A Tale of Two Lovers (6 page)

It was utterly frantic and wonderful, for a moment. Her body and his, her mouth and his all locked up together in a hot, passionate, tortured kiss. Roxbury’s hands roughly caressed her and, devil take it, she liked it. Within minutes he had reduced her from a celibate widow who hated him to a panting woman inflamed with desire.

Roxbury ached to take this kiss too damn far. To run his fingers through her hair, to tug down the bodice of her gown and tug up her skirts, to leave layers of clothing on the floor. He wanted to leave Lady Somerset—this know-it-all, tightly wound, gossiping widow—ravished and thoroughly debauched. Roxbury wanted her to know, intimately, just the kind of man she was dealing with. This kiss was meant to demonstrate—exquisitely, and undeniably—his power over her.

But in the remnants of his brain left to coherent thought, Roxbury wondered about all the years they had attended the same parties, conversed with the same people, and danced the same waltzes but never with each other. He thought of all those evenings when a kiss with Lady Julianna might have been a sweet one, and not one of vengeance. That was a flicker of feeling, and it had no place in an angry kiss like this. He did not want to feel a shred of affection for this woman who had so thoroughly destroyed his world with just a few words.

Lady Somerset was surrendering to him, he could feel it. But he was, too.

That, naturally, was the moment that he abruptly broke the kiss and none too gently stepped back from her, as if she were too dangerous to touch.

Julianna stumbled back against the stupid potted fern, holding on for dear life as she tried to catch her breath, and looking at Roxbury for answers. She saw that the moonlight made his cheeks seem higher. His eyes were black and his mouth was curved in a smile of triumph.

Aye, this was not just any rake, she thought, but a practiced and heartless one. She had quite nearly been thoroughly seduced—and she had no doubt that he would have done it just to teach her a lesson. Just to show his mastery over her. Just because he could.

“An apology and a retraction in the next issue,” he demanded. His voice was raw.

It only took a second for her to understand and to plot her revenge.

“Very well, Roxbury,” she said, smiling with pleasure at what she would write. He thought he’d won her over with one hot, illicit kiss. He quite nearly had—and that was intolerable, and dangerous, and simply not to be borne.

Roxbury thought he had a power over her—that, like any other woman, she’d trade in her dignity and do his bidding for a drop of his affections. He was mistaken.

Chapter 8

Poverty or Matrimony? Twenty-six days remain for Lord Roxbury

The Offices of
The London Weekly

53 Fleet Street, London

A
few days later Julianna’s pulse still had yet to subside! She attributed it to frustration at her inability to decide if she had enjoyed the kiss or despised it. It was clear that he didn’t like her, which was fine, because she did not hold him in great esteem, either. But how could a kiss between two people who didn’t care for each other be so . . . potent, intoxicating, and downright pleasurable?

She knew, too, that it was a kiss fueled with anger and frustration (she had felt her knees weaken—along with her resolve) and she understood all of Roxbury’s women a little more now. In the end, after extensive thought, Julianna could only conclude that she hated that she enjoyed it.

It had been an age since her last kiss, and an eternity since last she was held in a man’s embrace. She had not longed for them until she got a taste of what she was missing. Damned Roxbury!

But that was not to be thought of, or discussed—especially not now, just before a meeting of
The London Weekly
staff.

All the writers and editors of
The Weekly
gathered once a week to pitch stories to Mr. Knightly, the publisher and editor. The Writing Girls routinely arrived early, claimed their corner of the table and gossiped shamelessly until the meeting began.

Though their backgrounds and temperaments varied, their unusual status of women who wrote bonded them together and genuine friendships had formed.

Miss Eliza Fielding, a dark-haired beauty, wrote anonymous columns about prominent social issues of the day—like the efficacy of Wright’s Tonic for the Cure of Unsuitable Affections (Sophie confirmed it did not work) or a description of the Penny Weddings of the lower classes.

The ever-angelic Miss Annabelle Swift offered readers’ advice in her column “Dear Annabelle
.
” She also nursed a tender, constant, and unrequited passion for Derek Knightly. Julianna feared Annabelle’s reaction when she saw him today—if he even arrived.

Her Grace, the Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon, formerly Miss Sophie Harlow, used to write about ton weddings in her column “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life.” At the first opportunity she quit writing about weddings (which she had hated) and now she occasionally wrote about ladies’ fashion (which she loved). The column lived on, with other authors.

Today, for the first time in her life, Julianna was dreading their usual chatter because, for once, she would be the subject. Like anyone else, she preferred gossip about someone other than herself.

“Why are we only hearing about this now?” Sophie demanded, waving a copy of
The Times
in the air. Owens and Grenville looked up from their very serious conversation and scowled. After a year, the men had largely accepted working with women. Every now and then, they did not.

“Shhh,” Julianna urged.

“Oh, they’ve already seen it,” Eliza said.

“We have,” Owens confirmed, with a lascivious grin in her direction. She scowled at him.

“
Everyone
has already seen it,” Annabelle said, to Julianna’s dismay. She, too, had read it as soon as the newspaper hit the stands. She had to keep track of her rival, of course.

They were, of course, referring to a particular item from her sworn nemesis, The Man About Town. Eliza read it aloud:

“Just asking: Which irate rake with questionable inclinations (if we are to believe the gossips, which usually we do) was seen following a certain distinguished lady (or so we occasionally assume with no proof)? They left the ballroom quite early. One returned to the party quite late. The other not at all.”

“That’s our Julianna. Always skulking around dark hallways and empty rooms,” Alistair remarked with a grin.

“It’s for my work. I take my writing very seriously,” she explained, as everyone in hearing distance either snorted, rolled their eyes, or generally expressed disbelief at her excuse for being alone with an infamous rake.

“We know that. What we don’t know is what happened once you were alone with Roxbury,” Sophie prodded. “That man is notorious, so I’m sure it must have been
something
.”

“Something wicked,” Annabelle added in a hushed whisper.

“You don’t believe that rubbish, do you?” Julianna asked dismissively.

“Aye, we believe the gossips,” Alistair said, grinning. Sophie and the others nodded their agreement.

“So . . . Roxbury followed you out of the ballroom. Where did you go?” Eliza asked pointedly.

“The portrait gallery. We chatted about the artwork. I left.”

“
And
. . .” Sophie prompted.

It took some wheedling and cajoling and finally out of frustration she confessed: “All right, all right. The wretched rake kissed me.”

“Oooh,” all the girls exclaimed and softly, under his breath Alistair said, “Pity, that.”

“How was it?” Sophie asked.

“What was he like?” Annabelle questioned.

“Do you think he . . . you know?” Eliza wondered.

“Just tell us everything, darling,” Alistair said.

“All I will say is that I am determined to find the Man About Town and silence him once and for all,” Julianna declared. She’d often vowed as such and always kept an eye out for potential suspects.

“And Roxbury?” Annabelle prompted, but Julianna was spared from answering by the arrival of Mr. Knightly.

“Good morning,” Knightly said as he strolled into the room. He was handsome and mysterious. His past was unknown, and his parentage uncertain. She had heard rumors that his father was the Earl of Harrowby but dared not mention it in her column, or at all. His private life—those precious few hours he spent outside of
The Weekly
offices—were just that: private.

Handsome. Mysterious. Brilliant. No wonder Annabelle sighed every time he walked into the room. And with his arm in a sling—thanks to the bullet he took in the duel—he was even rougher, more dashing.

Julianna couldn’t look away from the white linen sling. It was a stark contrast against his dark gray jacket. At the sight of him injured, she felt her stomach ache. Yet she had to admit he wore it well. The pride with which he displayed his wounded arm was obvious; he had fought for his paper, and had walked away with his life, and everyone knew it.

Annabelle sighed upon seeing him, as she always did. Hopeless infatuation didn’t even begin to describe her feelings for him.

“Ladies first,” he said, grinning, and beginning this meeting as all others. That small measure of normalcy was much needed to slice through the tension.

When it was her turn, Julianna watched Mr. Knightly’s reaction carefully as she said, “Roxbury has demanded again that I print an apology and a retraction.”

Roxbury could demand whatever he wanted, she thought, but that did not mean she would provide it. The room hushed, awaiting Mr. Knightly’s reply.

“This ongoing battle between papers and the scandal with Roxbury has been great for sales,” Knightly remarked.

“Scandal equals sales,” they all chanted in unison, although without their usual enthusiasm, because scandal had gotten someone shot. It was practically Knightly’s personal motto, and definitely that of the paper.

“Aye,” Mr. Knightly said with a grin.

That was all the permission she needed to write whatever she wished about the great rake, Lord Roxbury.

At the thought of him, she pressed her fingertips to her lips, as if she might still feel his own mouth there. That kiss . . . like Roxbury, it was dangerous to her sanity, her equilibrium, and her place in the world. It could not happen again, and she knew just how to ensure that it would not.

Chapter 9

The apartment of Jocelyn Kemble, actress

A few days later

“O
h, good morning, Roxbury,” Jocelyn purred. She sat in bed, under the pale blue covers and resting against large fluffy pillows. Her golden hair fell in waves around her pretty face. She wore a cinnamon-colored silk wrapper, and Lord only knew what else underneath. Had he not been in such a temper, Roxbury would have tried to find out.

“It is not a good morning,” he corrected and then tossed that morning’s issue of
The Weekly
onto her lap.

Every word the damned Lady of Distinction printed was worse than the last. He wouldn’t really give a damn, either, except for that ultimatum. His father had sent a letter—to his club—in which he wrote that he dared not anticipate which lady’s or
lord’s
bedchamber he was in, but scandal notwithstanding he still expected a marriage in three weeks’ time or access to family funds would cease.

Three weeks!

That letter was doused in brandy and tossed in the fireplace.

Something had to be done. Roxbury was not a man to stand idly by. He was beginning to understand why Edward had quit high society, his station, and his family obligations. Roxbury could always join the army, but he was rather fond of comforts and women.

Leaning against one of the mahogany posts at the foot of Jocelyn’s massive bed, he listened as she read the Lady of Distinction’s offensive and belittling words aloud.

“Lord R—insists that I owe him an apology and a retraction! As I am an obliging, kind-hearted Lady of Distinction, I shall offer the irate rake that which he desires. I’m so very sorry that my idle chatter has led the ton to the conclusion he insists is false.”

Jocelyn giggled upon reading it, then recalling his presence, quickly schooled her features into an appropriately concerned and consoling expression.

“That is horrible,” she said gravely. The corners of her mouth twitched, no doubt with suppressed laughter. He wished he could have a sense of humor about this whole thing.

“At least the Man About Town’s column has me chasing after a woman, even if it is that demon Lady Somerset,” Roxbury remarked dryly, referring to last week’s column, which reported him following her.

“She’s lovely, Roxbury. A little sharp, but that is to be expected after a marriage like the one she was stuck in. You remember old Somerset, do you not?”

“No.”

“Any scandal, particularly one involving whoring, drinking, and gaming, and you could be certain that Somerset was involved.”

“That’s like half the men in the ton,” Roxbury said with a shrug.

“Yes, but it’s always particularly devastating for a young woman in love before the stars have faded from her eyes. An old lady like me knows what to expect.”

“You’re hardly old,” he said to Jocelyn. She could not be more than eight and twenty. Lady Somerset, however, appeared young but had a smart look in her eye. She had seen and heard things about the world. She was not an innocent.

“In my profession I am,” she said with a lovely, pitiable sigh.

He smiled, before launching into the reason he had called upon her.

“I need a favor from you, Jocelyn.”

“Anything,” she said. They had a long history together, from his early university days when she was the barmaid at the local tavern to just last week when they had been indulging in a bit of fun. He’d never been one of her formal protectors, but always the one she came to when she was in trouble.

“I need you to tell your side of this scandalous, salacious story,” Roxbury said, carefully watching her response.

His grand plan: Have Jocelyn spill all the details that he was just an average rake, not one with peculiar tastes. Enjoy women flocking to him once more. Then he would consider taking some biddable, ignorable miss as a wife to satisfy the demands of the ultimatum, but carry on with pleasure as usual.

Roxbury found that social ostracism did not suit him—not exactly a surprising discovery. He was a creature that thrived upon laughter, the energy of a crowded ballroom, quick conversation, a woman’s inviting gaze, her satiated body beside him in bed. He needed these things for a proper existence. As it was, he felt like an animal in captivity. Every need fulfilled except for the thrill of the hunt and the dangers of the wild.

“Oh,” Jocelyn said with noticeably less enthusiasm.

“Oh?”

“I am in the process of negotiating an affair with Lord Brookes. I don’t want to jeopardize that.”

Confessing to making love in a hallway with another man was the sort of thing that would.

A tense moment of silence ensued.

“But you’ll take care of me, won’t you?” she asked, knowing the answer.

Roxbury only smiled because he wanted to promise her everything, but for the first time in his life, there was no guarantee that he would be good for the money. He felt sickened.

What had he come to—begging for favors from old friends to salvage his reputation so he could possibly do the second-to-last thing he wanted to do—get married? A life of poverty was the very last thing.

Not for the first time did he curse that ultimatum. He did not like the choices presented to him, and suspected that in truth the matter was out of his hands. No proper woman was at home to him. How was he to marry one, then, when he couldn’t get an interview to propose?

If Jocelyn would just print her story, and clear his name. . .

“I can make it up to you, Jocelyn,” he promised. Somehow, some way, he thought, though he knew not how. There would probably be jewelry involved. But before he could mention that there might be a brooch or a necklace at the end of it . . .

“Oh, to hell with it,” Jocelyn exclaimed. “Come, Roxbury, let’s go spill all our secrets to the press.”

T
he true identity of the Man About Town was and always would be a mystery. For forty years he (or she?) had been chronicling the lives, loves, scandals, and secrets of the haut ton.

In those forty years, he (for it was a he) had assembled a network of informants so vast, so disperse, and so efficient that little happened that did not come to his attention. He relied on servants placed in all the best houses, shopkeepers, waiters at coffeehouses, and orphaned brats on the streets trading gossip for a penny-a-line.

If a lady in Mayfair had a sneezing fit, he might wonder—in print—if she was consumptive. If a maid were ferrying secret love letters between a young lady and a forbidden paramour, the Man About Town would quote them. If a devilish lord were packing for a jaunt to Gretna, he wouldn’t get outside London proper before
The London Times
printed the details, particularly the man’s traveling companion. And if a footman should encounter a couple in a delicate position at a ball at midnight, it would be news by morning.

But it was the willingness of the ton to tattle on itself that never failed to amaze or amuse. Like the best hostesses, he kept calling hours. One could find the Man About Town at St. Bride’s Church every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon.

This church was a particularly fitting destination for a gossip columnist’s calling hours. Located on Fleet Street, it was known as the Church of the Press. It was the final resting place of novelists and poets.

The process of calling hours was simple. He wore a hooded cloak that obscured his face. He knelt at the altar as if in prayer, while his callers took their turn “praying” next to him, while really whispering all sorts of secrets. It was more like confession, actually.

Occasionally attempts were made to pull away his hood, and those were easily thwarted. Usually, however, people did not want to ruin the mystery.

It was here that Jocelyn Kemble found him and related her story. The hooded cloak concealed his expression, which was one of warring emotions: satisfaction to know the identity of Roxbury’s scandalous backstage paramour and displeasure at who it was.

Nevertheless, the next morning, it appeared in print.