by Jane Feather
But of course, for the Duke of Redmayne, both she and the child were possessions. Women were bought and sold at all levels of society. Starving men sold their wives in the marketplace for bread. Royal princesses were shipped to foreign courts like so much cattle, to breed and thus cement alliances, to join lands and armies and treasure chests. She’d known all this since she’d been aware of a world outside the nursery. But how hard it was to see herself that way.
Tarquin was regarding her with a quizzical frown. When she remained quiet, he gently changed the subject: “Do you have plans for today?”
The question startled her. She’d been ruled by others all her life—ruled and confined in the house on Russell Street. It hadn’t occurred to her that freedom to do what she pleased and go wherever she fancied would be one of the rewards for this oblique slavery.
“I hadn’t thought.”
“Do you ride?”
“Why, yes. In winter in Hampshire it was the only way to travel when the roads were mired.”
“Would you like a riding horse?”
“But where is there to ride?”
“Hyde Park for the sedate variety. But Richmond provides more excitement.” Her delighted surprise at this turn of the conversation sent a dart of pleasure through him. How easy she was to please. And also to hurt, he reminded himself, but he quickly suppressed that thought. “If you wish, I’ll procure you a horse from Tattersalls this morning.”
“Oh, may I come too?” She threw aside the coven and leaped energetically to her feet, her nightgown flowing around her.
“I’m afraid not. Ladies do not frequent Tattersalls.” His eyes fixed on the swell of her breasts, their dark crowns pressing against the thin bodice. “But you may trust me with the commission,” he said slowly. “Take off your nightgown.”
Juliana touched her tongue to her lips. “Someone might come in.”
“Take it off.” His voice was almost curt, but she didn’t mistake the rasp of passion.
She unfastened the laces at her throat and drew the gown slowly up her body, sensing that he would enjoy a gradual unveiling. When she threw it aside and stood naked, his eyes devoured her, roaming hungrily over her body, but he made no attempt to reach for her.
“Turn around.”
She did so slowly, facing the bed, feeling her skin warm and flushed with his scrutiny as if it were his hands, not his eyes, that were caressing her.
Tarquin unfastened his robe with one swift pull at the girdle and came up behind her. His hands slid around her waist, cupping the fullness of her breasts, and she could feel his turgid flesh pressing against her buttocks. Then his hands moved over her belly, traced the curve of her hips, stroked the cheeks of her buttocks.
Juliana caught her breath at the insinuating touch of his fingers sliding down the cleft of her bottom and between her thighs, opening the moist, heated furrow of her body. Lust flooded her loins, tightened her belly, sent the blood rushing through her veins. She moved against his fingers, her own hands sliding behind to caress his erect shaft until she could feel his breath swift and hot against the nape of her neck.
“Put your palms flat on the bed.”
Juliana obeyed the soft, urgent command, aware of nothing now but his body against hers and her own aching core begging for the touch that would bring the cataclysm. His hands ran hard down her bent back, tracing the curve of her spine, then gripped her buttocks as he drove into her. It felt different—wildly, wonderfully different—his hard belly slapping against her buttocks with each powerful, rhythmic thrust that drove his flesh deeper and deeper inside her. She could hear her own little sobbing cries; her head dropped onto the rumpled sheets, her spine dipped. Her mouth was dry, the swirling void grew ever closer … the moment when her body would slip loose from its moorings. His fingers bit deep into the flesh of her hips and his name was on her lips, each syllable an assertion and a declaration of his pleasure.
Juliana fell slowly, as slowly as a feather drifting downward on a spring breeze. The void came up to meet her, and she was lost in its swirling sensate wonder. She toppled forward onto the bed and Tarquin came with her, his body pressed to her back, his hands now around her waist, holding her tightly as his own climax tore him asunder. His face was buried in the tangled flame-red hair on her neck, and his breath was hot and damp on her skin. The void receded and the tension left her limbs inch by inch, and her body took his weight as his strength washed from him with the receding wave of his own joy.
It was a long while before Tarquin eased himself upright onto his feet. He drew his robe together again and reached down to stroke Juliana’s back. “Mignonne, come back.”
“I can’t. I’m lost,” she mumbled into the coverlet. “That felt so different.”
He bent over her and rolled her onto her back. He stroked her face with a fingertip, and his eyes were dark with the residue of passion and something that looked remarkably like puzzlement. “I don’t know what you are,” he said simply. He kissed her and then, quietly, he left her.
Juliana sat up slowly. Her body thrummed. At the moment she didn’t know what she was either. A bride, a mistress … a whore? A woman, a girl? A person or a possession?
And if she no longer knew herself, she knew the duke even less.
Chapter 13
It was noon when Juliana left her apartments, dressed for the day in a wide-hooped yellow silk gown opened over a green-sprigged white petticoat. She felt very much the fashionable lady appearing at such a disgracefully late hour and dressed in such style. Lady Forsett, a firm believer in domestic industry, would have disapproved mightily. Ladies of the house didn’t put off their aprons and dress for the day’s leisure until just before dinner.
The thought made her chuckle and she gave a little skip, recollecting her position when she caught the eye of a curtsying maidservant who was clearly trying to stifle her grin. “Good day to you,” Juliana said with a lofty nod.
“My lady,” the girl murmured, respectfully holding her curtsy until Lady Edgecombe had passed her.
Juliana paused at the head of the stairs, wondering where to go. She had seen the mansion’s public rooms yesterday and was a little daunted at the prospect of sailing down the horseshoe stairs and into the library or the drawing room. Strictly speaking, she was only a guest in the house, although her position was somewhat ambivalent, whichever way one looked at it. Then she remembered that she had her own private parlor.
She opened the door onto the little morning room, half afraid she would find it changed, or occupied, but it was empty and just as she remembered. She closed the door behind her and thought about her next move. A cup of coffee would be nice. Presumably she had the right to order what she pleased while she was there. She pulled the bell rope by the hearth and sat down on the chaise longue beneath the window, arranging her skirts tastefully.
The knock at the door came so quickly, it was hard to imagine the footman who entered at her call could have come from the kitchen regions so speedily. But he appeared immaculate and unhurried in his powdered wig and dark livery as he bowed. “You rang, my lady.”
“Yes, I’d like some coffee, please.” She smiled, but his impassive expression didn’t crack.
“Immediately, madam. Will that be all?”
“Oh, perhaps some bread and butter,” she said. Dinner wouldn’t be until three, and the morning’s activities had given her an appetite.
The footman bowed himself out, and she sat in state on the chaise, wondering what she was to do with herself until dinnertime. There were some periodicals and broadsheets on a pier table beneath a gilt mirror on the far wall, and she had just risen to go and examine them when there was another light tap on her door. “Pray enter.”
“Good morning, Juliana.” Lord Quentin bowed in the doorway, then came in, smiling, to take her hand and raise it to his lips. “I came to inquire after you. Is there anything I can do for you … anything you would like?”
“Employment,” Juliana said with a
rueful chuckle. “I’m all dressed and ready to see and be seen, but I have nowhere to go and nothing to do.”
Quentin laughed. “In a day or two you’ll have calls to return, and I understand Tarquin is procuring you a riding horse. But until then you may walk in the park, if you’ll accept my escort. Or you could visit a circulating library and the shops. There’s a sedan chair at your disposal, as well as the chaise. But if you prefer to walk, then a footman will accompany you.”
“Oh,” Juliana said faintly, somewhat taken aback by such a variety of options. “And I suppose I may make use of the duke’s library also?”
“Of course,” Quentin responded. “Anything in this house is at your disposal.”
“Did His Grace say so?”
Quentin smiled. “No, but my brother is openhanded to a fault. We all live on his bounty to some extent, and I’ve never known him to withhold anything, even from Lucien.”
Juliana could believe in the duke’s generosity. It was one thing about him that she felt was not prompted by self-interest. She had a flash of empathy for him, thinking how painful it must be for him to sense when his generosity was abused.
“Do you live here, my lord?”
“Only when I’m visiting London. My house is in the cathedral close in Melchester, in Hertfordshire, where I’m a canon.”
Juliana absorbed this with a thoughtful nod. Canons were very important in the church hierarchy. She changed the course of the subject. “Why does my husband live here? Doesn’t he have a house of his own?”
The footman appeared with the coffee, and Quentin waited to answer her. Juliana saw that there were two cups on the tray. Obviously, the servants made it their business to know where their masters were in the house.
“It was part of the arrangement Tarquin insisted upon,” Quentin told her after the footman had left. He took a cup from her with a nod of thanks. “For your benefit. Obviously, you would be expected to reside under the same roof as your husband. Lucien’s own establishment is uncomfortable, to put it mildly. He’s besieged by creditors. And, besides, Tarquin can keep an eye on him if he stays here.”
“Ensure he doesn’t molest me?” Juliana raised an eyebrow.
Quentin flushed darkly. “If I believed that Tarquin would not protect you, ma’am, I would not be a party to this business.”
“Would you have a choice?” she inquired softly. “Your brother is very … very persuasive.”
Quentin’s flush deepened. “Yes, he is. But I like to believe that he could not persuade me to do something against my conscience.”
“And this manipulative scheme is not?’ Juliana sounded frankly incredulous as she took a piece of bread and butter from the plate. She regretted the question when she saw how distressed Quentin was. She bore him no grudge—indeed, sensed that he would stand her friend and champion without hesitation if she asked it of him.
“How can I say it isn’t?” he said wretchedly. “It’s an abominable design … and yet it will solve so many embarrassments and difficulties for the family.”
“And the family interest, of course, is supreme?”.
“For the most part,” he said simply. “I’m a Courtney before I’m anything else. It’s the same for Tarquin. But I do believe he will ensure that you don’t suffer from this … and …” He paused uncomfortably. “Forgive me, but it does seem to me that you could benefit from this scheme if you don’t find Tarquin himself distasteful.”
Juliana was too honest to He. She set down her cup, aware that her cheeks were warm. “No,” she said. “It’s all very confusing. I hate him sometimes and yet at others …” She shrugged helplessly.
Quentin nodded gravely and put down his own cup. Taking her hands in a tight clasp, he said earnestly, “You must understand that you may count on me, Juliana, in any instance. I have some influence over my brother, although it may seem as if no one could have.”
His gray eyes were steady and sincere resting on her face, and she smiled gratefully, feeling immeasurably comforted. It was the first real statement of friendship she’d ever been given.
Another knock at the door interrupted the moment of tense silence, and the butler appeared. “Lady Melton and Lady Lydia, madam,” he announced. “I took the liberty of showing them into the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Catlett,” Quentin replied swiftly. “Lady Edgecombe will be down directly…. Don’t worry,” he said to Juliana with a quick smile as the butler departed. “I’ll lend you my company for the ordeal.”
“Will it be one?” Juliana examined her reflection in the mirror and patted her hair with a nervous hand.
“Not at all. Lydia has the sweetest nature in the world, and Lady Melton is not too much of a gorgon.”
“The duke seems not inclined to marry Lady Lydia,” Juliana said, licking her fingertip and smoothing her eyebrow. “He said it was a marriage of convenience.” She caught sight of Quentin’s expression in the mirror behind her, and her heart jumped at the bleak frustration, stark in his eyes. Then he’d turned aside and opened the door, holding it for her. Vividly now, she remembered his studied indifference at the theater, an indifference that she’d been convinced had masked a deep tension.
But this was not the moment for examining the puzzle. Juliana tucked it away for future reflection and prepared for her first social encounter as Lady Edgecombe. It was only as she was crossing the hall to the drawing room that she realized she had no story to explain her marriage to the viscount. Who was she? Where had she come from? Had the duke said anything to the Meltons at the play? If so, what?
Panicked, she stopped dead in the middle of the hall, seizing Quentin’s black silk sleeve. “Who am I?” she whispered.
He frowned, puzzled; then his brow cleared. “A distant cousin of the Courtneys from York. Didn’t Tarquin tell you … but, no, of course he didn’t.” He shook his head.
“I could cut his tongue out!” Juliana whispered furiously. “He is the most inconsiderate, insufferable, dastardly—”
“My dear Juliana.” The duke’s soft voice came from the stairs behind her. “Could you be referring to me?” His eyes twinkled.
She winded on him and caught her heel in the hem of her gown. There was a nasty ripping sound. “Oh, hell and the devil!” she exclaimed. “Look what you’ve made me do!”
“Go and ask Henny to pin it up for you,” Tarquin said calmly. “Quentin and I will entertain your guests until you’re ready.”
Juliana gathered up her skirts and cast him what she hoped was a look of utter disdain. But he pinched her nose lightly as she swept past him to the stairs, and she stuck out her tongue with lamentable lack of dignity. Their chuckles followed her upstairs.
When she entered the drawing room twenty minutes later, Tarquin came forward immediately. “Lady Edgecombe, pray allow me to make you known to Lady Melton and Lady Lydia Melton.” He took her hand, drawing her into the room.
The two ladies, seated side by side on a sofa, bowed from the waist as Juliana curtsied. They were both dressed in black, Lady Melton also wearing a black dormeuse cap that completely covered her coiffure. Her daughter wore a more modest head covering of dark gray. But the overall impression was distinctly melancholy.
“I am honored, ma’am,” Juliana murmured. “Pray accept my condolences on your loss.”
Lady Melton smiled fleetingly. “Lady Edgecombe, I understand you only recently arrived from York.”
Juliana nodded and took the fragile gilt chair Tarquin pushed forward. Lady Lydia smiled but said little throughout the interview, leaving the talking to her mother. Juliana was far more interested in the daughter than the mother, noting a sweet but not particularly expressive face, a pair of soft blue eyes, a somewhat retiring disposition. The duke was formally polite with both ladies—distant, it seemed to Juliana, unlike his brother, who was warm and attentive. She noticed that most of Lady Lydia’s shy smiles were directed at Lord Quentin.
The visit lasted fifteen minutes, and Juliana was gratef
ully aware that she was being steered through it by the Duke of Redmayne. He answered most questions for her, but in such a way that it appeared she was answering for herself. He delicately introduced neutral, superficial topics of conversation that took them down obstacle-free avenues of purely social discourse and touched on subjects that he knew would be familiar to Juliana. When the ladies took their leave, Juliana was confident enough to think she might be able to manage the next one on her own.
Quentin and the duke escorted the ladies to their carriage. Juliana watched from the drawing-room window. It was Quentin who handed Lady Lydia into the carriage, while Tarquin did the honors for her mother—which was odd, Juliana thought. Lydia smiled at Quentin as she settled back on the seat, and he solicitously adjusted the folds of her train at her feet.
And then, with blinding impact, it struck Juliana that if she was asked who was affianced to whom, she would guess Quentin and Lady Lydia were to make a match of it. It would explain Quentin’s strangeness at the theater, and it would certainly account for that fierce, bleak look she’d surprised on his face when she’d carelessly repeated what Tarquin had said about his impending marriage. It seemed she had put her foot in it with her usual clumsiness.
As she watched, Quentin walked off down the street after the carriage, and the duke turned back to the house. She heard his voice in the hall and waited for him to come back to her, but he didn’t. She’d expected a word of approval … a moment’s conversation about the visit … something, at least. Crossly, she went into the hall.
“Where’s His Grace, Catlett?”
“In the library, I believe, my lady.”
She turned down the corridor to the library at the back of the house. She knocked and marched in.
Tarquin looked up from his newspaper with an air of surprise.
“Did I conduct myself appropriately, my lord duke?” she said with an ironic curtsy.
Tarquin laid down his newspaper and leaned back in his chair. “I have offended you again, I fear. Tell me what I’ve done wrong so that I can correct my faults.”
