A Tale of Two Lovers (5 page)

Chapter 7

“G
ood evening, Roxbury,” Julianna said smoothly, as if he did not affect her in the slightest. As if she wasn’t backed up against a pillar with his towering, angry form looming over her. As if her heart wasn’t pounding.

Yes, the man had a strange effect upon her, one that she did not care to explore. Part of it was certainly that gnawing guilt; part might have been attraction but she would be damned before she admitted to that. She thought it wise to keep this conversation short and light, and then make a quick escape.

“Lady Somerset,” he murmured her name this time, and his lips curved into a slight smile as he gazed down at her. It was altogether too clear how he had seduced so many women. A half smile, a name murmured so it sounded like a caress. She would not fall for that. She would
not
.

“I trust you are enjoying yourself this evening,” she said lightly.

“I most certainly am not.” The smile vanished and his expression hardened.

If only he would just go away! She could more easily ignore him and her guilty feelings about this scandalous situation. Knightly, near death’s door. Roxbury, an overnight social pariah. All of it her fault.

Fortunately, social murder was not a hanging offense.

Her every instinct, however, urged her to keep her guard up around Roxbury. Men like him were trouble. She knew that all too well. Often, she made sure the ladies of London knew it, too, so they might not suffer the same as she had done.

“Perhaps you’d enjoy yourself more if you were engaged elsewhere, in other pursuits,” she suggested. Perhaps she could irk him into quitting her company.

“Witty, aren’t you?” he remarked, seemingly at ease, but she saw the tension in his jaw.

Then Roxbury smiled once more, and in a way that made her insides quake. He pressed one hand on the pillar behind her head, and leaned in. Her cheeks flushed and her lips parted of their own volition. He smiled triumphantly.

“I might enjoy myself this evening after all,” he murmured.

Trouble, indeed.

“Not with the likes of me,” she said, ducking under his arm and slipping away. The last time a man had that effect on her, she married him. She’d been a nitwit of seventeen. She was older and wiser now.

Life with Somerset had been full of teachable moments and lessons learned the hard way. First: flirts, rakes, rogues, and charming men of all sorts are not to be trusted, especially when they smile at a girl so that her pulse begins to quicken and her cheeks turn pink.

The nearest escape from the ballroom was just ahead, so Julianna quickly exited through the double doors only to find herself in a long, empty gallery. Portraits of dead ancestors gazed down upon her in a dark, barely lit chamber. She shuddered.

It was a stupid direction to take. She hadn’t been thinking. But now there was no escape.

Heavy, male footsteps echoed behind her. After a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw Roxbury pursuing her through the shadows.

“You’re following me,” she said. What had she been thinking about older and wiser? Perhaps she spoke too soon. She had to attend this party for her column, but she didn’t think he would dare. She certainly never considered he would wish to speak to her.

“You are leading me on a merry chase. You do know how men love a chase.” Roxbury continued to walk toward her.

The instinct to run was great. To be here, alone, with the likes of him could not possibly lead to anything good. Instead, with some idea of bravery, Julianna stood her ground and turned to face him.

“I confess I don’t know what men love. A woman thinks it’s this, when it’s actually that . . .” She added a little shrug of her shoulders. Her heart pounded. She could not stop provoking him, dangerous as it was.

“Enough of the insinuations, Lady Somerset.” His voice carried a whisper of a threat as he took one step toward her. She took one step back. “I can’t fathom why you hold the opinion of me that you do. We’d never even met before yesterday.”

Yes, but she was well aware of him, that he was like Somerset and that other women mustn’t make the same foolish and uninformed decisions she had.

“That was not exactly a proper introduction,” she replied coolly, standing her ground as he walked closer to her, stopping only inches away.

“You’re not exactly a proper lady,” Roxbury said in a low voice that sent shivers down her spine.

Her hand itched to slap him, but she didn’t dare. It was dark, and she was alone with a strong, angry man. It was all well and good to spar with him in the ballroom or in Knightly’s office, but in seclusion it seemed much more dangerous.

Fear: that was why her pulse was quick and her nerves at attention. It certainly wasn’t excitement or anything of the sort. Definitely not an attraction, or so she told herself.

“I would think that is an insulting overture, if I did not know your preferences better,” she said quickly. Fear made her speak faster, to match the pace of her racing heart. Fear made her speak more boldly than she ought to.

“You’re mistaken to think you’re safe with me, Lady Somerset,” Roxbury said, and the warning tone of his voice was unmistakable, sending another shiver up and down her spine. Good God, what was happening to her?

“Am I?” she asked with a nervous laugh. “Well, then I ought to go. If you’ll excuse me.”

She walked away with only one thought:
escape
. She exited through the nearest doors, which unfortunately led to a conservatory. She swore under her breath. The room was too romantic, too secluded, too . . . lovely and wonderful.

A glass domed ceiling allowed the moonlight through to shine upon luscious plants and fragrant flowers. Lord Walmsly was a renowned collector of exotic plants from all over the world. Hundreds were in bloom now. The air was warm, fragrant. She could hear the sound of a burbling fountain and of Roxbury’s footsteps pounding on the slate floor.

Ever since he’d stormed into the office, she’d been so very unsettled. When trying to sleep, she could not banish the image of his laughing, smiling face. It wasn’t the way he looked at
her
, but the way he was around every other woman in London—the ones he liked, or fancied. When she finally slept, he haunted her dreams, with charming, roguish smiles meant for her. She’d woken up feverish.

Since then, her appetite had diminished. Any hour of the day found her jittery with some sort of nervous energy she could not control. At this moment, she was a bundle of nerves, and sincerely regretting drinking champagne on an empty stomach. She was not feeling quite like herself.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, exasperated now, and pausing next to a small potted orange tree. Roxbury stopped before her and folded his arms across his chest.

“I want you, Lady Somerset, as the Lady of Distinction to apologize publicly and print a retraction. I want you to tell all of London that you were mistaken.”

In other words, confess to being a liar. Her pride would not allow it.

“My reputation for yours? The damage is already done. Why take me down with you?”

“Oh, my dear Lady Somerset . . .” He laughed and the sound echoed around the conservatory. She worried that someone might hear them, but then she recalled that they were very much alone, and quite far from the ballroom. Instead she worried someone might stumble upon them.

“I am not your dear lady.”

“No, that you are not.” His comment somehow made it an insult. As if she was not fit company for his harem. Her lips pursed, spinsterish.

“I understand that you are angry,” she said, switching tactics and trying to reason with him. Roxbury laughed, and this time it was a bitter sound.

“
Angry
does not begin to describe it. What I am experiencing is a potent and seething mixture of outrage, fury, and indignation. For the first time in my life, I have a nearly unquenchable urge to throttle a woman.”

Julianna smiled faintly.

Roxbury carried on, circling her as he paced. “I love women. If I am going to make a woman scream, it won’t be from violence, but from earth-quaking, soul-shattering, life-altering pleasure.”

She wished to fan herself, but would melt completely before giving him the satisfaction of knowing that his words affected her thusly. Aye, she hoped the moonlight disguised the deep flush of crimson in her cheeks. She did not know that kind of pleasure, but she did not doubt him capable of it.

“Tell them you were mistaken,” he carried on. “You know it as well as I do that I was caught with a woman, with Jocelyn Kemble, to be exact, still in costume from her performance that evening.”

He stopped before her, and leveled a stare, as if daring her to disobey, which, of course, meant that she had to. And given the fact that he’d just made her very hot and definitely bothered by all that talk of pleasure meant that she had to do something to destroy any chance of experiencing it, particularly with him. That was the road to ruin, and she’d traveled it already.

“There was one woman dressed in breeches backstage, and over a dozen men. The odds are not in your favor,” she pointed out. Somerset had always said she was tenacious to a fault.

At the moment, she desperately wanted to believe the rumors her column had started. For if they were not true . . . then she was alone, with a devilishly handsome man who made her warm and her knees weak, and who might, at any moment, either murder her or seduce her.

“You are stubborn, maddening, illogical, and infuriating,” Roxbury grumbled, and she saw his hands ball into fists.

“I am a lady,” she retorted, as she stepped behind a voluminous potted fern.

“Exactly. That’s what I said,” Roxbury said, following her. She gasped. He grinned.

“I do not wish for my readers to think me inconsistent, or that I spread falsehoods.” She backed up, and some large potted plant stopped her progress.

“But you do,” he insisted. “Don’t make me prove it to you, Lady Somerset.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t dare.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized he probably would. If he was anything like her, a dare was never resisted.

“Oh?” he murmured, lifting one brow.

Her lips, against her will, parted to whisper
“Oh.”

Oh, hell and damnation, she was in trouble now.

Roxbury’s palms closed upon her cheeks and she gasped. Few thoughts flashed across her brain: Roxbury. Rake. Somerset. Kiss. Ruin. Must stop.

Julianna protested by slapping her palms against his chest, as if to push him away. He only transferred his grip to her wrists, pressing them close to his heart. His chest was warm and firm under her palms and Lord above, she wanted to smooth her hands across his chest, exploring, owning.

Julianna watched his lips curve into a mocking smile, as if he could read her thoughts. As if he knew she wanted to indulge but would die before admitting it. Given that he was a legendary seducer, it was not impossible.

Instead, she gripped the fabric of his shirt and glared fiercely into his eyes. His gaze was equally dark, intense, and violent. Just when she thought he might ruthlessly shove her away, Roxbury lowered his mouth to hers.

Roxbury wanted to strangle her; he kissed her instead. The minute his lips collided against hers the violence of his anger transformed into pure, raw passion and he feared he might ravish the she-devil right here, against a potted fern in Walmsly’s conservatory.

She murmured in something like protest or pleasure. He felt it all over.

It went without saying that he had enjoyed many a kiss, with many a woman. This one was different. Was it the anger? Was it the challenge? Was it just the moonlight and the brandy he’d drunk earlier in the evening? Or was it perhaps how staunchly opposed she was to him and how quickly she had surrendered to him?

Aye, he could feel her melting under his touch.

Julianna knew better. Julianna thought
stop.
She thought to say no, to insist he quit, to demand an apology. Yet a surge of heat coursed through her as Roxbury impelled her to open to him, and not gently, either. She, who loved to disobey just because she could, did just the opposite. Julianna’s brain shouted in outrage; her body sent up a prayer of thanks.

Roxbury’s mouth was hot on hers, and his tongue expertly tangling with hers. He released his grasp on her wrists only to snake his arms around her waist and press her against him, and Julianna gasped as she felt the hot, hard length of him. She thought there was nothing,
nothing
, like this intimacy with a man, even if he was a completely disputable cad. Julianna had forgotten it. The memory came crashing back and she was powerless against it.

Again, she moaned. This time, he groaned.

Push him away.
Her fists closed even more tightly around his shirt fabric.

Push him away.
Her brain issued the command, and yet she pulled him closer.

Vaguely, she recalled that she despised him, and men of his ilk. But then her best intentions took their leave of her, along with her wits, good judgment, and common sense.