Vice v-7

by Jane Feather

  Juliana stepped toward him as the clear gray eyes drew her forward like the pull of gravity. He held her by the shoulders and looked down into her upturned face. "There are so many more enjoyable things for us to do, my sweet, than quarrel."

  She wanted to tell him that he was a deceitful whoreson. She wanted to curse him, to bring down a plague on his house. But she simply stood, gazing up at him, losing herself in his eyes while she waited for his beautiful mouth to take hers. And when it did, she yielded with a tiny moan of sweet satisfaction, opening her lips for him, greedily pushing her own tongue deep into his mouth, inhaling the scent of his skin, running her hands through his hair, urgently pulling his face to hers as if she couldn't get enough of him.

  He bore her backward to the bed, and she fell in a tumble of virginal white. His face hovered over hers, no longer smiling, expressive now of a deep, primitive hunger that set answering pangs deep in her belly. He was pushing up her skirts and petticoats, ignoring the awkward impediment of the hoop. His free hand loosened his britches, then slid beneath her bottom, lifting her on the shelf of his palm as he drove within her.

  Juliana gasped at the suddenness of his penetration, but her body welcomed him with joy, her hips moving of their own accord, her buttock muscles tight against the warmth of his flat palm. He supported himself on one hand as he moved within her in short, hard thrusts. And her belly contracted with each thrust, the spiral tightening until a cry burst from her lips and waves of pleasure broke over her. His head was thrown back, his neck corded with effort, his eyes closed. Then he spoke her name in a curious wonder, and his seed gushed into her with each pulsing throb of his flesh, and when she thought she could bear no more, a surge of the most exquisite joy flooded every cell and pore of her body.

  "Such enchantment," Tarquin murmured as he bent and kissed the damp swell of her breast rising above her decolletage.

  Juliana lay sprawled beneath him, unable to move or speak until her racing heart slowed a little. With an effort she raised a hand and touched his face, then let it flop back again onto the coverlet. "I got lost somewhere," she murmured.

  Tarquin slipped gently from her body. "It's a wonderful landscape to roam."

  "Oh, yes," Juliana agreed, pushing feebly at her disordered skirts. "And one doesn't even need to get undressed for the journey," she added with an impish chuckle, suddenly invigorated. She sat up. "Where are my husband's apartments?"

  "On the other side of the house, at the back." The duke stood up, refastening his britches, regarding her with a quizzical frown.

  She slid off the bed, shaking down her skirts. "And where are your apartments, sir?"

  "Next door to yours."

  "How convenient," Juliana observed, beginning to unpin her loosening hair.

  "Let me show you just how convenient." He turned to the armoire on the far side of the room. "Come, see."

  Juliana, still pulling pins from her hair, followed curiously. He opened the door, and she gasped at the rich mass of silk, satin, and taffeta hanging there. "What's that?"

  "I told you I've been busy with your wardrobe," he said. "But that's not what I wish to show you right now." He pushed the garments aside and stepped back so Juliana could see into the interior.

  She saw a door at the back of the armoire.

  "Open it," he said, enjoying her puzzlement.

  Juliana did so. The narrow door swung open onto another bedchamber quite unlike her own. No dainty, feminine chamber, this one was all dark wood and tapestries, with solid oak furniture and highly polished floors.

  "Oh," she said.

  "Convenient, wouldn't you agree?" His eyes were alight with amusement.

  "Very." Juliana stepped back, shaking her hair free of its plaited coronet. "Did you install it specially?"

  He shook his head. "No, it was put in by the third duke, who, it was said, like to play little tricks on his duchess. He was not a pleasant man, by all accounts. But I imagine we can put it to better use."

  "Yes." Juliana was beginning to feel dazed again. "Does everyone know of its existence . . . the viscount, for instance?"

  "No. It's known to very few people. And I'll vouch for it that Lucien is not one of them. He doesn't know this house well."

  "Lord Quentin?"

  "Yes, he knows, of course."

  "Just as he knows everything about this scheme?" She ran her fingers through her hair, tugging at the tangles.

  "Yes."

  "And what does he think of it?"

  "He completely disapproves," Tarquin stated flatly. "But he'll come round. He always does." He turned back to the armoire. "Shall we choose a gown suitable for Lady Edgecombe to wear to the play and a visit to Ranelagh?"

  IVliy not? The man was an avalanche, rolling over all obstacles, unstoppable. And, although it confused her to realize it, for the moment she did not want him to stop.

  Chapter 11

  George Ridge emerged from the Cross Keys Bagnio in midafternoon feeling very much the man-about-town. He turned on his heel, enjoying the swish of his new full-skirted coat of puce brocade. His hand rested importantly on his sword hilt as he looked along Little Russell Street, debating whether to go into the Black Lion Chop-House for his dinner or return to the Gardeners' Arms to see if his posters bad born fruit.

  The ordinary table at the Gardener's Arms offered a reasonable meal, and the fellow diners tended to be hard drinkers with a taste for crude conversation and lewd jests. In general it suited George very well, but last night, when the ordinary table had been cleared of dinner and set up for gambling, he'd discovered that his fellow diners were deep gamesters. As the bottles of port circulated and the room grew hotter, George had grown louder and merrier and very incautious, peering with bleary bonhomie at the dice and throwing guineas across the table with an insouciance that later shocked him. He hadn't had the courage as yet to calculate his losses.

  His father would have gone berserk if he'd known. But, then, Sir John had been an old prude, except in his taste for young women, and he'd been very careful with his wealth. George had never been to London before his present visit. His father considered it a place for wastrels and idlers, inhabited by loose women and men ready to cut your throat for a groat.

  George had enjoyed the loose women this afternoon in the bagnio. Three of them. Three very expensive women. His pockets were a deal lighter now than they had been when he'd left the Gardener's Arms that morning. But it had been worth every guinea. He supposed it was usual for London whores to drink champagne. Cider was all very well for a red-cheeked, wide-hipped country doxy in the barn or behind a haystack, but painted women in lawn shifts, with fresh linen on their beds, obviously had higher expectations.

  But as a consequence he found himself guiltily aware that in twenty-four hours he'd probably spent enough to cover the farrier's bill for a twelvemonth. And if he returned to the Gardener's Arms, he would inevitably get drawn into the dicing later. A modest dinner at the Black Lion and a visit to the playhouse would definitely be the prudent course this evening. And since the Theatre Royal was but a couple of steps from the chophouse, he could be sure of arriving before the doors opened at five o'clock so he could get a decent seat in the pit.

  He examined the silver lace on his new cocked hat with pride before carefully placing it on his head, ensuring that the pigeon's wings on his pigtail wig were not disarranged. He tapped the hilt of his sword with the heel of his hand and gazed around imperiously, as if about to issue a challenge. A shabby gentleman in a skewed bag wig hastily crossed to the other side of the street as he approached George with his belligerant stance. London was full of aggressive young men-about-town who thought it famous sport to torment vulnerable pedestrians.

  George gave him a haughty stare, flicking a speck of snuff from his deep coat cuff. He didn't wear a sword in the country, but he'd realized immediately that in town it was the mark of a gentleman. He had purchased his present weapon from an armorer in Ebury Street, having been assured by that crafts
man that it was not a mere decoration- that in the hands of a skilled swordsman, such as His Honor must be, it would be a most deadly weapon, and a powerful protection.

  With a little nod of satisfaction George strolled toward the Black Lion. Having experienced the pleasures of London, he was determined that he would spend some weeks of every year in town-in the winter, of course, when the land needed less attention.

  Juliana would make him a more than satisfactory consort. She'd grown up in a gentleman's establishment, educated in all the areas necessary for a lady. She knew how to behave in the best society . . . better than he, himself, George was obliged to admit. George was his father's son. The son of a blunt, poorly educated landowner, who was more interested in his crops and his woods, his sport, his dinner and the bottle, than in books or music, or polite conversation. But Juliana was a lady.

  But where in the name of Lucifer was she? George's self-satisfaction and pleasure in the day suddenly evaporated. It was all very well making these happy plans, but they were castles in the air without the flesh-and-blood girl to make them real. He had to have her as his wife. He wanted her in his bed. He wanted to see the superiority and contempt chased from her eyes as she acknowledged him as her husband and master.

  Juliana, with her eyes that could be as cold and green as the deepest ocean; Juliana, with her full mouth that could curl into a derisive smile that shriveled a man; Juliana, with that swirling forest fire of hair and the long limbs, and the full, proudly upstanding breasts.

  He would have that Juliana, obedient and docile in his house and in his bed. Or he would see her burn at the stake.

  George turned into the Black Lion and ordered a bottle of burgundy. He would find her, if he had to pay a hundred guineas to do so.

  ******************************************************************

  Juliana was in a very different frame of mind, Quentin thought as the three of them sat at dinner. On the two previous occasions he'd been in her company, she'd been clearly distressed, and this morning, bitterly angry into the bargain. But now her eyes were luminescent jewels, her pale skin had a glow that seemed to come from within. She was bright and bubbly, with ready laughter and a quick wit that showed an informed mind. She threw impish challenges at Tarquin, and occasionally a darting glance that always made the duke smile.

  Quentin was neither a prude nor a stranger to women, despite his calling. It didn't take a genius to deduce that Lady Edgecombe had been enjoying some bedsport that afternoon. His brother's indulgent amusement and the unmistakable caress of his eyes when they rested on Juliana clearly indicated that however much at odds they might be in some things, the Duke of Redmayne and his cousin's bride were clearly well matched in the bedchamber.

  Quentin supposed he should be disapproving. But he was not a hypocrite. He'd lent his countenance to Tarquin's abominable scheme-reluctantly, it was true, but he was still a part of it. If Juliana took pleasure in the duke's lovemaking, then it could be said that she was not really being coerced in this aspect, at least, of the arrangement.

  Juliana wasn't sure whether her feeling of heady enjoyment in this dinner was a residue of the afternoon or had to do with the novel position in which she found herself. The only woman at the table, she was the focus of attention. At Forsett Towers, she'd been relegated to a cramped corner of the table, enjoined to be silent unless spoken to, and had thus endured interminable dinners, passing some of the most tedious hours of her life. At this table, whenever she opened her mouth to speak, both the duke and his brother paid her close and flattering attention.

  "What is the play we're to see?" She reached for her wineglass. A footman moved swiftly to catch the cascade of cutlery set in motion by her floating sleeve.

  "Garrick as Macbeth," Tarquin replied with a twitch of amusement as she glared in mortification at the errant ruffles.

  "There'll be a farce, too, no doubt," Quentin said. "And since Garrick appointed Thomas Arne as the musical director, one can be sure of lively entertainment during the musical interludes."

  "I've never been to the play." Juliana held her sleeve clear of the table as she reached for a basket of pastries. "At home the mummers would come at Christmas, and occasionally during the fair, but there was never a real play."

  "I trust you'll enjoy the experience." Tarquin was surprised at how enchanting he found her enthusiastic chatter and ready laughter. This was a Juliana he'd only fleetingly glimpsed hitherto. She also had a healthy appetite. Either no one had told her it was considered ladylike to modify one's enthusiasm for the table in public, or she had simply ignored the stricture. Probably the latter, he thought with an inner smile. Her conversation was both amusing and intelligent. Her guardians had clearly not neglected her education, however much they might have endeavored to stifle her personality.

  "Have I a smut on my nose, my lord duke?" Juliana inquired, brushing her nose with a fingertip.

  "I don't see one."

  "You seemed to be looking at me with particular intensity," she said. "I made sure something was amiss with my appearance."

  "Not that I can see." He pushed back his chair. "If you've finished, my dear, I suggest we adjourn to the drawing room for tea."

  "Oh, yes." Juliana flushed and jumped to her feet, sending her chair skidding across the polished floor. "I should have thought, I beg your pardon. I'll leave you to your port."

  "No need," Tarquin said, steadying the chair so she could move easily around it. "Quentin and I are not overly fond of sitting long at the table. Isn't that so, brother?"

  "Absolutely," Quentin agreed. "I see no reason why Juliana should sit in solitary state in the drawing room while we sozzle ourselves on port."

  "Lucien, of course, would have a different view," Tarquin observed.

  Juliana glanced quickly over her shoulder at him, but his expression was as dispassionate as his tone. What difference to the atmosphere would her husband's presence make? A significant one, she reckoned.

  But she didn't allow such thoughts to interfere with her pleasure in the evening. She had fallen into this situation, and she might as well enjoy its benefits.

  They drove to Covent Garden in the duke's town chaise, Juliana gazing out of the window, intrigued as London moved onto its nightly revels. It was the first time she'd been out in the evening since she had stepped off the coach at the Bell, and when they turned into Covent Garden, she saw it had a very different aspect from the daytime scene. The costermongers and barrow boys had gone, the produce stalls packed up for the day. The center of the Garden was now thronged with ladies accompanied by footmen, soliciting custom, and boys darting through the crowd crying the delights to be enjoyed in the specialized brothels masquerading as coffeehouses and chocolate shops.

  Beneath the columns of the Piazza strolled fashionable people, quizzing the scene as they made their way to the Theatre Royal, whose doors stood open. It was now just before six o'clock, and the crowd at the doors was a seething mass of humanity, fighting and squabbling as they pushed their way inside to find a last-minute seat.

  Juliana looked askance at the melee and wondered how she was to get through there with her wide hoop. She was bound to tear something in the process. "Doesn't the play begin at six?"

  "It does." Tarquin handed her down to the cobbles before the theater.

  "But if we have no seats-"

  "We do, my dear," Quentin reassured with a smile. "Tarquin's footman arrived at the doors at four o'clock in plenty of time to secure us a box."

  So that was how the privileged managed such things. Juliana raised an eyebrow and decided she liked being one of their number. She had the duke and Lord Quentin on either side of her as they approached the massed doorway. How it happened she couldn't tell, but a path materialized through the crowd and she was suddenly inside the theater, her gown in one piece, not even a ruffle torn, both shoes still on her feet, and her hoop behaving itself impeccably. She had a vague impression that her two escorts had touched a shoulder here and the
re, uttered a few words in low voices, edged an impeding body to one side. However it had been done, they were inside.

  The orchestra was playing but could barely be heard above the buzz and chatter as people strolled between the seats, pausing to chat to friends or calling across heads to attract attention in other parts of the pit. Above the racket the cries of the orange sellers were pitched shrill and imperative.

  "This way." Juliana was deftly ushered to a box overlooking the stage, where a footman in Redmayne livery stood bowing as they entered. Tarquin didn't release Juliana's elbow until she was seated at the front of the box. "Now, if you don't try to explore, you'll be safe and sound," he said, sitting beside her.

  "I shan't go short of entertainment." Juliana leaned over the edge of the box. "If the play is half as absorbing as the crowd, I shall be very well satisfied. Why do they have those iron spikes along the stage?"

  "To stop the audience jumping onto the stage." Tarquin smiled at her rapt expression. "You see the rather burly men behind? They're an added deterrent."

  Juliana laughed. "I am so glad I came to London." Then she flushed, a shadow dimming the vibrancy of her expression. "Or I would be in different circumstances."

  Quentin touched her shoulder in brief sympathy. Tarquin chose to ignore the comment. There was a moment of awkward silence; then the orchestra produced an imperative drumroll. The curtain went up, and David Garrick strode onto the stage to deliver the prologue to the evening's entertainment.

  Juliana listened, entranced, as the play began. The audience continued to buzz and hum, carrying on their own gossipy conversations throughout, but Juliana was unaware of anything but the stage. It didn't occur to her as in the least strange that Macbeth should be played in contemporary costume, with Garrick in the title role dressed in the full regalia of a Hanoverian officer.

  At the first interval she sat back with a little sigh of contentment. "How magical. It's quite different hearing the words from reading them, even aloud."