Lady Wicked: Notorious Ladies of London Book 4

by Scott, Scarlett

More foolish than she had been that fateful summer.

  More foolish than when she had allowed herself to fall in love with a man who would never return that love.

  She sighed. The sparrows meant nothing. The roses meant nothing. And she meant nothing to her new husband. Less than nothing, in fact. He had married her because he wanted to raise Emily as his daughter. Not because he had truly wished to have Julianna as his wife. His cruel response to her initial proposal was proof of that. As was his heartless treatment of her before, when she had traveled across a vast ocean to rid herself of him.

  Only to later traverse that same ocean in search of him.

  Her lips twisted at the bitter irony of the situation in which she now found herself. Not in America, where she had hoped to be and where her factory would be built. But in England, the place where she had fled. Married to the man who had broken her heart and given her the undeniable blessing of her daughter.

  Life was strange. It worked in unpredictable, maddening ways. Julianna could not deny that marrying Shelbourne two years ago would have been easier. Perhaps even right, and to the devil with her own pride. However, she never would have realized her true purpose had she become his viscountess then. And in time, she had no doubt, she would have grown to resent him for his faithlessness.

  This time, she knew what to expect.

  Not fidelity. Not love. Not anything. She would build her fortune and her empire alone. She would be back in New York City soon, she had no doubt. Shelbourne would grow weary of this, of her. He would seek his diversions. She would be unnecessary as before. Why play papa when he could drown himself in drink and petticoats, after all? And she would raise her daughter as her own. At last.

  That was what mattered. All that mattered.

  She wandered to the wardrobe next. Her efficient lady’s maid Briggs had already made certain the modest number of gowns Julianna had brought from America were in their place. The rest of the belongings she had amassed would arrive in several weeks’ time, in the event she could not return to them as quickly as she intended, packed on a steamer. She missed her collection of books the most. But they would wait. The rest of her life would wait as well. Shelbourne would tire of this farce and she would go.

  Despite the hopes burning within, there was no denying she was firmly mired in London for now. Cagney House was quiet and unfamiliar around her. There had been no wedding breakfast. There was no cause for celebration or joy on this day. It was merely one of quiet acceptance.

  And absence—most notably Shelbourne’s.

  Just then, a knock sounded at the door joining their chambers. She stiffened, hesitating. Had he finally returned?

  “I know you are within, Julianna,” came his familiar baritone when she did not immediately answer.

  She sighed and crossed the chamber to the door, opening it.

  He was dressed in evening clothes. His dark hair fell rakishly over one brow, and she had to fight the urge to sweep it away. Where had that rogue impulse emerged from? She had no tenderness for this man. He was a stranger to her, albeit a stranger she had married.

  A stranger she intended to leave behind as soon as possible.

  Julianna was beset by a sudden, intense rush of vulnerability. She hugged her waist, thankful she was still dressed as well, and in the same gown she had worn to marry him. There had been no time or need to change.

  His vibrant gaze locked on hers, sending unwanted sparks down her spine.

  She chased them away. Cursed sparks.

  “What do you want, Shelbourne?” she asked him, irritated with herself for the tumultuous rise of emotions within.

  His lips curved in the ghost of a smile. “Cannot a gentleman inquire after the welfare of his wife?”

  “Not when the gentleman in question is you.”

  “Hmm.” He leaned against the doorjamb in a pose of vexingly handsome indolence. “Is the chamber to your liking?”

  As if he cared.

  “It is ample.”

  “Just ample?” His gaze swept over her in an assessing fashion that somehow left heat seeping into her belly.

  “It is well-appointed for a cage.” She raised a brow, eying him with defiance. “There. Does that mollify you?”

  His stare flitted back to hers, burning. “I see no bars. Nor do I seek to be your jailer. You are free to come and go as it pleases you.”

  “And yet, you demand your marital rights from me.” The moment she spoke the words, Julianna wished she could recall them.

  They hung in the air between them, heavy and potent. Awareness crackled.

  Stupid Julianna. Reckless Julianna.

  Would she never learn?

  “How have I demanded them, chérie?” he asked, his tone sardonic, his expression amused.

  “By insisting this must be more than a marriage in name only,” she countered.

  And heavens, the way he was looking at her…

  Her palms were damp.

  Nothing had changed except that now, she had no defenses against him. None. He could kiss her, touch her, saunter into her chamber. Bed her. He had every right, and the weakest part of her had no wish to stop him.

  His mocking smile disappeared. “I must receive something in exchange for our bargain. Do you think I wanted to be bound to you forever?”

  His query stung. “Once, you claimed to.”

  It would seem her course of self-destruction was determined and complete.

  “Out of pity.” His lip curled.

  Three words—who would have expected they could slice as dangerously and viciously as any blade?

  Not Julianna. But they did. Dear God, how they did. But she would not shed a single tear before him. Would be damned before she allowed him to see how easily he could hurt her.

  She forced a polite smile to her lips. “Is there anything else you wished to say to me this evening, my lord? It has been an eventful day, and I am weary.”

  “Eager for the consummation, darling?” he asked.

  The consummation. Such a cold, impersonal manner of describing what would happen. She wanted to hate it. Wanted to hate him. And still, as he stood before her, mocking and cutting and cruel, she could not.

  An ache sprang to life, one she very much wished she could repress. “Surely you do not intend to come to me this evening?”

  “Why should I not?”

  Her pulse pounded. “Because I am tired.”

  “So you said.” He swung away from the doorjamb and crossed the threshold, moving past her in such proximity their arms brushed.

  That brief, fleeting contact was enough to sear her. His bay scent was exquisite torture. So, too, his presence in her chamber. In her life.

  She turned to follow him, wondering what he intended to do. Wondering, too, where he had been. Had he gone to visit a mistress? She told herself she did not care. That it did not matter. Worse, that he likely had.

  “What are you doing, Shelbourne?” she asked.

  He threw himself into one of the chairs by the fireplace. It was a feminine chair in a distinctly feminine room, and he ought to look ridiculous and out of place here. Instead, the contrast only seemed to heighten his masculinity. His necktie was perfectly knotted. His wavy hair was perfectly tousled.

  “Sitting on this chair,” he proclaimed. “What the devil does it look like I am doing, Julianna?”

  “Do not you have a chair upon which to sit in your own room?” The question was telling, she knew, but also necessary.

  She wanted—nay, needed—him out of her presence.

  The longer he lingered, the more dangerous this game he was playing with her became.

  “I do,” he said, that wicked mouth of his quirking once more. “I also have a bed, a wardrobe, and all manner of things. Would you care to inspect them, or are you going to have a seat?”

  She sighed, because he did not have the air of a man who was going anywhere any time soon, and seated herself in the chair flanking his. “There. Does this please you?”
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br />   “No. I would be more than happy to tell you what would, and in precise detail.”

  What a devil he was.

  “Thank you, but no.”

  Tell your mistress instead.

  But she did not say that. Could not bear to dredge up old, painful memories. Best to keep those where they belonged—buried in the past.

  “Shame,” he quipped lightly, as if he had not a care.

  Maybe he did not. He certainly did not care about her.

  “Are you going to tell me why you are sitting in this chair, or am I meant to guess as if we are playing a drawing room game?” she asked next.

  “You are on edge, chérie,” he observed instead of answering her question. “Why?”

  Of course she was on edge. She had married him this morning. She was now his wife, living beneath the same roof, inhabiting the same room. Breathing the same air. Longing for him in a humiliatingly desperate fashion which could not be dispelled no matter how hard she tried to vanquish it with logic and reason.

  “I do not know what to expect from you,” she said, choosing her response with care.

  “I can say the same of you.”

  She wanted to shift in her seat, so great was her discomfort beneath the weight of his regard. “Do you think we might call a truce, if for no other reason than the sake of our daughter?”

  A bark of harsh laughter burst forth from him. “Says the woman who kept her from me all this time.”

  “I am here now, and so is Emily.”

  “She was sleeping soundly when I checked on her,” he said, surprising her. “Johnston said she had been investigating the nursery quite eagerly. It appears to have met her expectations. What of yours?”

  Julianna’s confused mind was still grappling with the realization he had gone to check on Emily and checked in with her nurse upon his return. Her foolish heart warmed at the revelation.

  She swallowed down a knot of unwanted emotion. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The nursery,” he elaborated, still watching her intently. “Does it meet your expectations? I did not have as much time to see it prepared as I would have preferred, but I am hopeful Emily will take to her surroundings here. That she will come to regard it as home in no time.”

  Cagney House was Julianna’s home now as well. How surreal it was.

  Temporary home, she reminded herself sternly.

  “You did an excellent job of outfitting the nursery,” she admitted.

  “I want my daughter to be happy.”

  “Our daughter.” The correction fled her naturally.

  “Yes.” His gaze slipped to her lips for a moment. “Our daughter.”

  They stared at each other, the silence falling heavy, rife with so many things unsaid.

  “Shelbourne,” she began.

  “Julianna,” he said in the same instant.

  They stopped. A muscle in his jaw clenched. Her fingers tensed on the arms of her chair. The ocean of memories swelled. She wanted to ask him if anything they had shared had ever meant anything to him, but she quelled the impetus. Buried the words.

  “You took supper elsewhere this evening,” she said instead.

  “Yes.” He studied her. “I am told you refused to eat. Were you not hungry?”

  He had asked about her as well? She had not expected that either. Especially not with his blistering disdain where she was concerned. Something inside her shifted. Warmed.

  However, she feigned nonchalance. “I occupied myself by getting Emily settled in the nursery.”

  In truth, the upheaval happening around her had stolen her appetite. It chose that moment to return.

  He frowned. “Johnston and the rest of the staff were meant to do that. It is why they are all paid wages, after all, and handsome ones, too.”

  Did he pay his staff handsomely? She had to admit her few interactions with his domestics thus far suggested a conviviality many grand houses did not. One could always detect the character of the master of the house by the deportment of his servants. So what did that say about Shelbourne?

  That she had not married a monster, certainly. But that she may have even married a man who was unafraid to show his servants kindness as well.

  She shook the unwanted thoughts from her mind and turned her attention to his grim observation. “It was important for me to be present. In New York City, my mother did not permit me to act in any role of authority where Emily was concerned, lest the servants suspect something.”

  His lips tightened. “And what does the marchioness intend to tell her friends and neighbors when she returns with the news that we have married?”

  Julianna had wondered the same herself. She thought of her last, uncomfortable interview with Mama. Naturally, she had not been present today to see Emily and Julianna off; Julianna supposed she could not complain. She had told her mother not to attend the wedding, after all.

  However, knowing her mother had chosen not to put up a fight did nothing to soothe the hurt.

  “I do not know what she shall tell society there,” she said softly. “I expect a report of our marriage will be printed in the papers. However, whether or not anyone believes we were secretly married and divorced in America, and that Emily was born legitimately, I cannot say.”

  She would face that maelstrom when the time inevitably came.

  “People often believe what they are told,” Shelbourne returned. “It is far easier than having to think for themselves. How do you think gossip is spread?”

  “It is gossip that I fear.” She plucked at the silk of her skirt nervously. An old habit she had never been able to squelch, much like biting her lip. “All it will require is one naysayer to look into the past and discover you had never been to New York City, and this tower of lies you have so cleverly crafted will fall.”

  “I was in New York City, Julianna.”

  He could not have shocked her more had he announced he was planning a sojourn to the bottom of the sea. All this time, he had refused to acknowledge he had been there whenever she had asked. She had assumed it was because he had never been there at all.

  “Why?” she asked.

  Hope was a stupid beast. And so was she.

  “Why not?” He eyed her sullenly, refusing to give her anything.

  Not one detail.

  “When?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes,” she bit out, feeling desperate without fully comprehending why. “When?”

  “The timing suits the lie,” he said curtly, before rising to his full, towering height. “That is all you need concern yourself with.”

  But he was wrong, was he not? Because if he had gone to New York City before she had given birth to Emily, and if he had come after her…

  Foolish, foolish thoughts. She banished them.

  She rose from her chair so he was not looming over her like some sort of mythical god. “Thank you, Shelbourne.”

  He gave her a look she could not discern. “It is not your gratitude I want, Julianna.”

  She swallowed. Oh.

  He meant…

  “Shelbourne,” she began, thinking she must not fall into bed with him. Her heart was still sore from the last time.

  A bitter laugh escaped him. “Not tonight. You needn’t look so horrified. For this evening, all you need to do is accustom yourself to your new home. I will see a tray sent to you. You really ought to eat something.”

  She could not tell if he was concerned about her or if he was merely being a despot. “That is not necessary, my lord. As I said, I am not hungry.”

  Her stomach rumbled loudly enough for the sound to carry, making a lie of her claims. Her cheeks went hot.

  He raised a brow. “The tray will be sent. Until tomorrow, Julianna.”

  With a bow, he was gone.

  She watched him leave, torn between hating him and loving him. Had she ever stopped? Some ten minutes later, a tray laden with pétits-fours, hot tea, and fresh blackberries. All her favorite treats.

&n
bsp; Bemused, Julianna ate everything, leaving nothing behind but crumbs. Then, she took a bath and checked on Emily once more before sliding beneath the bedclothes, doing her utmost to ignore the light shining beneath Shelbourne’s door.

  * * *

  Sidney could not bloody well sleep.

  It was to be expected, he supposed, for a man who had spent most nights for the past two years pouring some manner of alcohol or another down his gullet in an attempt to drown the memory of the woman next door. But when said woman was within reach and he had yet to touch her following their marriage that morning, having her so near was the erotic equivalent of perdition.

  Julianna.

  She was here, the woman who had destroyed him with such callous ease. The woman who had stolen his daughter from him. The woman he loathed. The woman who had left him to gallivant about New York City.

  He must not allow himself to soften, to forget what and who she was. What she had done.

  For what must have been the two hundredth time, he paced the length of his chamber. His feet and back were beginning to ache from the time he had spent chasing his demons without the bottle. Pacing was not nearly as comforting as getting soused.

  But he had a daughter to consider. And a wife.

  “Fucking fuck of all fucks,” he growled as his cockstand, which had been incessant since his ill-advised visit to her chamber upon his return that evening, went harder at the reminder Julianna was his now, in a way she had never been before. His in a way that was undeniable. Forever.

  And yet, he had not consummated their union.

  He should have.

  But his pride was too strong. And she had been more skittish than a newborn foal this evening, looking at him with those wide, blue eyes that rivaled the clearest summer’s sky he had ever seen. Making him want her. Taking him back to a different time and place, when her betrayal had yet to tear them apart.

  Sidney spun on his heel, furious with himself, furious with Julianna, so furious with everything and everyone, and longing quite desperately for some whisky or wine to dull the pain, that he failed to take note of his proximity to one of the chairs arranged in a small sitting area where no one ever sat. Least of all him.

  His foot caught on the carved mahogany leg, stubbing his big toe and sending pain howling up his calf at the same time as he tripped. He went sprawling to the floor in an undignified heap.