long-held secret. “And we think we can unmask him, her or them.”
“Can you stand to read rubbish like that three mornings a week?” Roxbury asked, gesturing to the paper left open between them. It had been one scathing column after another ever since they married. It would continue that way until death did they part.
“You’re right. We must try,” she said firmly. It was decided, then. Together, she and her husband would seek and destroy their nemesis so that they might have a better chance at happily ever after.
A few days later
J
ulianna had begun by hiring decorators. It would just be for the drawing room, she decided. There was no significance in redecorating one very public room in the house—or so she told herself. And really, it had to be done.
“Who had done your decorating?” she asked her husband one afternoon. She found him in his study, one of two rooms in the house that wasn’t awful—the other was his bedroom. She’d been spending a lot of time there lately.
Roxbury scowled and set down his newspaper. She glanced, saw it was
The London Weekly
, and felt a pang of longing. He seemed to notice, too, by the way he shuffled the paper so she might not see the front page.
“We can thank Lydia Smythe for the drawing room and for giving the next few mistresses the idea to decorate a room with revenge in mind,” he answered.
“That is exactly what I thought,” Julianna said. “What did you do to irk them so?”
“It’s more like what I wouldn’t do, which was marry them,” Roxbury said pointedly.
“How lucky for me. Well, be warned that I’m taking my turn decorating this house now,” she informed him. It was her turn to put her stamp on this house . . . if it was going to be
their
house. Mostly, though, she could not tolerate living in such vile surroundings when there was no reason she had to.
“Oh dear God,” Roxbury muttered, which made her grin.
There was something deeply satisfying about clearing the remnants of her husband’s ex-lovers. The harvest gold damask wall coverings were stripped away. The red velvet furniture was taken out. Ronaldo, the decorator, visibly shuddered when he saw the drapes and the carpet and ordered them removed on the spot.
Anyone on the street had a perfect view into the Roxbury home. The Man About Town reported accordingly:
Lord and Lady R— are redecorating. Love match?! Or the hobby of a bored and forgotten wife?
That’s Lord and Lady Scandalous to you,
Julianna thought upon reading it.
R
oxbury did his best to take the redecorating in stride. Usually when one of his lovers undertook such a task, it was the beginning of the end. Bright wallpaper and horrid curtains were their way of calling for his attention and spending his money after they had ordered enough dresses.
Thus, he was mighty nervous when he came home one afternoon to find his drawing room completely gutted.
Don’t go,
he thought—of Julianna, though, not the furniture.
But then the room was completed and it wasn’t the work of a scorned, irate woman in a desperate bid for attention. It was the work of a woman who planned on staying for a while. In short, it was not hideous. In fact, it was quite nice. Julianna had begun the creation of a home.
Julianna tackled the foyer next, and then he knew she was going to stay. After that, she began to renovate her own bedchamber—though she’d already been sleeping in his bed for days, and nights.
Meanwhile, he read the Man About Town’s column closely for clues. And he began to plan a trap. The Feversham party would be the perfect opportunity. While he wanted to have some information that would ensure silence from the Man About Town, Roxbury mostly wanted to give Julianna what she wished for most.
He also had a ring that he’d searched for all over London, not because of any scheme to seduce her, but because he wanted to give her a gift, a big, blazing expensive reminder that they belonged to each other and he wanted the world to know it.
Madame Auteuil’s
Bond Street, London
“E
veryone is talking about you, your husband, and your rumored appearance tonight,” Sophie informed Julianna.
They were in Madame Auteuil’s and Julianna was splurging on a gorgeous dress for her (hopefully) triumphant return to society. Lady Feversham had not invited her and Roxbury, but the Man About Town said she had, which was just as good, if not better, than a handwritten invitation on crisp vellum paper and closed with Lord Feversham’s seal.
“What is Lady Feversham saying?” Julianna asked. She had donned a blue velvet gown that was lovely, but not quite right for this evening.
“That she wanted to provide entertainment for her guests or that the invitations were composed
before
. It depends who is asking,” Sophie explained frankly. Julianna scowled. If only she still had her column! Then she wouldn’t have to suffer such indignities.
“And the love match rumors?” Julianna queried.
“It will all depend upon how the two of you act tonight,” Sophie said.
“Besotted, long gazes, etcetera,” Julianna said. A maid helped her out of the blue velvet and into a rose silk.
“Exactly,” Sophie said.
Frankly, with the way they had been lately, it would be more of a challenge to hide their besotted, longing gazes. Flirtatious banter had replaced their previous sparring—but it was all still thrilling. She adored his company these days, and nights, and there was no way she could hide it.
If the ton believed her marriage was a love match, they would be so much more forgiving. That would translate into invitations, restored reputations, and then her triumphant return to
The London Weekly
.
The redecorating was all well and good, as was conspiring and scheming about how to entrap the Man About Town. But more than anything she wanted to write.
She loved to feel the paper under her palm, and to fill up a page with her inky scrawl with stories of ladies and rakes and high society. She had even taken to writing editions of “Fashionable Intelligence” that went into the fire as soon as they were written. The desire to have her column back was no longer purely to support herself, or to feel useful, or to chronicle the happenings of the ton. Julianna wanted to write for the pure joy of putting pen to paper and stringing words together into a story.
“I’m sure you two will manage admirably,” Sophie said.
“At what?” Julianna asked, lost in her thoughts.
“Besotted, longing gazes, small gestures of affection, and generally acting like a couple in the first blush of romance.”
“Oh, that,” she said with a laugh. The maid finished buttoning the silk dress, and Julianna turned around to show Sophie.
“Oh Jules, that dress is lovely!” Sophie gushed.
“Are you sure it’s not too . . . much?” Julianna asked nervously. It was a dusky rose-colored satin gown, cut low and simply tailored. There was an overlay of pale tulle and some extremely delicate embroidery around the bodice. The sleeves were naught but wisps of tulle. The whole creation was like dew on a rose.
“Not for this occasion,” Sophie said firmly.
“It is lovely . . . I think Simon will like it,” Julianna said. She knew he would like taking it off; he tended to prefer her dresses on the floor rather than on her person.
“Oh, it’s Simon now?” Sophie asked with a smirk.
“Roxbury was too many syllables to say all the time,” Julianna said, offering an excuse other than intimacy for calling her husband by his given name.
“You are ridiculous!” Sophie exclaimed, her brown curls shaking with her exuberance. That was the thing about dear friends—one could not lie to them.
“You are falling for him, are you not?” Sophie persisted. That was the other thing about dear friends—they would not let you avoid the truth.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Julianna said evasively. She was, but she wasn’t ready to say it aloud. That would make it real and if she was the woman who fell for a rake, for a man, for her husband, then she was not the woman she thought she was. In her head, she was still Lady Somerset of
The London Weekly
.
In her heart, though, she was Lady Scandalous.
“Oh really? You’re
not
falling for him?” Sophie queried. “How many rooms of his house have you tastefully redecorated?”
“Seven,” she mumbled. It was the majority of the rooms in the house.
“And where do you sleep at night?” Sophie asked. That was another thing about dear friends—they felt no shame in asking deeply personal questions that no one else would dream of giving voice to.
“In his bedroom. But really, it’s just because of the renovations to my bedchamber, which—”
“Which concluded over a week ago,” Sophie said, cutting her off, which was just as well since Julianna had no reason to stay in Simon’s bed other than that she wanted to be there.
“Admit it,” Sophie continued, with a broad grin. “You have fallen in love with your husband.”
Lady Feversham’s Ball
T
hough Roxbury had left numerous parties with a woman on his arm more times than he could count, he could not recall ever
arriving
with one. That was new. So, too, was their reception: He and Julianna were treated to stares, sidelong glances, whispers, and benignly polite faces masking rabid curiosity.
He quickly whisked Julianna into a waltz. They could be watched and potentially squash some love match or marriage of convenience rumors—all without speaking to anyone. Perfect.
It was easy to ignore them all, and focus upon his lovely Julianna.
“You look especially beautiful tonight, my lady,” he said softly and she smiled, lovingly looking into his eyes. “Ah, you no longer declare that you are not my lady,” he couldn’t resist pointing out.
“I think that argument was retired when I signed the marriage certificate,” she murmured. He loved her mouth—luscious and mostly tart, though occasionally sweet.
Yes, she was a beauty. Her dress was very fine, and very flattering. Her auburn hair was done up in some sort of intricate coiffure with tendrils here and there. And then there was all that lovely, soft skin that he now knew so well.
She was beautiful now, all proud and dignified at a party. Later, he would be the lucky one to see how beautiful she was with her hair down and dress discarded on the floor. His breath hitched just thinking about it.
Unlike all of his other love affairs, this one didn’t need to end. In fact, he didn’t want it to. And that was a first.
And that was why . . . no, he did not want to think of that now. He’d made his plans, and he would follow through with them. Besides, there were some aspects that he was keenly anticipating.
“How does it feel to return to the social whirl?” he asked. “Is it everything you hoped and dreamt it would be?”
“I’m quite content at the moment,” she replied. There was a spark in her eyes, and he knew that she was happy. The joy he felt was indescribable.
“Then let’s keep waltzing,” he suggested with a happy grin. That suited his purposes perfectly. He would take any excuse to hold her.
And . . .
If all were to go according to his plan, it was essential that they look utterly besotted and madly in love—all the better to get the attention of the Man About Town. It was inconceivable that that rascal wouldn’t be here tonight; not with the rumors and wagers flying about the ever-scandalous and always shocking Lord and Lady Roxbury. Nothing was sure to gain attention like the scandalized conversations that would erupt all over the ballroom when he and his missus embarked on their third consecutive waltz.
At the conclusion of the waltz Roxbury led his bride away from the other dancers, through the buzzing, humming crowds in the ballroom and off to a secluded portion of the house.
T
he Man About Town watched them from the sidelines of the ballroom. Love match or not, he was beyond caring. But if he had to put money down at this moment, he’d say it was a love match. He took a sip of his drink and eavesdropped on the conversations around him.
“Look at the way he makes her laugh,” one woman said with a sigh to another.
“Aye, he looked at me like that once,” a different, bitter, woman muttered to her friends.
“It might be love, but will it last?” another lady wondered aloud.
The men did not bother discussing it—not when the topics of wenches, hunting, cards, parliament, carriages, and brandy had yet to be exhausted.
The Man About Town sipped his own drink and watched as Roxbury linked arms with the missus and led them through the crowded ballroom—and not in the direction of the lemonade or card room or terrace, either.
In fact, they were coming his way. Instinctively, the Man About Town flexed his fist—and winced. Roxbury had given him quite the drubbing the other night. He was deserving of it, and he was not eager to repeat it. But still . . . he knew what filled his column and paid his wages, and it wasn’t privacy or decency. So when Lord and Lady Roxbury sauntered past him, and down a dimly lit corridor, the Man About Town followed.
