A Tale of Two Lovers (11 page)
Gentleman Jack’s
Bond Street, London
W
hat would she write next?
The question had consumed him for hours, for days. And now that he had the answer . . .
He’d been boxing at Gentleman Jack’s for two hours now, and still Roxbury—sweaty, aching, and angry—raised his bruised fists, ready for another round.
Ever since their remarkably unusual, entertaining, and—dare he say it—pleasant afternoon together at White’s, of all places, Roxbury had dared to hope Lady Somerset would not write something completely cruel, libelous, and otherwise horrendous.
She did.
He had dared to hope that his small acts of kindness to the evil woman—driving her home, not utterly exposing her at White’s, or at all—would soften her heart and temper her poisonous pen. But no, she was a cold, heartless broad that would take any scrap of information and twist it around so that the bored, idiotic hordes in London would have some little tidbit to enjoy over a pot of tea.
After days of wondering what she might write, he finally knew.
Unfortunately, during those days in which he awaited her latest column, his thoughts of Julianna were not focused exclusively on her writing.
His mind strayed to the inevitable . . . Julianna in various states of undress (and it was women’s dresses he imagined removing from her—
dresses
, thank you very much—one button, scrap of lace and stay at a time).
Roxbury knew that her kiss was a tortured mix of restraint and abandon, of innocence and experience. He wanted another taste. He just plain wanted her naked in his bed. He wanted her defenseless and in his power, and he wanted to
know
her.
If what she wrote was any indication, these were delights he would never, ever know.
“Oy, Roxbury! Did you come for a fight, or something else?” a young buck scoffed, adding a smirk at his own “wit.” It was the sort just down to London after their first year at university, full of bravado, still learning to hold their liquor, losing at cards and the bane of many a woman. They were the ones that most delighted in taunting Roxbury with those rumors Lady Somerset had started.
Roxbury’s store of patience with this sort was infinitesimal.
With blood at a low rolling boil, Simon raised his fists and narrowed his eyes. The fool accepted the invitation to fight.
They stood opposite, with fists raised and at the ready.
Roxbury would never admit it to anyone, but he felt the stirring of feelings for Lady Somerset. Those messy, inconvenient, confusing things that led to all manner of desperate behavior and heartache.
Feelings were no stranger to him. While most of his lovers were, admittedly, casual flings, he did have some passionate affairs of the heart. Those had sparked instantly and burned out quickly.
But this slow, smoldering interest in Lady Somerset was troubling because it was based on learning her rather than a sudden explosion of attraction, a passionate indulgence, and an interest that faded swiftly. All this, when by all rights he ought to despise her.
Around and around he and his opponent circled, fists at the ready. The buck had a vaguely familiar face, but he couldn’t place it, or attach a name. His opponent, whoever he was, attempted a jab to Roxbury’s jaw, which was easily evaded. Apparently, they were not playing by gentlemen’s rules.
It was something about the way she strolled into White’s dressed as a man, yet still accepted his hand when alighting the carriage. It was the sharp twists and turns of their conversation that were so enthralling that he forgot about ogling her . . . almost.
She had a marvelous figure, that Lady Somerset. Too bad she kept it covered.
In short, she appealed to both his brain and body. She might have been the first one to do so, and he couldn’t remember a face or a name of one of his previous women. Only Julianna came to mind.
Roxbury’s fists burned, and sweat beaded on his forehead but brushing it away wasn’t worth the risk. Another jab evaded, another blow avoided.
This thing he felt about her was new, even though he was a renowned lover of women. He loved loving them, he enjoyed their company and delighted in bedding them. But when it came to an attachment beyond physical desire—well, that was uncharted territory that he did not intend to travel.
Of course, he also intended that he should never marry.
His fist shot out, blocking a potential blow from his opponent.
That damned ultimatum . . . it hung over his head like a blade from a guillotine. The clock ticked, the days passed, the sweat dripped into his eyes and his heart pounded.
All the while, his hands were bound, rendering him powerless, frustrated, and hopeless. He couldn’t honor that damned ultimatum even if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to.
Another punch blocked, another light step out of range, again dodging the onslaught.
Roxbury did not want to lose by default, either. He was a proud man, a wealthy aristocratic man. He did not passively accept his lot, but forged his fate with his bare hands and force of will.
Even if a woman did everything she could to destroy him. At the thought of her, and his fate, and the image of the guillotine and her voice—by God, her voice—reciting her latest “Fashionable Intelligence,” Roxbury’s blood hit the boiling point and spilled over.
His fist shot out, sure, quick, and steady. It landed solidly in his opponent’s gut. The man doubled over, breathless, and then collapsed.
That’s how he felt when he’d read Lady Somerset’s latest column.
He thought of it now and heard it again in her voice. It was the sound of betrayal:
Lord R— was seen obviously enjoying the company of his ‘cousin’ from Shropshire—a fetching young man, by all accounts—at White’s, where they spoke at length in a private tête-à-tête over the wager book.
And the contents of that wager book? Dear readers, I am delighted to share . . .
Roxbury’s house, the study
Later that evening . . .
W
ith a brandy in his very bruised hand, Roxbury dwelled upon the rest of the bad news—there was more, beyond Julianna’s column once again depicting him as having a taste for men, and now
young
men! He shuddered.
Though he knew they were not, it seemed as if Lady Somerset, the Man About Town, and his own damned father seemed to be conspiring against him.
The Times
featured another tell-all from a courtesan whom he had not, in fact, bedded. Between these two gossip columns he had reportedly tupped most of London—female
and
male. He was exhausted just reading about it.
The Man About Town also reported the following:
Lady Hortensia Reeves was overheard saying of Lord R—, his lovers, and the rumors: she didn’t care who, what, where, when, how, he bedded; she would have him as her husband any day.
He still had options: he could marry Lady Hortensia Reeves, secure his fortune, and carry on with his affairs while his wife pined away for him. All of her property—those collections of dung beetles, bottle caps, embroidery samples, four-leaf clovers, and assorted house pets—would become his.
The thought made his stomach churn—though not as much as the letter he received from his father.
The old man was writing from Bath, where he and the countess were visiting with relations and taking the waters. Rumors were reaching them about Roxbury’s exploits, but the earl still expected him to tie the knot by the end of the week—or accept the consequences.
Seven days. He had a mere seven days to determine his fate.
It was tempting to say to hell with the ultimatum. With some concessions to frugality and economization, living off of the income from his own small estate was possible.
Here he paused, thoughtful, took a sip of his drink, and began to pace in his study, which was one of two rooms in his house that had not been violated by an angry ex-mistress.
The temptation to refuse marriage, to refuse to be manipulated, to refuse to participate in this ultimatum was more than great. It was a seductive, empowering course of action he didn’t know why he hadn’t thoroughly considered earlier.
He would not need to marry Lady Hortensia Reeves. He would not need to marry anyone.
He could afford to laugh off Lady Julianna’s column and wait for the ton to forget. In time, they would. And, in time, he would inherit—that was a given. Until then, he would just make do with a little less and live on credit. That was not as horrendous a prospect as it had been before.
His pulse began to quicken. He hadn’t been desperate enough to consider this earlier, but now that he was—
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” he barked. It was Timson, his valet, who was discrete (had never uttered a word about his master publicly), and unflappable (never batted an eyelash when Roxbury returned the next morning in clothing that had spent the better portion of the night crumpled on the floor in a lady’s bedchamber).
He was also anything but subservient.
It was as appalling as it was fiendishly amusing.
“My lord. Will you be needing to dress for the ball at Lord and Lady Rathdonnell’s tonight?” Timson asked.
“Rathdonnell? Ball?” Roxbury echoed. It’d been some time since an invitation graced his home.
“You had replied favorably to the hostess when she sent her invitations out.”
“When was that?”
“A few weeks ago,” Timson said with a shrug.
“Ah. Before.”
Timson wisely elected not to say anything. Like anyone else, he read the papers.
“Well, I don’t know if I shall attend,” Roxbury said grandly, sipping his brandy. Since he might not take a wife after all, that certainly negated any reason for him to go.
Yet, a glance around the study at the fire in the grate and all the fine things gave him second thoughts.
Timson leaned against the doorframe, utterly bored.
“The invitation has not been revoked, which suggests that Lady Rathdonnell is half hoping that I will come if only to provide amusement for her guests and fodder for the gossip columns.”
Timson sighed.
“However, I also ought to take a wife, quickly.”
Timson raised an eyebrow. He was not aware of the ultimatum shadowing his master’s life. Should he refuse to comply? Choose poverty? He was not yet certain.
“Lord knows there are not any potential wives for me lying around the house.”
“Aye, that there ain’t.”
“Are not,” Roxbury corrected. “Yet, given my precarious social standing at the moment, and my experiences of the past week, I cannot expect that any sort of decent female would acknowledge me at the ball, were I to attend.”
Other than Lady Hortensia Reeves or, possibly, Julianna. Both women were reasons to consider disregarding that damned ultimatum.
Back and forth, he paced, pausing only to occasionally take a sip.
“It’s not a simple matter, Timson.”
To his valet, it was just an issue of whether or not to attend a party. To Roxbury, this was somehow his future. To adhere to the ultimatum, or not? Poverty or matrimony? Subservience to his father, or the master of his own destiny?
While Roxbury paced and debated a decision that was now taking on epic proportions, Timson brushed imaginary lint off his jacket.
“Can you not even pretend to care?” Roxbury demanded.
“If you paid me more,” his servant drawled.
“No other employer would tolerate such insubordination. You know that, do you not?”
“Aye, my lord,” Timson said with a grin.
God only knew where Timson came from. He had been a valet for one of Roxbury’s old Oxford friends who had no tolerance for his servant’s surly, insubordinate attitude and fired him. Roxbury had found Timson vastly amusing, so he hired him.
“As I was saying . . .” Roxbury carried on before he was cut off.
“You were saying that you can’t decide if you are going to the ball tonight because you are not certain of anyone acknowledging you. You are also making the error of presuming that I care. I only wish to know if you need proper evening attire, or if you are going to drink yourself into a stupor at home in your shirtsleeves.”
“Well, when you phrase it like that, Timson, my course of action is clear.”
Three hours later
At Lord and Lady Rathdonnell’s ball
I
t was abundantly clear that Roxbury’s reputation had sunk to outrageously low levels when London’s most notorious talker, Lady “Drawling” Rawlings, put her nose in the air and refused to look him in the eye as she passed by without uttering a word.
The only person who deigned to speak to him was Lady Stewart-Wortly, and that was solely for the purposes of attempting to convert him and, more likely, causing a scene that would land in the papers, thus gaining publicity for her book,
Lady Stewart-Wortly’s Daily Devotional.
“I fear for your soul, Roxbury,” she said earnestly, clutching his palm to her chest, ever-so-slightly north of her bosoms. How tragic that lately the closest he’d come to a woman’s breast was that of this overbearing evangelizing matron.
Roxbury thought of Julianna’s marvelous breasts, and the way they swelled above the bodice of her gowns. His mouth went dry and he sipped his champagne. It went without saying that he would much rather have his hands pressed to Julianna’s.
“Your God-given, eternal, immortal soul,” Lady Stewart-Wortly pressed on. As she thought of his soul, he thought of a woman’s breasts. That made him grin.
“Thank you for your concern, madam,” he replied, extricating his hand. “You need not worry yourself. I am not concerned in the slightest.”
Her brow furrowed, considering his lack of worry about his eternal salvation and other weighty matters. Roxbury took a sip of champagne, nodded, and began to walk away.
“But—” she began.
“Worry leads to wrinkles,” he murmured with a suggestive nod, and her hand flew up to touch the fine lines in her forehead. Then Lady Stewart-Wortly recalled her reputation for deriding vanity and other earthly concerns.
“It is not only you, of course, but young people today!” she carried on. He winced as he recognized her sermon voice booming forth. ‘There is an epidemic of wild and unchristian behavior!”
She adopted the tone and volume of a preacher and carried on about the morals of the youth today, of ladies led astray by novel reading, and of gentlemen engaged in all manner of debauchery.
“I wish,” Roxbury muttered under his breath. He scanned the ballroom for Lady Somerset’s telltale auburn hair and statuesque figure.
Lady Stewart-Wortly added that surely he was well aware of the evils she spoke of.
“Unfortunately, madam, of late I have not had even the passing acquaintance with evil or even the merely naughty. I intend to rectify that as soon as possible,” he answered, and grinned when Lady Stewart-Wortly’s complexion took on the hue of an eggplant.
Those nearby—Wilcox, Count Forsque, and Lady Walmsly among them—were listening with varying levels of discretion. Lord Walpole strolled away, apparently bored, and asked a young lady to waltz.
Roxbury downed his champagne, wished he could do the same, accepted another drink from a passing footman, and entertained his own inner dialogue.
It’s not true!
he wanted to bellow
. I am not the sinner you think I am.
I love women—I love making love to women.
“Such behavior is an affront to all that is sacred,” Lady Stewart-Wortly persisted. She clutched his arm so that he could not leave. Again, he looked for Julianna; somehow this scene was all her fault and he wanted to complain to her about it—preferably in a dark, secluded place where the ranting might turn to something equally passionate, though much more romantic.
Nothing is as sacred to me as the pleasure between a man and a woman.
That was his church; that was the altar at which he worshipped.
“We have a duty to refuse temptation and to deny the fleeting pleasures they afford,” she insisted in a bellow that disturbed the gossipy, trivial, and pleasant conversations in the vicinity.
Life was too short to deny exquisite, earthly pleasures like the smile of a beautiful woman; her sigh when a man touched her just right; waking up with a woman’s head resting on your chest; lovemaking in the morning, or afternoon, or night.
Or a sweet, private glance in a crowded room, of the heightened senses at the start of a new love affair, of soulful pleasure of a good, deep, passionate kiss with a woman on the verge of utter abandon.
Roxbury was not sure which woman he was angrier at—Lady Somerset for penning the fateful words that cast him out of his heaven or Lady Stewart-Wortly for publicly taking him to task for a supposed crime he did not commit, and for the purpose of championing her own cause, namely God, Christianity and above all,
Lady Stewart-Wortly’s Daily Devotional for Pious and Proper Ladies
.
Roxbury downed the rest of his champagne in one long, defiant swallow.
“I am praying for you, Roxbury,” Lady Stewart-Wortly said earnestly, with her enormous bosom heaving.
A dozen rude thoughts crossed his mind. In the end, he suggested that she save her prayers for things that actually mattered more than idle good-for-nothing rakes, like starving children or destitute widows. The list could go on, but he left it at that. The point had been made.
A
s the Man About Town waltzed with a young, talkative debutante, he listened for something useful to his column. Young girls never knew what to keep private, especially the ones on their first year out. It was almost embarrassing how indiscrete they were.
Lady Charlotte Brandon was full of outrageous tales, but not one of them containing any sort of printable, verifiable gossip. Instead, he kept an eye on Roxbury who was stuck listening to one of Lady Stewart-Wortly’s tirades. He couldn’t hear, but he could see her posture, and it was that of a preacher in full swing. As the girl chattered on about some Miss Millicent Strangle or Strange or something, the Man About Town composed the item for the next column in his head.
Seen at a party: Lord R— drinking heavily while suffering through one of Lady S—W—’s tirades against debauchery, vice, pleasure, and other enjoyable activities worth living for. (We know you are reading this, Lady S— W—!). Our hats go off to Lord R— for managing to endure her for a record ten minutes. On behalf of gossips everywhere, we hope her efforts at reform are unsuccessful.