by Maya Rodale
“It’s quite warm out today,” Julianna remarked.
“Indeed,” Roxbury agreed.
“My garments are rather confining,” she stated.
“Then I suggest you remove them,” he replied evenly.
“Honestly, my Lord Scandalous! Shocking!” she exclaimed, feigning prudery and propriety.
And with that, like a proper young miss who had been upset by an offense to decency, Julianna fainted into Roxbury’s arms.
He dropped the reins to catch her. The horses stopped trotting, and wandered to the edge of the path to graze on the grass. Carriages swerved around them, drivers hollered, horses whinnied.
And people gawked at the sight of Lady Julianna in the arms of her husband. Perhaps it was a love match after all . . .
Lord Scandalous held his lady, and she indulged in the sensation of a man’s arms around her, supporting and protecting her. She’d forgotten about this. But then again, it hadn’t quite been like this before. This was something spectacular.
Roxbury gazed at her warmly. His smile was for her, and her alone.
When had things changed that he smiled at her like that—genuinely, warmly, adoringly—and that she liked it? In fact, she probably had a similarly gushing expression as well.
What had happened? Had they fallen in l—? No, that was ridiculous. She just didn’t loathe him anymore, that was all. Any woman would enjoy being held by him; in fact, many had.
Most of all, though, Julianna ached for him to kiss her deeply and passionately, right here and now. Lady Stewart-Wortly had nothing to do with it.
“This is quite romantic, darling,” Roxbury said softly.
“No one has ever called me darling before. I like it.”
“My darling Lady Scandalous,” he murmured. “Let’s go home.”
Was this marriage a love match or was it a sham? That was the subject hotly debated in a carriage comprising the Man About Town and his companions. They had joined the throngs along Rotten Row, and it became more crowded by the minute as word spread that the scandalous couple of the moment was out and about.
Generally, he was able to maintain a certain detachment from his subjects. But this story, with its twists and turns, had the Man About Town just as captivated as the rest of London.
“But what does Lord Roxbury stand to gain by a marriage to a widow who was, by all accounts, not very wealthy?” Lady Gilbert asked.
“Especially when he is decidedly not the marrying kind,” Lady Walmsly added, and Lady Gilbert blushed and murmured her agreement.
Usually, the Man About Town knew these things and it burned that he did not.
“To look at them, though, they seem very much in love,” Lord Walpole pointed out. He held up his monocle to the approaching spectacle. They all turned and peered quite blatantly as their carriage slowed to pass Lord and Lady Roxbury’s.
Lord Roxbury said something to make Lady Roxbury laugh rather loudly.
“It must be love,” Lord Walpole said confidently and Lord Brookes rolled his eyes.
“But what is so humorous about a marriage of convenience?” Lord Brookes asked.
What really concerned the Man About Town about this whole Lord and Lady Roxbury business was that it concerned his number one suspect for his potential rival, the Lady of Distinction.
The column was undoubtedly written by someone else lately—someone with a heavy hand who clearly took no joy in the subject matter. The switch occurred at approximately the same time as the lady’s marriage. She hadn’t been sending out any messages to The Weekly offices, either (he followed).
In fact, she sat at home and entertained a few callers and Lord only knew what Lord and Lady Roxbury got up to when those terrible curtains of theirs were occasionally drawn tightly shut.
Too many questions. Not enough answers.
Again, his thoughts returned to retiring. But not tonight . . .
Chapter 40
Later that evening, just after midnight
Roxbury had been enjoying all sorts of wanton, shameless, and very naked fantasies about his wife when he heard the noise. In fact, he’d been considering getting out of bed and going to her bedchamber to enact said wanton, shameless, and very naked fantasies. It was wrong that she lay in her bed, alone, and that he lay in his bed, alone.
But that unusual sound made him pause, and after a few seconds he was able to place it as the sound of someone stepping on the creaky stair. It was not the sound of a servant, who would be using the backstairs anyway. It was too clumsy, too hesitant. It also sounded like someone sneaking up the stairs—or down and out.
Oh, that woman was not going to leave him now! Not after everything they’d been through together, and not after today. He had held her and called her darling. She had smiled and said she liked it. It was all the more amazing, given that just a month or so earlier they’d been at each other’s throats like cat and dog.
His ambition had been to seduce her, but now it wasn’t just about bedding. It was about love, and a marriage, and not ruining everything. There were no words to describe the terror this inspired in him and, he was beginning to understand, in her, too. But terrifying as it may be, he was determined to stand his ground and stick it out. He would not tolerate her walking out on him now.
Across the hall . . .
He had not kissed her during the remainder of their carriage ride. Nor did he kiss her upon their return to the house. Not before supper, and definitely not during. He did not kiss her after supper, either, or while he took his brandy in the drawing room with her as she had her tea. Not even at her bedchamber door after they’d walked up the stairs together.
It was maddening and she was worked up into an intolerable state of frustrated longing. He was affectionate with her—touching her hand, or brushing wayward strands of hair away from her face, or pressing his hand against her lower back and hinting at going lower. Thus, she concluded that he did not find her repulsive. Given his reputed enormous sexual appetites . . .
Why had he not kissed her?
Julianna lay wide-awake and alone in her bed. The room was dark and the house was quiet. She was keenly aware that he was only just across the hall. Nothing but some walls and horrible wallpaper and carved oak doors separated them.
Roxbury had to know that she desired him now, yes? He saw her shiver with pleasure at his slightest touch. He had to know that she tossed and turned late in the night imagining him and her together. She knew what to expect and she had an idea what it would be like. Julianna also knew that their coupling would defy all expectations and be unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
She kicked off some of the covers. It was rather warm in her bedchamber.
But did he feel the same as her? She suspected he did, but the uncertainty tormented her. Julianna could easily go knock on his door and ask, except that would be asking for all kinds of trouble.
Perhaps he would knock on her door?
Because she was wide-awake, and listening in the event that her husband should come to her room in the dead of the night to potentially consummate their marriage, she heard something very disturbing.
She heard a thud, like someone falling. It was surely nothing more than her imagination running away from her. When it occurred to her that something might have happened to Roxbury, she sat up in bed, about to go to him.
When she heard footsteps on the stairs, though, she paused. Her heart began to pound with fear and she lay back down and pulled the covers up high—after pulling out her pistol from the bedside table. Thank the lord she had disobeyed and sent Penny back to Bloomsbury Place to fetch it.
When she heard the sound of a heavy footstep on the creaky stair, she bit back a scream.
On the stairs . . .
The Man About Town existed in a league of his own because he did not merely wait for news and gossip to come to him—though he did accept his callers every week at St. Bride’s. No, he sought it out as well. Such were his thoughts as he climbed through th
e kitchen window of Lord Roxbury’s townhouse and proceeded up the stairs. This was daring, dangerous, and illegal—but it was also glorious, and what made him the best.
He had a hunch about this marriage—as did most of the ton—that it was an absolute sham. Unlike most of the ton, he—the renowned Man About Town—was going to discover if so. If it were the love match the couple tried to pass it off as, they would surely be found in bed together.
If not . . . well, he’d find out in just a second.
The stair creaked under his boot and he swore under his breath.
He winced and kept going because of another rumor he longed to prove once and for all: that Lady Somerset—Lady Roxbury now—was the Lady of Distinction that wrote “Fashionable Intelligence.” Of all the gossips in London, she was the one that kept him up at night. If he could confirm and expose her identity—he’d be the greatest Man About Town that ever was or would be.
How he would confirm that, he knew not. His best hope was to find drafts of the column among her papers, which he intended to search, if given the opportunity.
At the top of the stairs, he saw two doors. Selecting one at random, the Man About Town’s hand closed over the knob and slowly twisted it and pushed the door open. The curtains had been left open and he could see, just barely, by the light of the moon.
There was a bed, with someone in it—a woman, he saw, owing to the long, dark hair spread across the pillow. But was it Lady Roxbury or a paramour?
Pulse racing, he dared to go closer. She was asleep, after all.
Chapter 41
She was not asleep. Julianna’s eyes were wide open, watching the door open slowly. She could barely see by the moonlight and slow burning embers in the grate, but she saw enough. She saw the large, shadowy form of a man enter her bedchamber.
He moved toward her bed. Her heart was pounding so hard that she felt it up in her throat, which made it impossible to scream, which increased her panic tenfold.
Was it an intruder? Or her husband? And if it wasn’t Roxbury but some nefarious jackanapes, where the devil was her blasted husband? How could he leave her alone for this? There was an intruder in her bedroom, for Lord’s sake! In Mayfair!
She could wait until he came closer, when she could surprise him with the pistol in her hand. Thank goodness for her disobedience in sending Penny back to 24 Bloomsbury Place to collect it.
She held it in her sweaty palms, waiting for the right moment.
Where the hell was Roxbury? He should be here!
Of course, if her husband were here, she wouldn’t have to lie in bed with a pistol in her clammy hand. Wasn’t having a husband to protect one in instances like this one of the benefits of marriage? If she wanted to deal with intruders all by her lonesome, she could have just stayed at Bloomsbury Place. Honestly, as soon as she dealt with this intruder, she was going to give her husband a piece of her mind.
But, oh, for the love of God, the man was creeping closer and closer, gingerly taking steps in the moonlight, all in the direction of her bed!
Waiting to be rescued was no longer an option.
Julianna sat up quickly, propelled by an intense mixture of rage and terror.
“Don’t come closer,” she said coldly. “Or I will shoot.” The intruder stopped. She hoped he did not see how her hands were shaking.
He didn’t take another step. In fact, the next thing she knew, the intruder hit the ground with a thud. Had she fired? Or had she scared him to death?
There was little light, other than that from the moon and the last of the fire in the grate. Still, she saw that Roxbury had tackled him to the oh-so-pink carpet. Julianna could see little, but she heard the thuds, cracks, grunts, and smacks of fists against skin and bone.
Julianna kept her pistol poised, ready to shoot, but aware that she had a single shot, and that she might hit the wrong man.
She winced at the sound of a particularly forceful blow. This could not continue. With the pistol pointed at the ceiling, she pulled the trigger.
The scuffle stopped, the intruder ran, and Roxbury followed.
Chapter 42
After what seemed like an eternity, Roxbury returned to her room. His shirt clung tightly to his torso, and she could discern a sheen of sweat on his muscled chest. Even in the moonlight she could see that his fists were bruised and raw. He had not escaped unscathed—there was a small cut on his cheek and one of his eyes would surely have a bruise in the morning. She was sure the intruder suffered far worse, though she felt no sympathy for him.
Roxbury sat beside her on the bed. When she’d been imagining this moment, it was without the drama of a midnight burglary, or without his injuries. Her heart was supposed to have been pounding with desire, not fear. But nevertheless, she and her husband sat side by side on her bed—after he had just rescued her.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice sounding rough and out of breath.
“Don’t worry about me,” she whispered, pushing a lock of his hair off his forehead. “How are you?”
“Don’t worry about you?” Roxbury echoed. His shock that she would suggest this was heartwarming. “My god, woman, I almost killed a man for you—and not for lack of trying.” He flexed his hands, wincing as he did so. She could see they were swollen and bruised. Those hands, she thought, had fought for her. It was profoundly humbling.
Somerset had never fought for her. Somerset had never done a lot of things Roxbury did, as a matter of course. Like talk to her, or teach her things, or make her laugh rather than seethe in anger at being ignored. Or spend the night under the same roof, even if not the same bed.
This might just work after all. . . .
“It’s best that you did not kill him, for that would have made a dreadful mess,” she said. Meanwhile, her heart was pounding because she liked her husband. In fact, given his heroics this evening, her emotions were swiftly moving from like to love.
That was even scarier than the intruder. Her heart beat quickly and heavily accordingly.
“At least your sense of humor has survived intact,” he remarked, and she saw a faint grin. “And the rest of you?”
“I was terrified,” she told him. “Thank goodness for my pistol. Penny had gone back to Bloomsbury Place for it.”
“I was afraid of that, just in case I made an uninvited midnight visit to your bedchamber,” he confessed. Ah, so he had been thinking of her . . . and lovemaking . . . and he thought she would not welcome his advances. So that was why he never made any. And here she had been wondering . . .
All of a sudden, it made sense to her. Even better, the truth—as she understood it—was lovely. If Roxbury wanted her, but was not sure of her feelings. All she needed to do was let them be known. And then, they might be married in truth.
Was she ready for that? Was he? Was now the moment? She did not know.
“I’m glad you were here,” she said softly, because that she was certain of and she wanted him to know it. “Thank you.”
“Of course I was there, Julianna,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be there?”
“Somerset wasn’t always there,” she replied. In her first marriage, she would have had to deal with an intruder all by herself because Somerset would have been out at a club or a gaming hell or drunk and unconscious in the corridor.
“I’m not him,” Roxbury said firmly. “I’m not the same man. At all.”
“I know . . .” she replied. She was discovering all the ways in which Roxbury was different. Good ways, too. He was not what she had feared.
“And you are not the same girl that you were when you married him,” he added.
“I know,” she said, even though she didn’t really. She wasn’t seventeen anymore. In the ways of the world, she was far more intelligent. When it came to men, and love, however, she felt she didn’t know much more than she did on the hot summer night she had decided to run away with Somerset.
She knew the dark side. But perhaps with Roxbury things might be different, or
good, or happy. Perhaps they might live happily ever after, after all.
Such were her thoughts when Roxbury whispered her name.
When she turned to face him, he gently cupped her cheeks in his palms.
This was the moment he was going to kiss her; she just knew it. And because she knew it, Julianna could savor it. So she drank in his gorgeous face—the slanting cheekbones and the almond-shaped eyes that made women swoon. His mouth had kissed hundreds but her lips would be the last—she just knew that, too.
Julianna smiled so that he would know she wanted him. And then, finally, Roxbury lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss that swept away all memories of other kisses.
His lips were so light upon hers, and that drove her wild, right from the start. They’d waited so long for this moment—both of them standing on the verge of falling utterly in love—and he was feathering the lightest, softest kisses upon her mouth. She parted her lips, desperate for more—already!
But though it was just a few seconds from that first contact of his mouth to hers, it was only the latest move in a seduction that had started weeks ago, in Knightly’s office when Roxbury rakishly and brazenly looked her over and a hot, pink flush swept across her skin.
And so she suffered the impatience of weeks of slow, mounting pressure and the intense longing for a man’s heated, passionate touch that had been building in her for years.
Gently, he held her—as if she would dash off, or try to escape. She grasped his shirt, damp with his sweat, and tugged it over his head and tossed it on the floor.
His eyes widened in surprise; she grinned.
Roxbury’s mouth came crashing down on hers for the passionate, overheated, frustrated, fervent kiss she’d been waiting for. His tongue teased and tasted and tangled with hers. She nibbled gently on his lower lip. There were gasps, and there were groans of pleasure, and relief.
