by Maya Rodale
Roxbury could demand whatever he wanted, she thought, but that did not mean she would provide it. The room hushed, awaiting Mr. Knightly’s reply.
“This ongoing battle between papers and the scandal with Roxbury has been great for sales,” Knightly remarked.
“Scandal equals sales,” they all chanted in unison, although without their usual enthusiasm, because scandal had gotten someone shot. It was practically Knightly’s personal motto, and definitely that of the paper.
“Aye,” Mr. Knightly said with a grin.
That was all the permission she needed to write whatever she wished about the great rake, Lord Roxbury.
At the thought of him, she pressed her fingertips to her lips, as if she might still feel his own mouth there. That kiss . . . like Roxbury, it was dangerous to her sanity, her equilibrium, and her place in the world. It could not happen again, and she knew just how to ensure that it would not.
Chapter 9
The apartment of Jocelyn Kemble, actress
A few days later
“Oh, good morning, Roxbury,” Jocelyn purred. She sat in bed, under the pale blue covers and resting against large fluffy pillows. Her golden hair fell in waves around her pretty face. She wore a cinnamon-colored silk wrapper, and Lord only knew what else underneath. Had he not been in such a temper, Roxbury would have tried to find out.
“It is not a good morning,” he corrected and then tossed that morning’s issue of The Weekly onto her lap.
Every word the damned Lady of Distinction printed was worse than the last. He wouldn’t really give a damn, either, except for that ultimatum. His father had sent a letter—to his club—in which he wrote that he dared not anticipate which lady’s or lord’s bedchamber he was in, but scandal notwithstanding he still expected a marriage in three weeks’ time or access to family funds would cease.
Three weeks!
That letter was doused in brandy and tossed in the fireplace.
Something had to be done. Roxbury was not a man to stand idly by. He was beginning to understand why Edward had quit high society, his station, and his family obligations. Roxbury could always join the army, but he was rather fond of comforts and women.
Leaning against one of the mahogany posts at the foot of Jocelyn’s massive bed, he listened as she read the Lady of Distinction’s offensive and belittling words aloud.
“Lord R—insists that I owe him an apology and a retraction! As I am an obliging, kind-hearted Lady of Distinction, I shall offer the irate rake that which he desires. I’m so very sorry that my idle chatter has led the ton to the conclusion he insists is false.”
Jocelyn giggled upon reading it, then recalling his presence, quickly schooled her features into an appropriately concerned and consoling expression.
“That is horrible,” she said gravely. The corners of her mouth twitched, no doubt with suppressed laughter. He wished he could have a sense of humor about this whole thing.
“At least the Man About Town’s column has me chasing after a woman, even if it is that demon Lady Somerset,” Roxbury remarked dryly, referring to last week’s column, which reported him following her.
“She’s lovely, Roxbury. A little sharp, but that is to be expected after a marriage like the one she was stuck in. You remember old Somerset, do you not?”
“No.”
“Any scandal, particularly one involving whoring, drinking, and gaming, and you could be certain that Somerset was involved.”
“That’s like half the men in the ton,” Roxbury said with a shrug.
“Yes, but it’s always particularly devastating for a young woman in love before the stars have faded from her eyes. An old lady like me knows what to expect.”
“You’re hardly old,” he said to Jocelyn. She could not be more than eight and twenty. Lady Somerset, however, appeared young but had a smart look in her eye. She had seen and heard things about the world. She was not an innocent.
“In my profession I am,” she said with a lovely, pitiable sigh.
He smiled, before launching into the reason he had called upon her.
“I need a favor from you, Jocelyn.”
“Anything,” she said. They had a long history together, from his early university days when she was the barmaid at the local tavern to just last week when they had been indulging in a bit of fun. He’d never been one of her formal protectors, but always the one she came to when she was in trouble.
“I need you to tell your side of this scandalous, salacious story,” Roxbury said, carefully watching her response.
His grand plan: Have Jocelyn spill all the details that he was just an average rake, not one with peculiar tastes. Enjoy women flocking to him once more. Then he would consider taking some biddable, ignorable miss as a wife to satisfy the demands of the ultimatum, but carry on with pleasure as usual.
Roxbury found that social ostracism did not suit him—not exactly a surprising discovery. He was a creature that thrived upon laughter, the energy of a crowded ballroom, quick conversation, a woman’s inviting gaze, her satiated body beside him in bed. He needed these things for a proper existence. As it was, he felt like an animal in captivity. Every need fulfilled except for the thrill of the hunt and the dangers of the wild.
“Oh,” Jocelyn said with noticeably less enthusiasm.
“Oh?”
“I am in the process of negotiating an affair with Lord Brookes. I don’t want to jeopardize that.”
Confessing to making love in a hallway with another man was the sort of thing that would.
A tense moment of silence ensued.
“But you’ll take care of me, won’t you?” she asked, knowing the answer.
Roxbury only smiled because he wanted to promise her everything, but for the first time in his life, there was no guarantee that he would be good for the money. He felt sickened.
What had he come to—begging for favors from old friends to salvage his reputation so he could possibly do the second-to-last thing he wanted to do—get married? A life of poverty was the very last thing.
Not for the first time did he curse that ultimatum. He did not like the choices presented to him, and suspected that in truth the matter was out of his hands. No proper woman was at home to him. How was he to marry one, then, when he couldn’t get an interview to propose?
If Jocelyn would just print her story, and clear his name. . .
“I can make it up to you, Jocelyn,” he promised. Somehow, some way, he thought, though he knew not how. There would probably be jewelry involved. But before he could mention that there might be a brooch or a necklace at the end of it . . .
“Oh, to hell with it,” Jocelyn exclaimed. “Come, Roxbury, let’s go spill all our secrets to the press.”
The true identity of the Man About Town was and always would be a mystery. For forty years he (or she?) had been chronicling the lives, loves, scandals, and secrets of the haut ton.
In those forty years, he (for it was a he) had assembled a network of informants so vast, so disperse, and so efficient that little happened that did not come to his attention. He relied on servants placed in all the best houses, shopkeepers, waiters at coffeehouses, and orphaned brats on the streets trading gossip for a penny-a-line.
If a lady in Mayfair had a sneezing fit, he might wonder—in print—if she was consumptive. If a maid were ferrying secret love letters between a young lady and a forbidden paramour, the Man About Town would quote them. If a devilish lord were packing for a jaunt to Gretna, he wouldn’t get outside London proper before The London Times printed the details, particularly the man’s traveling companion. And if a footman should encounter a couple in a delicate position at a ball at midnight, it would be news by morning.
But it was the willingness of the ton to tattle on itself that never failed to amaze or amuse. Like the best hostesses, he kept calling hours. One could find the Man About Town at St. Bride’s Church every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon.
This church was a particularly fitting des
tination for a gossip columnist’s calling hours. Located on Fleet Street, it was known as the Church of the Press. It was the final resting place of novelists and poets.
The process of calling hours was simple. He wore a hooded cloak that obscured his face. He knelt at the altar as if in prayer, while his callers took their turn “praying” next to him, while really whispering all sorts of secrets. It was more like confession, actually.
Occasionally attempts were made to pull away his hood, and those were easily thwarted. Usually, however, people did not want to ruin the mystery.
It was here that Jocelyn Kemble found him and related her story. The hooded cloak concealed his expression, which was one of warring emotions: satisfaction to know the identity of Roxbury’s scandalous backstage paramour and displeasure at who it was.
Nevertheless, the next morning, it appeared in print.
Chapter 10
That morning, Jocelyn’s exposé in the Man About Town’s column had hit the newsstands and breakfast tables all over London. At a ball that evening, Julianna was still seething. In the ballroom, she chatted briefly with Sophie and Brandon, then Lord Brookes, Lady Walmsly, and half a dozen others. All anyone wished to talk about was the Roxbury scandal, as it was being called.
All the while, Julianna glanced suspiciously from one elder gentleman to the next. One of them had to be the Man About Town, and she wished to vent her anger at him because of the trouble he caused her lately.
She ventured into the card room and sipped champagne and watched a high-stakes game progress. It was there that Roxbury found her and requested a waltz. The nerve. The audacity. That charming smile of his, tempting her to say yes and daring her to refuse.
Another woman might coyly murmur yes, with batting eyelashes and a simpering smile. She could never.
Music from the orchestra playing in the ballroom filtered in. The air was thick with smoke of men’s cigars. The conversations were kept to a low hum as fortunes were won and lost at the turn of a card. Julianna took another sip of her drink and tried to ignore him, but he asked her again.
“You are demented if you think I will,” she replied, after tossing him a sidelong glance and then dismissively looking away. She was too angry to look directly at him after that story in The Times this morning. Besides, she already knew about his velvety brown eyes, and slanting cheekbones, and his mouth—and that the women were right when they said it was made for kissing.
Jocelyn Kemble spilled everything to the Man About Town, and Julianna had no doubt that Roxbury was behind it. It glorified Roxbury’s prowess as a lover with a level of detail nearly unfit to print. It mentioned an interruption from another couple—a spinster and a dandy—which made Julianna’s color rise. Jocelyn described her boy’s costume for the play. The long and short of it was that the Lady of Distinction was made out to be a liar.
Julianna was vexed that she herself didn’t question Jocelyn sooner, and she was terrified of Knightly’s reaction when he saw she had missed such a golden opportunity.
What had she been thinking? She hadn’t. Actually, she’d been thinking about Roxbury, and his kiss, and more. Useless rubbish.
“Say yes, Lady Somerset. You know you want to,” he murmured.
“I don’t think I will, thank you.”
She was in a foul mood, and he was too tempting. The man was just too damned handsome for his own good. She was a tall woman but his intimidating height made her feel small. And one could just tell that he was well muscled under his evening clothes. There was a reason half the women in the ton had slept with him, and the other half wished to.
“I do not think you will. I know you will,” he replied easily.
“It would damage my reputation to be seen with you,” she told him. Then he pointed out what she was afraid of—
“Everyone in this room is already watching us talk. Anybody nearby is listening. You can only imagine what they must be thinking of us.”
She shrugged, as if she did not care in the slightest. Really, though, it was profoundly disturbing. Her reputation as a respectable matron—of one and twenty, mind you—was essential. Scandalous ladies were not invited out, and gossip columnists needed to be everywhere.
Being seen in a hushed conversation or waltzing with the likes of Roxbury would be damaging. There was no one more socially toxic than he at the moment.
But tongues were already wagging about the two of them—she could tell, just by looking around the room and catching all those lords and ladies quickly looking away.
“Waltz with me,” he murmured quietly, and leaning in close so only she could hear. It made her shiver and that was really why she couldn’t, wouldn’t, and shouldn’t do anything as intimate as waltz with him.
She always felt overheated and dizzy around him. Her wits were dulled and her judgment impaired. And then there was the chance that he might kiss her again—and that she would like it, which would lead to all sorts of trouble.
“I will not, thank you,” she reiterated, though she truly meant I dare not.
“Suit yourself,” he said, taking his turn to shrug. “I didn’t want to tell everyone that you are the Lady of Dist—”
“Shhhh.” Julianna stomped on his foot to emphasize her point. He did not appear inconvenienced or annoyed in the slightest. In fact, another glance told her that he was clearly enjoying this exchange.
“But I could,” he told her. Yes, there was definitely a spark of joy and mischief in his eyes. Her lips couldn’t help but curve into a smile. That legendary Roxbury charm was still operating to full effect.
“You wouldn’t,” she confirmed.
“Right here. Right now.” He taunted her and tempted her, and against all her wishes and better judgment, she was falling for it. Her cheeks felt hot and her heart was beating quickly out of nervous terror that he would just shout out her secret to the ton.
Frankly, it was amazing that he hadn’t already.
“Never,” she said.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Roxbury said loudly. A few people looked. She experienced a surge of terror. “This beautiful woman has agreed to waltz with me.”
That she could not refuse. Roxbury offered his arm to her, and she accepted grudgingly. Arm in arm they strolled from the card room to the ballroom, nodding and smiling faintly to the curious glances from acquaintances.
He was a rake, she was a widow. The conclusion was as obvious as it was false.
Roxbury smiled devilishly down at her as they assumed the position: her right hand in his, her left resting upon his shoulder. With his hand on the small of her back, Roxbury pressed her close. She felt trapped. Captive.
“Do not try to lead,” he said.
“We haven’t even taken a step yet,” she pointed out.
“Yes, but you look like the kind of woman who would try to lead,” he said with an air of authority, as if he could read women like books. Given his experience, he probably could.
“Why are you so desperate to waltz with me anyway?”
“Oh, I have many reasons,” Roxbury said, smiling. The first notes of the orchestra sounded and they began to waltz. He led superbly, so there was no need for her to.
“Enlighten me,” she requested.
“So that my tarnished reputation might rub off on yours,” he answered.
“Oh, how lovely,” Julianna said with excessive sweetness and a smile to match.
One, two, three. One, two, three. They moved along to the steps in perfect time, together. She was surprised at how well they moved as a couple when every other interaction had them at odds.
“And so that I might gloat about the Man About Town’s column this morning, while holding you so that you cannot run away.” To prove his point, he urged her just a bit closer, and those butterflies in her belly stirred to life and began to flutter off the dust on their wings.
“Splendid,” she remarked dryly. He could not know his effect upon her!
“Lastly, thanks to you, it’s been some time s
ince I’ve held a woman. You shall have to suffer my advances.”
“That’s blackmail!”
“I’m not sure it is. Regardless, I’m only asking for one dance, when I could demand so much more,” Roxbury said, but it didn’t sound like a threat. In fact, it felt like temptation. What was happening to her? She was made of sterner stuff than this! One dance with a scoundrel who smiled and murmured would not be her undoing.
But the memory of that kiss—his mouth hot on hers, his hands through her hair, the length of her body pressed against his—lingered, so vividly she could practically feel it. He might not even be tempting her at all, and she could merely be suffering from wishful thinking! Dear Lord, did this man make a mess of her.
“Granted, I do have enough information to blackmail nearly any woman in the ton. One learns a lot after years in bedrooms all over town, you see.”
“Yes, I see,” she said tightly. She saw that this was why he was not to be trusted, and why she must not succumb to temptation. Somerset had spent years in bedrooms all over town—the years before and during their marriage, to be exact. And with her young, handsome charmer of a husband, Julianna had also experienced the fluttering sensation in her belly, the heat of pleasure and the dizzying effects of infatuation.
In his own way, Roxbury tempted her to experience all that again. She could never go back to that life. She did not think she could survive it again.
“I thought I would take exceptional pleasure in tormenting you,” Roxbury told her. And he smiled, showing he truly did enjoy vexing her. Unfortunately, it was such a charming smile she couldn’t help but return it.
“That is so romantic, Roxbury. I might swoon.”
“Please don’t. I should like to carry on with the gloating,” Roxbury said joyfully.
Julianna made a move to go, but grinning all the while. Still, he held her close.
“It was a great maneuver to have Jocelyn speak to the Man About Town, was it not?” he began.
