by Maya Rodale
Another report had her buying a new gown at Madame Auteuil’s—as if she had the occasion and the money for such a purchase! The reader suggested the dress was supposed to tempt Roxbury into proposing.
It was all lies, speculation, and complete hogwash. She’d once delighted in just that, but now her heart wasn’t in it.
“Come in, Julianna,” Knightly called out and she entered his office and stood before his desk as he finished editing another writer’s article. The rain lashed against the windows. A fire dwindled in the grate. She shivered, and not necessarily from the cold.
Knightly tucked his pencil behind his ear and focused those vivid blue eyes upon her. Annabelle frequently waxed poetic about his eyes. He leaned back in his chair.
“As you know, Julianna, I am fond of saying—”
“Scandal equals sales. I know,” she said, and she marveled at how quiet her voice had become. She was not a tired little mouse, but oh, how she felt like one!
“This equation has always been a reliable one. I’ve built my empire upon it.” Knightly’s voice was low and quiet. He didn’t need to speak loudly to assert his authority.
“The Writing Girls owe their livelihoods to it,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, pushing his fingers through his hair thoughtfully. “However, for the first time, the equation has failed.”
“Whatever do you mean?” She blinked a few times, perplexed.
“I’m going to read to you from the Man About Town’s column,” Knightly said, looking her in the eye. Her heart began to sink slowly.
“Oh, that’s fine. I’ve already read it,” she said. Read it a dozen times at least, actually. Really, she could not endure it another time.
“No, listen,” he insisted, and then he picked up The London Times and read the following aloud:
“News from the Man About Town
Every so often a scandal comes along that is so shocking, so delicious, so wildly unexpected that this Man About Town can hardly contain my glee long enough to write.
Glee? Glee! Her life as she knew it was crashing down all around her, and he found it amusing? Not for the first time did she vow to find the Man About Town and expose and ruin him.
Knightly continued reading:
“I hear you all are desperate to know the latest, greatest scandal. Lord R—, whose romantic tastes have been in question of late, has gloriously, publicly, spectacularly given London an answer. The facts: Lord R—’s carriage parked outside of the home of Lady S—. All night. Dear readers, there is more! He sang bawdy ballads, ‘Country John,’ in particular. She fired a shot right at the family . . . crest on the carriage (you thought I was going to say jewels, did you not?). Lady S—, as we all know, is the widow of the late Lord S—who set the bar high on horribly impolite behavior, so this little shenanigan of R—’s is nothing to her, we presume.”
Julianna bit her lip to keep from protesting. If it wasn’t one scandalous man in her life, it was another—and then another reporting on it all! This time, though, there was so much more on the line. And they thought it was nothing to her.
In the back of her mind was the nagging thought that she might deserve this, for hadn’t she composed such gossip and lies herself? Hadn’t she also taken glee in the downfall of others because she knew it was going to bring in large suppression fees or sell even more newspapers?
She fought to keep one lone rebellious tear in its place. She would not cry in front of Knightly. Not here, not now. He didn’t seem to notice. He kept reading:
“But why? Ah, that is the question. I, for one, wonder about those rumors that have been swirling and circulating around this town for some time now. Is Lady S—The London Weekly’s Lady of Distinction?”
The Man About Town was good; she had to give him that. Except it was so very bad for her. It was beyond merely bad, and completely disastrous, utterly damaging, and absolutely devastating.
“In contrast, this is what you have reported on the most talked about topic in London,” Knightly said, setting down The London Times and picking up an issue of The Weekly.
Her knees began to wobble; here she thought the saying “quaking in one’s boots” was just a phrase. Unfortunately this was the moment she discovered the truth of it.
Knightly read her words—so few of them on the most popular subject of the moment.
“Given Lord R—’s recently discovered proclivities, first reported in these pages, I find it hard to believe that he spent the night at the home of a famously chaste widow, or that if he did, anything untoward occurred—other than his bellowing and warbling. Perhaps he was serenading some of her handsome footmen?
In other news . . .”
Knightly looked up at her, and his gaze was positively glacial.
“I won’t even begin to review the Man About Town’s other columns from this week,” Knightly said. Thank God, she thought. Each one was worse than the last.
“I understand, Mr. Knightly. I will drag my own name through the mud for the benefit of this paper,” she said. The hint was taken. Eliza had been correct, and Julianna ought to have listened to her. Her attempts at avoiding the issue weren’t doing anyone any favors. It had been an optimistic strategy.
“Julianna . . .”
“It’s just that I fought for this name I’m stuck with to mean something other than . . .” She managed to bite back the rest of the words she ached to say: she gave a man her heart, her body, and she took his name and accepted his protection. It was the worst bargain of her life.
Knightly looked uncomfortable at such a personal revelation. She couldn’t fault him for it. She decided not to attempt to complete her sentence on the matter.
He cleared his throat and began again. “Julianna—”
“Very well. I’ll write more about this scandal. Lord knows that nothing else is happening,” she said with a little laugh that was obviously forced. Knightly even winced.
“But when something else does happen, will you be there to report it?” he questioned. His eyes were so blue, and it was disconcerting when he leveled a stare and awaited a good, honest answer.
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, and her voice sounded high and hollow to her ears. She knew, just knew, where this was going.
“Your position requires you to be a fixture at ton parties. If your reputation is such that you are not invited . . .”
Her heart began to pound so hard she feared Knightly would hear it. Under her gloves, her palms were damp and clammy.
Oh please, don’t let this be happening to her! Not now!
“This will all blow over in no time at all,” she said breezily. “Why, anything more exciting could happen tomorrow and everyone will forget this rubbish between Roxbury and myself!”
“And if it doesn’t?” Knightly asked, skeptically lifting one brow. Her heart pounded harder, if such a thing was possible.
“I have my network of informants and—” she started, but her voice began to falter. And then, she just gave up.
“Lady Somerset, I don’t have a family. I don’t have a wife or a mistress. I don’t have anything that I give a damn about in this world, other than the success of The London Weekly.”
Once upon a time, she’d brazenly stormed into his office and forged her own fate. It felt like a lifetime ago—a lifetime that was slowly, achingly coming to an end.
Chapter 28
Roxbury had no intentions of proposing, but he could not get the thought out of his mind. He thought about the money and he thought about being the knight in shining armor that rescued the damsel in distress. But then he thought of Edward’s last words to him: “A man’s life is his own” and he thought of complying with his father’s wishes. God, did it rankle to do so.
As he was brooding over this and gazing out the window of his carriage on his way home, he spotted her.
“Speak of the devil,” he murmured to himself. The madwoman was walking quickly—stomping and storming one might say—and roughly dodging thr
ough slow-moving pedestrians in her path. All of this in the pouring rain.
Roxbury opened the window and shouted her name.
“Lady Somerset!”
She looked up, around, and kept walking. He hollered her name again as raindrops lashed against his face. She was insane to be out in this weather with nothing more than a bonnet and a spencer as protection.
“Lady Somerset!”
He called her name again, and his carriage slowed to her pace, holding up traffic behind him.
“Get in the carriage,” he told her, ever the gentleman.
“Go to hell.” She snarled the words with a viciousness that surprised him. It might have even wounded him, slightly, but now was not the time to dwell on it. With the window open while he argued with her, rain was getting in the carriage.
“I was already planning on it. Get in the carriage.”
“No.” It was a heartrending sound.
“Are you mad? It’s pouring rain, you are soaked, and I know you are miles away from your home.”
“I’d rather walk to France and back than spend five minutes in your presence,” she sputtered and then she furiously pushed a soaked strand of hair out of her face.
Roxbury declined to point out the impossibility of walking to France from England. For a moment, he was thoughtful, and then he saw his error. He’d been trying to use logic and reason with a woman. He grinned; she glared and stormed away.
Roxbury shouted to his driver to halt the carriage—ignoring the shouts and protests of those traveling behind them. Then he opened the door and stepped into the storm. Julianna quickened her pace; he did as well.
At the first convenient moment, which was rather soon, he scooped up Lady Julianna Somerset in his arms, as if she were a princess.
“What are you doing? Put me down!” she protested. How shocking.
“I’m saving you, my lady,” he replied gallantly.
“Help! Somebody help me!” she cried. He felt sorry for her, truly. But he was acting for his own good. Perhaps even both their good.
“Lover’s quarrel,” he explained to a few mildly curious onlookers, and this answer seemed to placate them, which was slightly disturbing and further evidence that she should not be walking the streets of London alone. What possessed her to in the first place, he knew not. He got the sense something quite awful had just occurred.
Lady Somerset did not struggle as much as he’d expected, which he interpreted to mean that she really did want a ride in a warm, covered carriage but her pride would not permit her to accept the offer.
Once they were safely ensconced in the carriage Lady Somerset looked at him furiously, and then she removed her bonnet and pushed her wet locks away from her face.
“Are those raindrops or tears upon your cheeks, my fair lady?” he asked. The look she gave him made his insides cold.
“The raindrops are, obviously, from the rain I was recently walking in before I was kidnapped against my will, you wretched, horrible jackanapes. I was walking in the rain, rather than taking a hackney, because . . . because . . .” Lady Somerset couldn’t seem to manage the words. She held her fist to her mouth, almost as if she was biting back sobs or trying not to hyperventilate. But that could not be so of the strong and formidable Lady of Distinction.
“As for the tears, well,” she continued, once she found her voice again. “Let’s just say that everything is your damned fault, Roxbury. I hate you deeply and passionately right now and I am not your lady.”
“Brandy?” he offered.
She accepted the bottle and took a small, ladylike sip. She did not sputter and turn red as she did upon her first taste at White’s. The lady had been practicing, perhaps?
Roxbury reached down under the cushions and brought out a second bottle. He hadn’t quite gotten around to fixing the splintered wood from her bullet, but he did make sure the carriage was appropriately stocked with necessary supplies.
“I’d like to propose a toast,” he said grandly. “To ruining each other’s lives.”
“I did no such thing,” she said witheringly. “Not like you’ve destroyed mine.”
“Oh? Oh really, madam? I beg to differ.”
“Go on then, beg,” she retorted. The brandy must be taking effect, for the spark in her eyes and the flush in her cheeks were returning. There was nothing like brandy on a cold, wet day.
“I’ll be damned if I beg to you,” he replied. Even though she had something he could very much use. The marriage. The money. The ultimatum. He ruined her. He should offer. Or live and die a poor bachelor. He sipped his brandy and considered his options.
“Of course. How did I ruin your life, Roxbury? How did one little woman wreck the life of a wealthy English peer?” she asked.
“Do you really think I will confide in you? If I wanted all of London to know my business, I’d tell them myself rather than leave the message to be twisted by your malicious pen.”
Honestly, she was not to be trusted.
“Thanks to you and your stunt, I no longer possess that pen,” she cried.
“Get a new one,” he retorted.
“It’s a metaphor, you fool. I’ve lost my damned column thanks to you, you evil, demented blockhead!”
“Lost it? How negligent. When did you see it last?” he asked breezily, before the implications of what she said fully dawned on him. Before he realized that she was no longer the Lady of Distinction. That she wasn’t a threat anymore, but just a woman in desperate straits.
That changed everything. Everything.
“Lost it? How negligent?” she cried in frustration. “Oooh!”
She raised her palm at him, open and ready to fly at his face. He caught her by the wrist and then gently let go.
“Am I to understand that you no longer write for The Weekly?” he questioned.
“That is correct, you vile, despicable bounder. I no longer write for it, because I am no longer invited anywhere, all because some demented drunken idiot thought it would be great fun to sing revolting songs outside my window.”
She was furious, but he was intrigued. A devilishly genius idea was taking shape in his head.
Let go? Lady Somerset let go from The Weekly? If there was one thing more scandalous than a woman writing publicly, it was a writing woman, publicly disgraced.
And if he were to marry her . . .
If he were to take as his bride a pistol-slinging widow who was plagued with the most outrageous rumors about her—that she wrote for a newspaper, that she was relieved of duties from said paper, that she’d been having a secret affair with him and Lord only knew who else—it would satisfy the terms of the ultimatum. But by God, would it rankle the earl to have to accept her and that would satisfy Roxbury.
They would marry for the sake of her reputation, and because she would certainly need funds. In fact, unless she had some dark secrets, she had no fortune and no prospects. Thanks to their marriage, he’d have funds to support them both.
Roxbury imagined the look on his father’s face as he brought home one of the most scandalous, brazen, and brash women this town had ever seen—as his future countess.
In his mind, that was what made it acceptable for Roxbury to marry her.
In that moment, he experienced a swell of affection for her and could have kissed her.
“If you’re trying to think of something to say, I suggest beginning with an apology,” Lady Somerset said. Roxbury smiled at her, seeing her differently now. He needed her, and it was essential she understand she needed him, too.
“I’m sorry that all of London thinks you are a trollop because of where my carriage parked one evening,” he said, relishing the opportunity to give an apology like the one she had written for him.
“And I’m sorry that you were ever born,” she replied, not at all taking kindly to the taste of her own medicine.
“And you are also sorry that London thinks I like to bed men because of what you wrote. But you’re not sorry you wrote it,” he sa
id pointedly.
“If I had my column . . .” she said threateningly.
“But you do not. I cannot tell you how relieved I am.” Honestly, he really was. It was an entirely different experience simply being near her now. He needn’t be on guard as much. He needn’t fear that every wink, word, grin, or glance would end up cast in a salacious and unflattering light for the whole of London to read.
“Speak for yourself,” she muttered. They fell silent. The rain beat down on the carriage.
If they were to marry . . .
Still, a marriage wasn’t something he wanted. But he could set aside his feelings of doom long enough to see that it would solve some very pressing problems.
But would she see that? How on earth could he make her when it would be useless to employ logic and when her pride had to be considered? It was a daunting task.
He thought of Edward again. “A man’s life is his own.” And in this moment, Roxbury understood why Edward wouldn’t settle down, either. Because it was a damn tricky thing to live one’s own life when it all depended upon the whim and the word of a woman.
Second thoughts began to creep in, but he made a pointed effort to ignore them.
Roxbury took a deep breath and casually asked, “Have I mentioned that you ruined my life?”
“Perhaps once or twice, fleetingly. You certainly didn’t harp on and on and on and on about it in some vague, melodramatic fashion,” she replied, and he grinned. Her sarcasm was sharply accurate. He had been saying that line with an unnecessary frequency.
That was the thing with Lady Somerset—she would never sugarcoat a thing, or agree with him for the sake of it. He was used to the opposite with women—they either wanted to be his lovers or wished to stay, thus he’d heard nothing but agreement. No one ever challenged him.
“What you suggested in your column regarding my preferences of bedding partners has made it impossible for me to find a wife,” he began.
“You’re welcome. Rakes like you go to great lengths to avoid matrimony and I have solved all your problems,” she said.
