“Upon whether or not I am so drunk I misheard you. I thought you said you wanted to marry me. Ludicrous, is it not? Considering I offered to make you my wife two years ago. You were the one laughing then, were you not?”
Memories of that horrible day made her stomach churn. She tamped the recollections down, refusing to allow them to derail her from her tracks. “You heard me correctly. If you would cease laughing and allow me to explain—”
“No,” he interrupted.
His voice, like his gaze, was frigid. There was not a hint of amusement lingering in his visage or his tone.
“Please, Lord Shelbourne. What I am about to offer you is—”
“A jest, surely.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “The only offer I want from you involves you on your knees, sucking my cock.”
Scalding heat washed over her, and not all of it was embarrassment, much to her mortification. Some of it was desire, too. Because all the parts of her that could not be controlled still longed for this man. She always had, from the first moment she had seen him—her dear friend Lady Helena Davenport’s forbidden older brother. And she suspected it was likely she always would.
Damn him.
“If that is the offer you await, I am afraid to inform you that you are doomed to disappointment,” she told him, priding herself for her ability to remain where she stood, near enough to smell the familiar scent of him, mingled with wine and leather, and neither touching, kissing, nor slapping him.
All actions she wanted to take.
“Then I am afraid you are doomed to get the fuck out of my house,” he bit out, before turning away from her and striding to the door. “Wentworth! Where the hell is my wine? And an escort for my unwanted guest?”
His beleaguered butler appeared, bottle of wine in hand. “Here you are, my lord.”
The domestic was unflappable. And Shelbourne’s behavior unpardonable.
Moreover, more wine was the last thing the viscount needed. Julianna found herself hoping his current dissolute state was not a regular event. She had waited hours for him to arrive home, and it was likely three o’clock in the morning by now. But instead of going to bed, he was calling for more poison.
Shelbourne took the uncorked bottle from his butler, holding it by the neck, and raised it to his lips. Rudely, he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth when he had finished taking a draught. “Get her out of here, Wentworth.”
The butler’s expression looked, for a fleeting moment, troubled. But then he did his duty and erased all emotion from his countenance. “Of course, my lord.”
Oh no he would not.
Julianna refused to leave until she was ready. Until she had said everything she needed to say. Her future depended upon it. Most importantly, Emily’s future depended upon it.
She pinned the butler with her frostiest glare. “You will have to forcibly remove me, sir. Is that what you want?”
The butler faltered, his gaze traveling between his employer and Julianna. It was clearly not what he wanted. Nor was it every day—indeed she suspected any day—that a butler was required to remove a female guest from the household by force.
“Christ, woman,” Shelbourne spat. “I will not hesitate to throw you over my shoulder.”
He would have to catch her first. And in his current state, he would not be nearly as nimble.
“I have been waiting for hours,” she said primly instead of airing her innermost thoughts. “Surely my time deserves a reward.”
He raised a brow. “Only one reward I have for you.”
She compressed her lips. She knew what reward he referred to, the miserable scoundrel. Once upon a time, she would have welcomed that reward. Heavens, she had welcomed that reward. But then, she had discovered it was a reward he was offering to his mistress as well.
She was sure nothing had changed.
“No, thank you,” she told him. “A quarter hour of your time shall suffice.” To his butler, who was growing more uncomfortable by the moment if his face was any indication, she said, “Unless you wish to have your ears boxed, you will not attempt to extricate me from this room.”
“Sodding hell,” Shelbourne said. “Get out, Wentworth. If you will not do your job, then I will do it for you.”
“My lord, I am sure there is a reasonable means of—”
“Reasonable does not apply to this witch,” Shelbourne interrupted his butler. “Go to bed. Keep a footman about, if you please. I may need another bottle.”
Another bottle? Good Lord. She would have flinched at his calling her a witch, but all she could think about was how he could possibly survive another bottle after this one and Lord knew how many had come before.
The butler, however, did not give voice to any concern he may have had at such a request. Instead, he bowed, appearing relieved, and took his leave.
Just as well. Julianna would have hated to box the fellow’s ears. But she would have done, had he attempted to strong-arm her out the door. She had not traveled an entire ocean with Emily, disrupting the comfortable life they had in New York, to return to England, only to be tossed out on her rump as if she were a charwoman who had been caught stealing.
After the butler had gone, Shelbourne turned his wrath back to Julianna. He strode toward her, still dangling the freshly opened bottle of wine from his long fingers. “Time to go, Lady Perfect.”
Lady Perfect.
Her heart gave a pang at his use of the sobriquet he had once had for her. Back when he had charmed her. When he had made her melt with a single look, a touch. And his kisses. When he had made her fall in love with him. And when he had subsequently broken her heart after so thoroughly owning hers.
She stood there, watching him—this new, unfamiliar Shelbourne—approach her, thinking of the past. Aching for what had once been. Aching for him. And then she shook herself from that reverie.
Likely, his inebriated state had made his tongue loose. He had not realized what he had called her. Or if he had, it did not hold the significance to him that it did to her. Indeed, their entire relationship had never meant as much to him as it had to Julianna. She did not need to dig far in her memories to remember all the reasons why that was so bitterly, disappointingly true.
“I am not going,” she told him. “Not until you listen to me.”
“I do not want to listen to you, chérie.” He stopped before her, toasting her mockingly with his bottle before lifting it to his lips for another long swig. “Not now. Not ever.”
“Shelbourne, please,” she entreated softly. “I only require a few moments of your time. Long enough to explain myself.”
But he remained a bastion of icy disdain. “I will haul you over my shoulder and carry you out of here. Is that what you want?”
“You would have to catch me first.”
He raised a brow. “Is that a challenge?”
Was it? That seemed a foolish, dangerous prospect. She no longer knew Shelbourne; indeed, she doubted she ever had. She did not know what he was capable of. The angry man before her seemed as if he would do anything, including running her to ground in the fashion of a hound chasing a fox.
Did he want her to leave so desperately that he would throw her over his shoulder as he had threatened? Did she want to risk it?
“I do not think you could possibly catch me, soused as you are,” she found herself taunting him. “You’ve already fallen over once.”
He took another swig from his bottle. “Shall we test that theory? I will give you to the count of five. I would run very fast if I were you, chérie. You won’t like it when I catch you.”
He was jesting. Surely.
She stared at the man she had once loved, the man who had been replaced with a menacing stranger. He did not intend to chase her from his townhome.
Did he?
“One,” he said.
Good heavens. Self-preservation warned her to take him seriously.
And to leave before this situation got even worse. She could alwa
ys pay another call upon him tomorrow.
“Two.”
She grasped her skirts in both hands.
“Three.”
He certainly seemed intent. Julianna lifted her hem and set off. The floor was wet from Shelbourne’s ignominious parade through the rain, and the smooth soles of her boots slid on the Axminster.
“Four,” he called after her.
She paused on the threshold of the library, glancing back to find him watching her with a hard countenance. He was angry, harsh, and yet so very beautiful. He settled the bottle of wine on a table at his side.
“Shelbourne,” she tried again, thinking to dismiss this nonsense. To appeal to his reason.
“Five,” he bit out.
And then he started running. No more warning. The determination on his face was undeniable.
Now was clearly not the time to seek an audience with him. On a squeal, she fled him in truth, going as quickly as her cumbersome skirts and petticoats would allow, tearing down the hall. His heavy footfalls were behind her. Growing nearer.
Of all the scenarios she had envisioned during the interminable trip here and time she had subsequently spent working up the courage to confront Shelbourne, this—fleeing him as he chased after her—had not been one of them. Her heart was pounding. She raced past a shocked footman and a wide-eyed maid.
“Keep running, little goose,” Shelbourne called after her.
Mad, she thought frantically. Mayhap he had gone mad. Or he was so thoroughly in his cups he did not give a damn about chasing a lady from his home. She dashed toward the entry hall, but he caught her with an arm wrapped around her waist.
Before she could even react, he had hauled her backward, turned her around, and lowered his shoulder to her midsection. She grappled with his broad, damp shoulders.
“Shelbourne, stop this at once.”
But her protest was only met with him rising, tossing her easily over his shoulder.
She was suspended above the floor, and the world was upside down.
And she was falling apart.
“Shelbourne.”
A flurry of footsteps reached her. “My lord, her carriage is waiting.”
His butler, she realized. The servant was infinitely prepared.
Only Julianna had not been. Nothing tonight had gone as planned.
“Excellent, Wentworth. Fetch me some whisky as well, won’t you?” he asked calmly, as if he was not carting Julianna about.
“Allow me to walk on my own,” she said, all the blood rushing to her head.
“But that would not be nearly as satisfying.” With that pronouncement, he carried her into the night. Cold rain slashed at her, but he trudged on, undeterred.
The pavements were a murky blur beneath them as he took her toward her carriage.
“Shelbourne!” she tried again, but it was futile.
He was shouting orders to her coachman now. The door to the carriage was opened, and she was dumped unceremoniously inside.
She had a moment to catch her breath, to swipe the riotous curls from her eyes, and catch him hovering in the doorway, rain glistening on his sharp cheekbones.
“Go back to America, Julianna,” he told her.
And then, he slammed the door closed.
Chapter 2
I miss him. Every day across the ocean filled me with more pain than the one which had preceded it. The journey to New York City was arduous, and not just because of the swelling seas or the time required to cross the Atlantic. But because it took me from him. I know I could not have remained in London and that I made the right choice. However, I still lay awake at night and ache for him…
~ from the journal of Lady Julianna Somerset, 1883
The witch had trespassed on his bloody dreams last night, much in the same fashion she had intruded upon the sanctity of his home.
Which meant that when Sidney woke, obscenely early by his standards, with a mouth that tasted as if he had spent the evening licking the attic floor, and a curdled stomach, she was the first thought on his mind. Of course she was. Two years had passed, and when had he ever had a day when memories of her had not haunted him somehow, in some way?
He could not recall. Damn her and her flaming-red curls and her freckles on her nose and her pale skin and bewitching lips and curves and her fucking eyes that were bluer than a cloudless sky and the ocean combined. Damn every little part of her to perdition, where she belonged. And damn her scent, lily of the valley, as well. Sweet and innocent. Everything she was not.
Sidney rolled onto his side, self-hatred skewering him as thoroughly as any sword. Bile raced up his throat. Hell. He was going to cast up his accounts just as he had suspected. He blamed his desperate state on her as well. Everything was her fault. Her fault for returning to England. For once more being within reach.
And Christ, how he wanted to reach.
He almost had, last night. The only thing keeping him from hauling her into his arms and kissing the devil out of her had been the bottle in his hand and the last modicum of pride he possessed. She would have owned that too if she had lingered.
He dropped to his knees and retrieved the chamber pot—not making it to the water closet. That was too bloody far.
And retched.
Brutally.
Then retched some more. Until there was nothing left, his stomach merely heaving, eyes watering. He was never going to consume another drop of Sauternes for as long as his stupid, useless heart was beating.
His head throbbed as he rose to his feet at last. He crossed his chamber to the dressing area and the bathroom he had recently commissioned. There, he dispensed with the evidence of his night of misery, washed his face, and rinsed the sourness from his mouth. The reflection greeting him in the mirror was haggard. A reproach.
He looked like hell.
Sidney felt like hell, too.
He ran a hand over his jaw, knowing he needed a shave. Mayhap tomorrow. He rang for his valet, drank whatever concoction the man brought him—always a step ahead, Grove—and dressed to go fencing at his club. He had a standing arrangement with the Duke of Northwich, and since a day of self-flagellation was in order, may as well get on with it.
“Do I look as bloody terrible as I feel, Grove?” he asked his valet.
Grove had been his attendant for years now. Not one of Sidney’s servants knew him better. Over the years, they had developed an ease with each other.
Grove cast a careful eye over Sidney’s person. “You look well enough. May I recommend a shave, however?”
“You may recommend it.” Sidney rubbed his prickly jaw. “But I respectfully decline. I rather fancy looking a beast today.”
Because he certainly felt like one.
“It will take but a few minutes,” Grove said, frowning.
His valet possessed an impeccable sense of fashion. He was also orderly and neat to a fault. Two traits Sidney did not possess, much to Grove’s dismay.
“Beastly or nothing,” he declared stubbornly.
“Respectfully, sir, a shave will make you look more like the heir to a marquisate and less like a costermonger.”
A costermonger? That earned Grove a pointed glare. Devil take it, his head was aching again. “More of your despicable concoction, Grove. I need to be able to give Northwich a fair competition this morning. That arsehole has beaten me the last three weeks.”
“If your appearance this morning is any indication, I have an unfortunate prediction for today’s outcome,” Grove said.
“Go to hell,” he told his valet without heat.
Grove raised a brow. “Perhaps one day I shall. But first, back to the kitchens to fetch you your panacea.”
Impertinent chap. He was fortunate indeed that their camaraderie was old and well-established. Sidney was in a mean humor today.
Also thanks to her.
Forcefully, he banished all thoughts of Lady Julianna Somerset as he marched to the breakfast table. Also as he broke his fast.
Bu
t despite his best intentions and most stringent efforts, he thought about her as he ate a rasher of bacon. As he drank his coffee, he remembered the serenity in her face when she had confronted him. And as he finished the last drop of the concoction Grove had sent him, he wondered what she had wanted to explain.
There was nothing she could say—not one goddamn word—that would induce him to shackle himself to her. She’d had her chance. Mayhap she had discovered all her American beaux did not measure up.
Irritated with himself for allowing thoughts of her to consume him during his meal, he set down his coffee cup with too much force. The dark liquid sloshed all over the tablecloth and his hand, burning him.
“Fuck,” he swore.
The footman standing in attendance averted his gaze.
Sidney had had quite enough of breakfast. He needed a foil in his hand and an opponent to face. Northwich was going to have his arse handed to him today. He rose, disgusted with himself. Nettled more than he cared to admit. Shaken, it was true.
A bitter bark of laughter tore from him as he made his way to his waiting carriage.
She wanted to marry him.
Outrageous.
Impossible.
He would not marry her if she were the last bloody woman in all England. And his complicated, festering feelings for her aside, he was already all but promised to wed Lady Hermione Carmichael thanks to his father’s machinations.
Never mind that Lady Hermione inspired as much passion in him as he would feel for a blade of grass. It hardly mattered. A tepid marriage was far better. A woman he did not give a damn about could never hurt him, and that was the way he wanted it.
Lady Julianna had shown him that. He ought to have thanked her.
It was still drizzling as he settled into his carriage, which suited his mood. By the time he arrived at the London Fencing Club, he was prepared to go to war. And he was sorry to say he had spent the entirety of his journey thinking about a red-haired temptress he would just as soon never see again.
Roland, Duke of Northwich, was tall, black-haired, and dark-eyed. Traits he had inherited from his American mother, who was rumored to be part Iroquois. Northwich neither confirmed nor denied his mother’s ancestry, and Sidney had never bothered to ask because he did not give a damn either way. It was undeniable that the duke was a fierce opponent. Also staunchly loyal, and he bore a cutting wit and a wicked sense of humor. He made Sidney laugh more than he made him grit his teeth, even when he trounced him.
Lady Wicked: Notorious Ladies of London Book 4 Page 2
