A Tale of Two Lovers

by Maya Rodale

  “That was not exactly a proper introduction,” she replied coolly, standing her ground as he walked closer to her, stopping only inches away.

  “You’re not exactly a proper lady,” Roxbury said in a low voice that sent shivers down her spine.

  Her hand itched to slap him, but she didn’t dare. It was dark, and she was alone with a strong, angry man. It was all well and good to spar with him in the ballroom or in Knightly’s office, but in seclusion it seemed much more dangerous.

  Fear: that was why her pulse was quick and her nerves at attention. It certainly wasn’t excitement or anything of the sort. Definitely not an attraction, or so she told herself.

  “I would think that is an insulting overture, if I did not know your preferences better,” she said quickly. Fear made her speak faster, to match the pace of her racing heart. Fear made her speak more boldly than she ought to.

  “You’re mistaken to think you’re safe with me, Lady Somerset,” Roxbury said, and the warning tone of his voice was unmistakable, sending another shiver up and down her spine. Good God, what was happening to her?

  “Am I?” she asked with a nervous laugh. “Well, then I ought to go. If you’ll excuse me.”

  She walked away with only one thought: escape. She exited through the nearest doors, which unfortunately led to a conservatory. She swore under her breath. The room was too romantic, too secluded, too . . . lovely and wonderful.

  A glass domed ceiling allowed the moonlight through to shine upon luscious plants and fragrant flowers. Lord Walmsly was a renowned collector of exotic plants from all over the world. Hundreds were in bloom now. The air was warm, fragrant. She could hear the sound of a burbling fountain and of Roxbury’s footsteps pounding on the slate floor.

  Ever since he’d stormed into the office, she’d been so very unsettled. When trying to sleep, she could not banish the image of his laughing, smiling face. It wasn’t the way he looked at her, but the way he was around every other woman in London—the ones he liked, or fancied. When she finally slept, he haunted her dreams, with charming, roguish smiles meant for her. She’d woken up feverish.

  Since then, her appetite had diminished. Any hour of the day found her jittery with some sort of nervous energy she could not control. At this moment, she was a bundle of nerves, and sincerely regretting drinking champagne on an empty stomach. She was not feeling quite like herself.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked, exasperated now, and pausing next to a small potted orange tree. Roxbury stopped before her and folded his arms across his chest.

  “I want you, Lady Somerset, as the Lady of Distinction to apologize publicly and print a retraction. I want you to tell all of London that you were mistaken.”

  In other words, confess to being a liar. Her pride would not allow it.

  “My reputation for yours? The damage is already done. Why take me down with you?”

  “Oh, my dear Lady Somerset . . .” He laughed and the sound echoed around the conservatory. She worried that someone might hear them, but then she recalled that they were very much alone, and quite far from the ballroom. Instead she worried someone might stumble upon them.

  “I am not your dear lady.”

  “No, that you are not.” His comment somehow made it an insult. As if she was not fit company for his harem. Her lips pursed, spinsterish.

  “I understand that you are angry,” she said, switching tactics and trying to reason with him. Roxbury laughed, and this time it was a bitter sound.

  “Angry does not begin to describe it. What I am experiencing is a potent and seething mixture of outrage, fury, and indignation. For the first time in my life, I have a nearly unquenchable urge to throttle a woman.”

  Julianna smiled faintly.

  Roxbury carried on, circling her as he paced. “I love women. If I am going to make a woman scream, it won’t be from violence, but from earth-quaking, soul-shattering, life-altering pleasure.”

  She wished to fan herself, but would melt completely before giving him the satisfaction of knowing that his words affected her thusly. Aye, she hoped the moonlight disguised the deep flush of crimson in her cheeks. She did not know that kind of pleasure, but she did not doubt him capable of it.

  “Tell them you were mistaken,” he carried on. “You know it as well as I do that I was caught with a woman, with Jocelyn Kemble, to be exact, still in costume from her performance that evening.”

  He stopped before her, and leveled a stare, as if daring her to disobey, which, of course, meant that she had to. And given the fact that he’d just made her very hot and definitely bothered by all that talk of pleasure meant that she had to do something to destroy any chance of experiencing it, particularly with him. That was the road to ruin, and she’d traveled it already.

  “There was one woman dressed in breeches backstage, and over a dozen men. The odds are not in your favor,” she pointed out. Somerset had always said she was tenacious to a fault.

  At the moment, she desperately wanted to believe the rumors her column had started. For if they were not true . . . then she was alone, with a devilishly handsome man who made her warm and her knees weak, and who might, at any moment, either murder her or seduce her.

  “You are stubborn, maddening, illogical, and infuriating,” Roxbury grumbled, and she saw his hands ball into fists.

  “I am a lady,” she retorted, as she stepped behind a voluminous potted fern.

  “Exactly. That’s what I said,” Roxbury said, following her. She gasped. He grinned.

  “I do not wish for my readers to think me inconsistent, or that I spread falsehoods.” She backed up, and some large potted plant stopped her progress.

  “But you do,” he insisted. “Don’t make me prove it to you, Lady Somerset.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t dare.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized he probably would. If he was anything like her, a dare was never resisted.

  “Oh?” he murmured, lifting one brow.

  Her lips, against her will, parted to whisper “Oh.”

  Oh, hell and damnation, she was in trouble now.

  Roxbury’s palms closed upon her cheeks and she gasped. Few thoughts flashed across her brain: Roxbury. Rake. Somerset. Kiss. Ruin. Must stop.

  Julianna protested by slapping her palms against his chest, as if to push him away. He only transferred his grip to her wrists, pressing them close to his heart. His chest was warm and firm under her palms and Lord above, she wanted to smooth her hands across his chest, exploring, owning.

  Julianna watched his lips curve into a mocking smile, as if he could read her thoughts. As if he knew she wanted to indulge but would die before admitting it. Given that he was a legendary seducer, it was not impossible.

  Instead, she gripped the fabric of his shirt and glared fiercely into his eyes. His gaze was equally dark, intense, and violent. Just when she thought he might ruthlessly shove her away, Roxbury lowered his mouth to hers.

  Roxbury wanted to strangle her; he kissed her instead. The minute his lips collided against hers the violence of his anger transformed into pure, raw passion and he feared he might ravish the she-devil right here, against a potted fern in Walmsly’s conservatory.

  She murmured in something like protest or pleasure. He felt it all over.

  It went without saying that he had enjoyed many a kiss, with many a woman. This one was different. Was it the anger? Was it the challenge? Was it just the moonlight and the brandy he’d drunk earlier in the evening? Or was it perhaps how staunchly opposed she was to him and how quickly she had surrendered to him?

  Aye, he could feel her melting under his touch.

  Julianna knew better. Julianna thought stop. She thought to say no, to insist he quit, to demand an apology. Yet a surge of heat coursed through her as Roxbury impelled her to open to him, and not gently, either. She, who loved to disobey just because she could, did just the opposite. Julianna’s brain shouted in outrage; her body sent up a prayer of thanks.

 
Roxbury’s mouth was hot on hers, and his tongue expertly tangling with hers. He released his grasp on her wrists only to snake his arms around her waist and press her against him, and Julianna gasped as she felt the hot, hard length of him. She thought there was nothing, nothing, like this intimacy with a man, even if he was a completely disputable cad. Julianna had forgotten it. The memory came crashing back and she was powerless against it.

  Again, she moaned. This time, he groaned.

  Push him away. Her fists closed even more tightly around his shirt fabric.

  Push him away. Her brain issued the command, and yet she pulled him closer.

  Vaguely, she recalled that she despised him, and men of his ilk. But then her best intentions took their leave of her, along with her wits, good judgment, and common sense.

  It was utterly frantic and wonderful, for a moment. Her body and his, her mouth and his all locked up together in a hot, passionate, tortured kiss. Roxbury’s hands roughly caressed her and, devil take it, she liked it. Within minutes he had reduced her from a celibate widow who hated him to a panting woman inflamed with desire.

  Roxbury ached to take this kiss too damn far. To run his fingers through her hair, to tug down the bodice of her gown and tug up her skirts, to leave layers of clothing on the floor. He wanted to leave Lady Somerset—this know-it-all, tightly wound, gossiping widow—ravished and thoroughly debauched. Roxbury wanted her to know, intimately, just the kind of man she was dealing with. This kiss was meant to demonstrate—exquisitely, and undeniably—his power over her.

  But in the remnants of his brain left to coherent thought, Roxbury wondered about all the years they had attended the same parties, conversed with the same people, and danced the same waltzes but never with each other. He thought of all those evenings when a kiss with Lady Julianna might have been a sweet one, and not one of vengeance. That was a flicker of feeling, and it had no place in an angry kiss like this. He did not want to feel a shred of affection for this woman who had so thoroughly destroyed his world with just a few words.

  Lady Somerset was surrendering to him, he could feel it. But he was, too.

  That, naturally, was the moment that he abruptly broke the kiss and none too gently stepped back from her, as if she were too dangerous to touch.

  Julianna stumbled back against the stupid potted fern, holding on for dear life as she tried to catch her breath, and looking at Roxbury for answers. She saw that the moonlight made his cheeks seem higher. His eyes were black and his mouth was curved in a smile of triumph.

  Aye, this was not just any rake, she thought, but a practiced and heartless one. She had quite nearly been thoroughly seduced—and she had no doubt that he would have done it just to teach her a lesson. Just to show his mastery over her. Just because he could.

  “An apology and a retraction in the next issue,” he demanded. His voice was raw.

  It only took a second for her to understand and to plot her revenge.

  “Very well, Roxbury,” she said, smiling with pleasure at what she would write. He thought he’d won her over with one hot, illicit kiss. He quite nearly had—and that was intolerable, and dangerous, and simply not to be borne.

  Roxbury thought he had a power over her—that, like any other woman, she’d trade in her dignity and do his bidding for a drop of his affections. He was mistaken.

  Chapter 8

  Poverty or Matrimony? Twenty-six days remain for Lord Roxbury

  The Offices of The London Weekly

  53 Fleet Street, London

  A few days later Julianna’s pulse still had yet to subside! She attributed it to frustration at her inability to decide if she had enjoyed the kiss or despised it. It was clear that he didn’t like her, which was fine, because she did not hold him in great esteem, either. But how could a kiss between two people who didn’t care for each other be so . . . potent, intoxicating, and downright pleasurable?

  She knew, too, that it was a kiss fueled with anger and frustration (she had felt her knees weaken—along with her resolve) and she understood all of Roxbury’s women a little more now. In the end, after extensive thought, Julianna could only conclude that she hated that she enjoyed it.

  It had been an age since her last kiss, and an eternity since last she was held in a man’s embrace. She had not longed for them until she got a taste of what she was missing. Damned Roxbury!

  But that was not to be thought of, or discussed—especially not now, just before a meeting of The London Weekly staff.

  All the writers and editors of The Weekly gathered once a week to pitch stories to Mr. Knightly, the publisher and editor. The Writing Girls routinely arrived early, claimed their corner of the table and gossiped shamelessly until the meeting began.

  Though their backgrounds and temperaments varied, their unusual status of women who wrote bonded them together and genuine friendships had formed.

  Miss Eliza Fielding, a dark-haired beauty, wrote anonymous columns about prominent social issues of the day—like the efficacy of Wright’s Tonic for the Cure of Unsuitable Affections (Sophie confirmed it did not work) or a description of the Penny Weddings of the lower classes.

  The ever-angelic Miss Annabelle Swift offered readers’ advice in her column “Dear Annabelle.” She also nursed a tender, constant, and unrequited passion for Derek Knightly. Julianna feared Annabelle’s reaction when she saw him today—if he even arrived.

  Her Grace, the Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon, formerly Miss Sophie Harlow, used to write about ton weddings in her column “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life.” At the first opportunity she quit writing about weddings (which she had hated) and now she occasionally wrote about ladies’ fashion (which she loved). The column lived on, with other authors.

  Today, for the first time in her life, Julianna was dreading their usual chatter because, for once, she would be the subject. Like anyone else, she preferred gossip about someone other than herself.

  “Why are we only hearing about this now?” Sophie demanded, waving a copy of The Times in the air. Owens and Grenville looked up from their very serious conversation and scowled. After a year, the men had largely accepted working with women. Every now and then, they did not.

  “Shhh,” Julianna urged.

  “Oh, they’ve already seen it,” Eliza said.

  “We have,” Owens confirmed, with a lascivious grin in her direction. She scowled at him.

  “Everyone has already seen it,” Annabelle said, to Julianna’s dismay. She, too, had read it as soon as the newspaper hit the stands. She had to keep track of her rival, of course.

  They were, of course, referring to a particular item from her sworn nemesis, The Man About Town. Eliza read it aloud:

  “Just asking: Which irate rake with questionable inclinations (if we are to believe the gossips, which usually we do) was seen following a certain distinguished lady (or so we occasionally assume with no proof)? They left the ballroom quite early. One returned to the party quite late. The other not at all.”

  “That’s our Julianna. Always skulking around dark hallways and empty rooms,” Alistair remarked with a grin.

  “It’s for my work. I take my writing very seriously,” she explained, as everyone in hearing distance either snorted, rolled their eyes, or generally expressed disbelief at her excuse for being alone with an infamous rake.

  “We know that. What we don’t know is what happened once you were alone with Roxbury,” Sophie prodded. “That man is notorious, so I’m sure it must have been something.”

  “Something wicked,” Annabelle added in a hushed whisper.

  “You don’t believe that rubbish, do you?” Julianna asked dismissively.

  “Aye, we believe the gossips,” Alistair said, grinning. Sophie and the others nodded their agreement.

  “So . . . Roxbury followed you out of the ballroom. Where did you go?” Eliza asked pointedly.

  “The portrait gallery. We chatted about the artwork. I left.”

  “And . . .” Sophie prompted.


  It took some wheedling and cajoling and finally out of frustration she confessed: “All right, all right. The wretched rake kissed me.”

  “Oooh,” all the girls exclaimed and softly, under his breath Alistair said, “Pity, that.”

  “How was it?” Sophie asked.

  “What was he like?” Annabelle questioned.

  “Do you think he . . . you know?” Eliza wondered.

  “Just tell us everything, darling,” Alistair said.

  “All I will say is that I am determined to find the Man About Town and silence him once and for all,” Julianna declared. She’d often vowed as such and always kept an eye out for potential suspects.

  “And Roxbury?” Annabelle prompted, but Julianna was spared from answering by the arrival of Mr. Knightly.

  “Good morning,” Knightly said as he strolled into the room. He was handsome and mysterious. His past was unknown, and his parentage uncertain. She had heard rumors that his father was the Earl of Harrowby but dared not mention it in her column, or at all. His private life—those precious few hours he spent outside of The Weekly offices—were just that: private.

  Handsome. Mysterious. Brilliant. No wonder Annabelle sighed every time he walked into the room. And with his arm in a sling—thanks to the bullet he took in the duel—he was even rougher, more dashing.

  Julianna couldn’t look away from the white linen sling. It was a stark contrast against his dark gray jacket. At the sight of him injured, she felt her stomach ache. Yet she had to admit he wore it well. The pride with which he displayed his wounded arm was obvious; he had fought for his paper, and had walked away with his life, and everyone knew it.

  Annabelle sighed upon seeing him, as she always did. Hopeless infatuation didn’t even begin to describe her feelings for him.

  “Ladies first,” he said, grinning, and beginning this meeting as all others. That small measure of normalcy was much needed to slice through the tension.

  When it was her turn, Julianna watched Mr. Knightly’s reaction carefully as she said, “Roxbury has demanded again that I print an apology and a retraction.”