A Tale of Two Lovers

by Maya Rodale

  “Yes, it was. I am vexed that I did not think to speak to her first. Congratulations.”

  “How did it taste to say those words, dear Julianna?”

  “Like vinegar,” she replied pertly and Roxbury burst into a laughter that slowly faded into a big grin.

  “Why are you smiling like that?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I’m enjoying myself tremendously,” he said, sounding a little bit surprised himself.

  “Enough for the two of us?” she queried tartly.

  “Admit it—you are enjoying this, too,” he challenged, still smiling.

  Julianna wanted to smile back, and to laugh, and to love being whirled around the ballroom in the arms of such a handsome and charming—if infuriating—young man. She wanted to savor this heat of pleasure, and the dizziness of desire.

  “I cannot,” she confessed.

  There was too much at stake, though. There was the fact that they were engaged in a very public battle over very scathing rumors. Reputations were everything, and they were on the line. Her position at The Weekly was on the line. Last, but not least, her body and her heart were in jeopardy. She had seen this play before; she had lived it, and had no desire to do so again.

  It was all too much to gamble on with a notorious man like Roxbury.

  Was she enjoying this, too? She had her moments. But she didn’t dare.

  At the conclusion of the waltz, Julianna vanished into the crowds before Roxbury could whisk her off for . . . a kiss? More gloating? Another dance? An interlude on the terrace? She was obviously smarting over losing the latest round of their newspaper battle.

  Roxbury knew not what his intentions were.

  He did know she was not interested in whatever his intentions may be.

  Roxbury had purposely limited experience with her type, but he was well aware what he was dealing with: a woman who had suffered a rake before. They were difficult ones to seduce, for they knew all the tricks and had experienced the consequences.

  What did it mean that he was considering seducing her? Nothing. It meant nothing. He thought that about every woman. She was the only woman that could be cajoled into speaking to him at the moment and he had so craved the touch and the company of a woman. It had been too damn long.

  It would behoove him to take a wife, though . . .

  Jocelyn’s public confession in The Times did not have the effect he would have hoped. Women eyed him coyly again, but none dared to speak to him and he knew that none would be receptive to his advances.

  A life of poverty was staring him down. Just short of three weeks remained before the earl would cut off his funds.

  “Lord Roxbury,” a woman called his name. It’d been some time since he’d heard his name from a lady’s lips. Other than Julianna’s, that is.

  It was Lady Hortensia Reeves.

  “Lady Reeves, good evening,” he said, bowing to her. He saw her blush.

  “Good evening,” she replied, and then, because he could see that she was nervous, he initiated a conversation on the weather, and then the party, to warm her up and bolster her confidence. Then when her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling, he knew she had gathered the courage to say what was really on her mind.

  For once, it had nothing to do with her collections.

  “I wanted to say how unfortunate it is that everyone has turned on you, Lord Roxbury. But now you know your true friends,” she said.

  He smiled kindly at her, and wished deeply that he owned a modicum of attraction for Lady Reeves. Because then it would be so simple—they would marry, he would be rich and . . .

  No, she would love him and he would destroy her with his infidelity.

  Roxbury smiled kindly at Lady Reeves, clasped her hand, and thanked her sincerely. But then he caught sight of Julianna on the far side of the ballroom—tall, gorgeous, aloof, and dangerous. . . .

  Chapter 11

  The offices of The London Weekly

  53 Fleet Street, London

  The mood at the next gathering of The London Weekly’s staff was more subdued than usual. A few days earlier the Man About Town had published that tittle-tattle tell-all with Jocelyn Kemble, thus upping the stakes in the ongoing battle between the two papers. It was the only thing London had been talking about.

  Was he or wasn’t he? Who to believe—the Lady of Distinction or the Man About Town? Should Lord Roxbury be received or not? Should the word of an actress be believed or not? The London Weekly or The London Times?

  People avoided Roxbury in droves, just in case. Jocelyn’s plays were sold out. Sales for both newspapers were stellar.

  “You’ve seen the other column?” Eliza asked in a hushed, cautious whisper.

  “Yes, of course,” Julianna said sadly. It had come out the other day, and she had read it. Often. But then she had waltzed with Roxbury and she had thought about that. A lot.

  Between worrying about her writing and puzzling over her attraction to a man she despised and who was ruining her life, Julianna was exhausted.

  Alistair made sad eyes at her, commiserating. “Poor darling,” he murmured.

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” Annabelle said soothingly, but it was no consolation.

  “I’m sure it will not be. Let me read it again,” Julianna said, reaching for the paper Eliza had brought.

  “No!” they all shouted at once.

  Eliza held the paper away from her.

  “Oh, I already have it memorized,” Julianna said, and she began to recite the dreaded words from memory: “This Man About Town has the pleasure to shed some light upon the proclivities of a certain scandalous rake—No, no, my readers, do not misunderstand me.”

  And then another voice picked up the thread. It was Knightly arriving with a copy of The London Times in one hand—his other was still in a sling.

  Julianna knew it was for his own reputation, and not for hers that he had fought. But she keenly felt it was all her fault—it could not be denied that it was—and the guilt at the sight of his injury, combined with the recent triumph of the Man About Town, made her want to cry.

  She never cried.

  Standing before his staff, Knightly read the dreaded words aloud. “I will reveal the identity of Lord R—’s backstage paramour, and share her exclusive story with the readers of The London Times. The great actress ‘Mrs.’ J—K—renowned for her talent and her beauty, has confessed to being the lover of Lord R—. She tells me that he is everything a man ought to be, and everything a woman could desire in a man. She had no doubts of his inclinations.

  Knightly set the paper upon the table. No one spoke. A dozen grave faces—none more so than Knightly’s—stared at her.

  That column made her look like a liar or an idiot for what she had written about Roxbury. It was so foolish of her not to have approached Jocelyn first. But she had been too muddled with something like lust for Roxbury that the thought did not occur to her.

  “I did not risk my life for this paper, for your writing, so that you could lose stories to our archrival.” Knightly spoke softly, but firmly. The controlled force of his words struck her more than if he had yelled, or hollered, or hit.

  “Do not let it happen again.”

  The London Residence of the Duke and Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon

  A few hours later, the Writing Girls had all gathered in Sophie’s private sitting room, lounging on sofas and settees, gossiping, perusing the latest issue of the ladies’ magazine La Belle Assemblée, and drinking tea.

  “I wanted to weep, Sophie, and you know how I never cry,” Julianna explained. She was sitting on a plush pink upholstered settee, enjoying tea and ginger biscuits but otherwise feeling sorry for herself.

  “It was not good,” Eliza confirmed and Annabelle looked up from her magazine and shook her head in agreement. There was no denying that today’s meeting had been quite discomforting.

  If she could go back to that night at Drury Lane, would she do anything differently? Julianna could still rem
ember the shiver of anticipated triumph when she saw Roxbury backstage in that utterly compromising position. Who would have guessed it’d come to this—a battle between papers, with her integrity as a columnist having taken a hit?

  “You did not actually shed a tear, though, did you?” Sophie asked from where she was lounging on pillows on the floor—so very unduchesslike.

  “Absolutely not,” Julianna said proudly. To reward herself, she ate another biscuit.

  “Well, that is something,” Sophie said, sipping her tea.

  “Do you think Roxbury had anything to do with it?” Annabelle wondered innocently.

  “Yes,” Julianna conceded. “I cannot believe Jocelyn would go to The Times with this! We are acquainted! It must have been Roxbury’s idea.”

  Given her position, Julianna occasionally—and discretely—socialized with the demimonde. She and Jocelyn had often laughed and conversed together at soirees and salons.

  “She’s an actress, courting admirers,” Sophie reasoned. “She probably has her reasons.”

  “Being angry with her won’t help you,” Annabelle said wisely. Funny that wisdom was not at all comforting.

  “But if I am not angry . . . Oh, nothing.” Julianna changed her mind about what she was going to say and took a sip of hot tea instead.

  “Oh nothing?” Sophie queried with a lift of her eyebrow.

  “Now that sounds interesting,” Eliza said with a mischievous smile. “It’s definitely not nothing.”

  “I mentioned that Roxbury kissed me, did I not?”

  “Ah, finally, the details! How was it?” Sophie asked, eagerly leaning forward.

  “It was fine,” Julianna replied and Eliza snorted with laughter. “But that’s not the point. At a ball the other night, we waltzed together. He insisted.”

  “How romantic,” Annabelle said, and Julianna was not sure if she was being sarcastic or not, because really, it could go either way.

  “And now you can’t stop thinking about him, etcetera, etcetera,” Eliza supplied.

  “And when you’re around him your thoughts are all muddled and your heart pounds,” Sophie added.

  “And he haunts your dreams at night,” Annabelle added wistfully.

  They had it exactly right. Unfortunately. Day or night, Roxbury was somehow, in some way on her mind. Even when he was not around, he vexed her.

  “How can this be happening to me? With him?” Julianna asked. “And in the name of anything holy, how do I get this devilish man out of my thoughts?”

  “Distraction,” Annabelle said confidently. There was a reason she was a professional advice-giver.

  “Oh, that’s smart,” Eliza remarked, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

  “It is, except then I think about the Man About Town, which makes me think about Knightly, who is angry with me. Which reminds me that I must discover something spectacular to print . . . before the Man About Town does so. I despise him,” Julianna said, and she allowed a sigh and then helped herself to another ginger biscuit.

  “You have the seven sisters. They must know of something scandalous. Someone in London must be up to trouble,” Sophie said.

  “I have the seven sisters, but he has his own vast network of informants, developed and cultivated over forty years. And he takes callers at St. Bride’s. I ought to take callers.”

  “If only someone would elope,” Annabelle said wishfully.

  “Or be caught in a compromising position,” Sophie added with a giggle.

  “Or the Man About Town might be discovered,” Eliza added suggestively.

  “Do you know what rankles the most?” Julianna carried on. “Because the Man About Town is a man, he can go places that I cannot. Anyone can bribe a housemaid but he can go to Gentleman Jack’s, or Harry Angelo’s or White’s.”

  “Who says you can’t?” Eliza asked, with the lift of one brow. Roxbury did that, Julianna thought, much to her annoyance. But Eliza might be on to something. She was usually the one with the daring schemes. Julianna suspected this would be no exception.

  “My dear Eliza, what are you suggesting?” Annabelle asked, with her blond curls bobbing as she tilted her head curiously.

  “Dressing as a man, of course,” Eliza answered as if it were obvious.

  “Oooh!” Annabelle exclaimed, her blue eyes widening with wonder.

  “Oh yes, let’s!” Sophie cried happily. “We have plenty of gentlemen’s attire here! Brandon’s old things might work for you.”

  “Brandon’s attire when he was my size will be woefully out of date,” Julianna pointed out.

  “We’ll find something,” Sophie said brightly.

  As soon as she began to ponder the possibilities of going out disguised as a man, Julianna’s heart pounded excitedly. Think of all the places she could go, like gaming hells and Harry Angelo’s (well, perhaps not, as she had no experience fencing)! But she could certainly go to White’s to lounge around and drink.

  She could browse the infamous wager book. She could spy on high-stakes card games and eavesdrop on great matters of state. All she had to do was don a pair of breeches, stuff her hair under a cap, and find a chair in a dark corner from where she could watch all the action unfold before her, like a play at the theater.

  Was it sheer madness? The risk of discovery was great. She would be utterly ruined if she were uncovered. High on the list of things that were just not done was dressing as the opposite sex and infiltrating a man’s haven. For all she knew, it was a hanging offense. But Julianna had come too far in life, propelled by her own wits and daring, to care what was or was not done.

  Within an hour Julianna was dressed as a man. The first thing she noticed was that she had very long, very shapely legs. Boots were much more comfortable than slippers. And she could move in this attire.

  Her lips curved into a smile.

  They had done their best to make her chest appear flat. A dark green waistcoat helped, as did a dark gray coat. Her auburn hair was taken out of its elaborate arrangement of pins and pulled back into a short queue and stuffed unceremoniously under a wool felt cap.

  Brandon’s valet, Jennings, had been enlisted to tie her cravat after neither Annabelle, Sophie, nor Eliza was able to do an even passably acceptable knot. The old man frowned deeply upon seeing her; he clearly did not approve, but dared not refuse the look from his duchess.

  It was very clear that the duke would hear of this later, but that was not to be dwelt upon at present.

  Julianna’s smile broadened. Only an hour ago, she had been a properly dressed lady taking tea. And now she was an intrepid reporter, disguised as a man with all of London open to her now.

  One hour after that . . .

  Chapter 12

  White’s Gentlemen’s Club

  St. James’s Street, London

  “I shall be penniless before long,” Roxbury mused to Brandon. “I will miss this place.” He spent an inordinate amount of time here—in the mornings he paid social calls, afternoons were passed leisurely at the club, evenings were idled away at parties, and nights were devoted to women. Or so it used to be.

  “Fortunately you have wealthy friends who are members,” Brandon remarked and returned to reading his newspaper.

  Roxbury appreciated the show of friendship. But his smile faded as he thought that he did not want to be dependent on Brandon for basic life necessities, like club membership and brandy. His mouth deepened into a frown as he thought about how he was, at the end of the day, reliant upon his father’s largesse. It was just how things were done with sons in the ton, but it nagged to discover one was not as free as one had previously assumed.

  That ultimatum . . .

  Lately, Roxbury was leaning toward marriage for a reason he would never dare admit aloud: he was lonely. Near complete social ostracism would do that to anyone. He ached for the company and the touch of a woman. He missed card games, and joyfully, drunken camaraderie amongst him and his peers—wealthy, powerful men (or the sons of su
ch).

  And no, he did not mean that as the Lady of Distinction would take it.

  Roxbury had even sent a letter to one of his favored lovers. It had been returned unopened. So if Roxbury wanted a woman, and if he wanted his fortune, it would have to be Lady Hortensia Reeves. Bless her heart, he just couldn’t do it.

  And his other option of poverty? Equally detestable, but attractive only because of the defiance and independence required.

  He was down to just over a fortnight. Still undecided. Only one thing to do, he reckoned, and that was to have a drink and see what happened.

  “What are you reading?” Roxbury asked. He did not want to be left alone with his thoughts. They depressed him.

  “The Times.”

  “I hope your wife doesn’t hear about that,” Roxbury said.

  Brandon replied, “Me, too.”

  “Is there anything about me?”

  “Not today. I should think you’d be happy with your two mentions earlier in the week.”

  “Ah, yes. The ones that had me consorting with women for a change.”

  “A particular woman,” Brandon said pointedly. Roxbury knew that Lady Somerset was the bosom friend of Brandon’s wife. Which side would the duke take?

  “It was quite sporting for Jocelyn to chat with the Man About Town,” Roxbury said, preferring to discuss that column.

  “And the other one . . .” Brandon suggested.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” Roxbury answered, suddenly deeply interested in a scratch on the table.

  “Being a man, I take no pleasure in listening about your heartsick feelings or romantic intrigues, so if you don’t care to talk about it I won’t make you,” Brandon remarked.

  “You should know that being a man, I have no interest in discussing them,” Roxbury said. He took a sip of his brandy. “I’m convinced that Lady Somerset is the devil incarnate.”

  “Because she is immune to your rakish charms?”

  “No,” Roxbury scoffed, even though that was exactly it. She showed no sign of being affected by his kiss. Not one letter, nor a suggestive, well-placed rumor reached him informing that she would welcome his advances. Her glances in his direction at balls were either nonexistent or lethal.