Vice v-7

by Jane Feather

  She shook her head. Her voice was barely a whisper, but she managed to say frankly, "Only my pride."

  Surprise glimmered in his eyes, softening the implacable steadiness of his gaze. Any other woman would have broken down in tears and hysteria. But Juliana was unique. "Can you walk?"

  Her knees were quivering uncontrollably, but there was something in his appraising scrutiny that gave her strength to say "Of course," even as she clutched his arm for support. Somehow she put one foot in front of the other as the crowd fell back. Then they were outside. Dawn was breaking, and a curious quiet had fallen over the Piazza and the square. A few bodies lay sleeping under the colonnades, a pair of slatternly women leaned in a doorway, drinking ale between yawns. A shout and a crash came from Tom King's coffeehouse as a man flew through the door to land in the gutter, where he lay in a heap, clutching a stone jar of gin.

  The duke raised a finger and a hackney appeared as if by magic. Tarquin gave Juliana a boost into the interior with an unceremonious hand under her backside and followed almost in the same movement, pulling the door shut with a slam.

  For the first time in hours Juliana was no longer terrified. The gloomy, musty interior of the carriage was a haven, private and utterly protected. Faint gray light came through the window aperture, showing her the duke's countenance as he sat opposite, regarding her in reflective silence.

  "What are you thinking?" Her voice sounded shrunken, as if the events of the night had leached all strength from it.

  "Many things," he replied, running his fingertips over his lips. "That you are the most perverse, stubborn, willful wench it's ever been my misfortune to have dealings with.. . . No, let me finish answering the question." He held up an arresting hand as Juliana's mouth opened indignantly. "That Lucien's evil tonight surpassed even my expectations; and most of all, that I should never have let you set eyes on him."

  "So you're sorry you devised this demonic scheme?"

  "No, I didn't say that. But I deeply regret involving you."

  "Why?"

  Tarquin didn't immediately reply. It was on the tip of his tongue to say simply that she wasn't cut out for the role, not sufficiently compliant. It was how he believed he would have responded just a few short hours ago. But something had happened to him when he'd seen her on that table, exposed to the sweating, lusting, depraved gaze of London's vicious underworld. When he'd seen her freshness, her simplicity, her ingenuous candor mentally fingered by that vile mob, he'd known a rage greater than any he could remember. And to his discomfort and confusion that rage was directed at himself as much as at Lucien.

  "Why?" Juliana repeated. "Am I not sufficiently biddable, my lord duke?" As her terror receded, her bitterness grew. On one level Tarquin was as guilty of that hideous violation as Lucien had been. "I'm sorry to have put you to such inconvenience this evening." She tore angrily at a loose cuticle on her thumb, stripping the skin away with her teeth.

  Tarquin leaned over and took her hand from her mouth. He clasped the abused thumb in his warm palm and regarded her gravely in the growing light. "I'm willing to accept a hefty share of the blame for this night's doings, Juliana, but you, too, bear some responsibility. You chose to cultivate Edgecombe to be avenged upon me. Will you deny it?"

  Honesty forced her to shake her head. "But what else would you expect me to do?"

  The exasperated question brought a low, reluctant chuckle to his lips. "Oh, I expected you to be good and obedient and allow me to know what's best for you. Foolish of me, wasn't it?"

  "Very." Juliana tried to extricate her hand, but his fingers closed more firmly around hers.

  "I will ensure that Lucien doesn't come near you ever again. Do I have your assurance that you won't seek him out?"

  "I learn from my mistakes, sir," she said with acid dignity.

  "I shall endeavor to learn from mine," he said wryly, releasing her hand as the carriage came to a halt on Albermarle Street. "And maybe we can look forward to a harmonious future."

  Maybe, Juliana thought, but without too much optimism. She'd finished with Lucien, but after tonight she was more than ever determined to help the women of Covent Garden.

  Her head swam suddenly as she stepped to the pavement. Her knees buckled under an invincible wash of fatigue, and she reached blindly for support. Tarquin caught her against him, holding her strongly.

  "Easy now, mignonne." His voice steadied her, and she leaned into the warmth and strength of his hold.

  "I'm all wobbly," she mumbled apologetically into his coat. "I don't know why."

  He laughed softly. "Well, I do. Come on, let's get you to bed." He lowered his shoulder against her belly and tipped her over. "Forgive the indignity, sweetheart, but it's the easiest way to accomplish the task."

  Juliana barely heard him. She was almost asleep already, her body limp and unresisting as he carried her inside.

  Chapter 18

  Tarquin awoke to filtered sunlight behind the bed curtains. The covers had been thrown back, and his naked body stirred deliciously as he felt the moist, fluttering caresses over his loins. Juliana's skin was warm against his, her hair flowing over his belly, her breath rustling on his inner thighs. Her fingers were as busy as her mouth, and he closed his eyes on a wave of delight, yielding to pleasure. His hand moved over her curved body, caressing the small of her back, smoothing over her bottom, tiptoeing over her thighs. He felt her skin quiver beneath his fingers and smiled.

  He'd helped her undress and tumbled her into bed in the clear light of a rosy dawn, and by the time he'd thrown off his own clothes and prepared to join her, she'd been sleeping like an exhausted child, her cheek pillowed on her hand. He'd slipped in beside her, wondering why he chose to share her bed only to sleep when his own waited next door. He made it an invariable practice never to spend an entire night with his mistresses, but there had been something so appealing about Juliana. The deep, even breathing, the dark crescent of her eyelashes against the pale cheeks, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the turn of her bare shoulder against the pillow, the vibrant cascade of her hair escaping from her lace-trimmed nightcap. Unable to resist, he'd slid in beside her, and she'd stirred and nuzzled against him like a small animal in search of warmth and comfort.

  He'd fallen asleep smiling and awoken with the same smile. Now he smacked her bottom lightly. "Mignonne, come up."

  Juliana raised her head and turned on her belly to look up at him. "Why?" She pushed her hair away from her face and gave him a quizzical smile.

  "Because you are about to unman me," he replied.

  Juliana reversed herself neatly and stretched her body over his, her mouth nuzzling the hollow of his throat, her loins moving sinuously over his. "Better?" she mumbled against his pulse.

  With a lazy twist of his hips he entered her as she lay above him. He watched the surprise dawn in her eyes, to be followed immediately by a wondering pleasure. "This is different."

  He nodded. "If you kneel up, you'll find it's even more so."

  Juliana pushed herself onto her knees. She gasped at the changed sensation and slowly circled her body around the hard, impaling shaft. She touched his erect nipples with a feathery fingertip, searching his face for his response, chuckling when he groaned with pleasure.

  "Does it feel good when I do this, sir?" She rose on her knees, then slowly sank down again, arching her back as she grasped her ankles with her hands. His flesh pressed against her body's sheath, and she suddenly lost interest in Tarquin's reaction as a wave of glorious sensation broke over her. She cried out, her body arched like a bow, the near unbearable tension building in ever tightening circles.

  Tarquin lay still, knowing she needed no help from him to reach this peak. He watched her through half-closed eyes, reveling in the innocent candor of her joy. And when she cried out again, he grasped her hips and held her tightly as she rocked on his thighs with each succeeding wave of her climax.

  "But what happened to you?" she gasped when she could f
inally speak, tears of joy glistening in her eyes. "Did I leave you behind?"

  "Not for long," he promised softly. The exquisitely sensitized core of her body lay open for his touch, and he played delicately upon her as Juliana moved herself over and around him, her tongue caught between her teeth as she concentrated on her lover's pleasure, her own ever present but taking secondary importance. But when he drove upward with another almost leisurely twist, she was surprised yet again by the rushing, heated flood of ecstasy that dissolved muscle and sinew like butter in the sun.

  He gripped her hips, his fingers biting deep into the rich curves, holding her as if she were his only anchor to reality in the storm-tossed sea of sensual bliss. And when it was over and he became aware of the lines and contours of his body on the mattress, of the dust motes in the ray of sun creeping through the curtains, he drew her down to lie along his length, his hand stroking over her damp back, his flesh diminishing slowly within her.

  What was it about this woman that she could so transport him? Make him forget everything but the glories of their joining? What was it that made him want to protect her, to make her happy? He was thirty-two, affianced from childhood to a perfect match-a woman who would be his wife but who would not object to his mistresses. A woman who knew the rules of their society. A woman he wanted to marry. So why, then, did the prospect suddenly seem drab? When he thought of the well-ordered years ahead, he felt dull and depressed. But why? He and Lydia were two grown people who knew what each expected of the other. His marriage would follow the rules of all successful relationships. He gave people what they expected from his money, position, and influence, and he made sure he received what he was due in his turn.

  It had always worked before, but it wasn't working with Juliana. He was convinced that another woman in her position would have jumped at the chance of a tide and a comfortable settlement for life. But not Juliana. She wasn't interested in what he had to offer; she seemed to want something more. She wanted something from him. Something far deeper than mere material offerings. And the thought stirred him, filled him with a restless excitement, was the source of this sudden impatience with his carefully laid-out future.

  And holding this long, luscious body, feeling her jade gaze on his face, fiery tendrils of hair tickling his nose, he understood deep at his core that he lacked something fundamental to his happiness. He held it in his arms, but he couldn't grasp it and make it his. He didn't know how to. It was embodied in Juliana's unusual, tempestuous, forthright spirit, and he didn't know how to capture it. He didn't understand Juliana's rules.

  He pulled himself up sharply. Juliana was a novelty, he told himself as she slept the brief sleep of satiation on his breast. He was confusing his fascination with her novelty with something deeper and unnameable. She was young and fresh. Her spirit amused him, her passion touched him. Her courage and resolution moved him. With luck she would be the mother of his child. In the best of all possible worlds she would remain his mistress as she mothered his child. There was no place-no need-for deeper, unnameable emotions.

  Juliana stirred and opened her eyes. She kissed his neck sleepily. "I forgot to mention that George Ridge was in the tavern last night."

  His hand stilled on her back. "Good God! What in heaven's name made you forget such a thing?"

  "There was so much else to worry about," she said, sitting up, brushing hair out of her eyes. "And then I got so wobbly, and everything else went out of my head."

  "I suppose it's understandable." He reached lazily for one full breast, cupping it in his palm, a fingertip circling the nipple. "Did he see you?"

  "He could hardly miss me when I was standing on the table with a rope around my neck." She drew back from his caressing hand with a shiver, saying abruptly, "I don't seem to feel like being touched."

  Tarquin dropped his hand immediately, his expression suddenly drawn with anger. "Lucien will pay in full measure for what he did to you," he promised savagely. "When he comes back to the house, he will pay." He stood up abruptly and strode to the window, staring out into the bright morning.

  Juliana looked at his rigid, averted back and shivered slightly at the powerful anger she sensed. She wasn't to know how much of it was directed at himself. "I'll get over it," she said. "It was only a passing moment just then." She sat hunched on the bed, her arms crossed protectively over her breasts. "It all came back . . . the cockfight, and the wife-selling before, and the gin-"

  "Gin?" he exclaimed, swinging back to the room, diverted from his bitter self-reproach. "Lucien permitted you to drink gin?"

  "He forced it on me. I didn't know what it was." Her eyes flashed with her ever-ready temper.

  Tarquin silently added it to the score he would settle with his cousin and said calmly, "Let's return to George Ridge. He recognized you?"

  Juliana nodded, accepting the change of subject as an apology of some kind. "Enough to bid five hundred pounds for me."

  Tarquin frowned. He stood beside the bed, his hands on his hips, his air as self-possessed as if he was fully dressed instead of starkly, and most beautifully, naked. "What did you do?"

  "Nothing," she said somewhat absently, now thoroughly distracted by the sight of him, her eyes dwelling on the spare frame, the play of muscle, the lean, sinewy length of thigh. His sex was quiescent, but as her eyes lingered on the soft flesh, it flickered and rose beneath the intent gaze as if responding to an unspoken wish.

  Tarquin appeared unaware. "What do you mean, you did nothing? You must have responded in some way."

  Juliana reached forward to touch him, her tongue peeping from between her lips, a little frown of concentration on her brow.

  Tarquin stepped back, observing with a smile, "I think I'd better don a chamber robe if we're to have a sensible discussion here." He turned to pick up his robe from the chaise longue. Juliana's gaze feasted on his lean back, the cluster of dark hair in the small of his back, and the dark trail that led downward to vanish in the cleft between the taut buttocks. Her fingers itched to slide between his thighs, and in another moment she would have sprung from the bed, but he slung the robe around his shoulders, thrusting his arms into the sleeves, and turned back to the bed, tying the girdle firmly at his waist.

  Juliana couldn't hide her disappointment. Tarquin chuckled. "I'm flattered, mignonne. You certainly know how to compliment a man."

  "It wasn't flattery," she denied with a sigh, wriggling beneath the covers again.

  "Now, answer my question. What do you mean by 'nothing'?"

  "It seemed sensible to behave as if I didn't know who he was," she explained. "I couldn't think too clearly, but I thought that if I refused to acknowledge him, then he would find it harder to identify me. If I deny that I'm Juliana Ridge, it's only his word against mine."

  "Mmmm." Tarquin pulled at his chin. "That was quick thinking. But in the long term your guardians could identify you."

  "But I could still deny it. And you could vouch for my identity as a whole other person. Who would challenge the Duke of Redmayne?"

  Juliana showed a touching faith in the ability of the aristocracy to circumvent the law. But while Tarquin might be able to use his rank and influence to intimidate George Ridge and possibly the Forsetts, rank and influence would do little good before the bar. "It would be best if Ridge didn't see you again," he stated after a moment of frowning thought. "Keep to the house for the time being, unless you're with me … or possibly Quentin."

  Juliana's face dropped. She couldn't do that and meet with her friends on Russell Street. "I'm not afraid of George," she protested. "I can't agree to be a prisoner just because that idiot George is hanging around. He's such a blockhead, he couldn't find his way out of a cloak bag. It was different when I was friendless and had no protection, but how could I be at risk when I have the mighty protection of His Grace of Redmayne?" She gave him a sweet smile, pulling the sheet up to her chin. "You are surely a match for a country lout, my lord duke."

  "And that's exactly why you're no
t to go out without me or Quentin as escort." He bent over and kissed her lightly. "Do the sensible thing for once and oblige me in this." His gray gaze was calm, his voice quite without threat, but Juliana knew she'd been given fair warning.

  After Tarquin left her, Juliana leaped from bed, rang for Henny, and began to plan for the day. She would take every precaution. She would travel only in a closed carriage, and she wouldn't show her face on the streets, at least not unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Lucy was sleeping when she visited her on her way down to breakfast. Even in sleep the girl was beginning to look better already. It was as if her spirit had reentered her body and she was once more taking a grip on the world.

  Juliana tiptoed out without waking her and went down to the breakfast parlor, where she found Quentin at breakfast. He looked up and cast a swift, almost involuntary, glance over her that made her immediately pleased with her gown of pale-green muslin over a pink petticoat. Henny had worked her usual magic with her hair, making a virtue of the unruly ringlets, arranging them artfully at her ears.

  Quentin rose to his feet, bowing with a smile. "The house has taken on a quite different air, my dear, since you came to join us. May I carve you some ham?"

  "Thank you." Juliana took the chair pulled out for her by an attentive footman. She frowned slightly, wondering what he meant by "a different air." When people said things of that nature to her, they were usually scolding, but Lord Quentin had no such manner about him. "Is it a pleasanter air, sir?" she asked tentatively.

  Quentin laughed. "Oh, most definitely. The house feels altogether lighter and merrier."

  Juliana smiled broadly. "I hope His Grace agrees with you."

  "Agrees with what?" Tarquin entered the room, taking a chair at the head of the table. He cast an eye over the Gazette beside his plate.