Juliana

by Bancroft, Blair

  Juliana

  by Blair Bancroft

  Published by Kone Enterprises

  at Smashwords

  Copyright 2015 by Grace Ann Kone

  For other books by Blair Bancroft,

  please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

  Chapter One

  Thornhill Manor on the Thames

  Spring 1819

  She was not speaking to Darius.

  Again.

  Juliana, Baroness Rivenhall, sat on a white marble bench in the gardens of Thornhill Manor and gazed across an expanse of lawn toward the traffic on the Thames, now becoming more sparse as dusk approached. She had hoped the beauty and tranquility of the view would soothe her anguish. Instead, her moments of contemplation seemed to have increased her despair from a persistent miasma to an overwhelming flood.

  Holly, the most unlikely graduate in the history of the Aphrodite Academy, had just popped out her third child, a son and heir for her sea captain husband. Belle’s babe, eventual heir to an earldom, had passed his first birthday. And Cecilia? Well, at least she was married, though one could perhaps not go so far as to term her “respectably married.” She was, after all, the wife of Nick Black, the notorious king of London’s Underworld. And not yet a mother. As the months passed with no sign of a baby Black, it was clear Cecy’s natural buoyancy had dimmed a bit.

  And only Juliana could truly understand her anguish. They both wanted a child. But Juliana’s case was far more hopeless. In time a child would come for Cecy. But for a widow who refused to re-marry . . .? A widow who plunged from her honored place in society when she set up a school for courtesans . . .? A widow to whom enough of her upbringing still clung that she stubbornly refused to use Darius for stud service . . .

  Just as she kept refusing his offers of marriage.

  What a quarrel they’d had, not a fortnight ago. It had begun quietly enough, with Darius entering Thornhill Manor—where males were forbidden—in his usual surreptitious manner, slipping through the ancient tunnel from the boathouse to the cellars of the sprawling house constructed in Tudor times. He’d found her slumped on her blue and green brocade sofa, feeling abjectly sorry for herself.

  “Good God, woman, are you still from suffering the glooms?”

  Horrified by his sudden appearance at her moment of weakness, she had pinned him with a glare, hoping the candlelight was dim enough to conceal the desolation ravaging her face. “I saw them in the park today,” she admitted. “Holly and her brood, with the captain driving a fine new barouche.”

  “I hear he’s set up an office for Kincade shipping. His next voyage is to be his last. Royce Kincade, family man. Who would have guessed?”

  “Your bosom friend, Nick Black, it would seem.” Juliana’s sharp retort jabbed through the tension that seemed to fill every moment of their recent meetings.

  “A wiser man than I,” Darius agreed with deceptive gentleness. “For he has managed to marry his love, as have the captain and Ashford. In fact, your students have done remarkably well for themselves, my Jewel. The question is, when do you plan to sample a bit of happiness for yourself?”

  “I am more than content with my life.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Darius murmured “A babe’s the only thing to wipe away that hangdog look. And I know exactly how to go about acquiring one.”

  A shiver rippled up her spine as his quizzical smile dissolved into determined intent. This time, Juliana feared, Darius was not going to take no for an answer.

  This was it then. He would take advantage of her vulnerability, of this low point in her life. He was a man of business, after all. Outstandingly successful because he pounced on the least crack in people’s armor and turned it to his advantage. Why should she be any different?

  Darius Wolfe. She had known him almost as long as she’d known her husband. And for a period of three years, just as intimately.

  More intimately.

  Yet never a child. She often wondered if it was guilt that had kept her barren. For even after she grew accustomed to ménage and Geoffrey’s frequent voyeurism, even when she and Darius had been swept by the heights of passion, she had known what they were doing was wrong. At least, for her it was wrong.

  Somehow, while her thoughts wandered into the past, Darius had whisked her into her bedchamber, his lips were on hers, their bodies pressed so tightly together she could feel his arousal stiffening into rock-hard solidity . . .

  Memories engulfed her. Oh dear God, it was all coming back. The breathlessness, the surge of need, the desire to re-discover every inch of him, to open herself to him. To indulge in passion ’til the sun came up. And perhaps all day tomorrow as well. Losing herself in Darius. Best friend. Lover. Would-be father.

  Darius. The true love she’d thought to find in Geoffrey—before she realized her husband loved the whole world, male and female. That he would forever devote his life to discovering how many he could physically embrace and in how many different ways.

  In a jarring shift of vision, a drift of cool air tumbled her wandering thoughts back to the present. She and Darius were standing between her bed and the door, she stripped down to her chemise, he to his bulging drawers. A delicious warmth drove out her shivers. He had always been deft at peeling off her clothes, though he was clearly finding it more difficult to peel off the protective layers marriage to Geoffrey had forced her to construct.

  But yes—oh dear God—this was Darius. Why had she denied him for so long?

  His dark eyes asked no permission to kiss her, for she was already his. As his lips met hers, he cupped her bottom, pressing her into his erection. Juliana looped her arms around his neck and hung on tight, her head whirling with almost forgotten lust. It had been so long, so agonizingly long.

  And then she saw Geoffrey. Sitting in the wingchair by the fireplace. Twirling a glass of brandy in his fingers. Watching, always watching.

  He could not be there, of course, she knew that. Was that not why she had built this new wing? Geoffrey had never been in this room. And yet she could see him, staring, a smile curling his lips as he watched his best friend make love to his wife. As he’d done so many times before. And enjoyed it, damn him! Reveled in it.

  “No!” Juliana spun away from the mouth that was now suckling her left breast. “I can’t, I can’t! He’s here with us, I can feel him.”

  “Devil it, Jewel, don’t be absurd!” Darius closed the distance she’d put between them, sweeping her back into his arms, holding her tight, almost as if he thought to squeeze such nonsense out of her.

  “I’ll never be free. Never,” she whispered, her lips grazing his bare chest. “I can’t do this, Darius. Not even for a baby.”

  “It’s this house,” he growled. “Come away with me, Jewel. Brighton, the Lake Country . . . Scotland. If you don’t own a property that suits you, we’ll buy a new one. Or we can go to Paris—how would you like that? Or do you have a desire to see the wonders of ancient Greece? Good Lord, girl, you know quite well money is no obstacle. Name the place, a
nd we’ll go—”

  “No.” Flat, uncompromising.

  He took her by the shoulders, shoved her back, examining her face. Her soul. “Jewel, don’t let him do this to you. Geoffrey wasn’t evil, you know that. He couldn’t help the way he was. He might have been your husband, but he has no rights over you now. We’re the ones who are still alive, the ones who have loved each other for so very long. We have to find a way to make this work.”

  “Go away, Darius.” Dull, defeated. Juliana heard herself and cringed. Yet somehow she was powerless to change what was happening.

  “Listen to me, Jewel.” His hands dropped away. He stood tall, dark eyes sparking with a cold fury she had never before seen from him. “I am not an automaton. I may work for you, but I am not your puppet to be forever dangled on a string. I’ve reached the age where the thought of a wife and family holds more than a little appeal. If I cannot have that with you . . .”

  He shrugged. Juliana shivered. He could not possibly mean it. He was hers. Nine years now.

  Six of them apart. Twice as long as they’d been together.

  He was gathering up his clothing, shimmying into his pantaloons, tucking in his shirt, buttoning his vest, shrugging into his jacket. Tugging on his boots, leaving his cravat lying on the carpet, a white splotch against the intricate pattern. A remembrance.

  Remembrance . . . memories. And suddenly in the lowering dusk with a spring breeze off the river nipping at her skin, the last decade of her twenty-nine years played out like the endless drone of a hurdy-gurdy—sprightly, groaning, sad, and frequently out of tune.

  London, 1809

  Lady Juliana Lisbourne stood stock still in the narthex of St. George’s in Hanover Square. The sunlight streaming in through the large stained glass window at the end of the long aisle seemed to dazzle her, her mind whirling into chaos, a jumble of blurred images. She knew the church was overflowing with guests, the balconies as full as the pews below, the garments of the ladies doing their best to outshine the church’s magnificent panels of colored glass. She knew Geoffrey was standing at the far end of the aisle, his best friend Darius Wolfe at his side. The priest must be there too, but somehow her vision blurred, and it all swam together in a shifting kaleidoscope of images which refused to be still.

  A strong hand gripped her arm. “Juliana, my dear, it’s time.” Her father, the Earl of Dunston, inclined his head toward the waiting guests. Toward the usher poised to signal the organist to begin the processional on the more than a thousand pipes directly above her head. Toward Geoffrey. Charming, handsome, simply splendid Baron Geoffrey Rexford Rivenhall, “catch” of the Season of 1809. Hers. Unbelievably hers. If she could stop shaking and convince her feet to move. He must be thinking her a complete ninny, standing there frozen in place when the cream of the ton was here, waiting to see her become the Baroness Rivenhall.

  A great burst of sound from overhead. The usher must have thought Papa’s nod was the signal to begin. Dear God, she was about to be married!

  The audience rose, a sea of eyes turned toward her. “Now, Juliana!” Her father stepped forward, taking her with him.

  Later she would wonder how she could have been so naive. How could she have believed her mother when she assured her a gap of twelve years of age and experience would make no difference, that her husband would teach her all she needed to know.

  Poor Mama. How could she possibly imagine . . .?

  The wedding, the wedding breakfast would forever be a blur. Not so Juliana’s wedding night. Geoffrey was as charming, thoughtful, and as gentle as her mama had promised. And amused. Yes, that was the right word, Juliana thought the next morning as she sat blushing and alone among her pillows. He’d been so kind, impeccably well-mannered, of course. Yet somehow, with each word, each touch, each head-swirling intimacy, she had become more and more convinced that he had taken a bride on a whim and now that he had her, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with such an innocent. In fact, the amusement she sensed might well be at himself. No, that could not be true. It had to be her complete lack of bed skills he found amusing. She was not, after all, so innocent she did not know Geoffrey had indulged himself in more than a decade’s worth of London’s most adept high-flyers.

  Yet ignorant as she was, Juliana sensed something had been missing last night. But Mama had warned her that love and passion did not mysteriously engulf the bedchamber simply because a couple had said their vows. Naturally, one hoped those emotions would develop as a couple became better acquainted, but truthfully—Mama had heaved a sigh—few marriages were so blessed.

  “But I adore him, Mama. He is truly splendid.”

  “Yes, my darling, but I don’t think innocents are quite Lord Rivenhall’s cup of tea.”

  “I will learn. I will show him how much I love him!”

  “Of course, child.” Her mother paused for a moment, her gaze fixed inward. “Juliana, I had hoped to avoid this topic, but perhaps it is best if I . . .” Her voice trailed off, as she considered her words. “I know you understand that when men reach a certain age, they feel they must marry in order to carry on the line. Love is seldom involved—”

  “But, Mama, Geoffrey is so attentive, everything I could ask for.”

  “Indeed, my dear, but that is not love. No, no, no protests. Now that I am embarked on this path, I beg you to be quiet and listen.” For a moment her mother shut her eyes, her bosom heaving as she drew a deep breath. “You are already aware,” she said at last, “that for many men marriage does not mean giving up their mistresses. Wives are for children, mistresses for pleasure. It is the way of the world. That does not mean,” her mama added hastily, “that there is no pleasure in marriage. Quite the opposite, in fact.” Mama blushed quite prettily before firming her features to a determined frown. “Your father accepted Lord Rivenhall’s offer because he is a charming, wealthy, titled gentleman, and because you find him attractive, but he also warned me that your Geoffrey is a man of—I believe your father used the word eclectic—passions. In other words, you would be foolish to expect Geoffrey to make you the sole object of his affections.”

  The warning had, of course, gone over Juliana’s head. Her adored Geoffrey could do no wrong. But along with being amused last night, had he possibly suffered from ennui? Only a small modicum, of course. Yet somehow she had gotten the impression part of him was elsewhere. Or wishing he was elsewhere.

  And the first soft knell to the ideal marriage she had dreamed of whispered through her head.

  Chapter Two

  There was no one Juliana could ask. No one to whom she dared say, “Are all marriages like this? Does your husband . . .?”

  Even the thought of hinting at the things Geoffrey was teaching her sent a scarlet blush of mortification from the tips of Juliana’s toes to the top of her scalp. Because intuition whispered no, it was not normal for ton couples to engage in such scandalous activities in the bedchamber. Was that not what Mama meant when she said mistresses were to be tolerated because they provided gentlemen with services not to be expected at home?

  Well, Mama had been wrong. At least as far as Geoffrey was concerned. He had explored every inch of his bride, with his lips and tongue as well as his hands. And insisted she do the same with him. And truly, even if Juliana found some of those moments quite shocking, she was willing to learn, for she was anxious to engage Geoffrey’s full attention, make him happy. Was that not what all brides wished to do?

  And besides—once again heat infused her body, flooding her with an arousal she had not known existed mere weeks ago—Geoffrey was also teaching her the extreme pleasures of intimacy. And in spite of moments of unease at some new facet of loving and being loved, she liked it. There, she’d said it! She enjoyed pleasing Geoffrey, and she enjoyed his highly skillful and infinitely varied efforts to please her.

  Well, most of the time.

  And then he introduced her to the books he kept in a locked cabinet. And she discovered where Geoffrey acquired some of his ideas, thoug
h common sense told her his talents as a lover was also due to much practice. Something she must accept, of course. He was, after all, twelve years older than she. And male. Which gave him license to do all manner of shocking things, of which no properly brought up young lady had so much as an inkling.

  Which no properly brought up female should ever know.

  Yet she did. And six months into her marriage Juliana could only feel sorry for friends who blushed and stammered as they confided secrets of their very tame marriage beds, confirming her suspicions that her own marriage was far from the usual.

  But Geoffrey was slipping away. Knowing him better now, she could sense more clearly the vague ennui he had shown on his wedding night. Although she was hurt by his failure to give her the eager and focused attention she longed for, she cared enough to understand that she alone would never be enough fro him. She even began to wonder if a mistress might be the solution to her husband’s more creative desires.

  The last thing Juliana suspected was that her lessons had only begun.

  One winter night, Geoffrey, looking smug, ordered their carriage into the dark streets of Soho, a part of London Juliana had never seen, although it was occasionally whispered of by some of the ton’s most daring matrons. When their carriage rolled to a stop in front of a well-kept townhouse that had likely been a fine gentleman’s home in the previous century, she wondered if Geoffrey had brought her to a private gaming establishment. But as the majordomo, who somehow managed to be both stately and obsequious, escorted them to a chamber on second floor, the house was strangely silent. Instead of the excited hum of avid gamesters, there was no sound other than the tread of their feet on the carpeted stairs.

  Juliana shivered. There was something she could not like about this place.