by Maya Rodale
“I went to St. Bride’s to see the Man About Town, of course,” she answered.
“With that bruise on your cheek. Fantastic,” he remarked dryly. As if he were one to talk, with his own violent bruise on his cheek and around his eye. His knuckles had sustained some significant damage as well . . . just like the hands of the Man About Town.
“It’s fading. The light was dim. I had my veil and cloak,” she answered with a shrug.
“It’s a monstrosity,” Roxbury said flatly, and not entirely incorrectly, though it had improved remarkably in the past few days. “Now all of London will think that I beat you.”
“It’s perfectly legal,” she replied.
“So is kicking dogs, but that doesn’t mean a gentleman does it,” Roxbury retorted.
“No one will think you beat me,” she repeated. He seemed to mutter something to the effect of “No one would blame me if I did,” but in oddly charitable spirits, she declined to confirm it.
Like her bruise, her mood had also improved. Something like infatuation had done wonders, as had her very successful mission this afternoon. And after last night . . . the tension she held in her limbs was just plain gone.
For once he was the one in the foul mood. “What has you in such a temper, anyway?” she asked.
“Coming home to find my wife is missing,” Roxbury answered. My wife. He said it again and still it made her shiver—but no longer with complete dread. In fact, she shivered with something like pleasure. Wife. Husband.
“I left a note,” she said, removing her gloves now and handing those to Pembleton as well.
“Yes, the one that says ‘Roxbury, I’ve gone out and will return shortly.’ ”
“The very one,” she replied, entering the drawing room and looking at the empty salver on the mantel. She had completely lied this afternoon. They hadn’t received an invitation from anyone to anywhere.
“Can you see how it is not remotely informative?” Roxbury queried.
“At least I left a note. You did not. Where have you been all day?” She whirled around to face him.
“Not skulking around Fleet Street. I went to Gentleman Jack’s. To White’s,” he replied. She eyed him suspiciously. He returned her gaze evenly. Still, she doubted him. Why did he have to leave so secretively?
“You went to places where I can’t get to you. If you’re trying to get away from me, why are you so upset that I’ve gone out?”
“Upset? Upset?”
“Storming around and bellowing,” she replied, as she returned to the foyer and proceeded up the stairs. He stormed and bellowed after her.
“I was concerned for your safety,” he said.
“I am very safe. And I am tremendously happy because I have discovered something about the Man About Town, which leads me closer to discovering him. If there is one thing I wish for, it is to know who he really is,” she said. She glanced back and saw that he was following her up the stairs and into her bedchamber.
“Oh, what lovely flowers!” she exclaimed, as she noticed the bouquets of fragrant red and pink roses, along with some other hothouse flowers he couldn’t name, on the bedside table. “Is this what kept you busy all day?” she asked.
Roxbury gave her a look that said, Silly woman, don’t you know anything about romance?
“Perhaps. I did go to the club. Drank one brandy. Spoke with Brandon before saying I couldn’t stay long because I had to return to the missus. Then he smugly said he’d been waiting years to hear me say that, and—”
“I missed you, too,” she replied. She was thrilled with having uncovered that clue about the Man About Town and she took no small measure of delight in the information she had given him. But Roxbury giving a damn about her whereabouts topped it all.
Once, she had left to visit her mother in the country for a week. Somerset had not seemed to notice or care. Things had changed in a strange and wonderful way.
Roxbury kissed her again and again . . . leaving no inch of her skin left untouched. That, of course, necessitated the removal of all her clothing. His were cast off as well. Together they tumbled onto the bed, and were lost for hours in an intoxicating haze of kisses and whispers, sighs and moans, cries of pleasure and murmurs of contentment.
Later, as dusk was falling and Julianna nestled against her husband, she thought that if the Man About Town could see them now, he’d definitely put his money on their marriage being a love match.
Chapter 45
After a good, strong cup of tea, Julianna turned to the Man About Town’s column in The Times. She read it aloud to Roxbury, who quietly sipped his coffee. Breakfast could wait. Gossip came first.
“Is the R— union a love match or a marriage of convenience? The couple was recently seen taking a drive along Rotten Row seeming very much in love and acknowledged by society matrons Lady S—W—and Lady R—. In fact, word has it that the scandalous couple will even be attending Lady F—’s soiree Thursday next.”
“What the devil is he talking about? Those old apes stuck their noses up at us,” Roxbury said grumpily.
“I know, darling. Which is exactly why I told the Man About Town that they had greeted us,” she said, delighted with her simple revenge.
“And Lady F—’s party?”
“I wish to go to Lady Feversham’s ball. She has no choice but to receive us now.”
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he grumbled.
“You already did, and look at you now,” she pointed out.
“Touché. Impressive social maneuvering, too, madam. Now keep reading.”
“But consider this: while it is not at all unusual for upper class couples to keep separate bedrooms, in the case of the R—s it is all the more notable given those rumors that plagued his Lordship about his preferences . . . Perhaps his stunning wife is not to his liking? Is it a love match? Or a sham marriage of convenience? London, place your wagers! Only time will tell on this one.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Julianna said immediately upon concluding her reading. She did not like the insinuations that her husband found her unattractive.
“No, you are not because I am going to,” Roxbury said darkly, probably still angry about those pesky rumors about his preferences.
“How could you deny me that satisfaction?” she asked.
“Very well, my dear wife, we shall seek and destroy the Man About Town together,” Roxbury agreed.
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” Julianna said sweetly, and her husband grinned.
“What did you discover about him on your visit yesterday?” he asked.
“His hands are those of a young man, which is significant considering that the column has been running for forty years. All this time I’ve been looking for an old man . . .”
It was idiotic of her. She generally trusted nothing unless it was verified, and here she just assumed that some old man filled his days and nights in gaming hells and following young girls and rakes at parties.
Instead, he was a young man.
“It might be a few men. Or women,” Roxbury pointed out.
“It’s been a mystery for forty years,” she marveled. That was one hell of a close-kept, long-held secret. “And we think we can unmask him, her or them.”
“Can you stand to read rubbish like that three mornings a week?” Roxbury asked, gesturing to the paper left open between them. It had been one scathing column after another ever since they married. It would continue that way until death did they part.
“You’re right. We must try,” she said firmly. It was decided, then. Together, she and her husband would seek and destroy their nemesis so that they might have a better chance at happily ever after.
A few days later
Julianna had begun by hiring decorators. It would just be for the drawing room, she decided. There was no significance in redecorating one very public room in the house—or so she told herself. And really, it had to be done.
“Who had d
one your decorating?” she asked her husband one afternoon. She found him in his study, one of two rooms in the house that wasn’t awful—the other was his bedroom. She’d been spending a lot of time there lately.
Roxbury scowled and set down his newspaper. She glanced, saw it was The London Weekly, and felt a pang of longing. He seemed to notice, too, by the way he shuffled the paper so she might not see the front page.
“We can thank Lydia Smythe for the drawing room and for giving the next few mistresses the idea to decorate a room with revenge in mind,” he answered.
“That is exactly what I thought,” Julianna said. “What did you do to irk them so?”
“It’s more like what I wouldn’t do, which was marry them,” Roxbury said pointedly.
“How lucky for me. Well, be warned that I’m taking my turn decorating this house now,” she informed him. It was her turn to put her stamp on this house . . . if it was going to be their house. Mostly, though, she could not tolerate living in such vile surroundings when there was no reason she had to.
“Oh dear God,” Roxbury muttered, which made her grin.
There was something deeply satisfying about clearing the remnants of her husband’s ex-lovers. The harvest gold damask wall coverings were stripped away. The red velvet furniture was taken out. Ronaldo, the decorator, visibly shuddered when he saw the drapes and the carpet and ordered them removed on the spot.
Anyone on the street had a perfect view into the Roxbury home. The Man About Town reported accordingly: Lord and Lady R— are redecorating. Love match?! Or the hobby of a bored and forgotten wife?
That’s Lord and Lady Scandalous to you, Julianna thought upon reading it.
Roxbury did his best to take the redecorating in stride. Usually when one of his lovers undertook such a task, it was the beginning of the end. Bright wallpaper and horrid curtains were their way of calling for his attention and spending his money after they had ordered enough dresses.
Thus, he was mighty nervous when he came home one afternoon to find his drawing room completely gutted. Don’t go, he thought—of Julianna, though, not the furniture.
But then the room was completed and it wasn’t the work of a scorned, irate woman in a desperate bid for attention. It was the work of a woman who planned on staying for a while. In short, it was not hideous. In fact, it was quite nice. Julianna had begun the creation of a home.
Julianna tackled the foyer next, and then he knew she was going to stay. After that, she began to renovate her own bedchamber—though she’d already been sleeping in his bed for days, and nights.
Meanwhile, he read the Man About Town’s column closely for clues. And he began to plan a trap. The Feversham party would be the perfect opportunity. While he wanted to have some information that would ensure silence from the Man About Town, Roxbury mostly wanted to give Julianna what she wished for most.
He also had a ring that he’d searched for all over London, not because of any scheme to seduce her, but because he wanted to give her a gift, a big, blazing expensive reminder that they belonged to each other and he wanted the world to know it.
Chapter 46
Madame Auteuil’s
Bond Street, London
“Everyone is talking about you, your husband, and your rumored appearance tonight,” Sophie informed Julianna.
They were in Madame Auteuil’s and Julianna was splurging on a gorgeous dress for her (hopefully) triumphant return to society. Lady Feversham had not invited her and Roxbury, but the Man About Town said she had, which was just as good, if not better, than a handwritten invitation on crisp vellum paper and closed with Lord Feversham’s seal.
“What is Lady Feversham saying?” Julianna asked. She had donned a blue velvet gown that was lovely, but not quite right for this evening.
“That she wanted to provide entertainment for her guests or that the invitations were composed before. It depends who is asking,” Sophie explained frankly. Julianna scowled. If only she still had her column! Then she wouldn’t have to suffer such indignities.
“And the love match rumors?” Julianna queried.
“It will all depend upon how the two of you act tonight,” Sophie said.
“Besotted, long gazes, etcetera,” Julianna said. A maid helped her out of the blue velvet and into a rose silk.
“Exactly,” Sophie said.
Frankly, with the way they had been lately, it would be more of a challenge to hide their besotted, longing gazes. Flirtatious banter had replaced their previous sparring—but it was all still thrilling. She adored his company these days, and nights, and there was no way she could hide it.
If the ton believed her marriage was a love match, they would be so much more forgiving. That would translate into invitations, restored reputations, and then her triumphant return to The London Weekly.
The redecorating was all well and good, as was conspiring and scheming about how to entrap the Man About Town. But more than anything she wanted to write.
She loved to feel the paper under her palm, and to fill up a page with her inky scrawl with stories of ladies and rakes and high society. She had even taken to writing editions of “Fashionable Intelligence” that went into the fire as soon as they were written. The desire to have her column back was no longer purely to support herself, or to feel useful, or to chronicle the happenings of the ton. Julianna wanted to write for the pure joy of putting pen to paper and stringing words together into a story.
“I’m sure you two will manage admirably,” Sophie said.
“At what?” Julianna asked, lost in her thoughts.
“Besotted, longing gazes, small gestures of affection, and generally acting like a couple in the first blush of romance.”
“Oh, that,” she said with a laugh. The maid finished buttoning the silk dress, and Julianna turned around to show Sophie.
“Oh Jules, that dress is lovely!” Sophie gushed.
“Are you sure it’s not too . . . much?” Julianna asked nervously. It was a dusky rose-colored satin gown, cut low and simply tailored. There was an overlay of pale tulle and some extremely delicate embroidery around the bodice. The sleeves were naught but wisps of tulle. The whole creation was like dew on a rose.
“Not for this occasion,” Sophie said firmly.
“It is lovely . . . I think Simon will like it,” Julianna said. She knew he would like taking it off; he tended to prefer her dresses on the floor rather than on her person.
“Oh, it’s Simon now?” Sophie asked with a smirk.
“Roxbury was too many syllables to say all the time,” Julianna said, offering an excuse other than intimacy for calling her husband by his given name.
“You are ridiculous!” Sophie exclaimed, her brown curls shaking with her exuberance. That was the thing about dear friends—one could not lie to them.
“You are falling for him, are you not?” Sophie persisted. That was the other thing about dear friends—they would not let you avoid the truth.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Julianna said evasively. She was, but she wasn’t ready to say it aloud. That would make it real and if she was the woman who fell for a rake, for a man, for her husband, then she was not the woman she thought she was. In her head, she was still Lady Somerset of The London Weekly.
In her heart, though, she was Lady Scandalous.
“Oh really? You’re not falling for him?” Sophie queried. “How many rooms of his house have you tastefully redecorated?”
“Seven,” she mumbled. It was the majority of the rooms in the house.
“And where do you sleep at night?” Sophie asked. That was another thing about dear friends—they felt no shame in asking deeply personal questions that no one else would dream of giving voice to.
“In his bedroom. But really, it’s just because of the renovations to my bedchamber, which—”
“Which concluded over a week ago,” Sophie said, cutting her off, which was just as well since Julianna had no reason to stay in Simon’s bed other than that she w
anted to be there.
“Admit it,” Sophie continued, with a broad grin. “You have fallen in love with your husband.”
Chapter 47
Lady Feversham’s Ball
Though Roxbury had left numerous parties with a woman on his arm more times than he could count, he could not recall ever arriving with one. That was new. So, too, was their reception: He and Julianna were treated to stares, sidelong glances, whispers, and benignly polite faces masking rabid curiosity.
He quickly whisked Julianna into a waltz. They could be watched and potentially squash some love match or marriage of convenience rumors—all without speaking to anyone. Perfect.
It was easy to ignore them all, and focus upon his lovely Julianna.
“You look especially beautiful tonight, my lady,” he said softly and she smiled, lovingly looking into his eyes. “Ah, you no longer declare that you are not my lady,” he couldn’t resist pointing out.
“I think that argument was retired when I signed the marriage certificate,” she murmured. He loved her mouth—luscious and mostly tart, though occasionally sweet.
Yes, she was a beauty. Her dress was very fine, and very flattering. Her auburn hair was done up in some sort of intricate coiffure with tendrils here and there. And then there was all that lovely, soft skin that he now knew so well.
She was beautiful now, all proud and dignified at a party. Later, he would be the lucky one to see how beautiful she was with her hair down and dress discarded on the floor. His breath hitched just thinking about it.
Unlike all of his other love affairs, this one didn’t need to end. In fact, he didn’t want it to. And that was a first.
And that was why . . . no, he did not want to think of that now. He’d made his plans, and he would follow through with them. Besides, there were some aspects that he was keenly anticipating.
