Her nearness, her scent, her touch, her kiss.
He tore his lips from hers, staring down at her as his rigid cock pressed into her skirts. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her mouth stained dark from his kisses, lips swollen. Her blue eyes were dazed and dark, her breath ragged.
She looked stricken and confused, just as he felt.
Good. Damn her.
“Tomorrow,” he told her.
She blinked. “Tomorrow?”
“Our wedding,” he grimly reminded. “It has been arranged. Come to Cagney House by ten o’clock in the morning. We will go together to the chapel and be married. Afterward, you can fetch Emily and whatever belongings you require. You will be settled in by the afternoon.”
Her eyes widened. “I cannot…tomorrow morning?”
The irony was not lost upon him—that he had asked her to marry him once, and she had denied him only to return two years later with a proposal of her own. However, in true Lady Julianna Somerset fashion, she had mistakenly believed she would maintain all the power in their new relationship.
Foolish, foolish Lady Perfect.
And foolish Sidney for once believing her the epitome of perfection and innocence. He had been so thoroughly in love with her. And so thoroughly, recklessly stupid.
She had come back to him. She needed him.
He was not about to allow her to forget that.
“You can,” he told her, flashing a smile that even felt cruel on his lips. Cruel because it was a mockery of the depth of emotion he had once harbored for her. “And you will. Marry me tomorrow morning. I have paid handsomely to make certain the record of our marriage will not be made public fodder for gossip. As far as the world knows, I married you in secret when I visited New York City over a year ago and we were subsequently, quietly divorced. This marriage will settle all questions of legitimacy in England.”
Shadows lingered in her eyes. Her brow furrowed. She had questions. More of them.
“How am I to be reassured this fiction of yours will not be summarily dismantled by an inquisitive scandalmonger?” she demanded, regaining some of her ferocity.
She wanted him to confirm he had traveled in a steamer, across the Atlantic. And he would have, had not the reason for his travel been so stupidly pathetic—his misplaced love for her.
“You have my word,” he told her coolly. “That is all you shall have from me.”
She shook her head. “I do not trust your word.”
He tamped down a surge of irritation at her implication he was not worthy of trust. “Too goddamn bad. Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. Be there.”
The baggage dared to raise a brow. “And if I am not?”
He gritted his teeth. “You will not like the consequences, chérie. You may be the mother of my child, but agreeing to this marriage is the extent of my goodwill for you.”
That was true. He had not forgotten what she had done. Where once, he had believed her greatest sin laughing at his offer of marriage, he now knew she had continued on to perpetrate an even greater evil.
“I will need to tell my mother and father,” she said. “I cannot suddenly inform them—”
“Your father is aware,” he interrupted. “So, too, your mother, I should think.”
He had met with the Marquess of Leighton, who had promised to relay the requisite information to his estranged marchioness. Everything was in place. Except for the unwanted interview with his own parents, whom he had yet to inform of their granddaughter’s existence.
That would happen later today, when he was fortified with drink.
“You spoke with them but they did not see fit to inform their own daughter of her impending nuptials?”
There was a bite in her tone he did not miss. She had never been terribly fond of her parents; he could only presume that much had not changed. He could not fault her for her feelings. The Marquess of Leighton was a selfish cad and the marchioness was, from what little he knew of the woman, no different. She had spent a good portion of Julianna’s youth cavorting in New York City high society instead of in London with her daughter.
At least Julianna had proven a bit different. She had only abandoned Sidney instead of her child.
He clasped his hands behind his back to keep from touching her again, as his fingertips so desperately itched to do. Now that he had touched her once, he was finding it nigh impossible not to want more.
“I informed Lord Leighton of my plans. I thought it wise for your mother and father to understand what is happening and just how firm I am that no interference will be tolerated,” he told her calmly. “Emily is mine, and I will not accept anything less than raising her as befits the daughter of a future marquess.”
Nothing and no one was going to stop him from raising his daughter as his own. Especially not Julianna.
“How good of you to tell them before you spoke with me.” The edge in her voice took on a note of bitterness no doubt aimed at him.
He ignored it. He had bitterness aplenty for the both of them, and she was the cause of it all.
“Tomorrow,” he bit out. “Cagney House.”
Without bowing to her, he turned and walked away. Christ, he needed to get sotted. Three bottles of wine ought to be a good enough beginning. Followed by some brandy. Or mayhap whisky. Anything to leave him suitably numb.
* * *
Julianna’s hands shook with the force of her outrage as she knocked on the door to her mother’s bedchamber. Part of her expected her mother to feign sleep and neglect to answer. If so, Julianna was prepared to burst over the threshold. Her relationship with her mother was marked with perpetual strain, but if Mama had been aware of Shelbourne’s intentions and had neglected to inform Julianna…
“Come,” her mother called.
Julianna stepped over the threshold and into her mother’s realm. The Marchioness of Leighton was seated upon a chaise longue, clad in a dressing gown, hair unbound. She had a book in her lap, which she glanced up from at Julianna’s entrance. Mama possessed a rare air of refined elegance that never failed to make anyone in her presence feel hopelessly dowdy and de trop by comparison. She had been born to great wealth, her own father having made his fortune in shipping, and she had the greatest of New York City high society in the palm of her dainty hand.
“Julianna, my darling,” her mother greeted. “I was expecting Leighton.”
That announcement rather took Julianna by surprise. “My father?”
“Alas. He claims to require an audience with me, which I have grudgingly allowed.” The marchioness sniffed as if she had caught wind of something foul.
Her mother’s dislike of her father was no surprise. Julianna was quite certain the two had not stood in the same room together beyond the span of one quarter hour in the last decade.
“Has he spoken to you about Lord Shelbourne?” Julianna asked as she wandered deeper into the chamber.
The room had been filled with bouquets of fresh flowers now that her mother was in residence once more. Nothing pleased her more than to be surrounded by beauty.
“What would Leighton have to say about Shelbourne?” her mother asked. “Do sit, darling. You are flitting about like a butterfly. It is taxing to watch.”
Reluctantly, Julianna seated herself on a chair opposite the marchioness. The urge to pace, the restlessness within her, did not want to be contained. “That he plans to marry me.”
“Of course he does, dearest.”
Julianna frowned. “You knew?”
“Leighton left me a note. Ordinarily, I ignore them without reading them, but I have been trying to persuade him to let me take the Gainsborough to New York City. I was hoping he may have finally relented.”
“When did he leave you the note?” Julianna demanded, nettled that her mother would be more concerned over a painting than her own daughter.
Although her mother’s polite disinterest in her life should have been more than familiar after all these years, she could not deny it was still a source of pain. Her life ha
d been shadowed by relationships that failed to live up to even the most minimal of her expectations. Aside from her friendship with Hellie, that was. And Julianna had strained their sisterhood quite desperately by keeping Emily a secret.
“It may have been yesterday.” Mama gave a small shrug. “London is so very boring. All the days bleed together. It could have been the day before just as well.”
“Why did you not mention it to me?”
“The Gainsborough?” Her mother’s brow furrowed. “You know I have been most desirous of seeing it hanging in the library on Fifth Avenue.”
Julianna gritted her teeth. “He wants to marry me tomorrow, Mama.”
“May as well get on with it. Rather putting the horse after the cart, is it not?”
“We will be staying here in London,” she pressed. “Emily and I. For a time, at least. Shelbourne wants to be a part of her life.”
Her mother wrinkled her nose, her expression one of distaste. “Surprising, I must say. Children are dreadful creatures. But it is likely for the best.”
Had she expected even a modicum of sadness from her mother at the realization she would be living across the ocean from her daughter and granddaughter? If she had, how foolish. This was the mother who had done everything in her power to force Julianna into giving Emily to another family and pretending she had never been born. This was the mother who would protect her own reputation and seek out her happiness over that of her daughter. The same woman who had refused to allow Julianna to let Emily call her Mama.
The time had come to sever their ties.
Julianna rose. “I hope Father gives you the Gainsborough. Do not come to the wedding tomorrow.”
Without bothering to await her mother’s response, she left the room.
Chapter 8
Two years earlier
The ocean passage has not proven particularly trying. The days pass in a game of patience, when I possess little. I have distracted myself with drink, a favorite friend of mine in the absence of the woman I thought to make my wife. Am I a fool for making this voyage? We are due to arrive in New York City tomorrow. Julianna is there, and the physical distance between us after some three months of interminable separation shall be shortened considerably. No one at home knows I have gone. Anonymity is how I prefer this mad attempt at reconciliation; my lack of pride is as appalling as it is apparent. Should I fail, I, alone, will know…
~from the journal of Viscount Shelbourne, 1883
Julianna told herself, as she made her aimless way down one of the many walking paths at Farnsworth Hall, that nothing life-altering had happened since those kisses in the lake. The earth had not shifted. The sun had not turned into the moon. She was still Lady Julianna Somerset, red-haired and freckle-covered, her bosom too big, and her laugh too loud. And Shelbourne was still the most handsome man she had ever beheld. He still made her palms sweat and her knees quiver and the most delicious ache burst forth from the knot of desire spinning deep within her.
However, she could not seem to convince herself of the reliability of her self-assurances. Because too much lingered. Although he had been polite at dinner the night before and their paths had failed to cross at breakfast, a new hope was burning brightly within her, spurred by the way Shelbourne’s lips had felt, firm and hot and strong, and as if they had always been meant for hers. A gift she had unexpectedly received beneath the country sun just yesterday.
But was it not also true that Lord Shelbourne possessed something of a rakish reputation? Had not Hellie told Julianna of her brother’s exploits in shocked whispers on so many occasions in the past? Stories they were not meant to know about, women whose existences they should never acknowledge. There had been an opera singer. An actress, too. An artist.
Viscount Shelbourne, it seemed, enjoyed the company of a certain set of ladies.
And how was Julianna to compete with beauties who also possessed not just incomparable talents but the ability to freely pursue whomever they desired? The answer was as clear as it was distressing. She could not. Likely, Shelbourne’s politeness at dinner had been a reflection of that. Those kisses had been everything for her, and for him…
For him, they had likely been nothing. Less than nothing, mayhap.
No different than the kisses he had bestowed upon a dozen other lips before hers. Certainly less skilled. She had no experience. He had probably laughed at her when they had parted.
Her humiliation was complete.
What good was there in the culmination of years of pent-up longing and yearning, of watching from afar, when the man she loved remained out of reach? Kisses were not enough. Not when they were followed by precise, agonizing politeness and terrible silence. As if he had not upended her world yesterday.
She reached a rise in the path which overlooked the lake from high above. The scene of her folly glinted beneath the morning sun, mocking. The view from here was breathtaking. On a knoll opposite, a small, white Palladian temple presided. On any other day, she would have been mesmerized by the beauty of the reeds surrounding the lake, the chirping of the birds, the blue sky overhead blunted with the occasional hoary cloud. Everything seemed to glow with the brilliance of nature. The grass was verdant. The air succulent and perfumed with vegetation.
But when she stood here, the small miracles of nature were lost upon her. All she saw was the ruins of her dreams.
“Lady Julianna.”
The low voice, a husky baritone that would forever fall over her like silk, was the product of her imagination. She was certain of it.
Until the hackles on the back of her neck rose. Until warmth suffused her. An awareness unlike any other was there, burning to life. She was so attuned to him, she knew it before she turned to find Shelbourne sauntering toward her, dressed as if he had been riding. Leather boots and tweed and an invitation to sin.
She swallowed. Remembered herself. Curtseyed. “My lord.”
A rush of despicable awkwardness swept over her. Her palms were damp. Any witty or clever turns of phrase fled her along with her breath. He was here. Stopping just short of touching distance.
Kissing distance, reminded the wickedness within.
He bowed, a smile that hurt her heart curving his mouth. “You breakfasted early this morning.”
She had been unable to sleep well the night before, after the bland manner in which he had treated her at dinner, but she was not about to admit as much to the stunning example of masculine perfection before her. “I breakfasted when I rose.”
How inane, this conversation. What was the purpose? Her cheeks were burning. He had kissed her, but he kissed many ladies. It had been no declaration of love.
“Earlier than you typically do,” he said.
And he was right; her descent to the informal breakfast sideboard had been earlier this morning than it ordinarily was. But what did it mean, that he had noticed such an insignificant detail about herself? Unless…
Her witless words of the day before returned to her with a humiliating sting. Rescue me any time.
What had she been thinking, to be so forward? To reveal so much?
He likely wanted to inform her of his distinct lack of interest. To suggest the day before had been an aberration. That she could have been any lady in that lake, and he would have kissed her just the same.
She crossed her arms over her traitorous bosom, which tingled with remembrance of every manner in which his rigid body had been connected with hers just a day before in the lake at her back. “It hardly signifies, my lord.”
“Sidney.” He stepped nearer.
“I beg your pardon?”
All it took was his proximity, that vibrant, emerald gaze so potent and probing on hers, and she went weak. He made her heart pound. She wiped her sweaty palms on her dress and hoped he would not take note.
“You may call me Sidney,” he said, still not touching her.
But close. Too dangerously close.
“Why should I do that?” she asked.
&n
bsp; And then could have kicked herself.
“My lord seems terribly formal. Does it not?” His smile deepened, and so too did the divot in his chin.
He was so dratted handsome. And a rogue. She knew that. Whilst she was hardly dazzling. Flame-haired and speckled. As gaudy as a rooster but not nearly as pretty as one.
“It seems appropriately formal,” she told him coolly, doing her utmost to keep the manner in which he affected her from her voice and expression.
Her pride demanded it.
The tattered remnants, that was.
“I should think us beyond formality.” He took another step.
This one brought his polished boots into contact with the hem of her promenade dress. It brought with it his bay scent and leather and musk. Bay leaves and spice. Wonderful man. Unforgettable man. Shelbourne.
Sidney, whispered that same, forbidden voice.
She dared not call him by his Christian name. Did she?
“Why should you think that?” Julianna asked.
“Yesterday.” His gaze slipped to her mouth, lingered there. “What happened between us…it was unpardonable of me to act in such an ungentlemanly fashion toward you. However, I would like the opportunity to make amends for my egregious behavior.”
“By asking me to call you by your given name?” She licked her lips, doing her utmost to remain unaffected by the way his stare was lingering upon her. “That hardly seems like making amends.”
“By marrying you.”
His bald pronouncement could not have shocked her more.
She blinked, wondering if she were somehow trapped within a dream. But he was still standing before her, gilded by the sun and unfairly handsome. Worse, his expression had become expectant. As if she ought to respond.
How? He had rendered her quite speechless. Because marrying him was everything she had ever wanted. But not this way. Never this way.
Julianna cleared her throat, searching for words and composure both. “Forgive me, but I am certain I must have misheard you.”
Lady Wicked: Notorious Ladies of London Book 4 Page 10
