Juliana

by Bancroft, Blair

  They were shown into a charming room, elegantly furnished in the style of the late eighteenth century, a fire burning brightly in the fireplace. A commodious bed with silk hangings took up one side of the room, while a comfortable-looking sofa . . .

  No, no, that could not be right. The sofa faced a wall, its back to the bed and the fireplace.

  While Juliana stared at the sofa and an inexplicable panel of burgundy velvet draperies on the wall in front of it—an interior wall unless she was woefully turned around—the majordomo divested them of their cloaks, opened a bottle of champagne, and poured two glasses before backing out of the room and shutting the door behind him.

  “Geoffrey?”

  Her husband offered his most gleaming smile, the one that flashed his perfect white teeth and lit his blue eyes so brightly it seemed to set his blond hair glowing. Dear God, he was breathtaking. “My dear, I thought you might enjoy a new bit of spice. You have been such an apt pupil, you deserve a treat.”

  Juliana’s stomach clenched. Though proud of herself for absorbing Geoffrey’s teachings without a murmur, she was not at all sure she wished to add any new sexual experiences to her repertoire. Surely what she had learned already was quite enough.

  Geoffrey handed her a glass of champagne then moved the bottle and his own glass to a small table beside the sofa. “Come, my dear. Join me and be enlightened.”

  Cautiously, Juliana moved toward the oddly situated sofa, sitting where Geoffrey indicated before he snuggled down beside her with a satisfied sigh. “Ah, delightful. You will be fascinated, my dear, I promise you.” And with that he leaned forward and pulled a cord dangling beside the burgundy velvet draperies. The panels parted with a soft whoosh . . .

  Juliana, who thought she had become inured to almost anything, shrieked. Not a loud shriek but certainly more than a gasp. Horrified, she dropped her gaze to the fingers now white-knuckled in her lap and managed to murmur through lips gone cold, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Truly, Geoffrey, I’m so sorry, but you should have warned me.”

  His eyes twinkled. “I thought to surprise you, my darling, and I see I have. More so than intended, I fear. Mea Culpa. You have done so well these past months, I sometimes forget you are still a green girl. Come, come, don’t be in a pout. Take a good look at what they are doing and then we shall try it.”

  Juliana peeked at the naked couple writhing on a bed visible through a large window set into the wall. Try that? Geoffrey had to be mad. They must be circus performers to attempt such contortions. And how could something so awkward possibly be enjoyable? Watching was bad enough, but emulating what she was seeing . . .

  Impossible. She could not do this.

  “Drink your champagne, my dear,” Geoffrey said, seemingly unperturbed by her reaction. “Perhaps you will find the next couple more to your taste.”

  She did as she was told, for of course there had never been an alternative. And after the third demonstration and her third glass of champagne, it really had not been so difficult to do as Geoffrey asked. He was, after all, her husband, and she did so want to please him.

  Another aspect of pleasing Geoffrey, she had discovered only days after her marriage, was tolerating the constant presence of Darius Wolfe in their lives, his dark, almost brooding good looks such a striking contrast to Geoffrey’s golden glow and unfailing good nature. Not only was Mr. Wolfe Geoffrey’s best friend, he was his man of business, the person who had single-handedly increased the Rivenhall fortune from modest to the stuff of legends. Sometimes she even suspected Geoffrey enjoyed the elegance of the picture they made—he, lithe and blond, Darius dark and sturdy, with herself, gloriously coiffed and gowned, between them. By the first anniversary of their wedding, Juliana had come to consider Darius part of the family. That there could be any more to their relationship never entered her head.

  Not until the evening Geoffrey continued her experiences in voyeurism by pulling back the burgundy velvet curtains to reveal not a couple but a trio, a man with two women. Juliana thought she might be sick. Far from paying attention to the intimate details being played out before her, she immediately substituted Geoffrey for the man writhing beneath the touch of the two women. He’d done this, of course he’d done this. If there was anything of a sexual nature Geoffrey hadn’t tried, surely it must be something practiced only by the Devil himself. And that is all she saw—Geoffrey twisting, turning to accommodate the women’s explorations. Geoffrey sucking a breast here, a cunt there . . .

  No longer the naive bride, Juliana kept her eyes focused on the scene before her. Geoffrey was not, absolutely not, going to know how her stomach roiled, bile rising in her throat. Not even when the scene changed, and now there were two men with one woman. And—oh dear God!—after the men took the woman in what Juliana considered an altogether too aggressive attack on two orifices at once, they relaxed into a leisurely exploration of each other, culminating in a form of sex whose existence even Juliana’s much-enlightened imagination had never before considered. She turned to Geoffrey in horror. Surely men didn’t do that.

  “Just wait,” he whispered, eyes shining, and gave her a squeeze. Clearly, he was as excited as she was appalled.

  Not only did the world of sex include men with men, she soon discovered, but the women from the first demonstration returned without their male companion and proceeded to demonstrate the form of love found on the isle of Lesbos. Or at least that’s what Geoffrey told her. Juliana sat there and watched every sinuous move, her shock mixed with the grim satisfaction that it was impossible to imagine Geoffrey participating in this particular activity.

  Unless he wanted her to . . .

  Over her dead body!

  But of course the evening’s entertainment had a purpose. Geoffrey’s practice of voyeurism always had a purpose. Each time they came to the discreet establishment in Soho, they emulated the positions seen there. Sometimes immediately, amid the silk satin hangings of the room’s voluptuous bed, sometimes not until they went home. Although Juliana could not feel comfortable with Geoffrey’s constant craving for “something new,” she had to admit he was unfailingly kind, gentle, and perfectly charming. And, yes, there were moments when the results had been worth the seemingly absurd contortions.

  The exception had been the demonstrations of bondage and masochism, at which she had drawn the line, refusing to view, let alone participate in. She had gone so far as to flee the room, call for their carriage, and return home alone. Her first triumph in independence. Geoffrey had not pushed her; the matter was never mentioned again, though as the months went by, she grew more and more certain that on the nights he was absent from her side, he was more likely practicing the dark side of sex than visiting a mistress gifted in the more customary talents.

  She should have run this night as well. She knew it. For Geoffrey’s intent was all too clear. Unthinkable! Yet he was going to do it, she knew he was. And, anticipating her protest, he had found an excuse, a maneuver that simply took her breath away.

  “My dear.” He closed the curtains, the room dimming to the light from a single candelabrum. “We have been married a whole year now and no sign of an increase in our family. Not surprising, I fear. For all my experiences since I came to town, I have no little butter-prints to show for it. I fear it’s quite possible I never will.”

  “You mean . . .?”

  “I’m sorry, my dear, truly I am. Females have such a penchant for procreation of the species. That’s why I thought—”

  “No!” Never.

  “But my dear, it’s the perfect solution, and you know how much I enjoy watching.”

  And participating. Just like the trio they’d viewed. Though always the gentleman, Geoffrey would not come right out and say it.

  With an almost avuncular touch, he patted her hand. “Think about it, my dear. A baby, a child of your very own.”

  On the night she had rejected bondage and masochism, Juliana had fully acknowledged that her marriage differed vastly from those of he
r friends. But this? This was adultery. Cheating the laws of inheritance. This was a violation of the Ten Commandments and the law of the land. Of morality, the teachings of both family and church.

  This violated the private moments between husband and wife.

  But she had no doubt about the identity of the man Geoffrey would choose as his surrogate.

  And that made all the difference.

  Chapter Three

  It was Thursday, the day Darius Wolfe always joined them for dinner after an hour closeted with Geoffrey in his study, reviewing the state of the Rivenhall holdings. Or so they said. Now that she was no longer a naive innocent, Juliana sometimes wondered if they were plotting their next sexual adventure or perhaps reminiscing about past erotic explorations.

  But tonight . . . tonight would be different. At breakfast that morning she’d sensed Geoffrey’s barely suppressed excitement. This was it then, the moment she dreaded. The moment that sent her heart racing even as her conscience cried out in horror.

  Would Geoffrey ask her consent? Or present her with a fait accompli, simply having Darius walk into her room and join them? Geoffrey knew, of course, that she was intelligent enough to anticipate his desire, that she would know a demonstration of ménage à trois would soon be followed by actual practice.

  She could not do it.

  It was Darius. Clever, clever Darius, whose smile, for all its cynical overtones, could light up a room. Darius, who openly admired her while never crossing the line. Darius, with whom she frequently exchanged sharp repartee while Geoffrey watched, an indulgent curl to his lips, as if he had set up their sparring for his own personal amusement. As he was now going to . . .

  She had to be mistaken. Geoffrey would never . . .

  He would not share his wife.

  Geoffrey wanted an heir. But surely, if that were the case, he would choose someone closer to his own coloring. Darius with his coal black hair, liquid brown eyes, and solid build could not be a greater contrast to Geoffrey’s blond mane, eyes the color of a still pond in summer, the lithe body of a master fencer.

  Juliana suspected the truth was that Geoffrey was not so far gone in depravity that he would allow anyone but his best friend near his wife. At least she hoped that was true.

  Which hope, later that night, made it none the easier when Geoffrey began to explain the evening’s plan in that perfectly reasonable tone he used when extolling even the most outrageous sexual practice. As if every couple indulged in such ventures, and he was merely furthering her education by handing her this high treat.

  And so began a triumvirate of guilty pleasure, which gradually became Darius and Juliana thoroughly enjoying themselves while Geoffrey watched, the two of them so lost in each other they ceased to notice the voyeur in the wingchair by the fireplace.

  And in the end the only result was guilt. Not so much as a hint of a babe in the three years before Geoffrey met his end one cold morning at Chalk Farm, leaving Juliana with a numbing, horrifying guilt about plunging so far beyond the line of acceptable behavior. As for Darius? He seemed to slough off the guilt, the anguish, just as he dealt with a business deal gone sour. He had done as Geoffrey asked. He had thoroughly enjoyed himself and saw no reason not to continue their relationship after a suitable period of mourning. Or so he told her not a week after the reading of the Will.

  So she shut herself up at Thornhill Manor, banned her amorous man of business from the house, communicating with him only by correspondence. And after much cogitation decided there was a certain irony in using Geoffrey’s money to establish the Aphrodite Academy, a school that “rescued” young women who had made mis-steps in life.

  Oh yes, she would banish female naivety, banish the specter of foolish girls like Juliana Lisbourne. She would create young women skilled in all the arts from educated conversation to superior skills in the bedchamber. Independent females trained to cope with deviant behaviors with aplomb.

  Not like Juliana Rivenhall who still could not believe she had been so agonizingly innocent of the ways of the world.

  And in the hours of planning the school, the many days and night without the presence of a male beyond the gatekeeper at the entrance to Thornhill Manor, she found peace. No Geoffrey, no Darius. Only an ever-nagging guilty conscience.

  For her pupils, she vowed, she would create a better life.

  To no one’s surprise, including her own, Juliana’s exquisitely formal correspondence with her man of business barely outlasted her first year of mourning. The stalemate—one might call it an emotional tug of war—was broken when Darius Wolfe declared that his employer’s plans for creating a school were too complex to deal with by mail. A home truth which Juliana could not refute. They really must meet face to face. Which meant that because of her prohibition against males visiting Thornhill Manor, she must venture into the City, to the offices where Darius and his minions managed the vast holdings that now belonged to Juliana, Lady Rivenhall.

  But when the moment came, her heart beat so wildly as she climbed the stairs to Darius’s office that she was forced to pause on the first landing, gasping for breath. She couldn’t do this. Absolutely could not.

  She had to. Her personal agony would not keep the Aphrodite Academy from being born.

  A bolt of cynicism shot through her, steadying her nerves. Great wealth spawned not only great power but great courage, vulgar as the thought might be. The tumultuous emotions inspired by her man of business would not be allowed to interfere.

  Juliana drew a deep breath and walked through the door. An obsequious secretary escorted her down a corridor, promised to bring tea in a trice, and after announcing her, bustled off at a rapid pace.

  Oh dear God, Darius had grown even more strikingly attractive. Or was it simply that his dashingly dark piratical looks had matured over the past year—seasoned by pain. His grief, after all, was as great as hers. He had lost his best friend.

  For a moment Darius looked as if he might smile, then his lips firmed into a straight line. “My Jewel. If Mahomet cannot come to the mountain . . .” His voice trailed off as he waved her to a chair in front of an imposing desk whose surface was framed in intricate marquetry, then lowered himself into in his finely-upholstered dark blue leather chair.

  Darius had always had exquisite taste, and certainly she paid him enough that he could acquire any bit of luxury he desired. Or perhaps not. It was likely that desk had gone on the company account. Either Geoffrey or she had paid for it. Was that not why Darius was considered one of the most adept men of business in all England?

  Avoiding his steady gaze, Juliana examined the room’s walls, recognizing a landscape by Constable, a seascape by Turner . . . a Venetian scene which was surely the work of Canaletto, a possible Carravagio, a Vermeer, and was that a Rembrandt? Merciful heavens! She arched both brows in his direction.

  “I have not seen you in a year, my Jewel, yet you are wondering who paid for the paintings?” Juliana blushed scarlet and ducked her head. “If you must know, Geoffrey bought every last one of them. When he settled me into this office, I could just about distinguish a child’s nursery sketch from a Van Dyke. He did his best to educate me.” Darius offered a knowing look. “A desire to educate seems to run in the family. I trust the renovations needed for the school are coming along to your satisfaction, even if they required the invasion of a number of males to the premises?”

  “Your arrangements, as always, are impeccable. And kindly refrain from using that ridiculous name.”

  Hell and damnation, if his Jewel stuck her nose any higher in the air, the blasted woman was going to fall over backward. “To me, you are, and always will be, my Jewel.” While she clamped her lips together and glared at him, Darius did a leisurely survey of the love of his life. Though she was on the downhill side of approaching thirty, she was still spectacularly beautiful, with the pale skin and fine bones of an aristocratic lady arranged in a neat oval, marked by a nose just large enough to give her face character. Arched brows, entic
ing lips. She appeared to have done her best to tuck her mane of bronze hair beneath her bonnet, yet he had no difficulty picturing it spread out in all its glory beside him on a pillow. Her eyes were her finest feature. Large, the color of the finest Baltic amber. Now cold and rock hard, but he’d seen them shine with passion, with desire. With fulfillment.

  Oh yes, she was his. But he feared it was going to be an eon before she admitted it. He had erred badly when he spoke to her of love so soon after Geoff’s funeral. Nor had he realized the extent of her guilt over what they had done. Hell and the Devil, you’d think the woman was an Evangelical!

  Cold as a plunge into the North Atlantic, his Jewel’s words penetrated his wandering thoughts. “You are wool-gathering, Mr. Wolfe. I believe we have business to discuss.”

  Not really, but he’d manufactured a crisis or two in order to convince her to come to town. Mr. Wolfe, indeed. Whenever had she called him Mr. Wolfe except on the first night they met? And in the letters exchanged over the past year.

  Keeping his ultimate goal in mind—turning his Jewel up sweet—Darius settled to the business at hand.

  After two more “crises” over the next few weeks, Juliana finally conceded it would be more convenient if he came to her the next time. As long as he confined himself to arriving by boat and using the tunnel up from the river to the Thornhill cellars, which conveniently connected to the cellar beneath the new wing of the house Juliana had built so she would never again sleep in the rooms she and Geoffrey once occupied.

  The following week, as Darius made his way through the damp, low-ceilinged tunnel, the smell of earth and ancient wood filling his nostrils, he smiled. He had his foot in the postern gate and was about to storm the citadel. He thought he understood his Jewel’s reluctance. He also had great confidence in his ability to change her mind.

  Years later, looking back, he would wonder how a man of his experience could have been so blind.