Lady Wicked: Notorious Ladies of London Book 4

by Scott, Scarlett

  It does not signify, Julianna. He is not your concern. He ceased to be your concern the moment he destroyed your trust and broke your heart.

  But that was not entirely true any longer, was it? She was about to bind herself to this man forever, even if she intended to put the safety of an ocean between them once more. He was also her daughter’s father.

  He raised a dark brow as he sauntered forward, his expression surly. “If I recall correctly, it was you who came begging to marry me.”

  His words stung.

  But she refused to allow him to see it. Instead, she maintained whatever composure she possessed. “I did not beg.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, chérie.” His lips twisted into a cruel, mocking grin.

  Why had she allowed him to kiss her yesterday?

  With great difficulty, she remained where she was as he stopped before her, all sultry, dissipated arrogance and forbidding male. “It is the truth. I asked you to marry me.”

  He laughed, the sound bitter, his gaze skimming over her face, landing on her lips. “Because you had no other choice. Is that not true? You were desperate. What is the matter, hmm, Julianna? None of your New York City lovers wanted to leg-shackle themselves to you forever?”

  She had not had any lovers in New York. He had been the only man who had ever touched her, kissed her, held her. And he had ruined her for any man who had come after. But she was not going to admit that to him. Not now. Not ever.

  “You are Emily’s father,” she said instead.

  “Ah, such an angel of mercy you are. I consider myself fortunate indeed to take you as my wife.”

  The familiar scent of him washed over her, along with the undeniable tartness of wine. “Have you been drinking this morning, my lord?”

  “A bit.” His lips quirked. Sinful lips. Lips she very much wanted to feel moving over hers again, regardless of how much she told herself she must not.

  “Drinking at breakfast, Shelbourne?” She frowned at him, concern she had been doing her utmost to tamp down rising once more. “That is a bit much even for a man of your licentiousness, is it not?”

  “Not when I have to marry you.”

  His riposte was a taunt, cutting and dark.

  “If you found it such a hateful prospect, you did not have to agree.”

  “Wrong, Julianna. I want my daughter. Unfortunately, you are her mother. I’ll not have her raised as a bastard, whispered about everywhere she goes. Unlike you, I am willing to put her best interests before my own.”

  He could have slapped her, and it would not have hurt as much.

  She mustered all her inner strength to form her equally stinging response. “Forgive me. I have forgotten what a paragon of virtue you are.”

  “And yet, you kissed me as if you could not wait for me to bed you again.”

  Yes, she had kissed him. She would not make the same mistake twice. If he thought to consummate their marriage, he would think again when she laid stiff and uncompromising in bed, refusing to touch him or give in to the desire he lit within her. If he intended to make her miserable, she had no qualms about playing his games.

  “I kissed you because I forgot it was you,” she told him. “You could have been anyone.”

  His nostrils flared and his jaw went rigid. Her words had affected him. But she felt no victory. Instead, the same hollow ache of loss infected her, stronger than ever.

  “Fuck you, Julianna,” he said, almost pleasantly. And then he sauntered past her. “Come on then, let us finish this little farce. The sooner I have my daughter beneath my roof where she belongs, the better.”

  Swallowing down a lump of fervent sadness at what they had become, Julianna followed in the angry wake of the man she had once loved. She had no other choice.

  * * *

  She had gotten beneath his skin.

  Sidney had not intended to allow her to do it, but it would seem he possessed no control at all where she was concerned. He felt like a wound, bruised and bleeding, refusing to heal. Soon to fester.

  Mayhap he was already festering. Likely, he had been festering these last two years.

  And now, she was beneath his roof. Settling in to the chamber adjoining his. Seeing her trunks unloaded, her gowns and baubles put in their places. Because she was his wife. He wondered if she would take note of the small changes he had made in the chamber in anticipation of her presence.

  And then he hated himself for wondering.

  And for making the changes.

  For thinking of her at all.

  Fuck, he was a married man.

  A married man sitting alone with a bottle of untouched Sauternes, at the Black Souls club. He was not going to drink the wine. Julianna had been right that morning, damn her. Imbibing at breakfast was poorly done, even by his standards. His only excuse had been that he was in a foul mood on account of his looming nuptials. Also, his pounding head from the wine and whisky he had poured down his gullet the night before.

  He never had managed to confront his father. The heartless curmudgeon would have to receive the news of Sidney’s nuptials when the rest of London did. The less Sidney saw of him, the better.

  “Attending a funeral, old chum?”

  Sidney glanced up from his detached perusal of the bottle of wine to find the Duke of Northwich approaching. “Yes. My own.”

  If he was grim, there was good reason.

  The woman he had once loved had returned to his life with the force of a goddamn hurricane, bringing with her the daughter he had never known existed. In the span of less than a fortnight, he had become a father and a husband. To say nothing of the fiction he intended to spew upon anyone who asked. A fiction that was a necessity, but a far-fetched and bloody ridiculous one. He had no other choice, however. Julianna had seen to that, and making certain Emily would remain unharmed by her mother’s poor decisions was his driving force.

  That and vengeance. He would be lying if he claimed he was not looking forward to punishing her for what she had done. She deserved everything he would dole out to her and then some.

  “You do not look dead today, friend.” Northwich settled into the chair at his side.

  “I feel dead.” He strummed his fingers on the polished rosewood. “My old life is quite gone.”

  “Here is a sight I never thought to behold. A full bottle of Sauternes settled before Viscount Shelbourne,” Northwich intoned seriously, but there was mockery in his dark eyes.

  Good-natured mockery. The man was not his oldest friend—aside from the Earl of Huntingdon—for no reason. In addition to being an excellent sport, a ridiculously adept athlete, and loyal to a fault, Northwich was also irritatingly insightful. The latter sometimes proved more bane than boon. However, Sidney was willing to overlook it in favor of Northwich’s excellent company.

  “There is the acerbic wit of the Duke of Northwich I have come to know and despise,” Sidney returned.

  “If you have no wish to drink it, I would be more than happy to take on the duty.” Without awaiting Sidney’s retort, Northwich poured himself a glass. “Tell me. Why the hell do you look as if you just stepped in a pile of horse shit?”

  “Ah, old chap. If only it were horse shit I stepped into.” He paused, glancing around them to make certain none of their fellow patrons were within earshot before continuing. “It was the parson’s mousetrap instead.”

  Northwich choked on the sip of wine he had just taken. “Never say it has happened already. Lady Harriet?”

  No point in correcting his friend’s confusion of Lady Hermione’s name now. The lady herself was as good as forgotten, and she would no longer enjoy—or suffer—a future as Sidney’s wife.

  “Lady Julianna Somerset,” he said instead.

  Hating the name on his tongue. Hating the woman and the way she made him feel even more.

  Northwich’s black brows rose. “Forgive me, old chum. Did you not recently swear you would never marry her for any reason?”

  His own words, spoken i
n haste at their fencing match, and before he had realized what he was up against, returned to him. I would never marry her. Not even if I had to do so. No one and nothing could induce me to accept her as my wife.

  Ha.

  Past Sidney was so fucking stupid.

  But then, so was Present Sidney.

  It was Present Sidney, from whom the pleasant warmth of inebriation had fallen away hours ago in a small chapel where he had married Lady Julianna Somerset and consigned his soul to the devil, who answered his friend. “I was wrong.”

  Wrong about so many things.

  About every bloody thing, in fact.

  Northwich raised his glass in salute. “My felicitations. I hardly give a damn about gossip, but I heard no word of your nuptials.”

  “Because there was none.” He sighed. “The marriage was quiet and in haste, for good reason.”

  “Christ.” The duke settled back in his chair. “Why?”

  Hell. Where to begin?

  He wanted a drink. He was literally itching, from the inside out, to have one. But he should not. What he needed to do was be the best father he could be to Emily. And the best father did not drink wine at breakfast or give the bottle a black eye until he passed out in a blissful, mindless stupor each night. He had to change.

  Today was just the beginning.

  “I have a daughter,” he said, stunned at how good it felt to reveal Emily to someone else. He had not yet told Huntingdon, though he knew his sister Hellie would have done. Hellie had sent him a note and attempted an audience, but he had avoided her. He was not yet ready to face his sister or to admit the extent of his failures, both with Emily and his own sister. He ought to have been a better brother, to have defended her against their father, to have demanded she not be pawned off onto Lord Hamish White.

  “A daughter.” Northwich’s brow furrowed. “But what has that to do with Lady Julianna Somerset?”

  “She is the mother,” he confessed quietly. “Before she left for New York City, we were… Damn it. There were repercussions from the time we spent together. She had my daughter there without my knowledge.”

  “And you have yet to drink a drop of poison this evening? Brave soul.”

  “I trust the truth of this sordid story will go no further than this table,” Sidney continued.

  “Of course, Shelly.”

  There it was again, the hated sobriquet.

  Sidney ignored it because Northwich was, well, Northwich. “We married quietly in New York City two years ago, and then when we realized we did not suit, we divorced after Emily’s birth, just as quietly.”

  “You did?” His friend’s dark brows snapped together. “I knew you were gone from London for a time back then, but I had not realized you had gone to New York City.”

  “I did go to America,” he confirmed, again taking care to make sure no one had moved nearer to them before continuing. “But I never met up with her directly. We never married or divorced. That bit is a lie I am perpetuating to protect my daughter. Her existence was a secret to me until Julianna told me about her. Now, I am doing everything I can to make certain Emily is legitimate and never faces scorn or ridicule.”

  A shadow passed over Northwich’s face. “Good man.”

  Sidney knew his friend understood what it was like to bear the brunt of society’s disdain. The duke’s mother’s rumored heritage had left him largely on the fringes of society, despite his title. There were many who whispered behind his back. Others who scorned him outright.

  “I love my daughter.” Easy words to say. An easy emotion to feel. Emily was everything light. She was sunshine, laughter and love and innocence. He did not deserve her.

  “You did the right thing, Shelly.”

  He realized his gaze had drifted once more to the bottle of Sauternes, which was alternately calling to him like a Siren’s song and mocking him. He returned his attention to his friend, gratitude creeping up inside him, chasing some of the anger and bitterness.

  “Thank you,” he said simply. Sincerely. They were words he needed to hear in a life where he increasingly felt as if he had not done one goddamn thing right.

  But as quickly as it had descended upon them, the heaviness of the moment fled. Northwich was a master at turning the darkest moments into something brighter. “Married, eh?”

  “Married,” he agreed, feeling morose.

  “That explains your mournful air. But think of it this way, old chum. You would have been every bit as miserable leg-shackled to Lady Hester, would you not?”

  Hermione, not that it mattered.

  Another sigh fled him. “It would have been an easier misery, I think. Being bound to a woman who makes you feel nothing is far more preferable than being tied to one who makes you feel…”

  Everything, he had been about to say.

  But he allowed his words to trail away instead. No sense revealing every jagged shard of himself.

  “Damn.” Northwich drained the remnants of his wine, another shadow passing over his face. “I think I would prefer to be shackled to a woman who makes me feel something. Not that I want to be shackled. I do not, of course.”

  His friend’s quick denial raised Sidney’s curiosity. There was something troubling Northwich. Something he was keeping to himself. And Sidney would have prodded at that something, dug at it like a splinter. But the truth was, he was deuced weary after everything that had unfolded today.

  Marrying Julianna had been exhausting. It had been the culmination of everything he had wanted two years ago. And yet, it had been too late. The irony had not been lost on him. Nor had the tremble in her hands, the quiver in her chin as she had spoken her vows.

  He ought to have been there when she returned with Emily.

  But he had not been able to bear it. Instead, he had seen her returned to Leighton’s townhome, and then he had come directly to the club. Leaving her to settle herself as she would. Oh, Wentworth had been apprised of the situation. The conscientious servant would make certain Julianna and Emily would be installed in the viscountess’s apartments and the nursery in proper fashion.

  “Only a fool wants to be shackled,” he said into the uneasy silence that had fallen between himself and Northwich.

  “Amen to that.” Northwich poured some more Sauternes into his glass. “If you do not want to drink this, I will.”

  He wanted to drink the poison. But not tonight.

  “I suspect it is time I venture home,” he said reluctantly.

  He had delayed the inevitable for long enough.

  Chapter 10

  Dear Julianna,

  I will never post this letter to you, nor any of the dozens of others I’ve written since your defection. They serve no purpose save furthering my ignominy. Never was there a moment this was rendered more painfully apparent to me than today, when I chanced to approach your mother’s home and found you laughing with one of your beaux. Had I arrived minutes earlier, I would not have been hidden within my carriage, the humiliation mine alone to bear. I suppose I must be thankful for small mercies even when they are as cutting as any lance.

  Yours in deepest regret,

  Sidney

  The nursery at Cagney House was incredibly well-appointed. All the furniture within was new and fine, polished and sleek. There was nary a hint of dust anywhere, and from the fresh carpets to the sweetly feminine wallcoverings, every last detail of the room was above reproach.

  For the first few hours after Shelbourne—she could not yet seem to think of him as her husband—took his leave following their brief ceremony in the chapel, Julianna had busied herself by overseeing the unpacking of Emily’s cases along with Johnston, her daughter’s nurse.

  But by the time Emily was sweetly sleeping for the evening, Julianna was left with nothing but time and the realization she would need to further investigate her own chamber. That was how she found herself standing in the center of the room connected to Shelbourne’s by an adjoining door and a shared dressing room and bathroom. />
  And that was when the enormity of what she had done today hit her.

  Or perhaps it was when she noted the matched pictures of sparrows hanging on the damask-covered wall. The remainder of the decorative elements in the boudoir was spare. An ormolu clock on the mantel. A gilt-framed looking glass hung above the fireplace. The Axminster was thick and luxurious. Two overstuffed chairs were placed neatly by each other, as if to accommodate an intimate tête-à-tête.

  Certainly not between herself and Shelbourne.

  Their mutual enmity had not been hampered in the least by their marriage.

  She wandered around the room, noting places in the carpets where divots suggested furniture pieces had been removed. She could not deny the spartan aesthetic of the chamber appealed to her. She had never been one to favor bric-à-brac and vignettes like so many ladies.

  There were also faded shapes on the wall coverings—large rectangles and squares and ovals—accompanied by tiny holes piercing the damask. She could only suppose he had ordered a number of pictures removed. Why leave the sparrows? Or were they new additions?

  A few more paces took her to the writing desk positioned carefully against a far wall, laden with paper and pen and a vase bearing red roses. Not unlike the almost wild clump of roses he had told her had been his grandmother’s favorite that long-ago day at Farnsworth Hall.

  How his story of his grandparents’ love had touched her heart. She had supposed it had touched Shelbourne’s as well. But in time, she had realized just how wrong she had been about him. Just how wrong she had been about everything.

  Likely, the roses had been placed there by a maid who would have had no knowledge of their significance, once upon a time. Mayhap the sparrow pictures as well. It would hardly surprise her to learn he had tasked a servant with the minutiae of preparing the chamber. Why would Shelbourne himself perform such a menial household task, and for a woman he so obviously scorned?

  She was being foolish.