Lady Wicked: Notorious Ladies of London Book 4

by Scott, Scarlett

  “I am equally certain you did not. After everything that happened between us, marriage is the only sensible recourse.”

  She took a step back. Her palms were not perspiring at this moment. They were dry. All she felt was fury.

  “No,” she snapped.

  “Julianna.” He reached for her.

  She dodged him, feinting to the side, because she could not afford to feel that hand upon her, so perilous. One touch from him, and all her defenses would fall. “No one knows what happened. You need not burden yourself or act in haste. It was nothing.”

  How she detested her tongue for swiftly giving voice to that particular lie.

  Calling what had happened between them nothing…why, it was sacrilege. It had been the sum of everything. A thousand times over.

  “Nothing,” he repeated, his expression stark. His jaw was rigid. His eyes dark. Mouth firm.

  He was not pleased; she had seen these shadows on his countenance before. She knew them well. Knew him well. Better than she should. Better than he knew. Better than was good for her, it was certain.

  She wondered again how he had noted when she ordinarily broke her fast. More questions rose, swift, endless.

  “Yes,” she forced herself to say. “It was nothing. How did you find me here?”

  She wanted him to say it had been a guess. A coincidence.

  “You have been walking this way every morning since you arrived,” he said calmly, as if he had not just revealed something so significant her heart was about to burst from her breast and gallop down the rest of the path on its own triumphant trajectory.

  “How do you know?” she asked, needing him to say the words. To reaffirm what she was beginning to suspect.

  Because it was the stuff of dreams.

  Her dreams.

  Years of them.

  “You like sunshine,” he said. “And water. White roses, also. And long walks. Swims, as I have recently learned.”

  She loved sunshine, water, white roses, walks, and swimming. And cats. Also, birds. Birds made her ridiculously happy. They were so cheerful and small, so delightfully free and colorful. So much enthusiasm in such remarkably tiny bodies, to say nothing of their abilities. Flying? Oh, to fly. But that was neither here nor there.

  Her mouth went dry. “How… How should you know such details about me?”

  “Because I want to know everything there is to know about you.”

  Also what she wanted to hear. But confusing. Terribly confusing. He was Viscount Shelbourne. His mistresses were the most beautiful, talented women in London. And she was nothing but Lady Julianna Somerset, the awkward daughter of two people who hated each other.

  “I do not understand,” she blurted. “Why?”

  “You fascinate me.”

  Three words. Words she had never imagined possible of being spoken to her, by Shelbourne.

  “I fascinate you,” she repeated stupidly.

  “More than that, if I am honest.” Once again, he closed the distance between them. This time, he sought her ungloved hands, tangling his fingers in hers. “It was poorly done of me yesterday, what happened. You deserved far better. You are a lady, and I ought to have been a gentleman, and yet, I lost control. Because you are…you. And I cannot seem to help myself when in your presence.”

  Her fingers tightened on his, because surely if they did not, she would fly away, return to the real world where men like Shelbourne did not make declarations to girls like her. What could a handsome lord who was witty, intelligent, kind, and sought-after, with a cadre of desirable ladies ready to warm his bed, want with the gauche flame-haired friend of his younger sister?

  “If you are feeling guilty because of what happened yesterday, I absolve you of all such wrongheaded notions,” she told him.

  “Is that what you think?” His lips quirked again, almost as if he found something amusing.

  He was so vexing. She could not begin to understand him.

  Julianna worried her upper lip, considering Shelbourne. He certainly appeared earnest. Clad in sunlight and heroics. He was everything she had ever wanted. Everything she was too afraid to believe could be hers.

  “I do not know what to think,” she admitted. “Not where you are concerned, Shelbourne.”

  And she never had. Moreover, she feared she never would.

  * * *

  She insisted upon calling him Shelbourne.

  Yesterday, she had been nearly naked in the water. Naked and voluptuous and so bloody tempting, nothing separating his eager hands and her body but a water-logged chemise. His tongue had been in her mouth.

  And still, she would not refer to him by his Christian name.

  The woman was going to be the death of him.

  “Sidney,” he urged, offering her his arm. “Shall we walk?”

  She eyed him as if he were a snake poised to strike. “Walk?”

  “And talk,” he elaborated. “You need not fear I will take further liberties.”

  How stiffly that promise fell from his lips. He had never been a man given to propriety. Where his father was staid and proper, Sidney had been a hellion in his youth. And he had fallen headlong into hedonism from the moment he had bedded his first woman, without a modicum of regret.

  Something about Julianna made him want to change that. Made him long for things he had not previously believed it possible for him to want.

  “Please,” he added when she continued to hesitate.

  Her hand settled into the crook of his elbow with a sense of belonging. “I meant what I said. You needn’t feel guilty.”

  Guilt was the least of what he felt.

  Inside him was a fire that would not be controlled or doused, not with common sense or reason.

  He did not say that, however. The emotions rising up within him were too bold and varied and bloody terrifying to reveal. They had been growing, more and more with each occasion upon which their paths crossed. But yesterday had been the day he had finally surrendered to the way he felt about her.

  He guided them down the path, toward a wild tangle of roses in bloom. They were red, lush, and full, the air sweetly perfumed with their blossoms when the breeze passed.

  “My grandfather, the last Marquess of Northampton, planted these roses for my grandmother,” he told her. “There was a bench here overlooking the lake. It was their favorite place to sit together. When I was a lad, he cut these roses for her every summer and filled her sitting room with them when they were in bloom.”

  “He sounds as if he loved your grandmother very much,” Julianna said softly, her face shadowed beneath the brim of her hat, her gaze upon the massive clump of rosebushes. “What happened to the bench?”

  “My father had it removed after my grandfather died.” Sidney was grim as he recalled the discovery, too late, that his father had seen the bench destroyed. “Grandmother was quite upset when she discovered what Father had done; she has refused to return ever since.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?” Frowning, she turned back to him.

  “He supposed it was in disrepair. It was fashioned of wrought iron and had begun to rust.” But it could have been repaired and saved with ease. The roses had only been spared a similar fate thanks to their tenacity and his father’s lack of interest.

  His father was hardheaded and hard-hearted. It was difficult to believe such a clod had been born to his grandparents.

  “I can see it would be a lovely place to view the lake,” Julianna said.

  “And to watch mermaids emerging from it,” he could not resist teasing, seeking to strike a lighter mood between them.

  Already, there was too much heaviness. Too much uncertainty.

  She caught the bow of her upper lip between her teeth, and he almost groaned at the sheer eroticism of it. “You are wicked to remind me of my folly.”

  Oh, she had no idea just how bloody wicked he was.

  He would be more than happy to show her.

  Not yet, you oaf.

 
He grinned. She was so damned beautiful, and at this proximity, he could count each one of the copper specks on her dainty nose. “Was it folly?”

  Her lips parted, full and inviting. “Of course it was.”

  “I am not so certain.” He paused, searching for the proper words and finding none. He knew how to flirt, how to charm. No one was better at cozening a woman into the palm of his hand than Sidney and from there, into his bed. But this woman was different. She mattered more than any other had. “You are wrong to think I feel guilty about what happened between us yesterday. If anything, I am glad.”

  “Glad?” Her fingers tightened on his arm, her brow furrowing.

  “Glad I was the one there and no one else. Glad I kissed you.”

  She blinked, disbelief etched on her face. “B-but…”

  Her protest died, her bluer-than-blue gaze searching his.

  And he realized he was mucking things up desperately. He had not been prepared to see her again after those kisses. Those kisses that had changed everything. Had changed him, in a deep and permanent way that he could not fully comprehend.

  “But what, Julianna?” He was mesmerized by a curl that had swept across her face when the gentle breeze blew by them. The lustrous strand settled on her lips. He plucked it away and then lingered, running his thumb over her lower lip. Tracing the pad higher, over that sinful Cupid’s bow. “Are you glad we kissed?”

  He knew she was. He knew it in his heart. Had felt it in her response. But he needed to hear the words. Had to have her affirmation. She was nervous as a bird, about to be startled into flight. And he did not want her to fly. He wanted her to stay here, with him.

  Forever.

  “I… Shelbourne. You are a rake.”

  Not the response he wanted.

  His thumb traveled over the seam of her lips once, twice. “I am not a rake where you are concerned. Forget about everyone else. There is only the two of us in this moment. Just Julianna and Sidney. Is Julianna glad we kissed?” His hand lowered, and he splayed it over her heart, absorbing the frantic thumps. “Here, in her heart, is she glad?”

  Her pink tongue darted over those sweet lips. Her response took a lifetime.

  “Yes,” she whispered at last. “She is glad. She has longed for Sidney’s kisses for longer than she cares to admit.”

  He almost chuckled with sheer joy. He had found his way around her anxiousness. Speaking about them as if they were other people—that was the trick. And there were the answers he wanted. The answers he needed.

  “Sidney has wanted the same,” he told her softly. Tenderly. A burst of love so overwhelming it almost brought him to his knees rushed over him then. “I have wanted to kiss you for years.”

  “Years?”

  “Years.”

  They stared at each other, exchanging so much more than words could reveal with their gazes alone. It was the most profound connection he had ever had with another person, this inexplicable link he felt to Lady Julianna Somerset. As if she had been made for him. As if he had been waiting for her, all this time.

  Until the right time.

  The time was now, and he was seizing it.

  “I want to court you, Julianna,” he pressed. “Not because I feel a speck of guilt for kissing you. But because I have never wanted—never felt for another woman what I feel for you. Tell me you feel it too. Tell me you want me, too.”

  “Of course I do.” She pressed her hand over her mouth then, as if she could not believe she had revealed so much.

  “My sweet Lady Perfect.” He took her wrist in a gentle grasp and plucked that silencing hand away. “Tell me you will let me court you.”

  The instant the sobriquet left his lips, he knew a better name for her did not exist. Because she was perfect—perfect for him, in every sense. Perfectly kind, intelligent, lovely, wonderful.

  “I am not the perfect lady by anyone’s standards,” she denied.

  Predictably.

  “Nonsense.”

  He kissed her, just once. A swift peck on her irresistible mouth.

  “You cannot mean this.”

  Sidney took her lips again. “I can. I do, Julianna. I want to show you how serious I am. How very much I can be a gentleman when the stakes are high enough.”

  His hand was still over her heart, and her hands had fluttered to his shoulders once more. She inhaled slowly. “Why me?”

  Another kiss. The flames were going to burn him alive, and he was going to allow it. By God, he could not wait to get this woman into his bed. To make her his wife. In the proper order, naturally.

  He kissed her again for good measure. “Why not you?”

  “Because I am…well, a hoyden. My father tells me I am too much in my mother’s mold. My hair is wild and red and refuses to be tamed. My nose is covered in freckles. I cannot sing or paint. I am not particularly talented at anything save getting myself into trouble. I cannot dance well, and I laugh too loud, often at the wrong moment.”

  He kissed her nose. “I love your hair. I adore your freckles. And I do not require you to sing or paint or dance. Your laugh makes me want to kiss you, and if you do get yourself into trouble, I want it to be with me.”

  It was the closest he could bring himself to a declaration.

  He was in love with her. He understood that on a visceral level, even if he did not quite comprehend what it meant. Love was bigger than him. He had never felt this way before. It terrified him, and yet, now that he had held Julianna in his arms, he knew he could not let her go.

  She was his.

  “Sidney?”

  At last. She was calling him by his Christian name. Directly.

  “Yes, love?” He kissed the corner of her mouth. Her cheek. Her ear. More liberties when he had promised she would be safe, but deuce it, he could not seem to help himself where she was concerned.

  “You may court me.”

  Thank Christ.

  He took her lips once more, and no kiss had ever been sweeter. No future more full of brilliant promise.

  Chapter 9

  Present

  I must be foolish indeed, but yesterday, I swore I saw him here in New York City. It was but a moment, and then the man turned away. Was I dreaming his profile, wanting to see him with so much desperation my heart tricked my eyes? I suppose I shall be forever doomed to wonder. Forever stuck here in this life without him, or at least the man I thought he was. Although I remind myself coming here was the best decision for me, I cannot help but to miss him, still. To love him desperately. I suspect I always will.

  ~from the journal of Lady Julianna Somerset, 1883

  Julianna arrived at Cagney House with sweating palms and a cramped stomach. She was going to marry Shelbourne.

  Within the next few hours.

  Once, becoming his wife had been all she had ever wanted, everything she longed for. Once, her heart had belonged to him. He had owned it so effortlessly. And then, he had crushed it so ruthlessly.

  Her carriage stopped.

  In the same strange dream she had been inhabiting since Shelbourne’s abrupt announcement of their looming nuptials the day before, she descended from the carriage. The day was particularly gloomy, the sky leaden and overcast, dense fog permeating the streets. A gentle drizzle began to fall as she made her way into the townhome. Perfectly suited to the day and her mood.

  To say nothing of what she was about to do.

  She was marrying Shelbourne. The only man she had ever loved. The man who had betrayed her so thoroughly, she had traversed an ocean to be away from him.

  But he was not just that man. He was also the man who had kissed her so perfectly, who had worshiped her freckles and her mouth and her body. He was also the man who had begged permission to court her that sun-stained day.

  And most importantly of all, he was the father of her daughter.

  Emily.

  Julianna squeezed her eyes closed and took a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm her already frayed nerves. This was all tempo
rary, she reminded herself. He would grow weary of their arrangements. She would persuade him of the wisdom of allowing her to return to New York City. Her life would be calm and predictable and she would be free to acknowledge Emily as her daughter.

  The door to Cagney House opened along with her eyes, and she was ushered inside.

  The frowning butler did not attempt to chase her away on this occasion. She was not made to wait in an anteroom. This time, she was expected. Her wrap and hat were whisked away, and then she found herself being led to the drawing room where his lordship apparently awaited her. As her booted feet clicked on the marble halls, she could not help but to feel a kinship with the cow and the pig being led to slaughter. There was no good that could come of this day.

  The best she could hope was for this marriage business to proceed swiftly and be over promptly. And that Shelbourne had not been deceiving her that he would keep all gossip concerning their supposed marriage in New York City and Emily’s illegitimate birth stifled.

  The butler disapproved of her. Wentworth, his name was.

  She could not blame him. She disapproved of herself. It seemed every decision she had made concerning Shelbourne had been a mistake, from falling in love with him the first time she had laid eyes upon him, to those kisses in the lake, and everything which had come afterward. All the wonderful kisses. All the anguish, too.

  She was shown into a small salon.

  Shelbourne was within. He stood by the window, his back to her. He did not immediately turn when she entered the room. Julianna took a moment to gather the thinning remnants of her composure.

  Her heart was beating so dratted fast.

  She was going to marry Shelbourne.

  Today, God help me.

  “You are five minutes late,” he said coolly, without bothering to face her.

  His rudeness was expected, of course. He had been nothing but cutting to her since she had first come to Cagney House.

  “I am here,” she returned, wiping her palms on her skirts. “As you demanded.”

  He turned to her at last. His countenance was undeniably haggard. She wondered if he had slept at all. And then she wondered how much drink he had indulged in the night before.