Vice (12 page)

J
uliana, do you care to come for a walk with us?” Miss Deborah popped her head around Juliana’s door. “Lucy and I are going to the milliner’s. I have to match some rose-pink ribbon. Do come.”

“I have the impression I’m not permitted to leave the house,” Juliana said. It was noon on the day after her presentation in the drawing room, and she hadn’t stirred from her chamber since parting from the Duke of Redmayne. The house had been quiet as usual throughout the morning, but in the last hour it had come to life, and Juliana had sat in her room waiting for something to happen.

“Oh, but Mistress Dennison told me to ask you,” Deborah said in genuine surprise. “She said an airing would do you good.”

“I see.” Juliana rose. This was an unexpected turn of events. She had expected to be more, rather than less, confined after her conduct the previous evening. “How kind of her. Then let’s go.”

Deborah looked a little askance at Juliana’s dress. She was back in the simple servant’s muslin. “Should you perhaps change?”

Juliana shrugged. “That might be a little difficult, since I
have nothing but what I’m wearing and the gown I wore last night.”

Deborah was clearly nonplussed, but before she could say anything, Bella bobbed up beside her in the doorway. “Mistress sent me up with this gown, miss, fer yer walk. I’nt it pretty?” She held up a gown of bronze silk. “An’ there’s a shawl of Indian silk to go with it.”

“Oh, how lovely.” Deborah felt the gown with an expert touch. “The finest silk, Juliana.” She sighed enviously. “His Grace must have spent a pretty penny. Bridgeworth is generous enough, of course, but I often have to remind him. And it’s so uncomfortable to have to do that, don’t you agree?” She looked inquiringly at Juliana, who was hard-pressed to find a response that wouldn’t offend Deborah but that would express the truth.

“I haven’t yet found myself in that position,” she said vaguely, taking the gown from Bella. The silk flowed through her hands like water. She glanced toward the open window. The sun poured through. How long had it been since she’d been outside? Days and days. She was in London, and she’d seen nothing of it but the yard of the Bell in Cheapside, and the street beneath this window. If she had to take the duke’s gown to leave her prison, then so be it.

“Help me, Bella.”

Deborah perched on the end of the bed as Bella eagerly helped Juliana into the underpetticoat and hoop she’d worn the previous evening before dropping the bronze silk gown over her head. “’Ow shall I do yer ’air, miss?”

“It’s more subdued today,” Juliana said, unable to hide the uplift of her spirits at the thought of being out in the sunshine. “If you pin it up securely, it should stay in place.”

Bella did as asked, then arranged the shawl of delicate cream silk over Juliana’s shoulders. She stepped back, nodding her approval. Juliana examined herself in the glass. The bronze was a clever complement to her own coloring. Again she reflected that someone knew exactly what would flatter her. Did the Duke of Redmayne make the decisions?
Or did he provide the money and leave the choice to Mistress Dennison?

Panic fluttered suddenly in her belly as a sense of helplessness washed over her. Every day the trap grew tighter. Every day she grew less confident of her own power to determine her destiny. Every day she grew insidiously more resigned.

A thrush trilling at the open window, the warmth of the sun on the back of her neck, sent the black wave into retreat. She was going out for a walk on a beautiful summer morning, and nothing should destroy her pleasure in such a prospect.

“Come, Deborah, let’s go.” She pranced through the door, thankful that no one had made objection to the comfortable leather slippers she still wore.

Lucy was waiting for them in the hall. “That’s such a pretty gown,” she said a little enviously as Juliana bounced exuberantly down the stairs. “Those pleats at the back are all the rage.”

“Yes, and see the way the train falls,” Deborah said. “It’s the most elegant thing. I must ask Minnie to make up that bolt of purple tabby in the same style.”

Juliana was too anxious to reach the door to pay any heed to this conversation. Mr. Garston opened it for her, with a bow and an indulgent smile. “Enjoy your walk, miss.”

“Oh, I intend to,” she said, stepping past him, lifting her face to the sun and closing her eyes with a sigh of pleasure.

“Ah, Miss Juliana. What perfect timing.”

Her eyes snapped open at the suave tones of the Duke of Redmayne. He stood at the bottom of the front steps, one gloved hand resting on the wrought-iron banister, a quizzical gleam in his eye.

“Perfect timing for what?” She waited for her pleasure in the morning to dissipate, but it didn’t. Instead there was the strangest fizz of excitement in her belly; her face warmed, and her lips prickled as if anticipating the touch of his mouth on hers.

“I was coming to take you out for a drive,” he said. “And I find you quite ready for me.”

“You’re mistaken, sir. I’m engaged to these ladies.” She gestured to Lucy and Deborah, who both swept the duke a curtsy, a salutation that Juliana had omitted.

“They will excuse you,” Tarquin said.

“Yes, of course, Juliana,” Deborah said hastily.

“But I have no wish to be excused.”

“I give you good day, ladies. Enjoy your walk.” Tarquin bowed to Deborah and Lucy and stood aside to let them pass him on the step. As Juliana made to follow them, he laid a hand on her arm. “You will much prefer to drive with me, Juliana.”

Juliana’s skin burned where he touched her, and the fizzing excitement spread through her body as if she had champagne in her veins. She looked up at him, bewildered agitation flaring in her eyes. Tarquin smiled, then lightly brushed her lips with his own.

“You’re very rewarding to dress,
mignonne.
Not many women could wear such a color without looking sallow and drab.”

“So you did choose it?”

“Most certainly. I’ve been much entertained in designing your wardrobe. I trust it will all meet with your approval when you see it.”

Juliana looked wildly up and down the street as if hoping to see some escape route, some knight in shining armor galloping to her rescue. But she met only the indifferent glances of grooms, barrow boys, fishwives, hurrying about their business.

“Come, my horses are getting restless.” The duke tucked Juliana’s hand into his arm and firmly ushered her across the street to where a light, open phaeton stood, drawn by a pair of handsome chestnuts. A groom jumped from the driver’s seat and placed a footstep for them.

Juliana hesitated. The duke’s hands went to her waist, lifting her clear off her feet and into the carriage. “You seem remarkably dozy this morning,” he observed, stepping
lightly up behind her. “Perhaps you slept poorly.” He sat down and took up the reins. “Grimes, you may go back to Albermarle Street.”

The groom touched his forelock and set off at a loping pace down the street toward the Strand.

“Now, where would you like to go?” the duke inquired affably. “Is there something particular you’d like to see? Westminster, perhaps? The Houses of Parliament? Hyde Park? The lions in the Exchange?”

Juliana contemplated a sullen silence and then abandoned the idea. It would be cutting off her nose to spite her face. “All of them,” she said promptly.

Tarquin nodded. “Your wish is my command, ma’am.”

Juliana cut him a sharp sideways look. “I didn’t think you were a liar, my lord duke.”

He merely smiled. “We’ll drive around Covent Garden first. You’ll find it of some interest, I believe.”

Juliana understood what he meant as soon as they turned the corner of Russell Street and she finally saw what was hidden from her window. The colonnaded Piazza was thronged with men and women of every class and occupation. Dandies lounged with painted whores on their arms; fashionably dressed women, accompanied by footmen, paraded the cobbles, inviting custom as obviously as their less fortunate sisters who leaned in the doorways of wooden shacks and coffeehouses, beckoning with grubby fingers, lining ragged petticoats to display a knee or plump thigh. Barrow boys and journeymen carrying baskets of bread and pies on their heads threaded their way through the produce sellers shouting their wares.

Juliana stared in fascinated disgust at the prints displayed on a kiosk on the corner of Russell Street. The duke followed her eye and observed casually, “Obscenity sells well in the Garden. Obscenity and flesh,” he added. “The two tend to go together.” He gestured with his whip. “The hummums and the bagnios over there do a thriving trade in steam and sweat … and flesh, of course.”

Juliana could think of nothing to say. She continued to
gaze around her, engrossed by the scene even as she was repelled by it.

“The Dennisons’ young ladies do not frequent the Piazza. You’re more likely to see them at court than here,” the duke continued. Juliana stared at a couple standing against the wall of one of the bagnios. Then, abruptly, she averted her eyes, a crimson flush spreading over her cheeks.

“Yes, privacy is not a particularly valued commodity around here,” her companion observed. “You could see the same in St. James’s Park after dark … under every bush, against every tree.”

Juliana remembered Emma’s warning about lying under the bushes in St. James’s Park. Her skin crawled. She wanted to ask him to take her out of this place, but she knew he had a reason for bringing her here, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing her dismay.

They turned onto Long Acre, and as they approached St. Martin-in-the-Fields, the duke slowed his horses. A ragged group of children were gathered around the church steps. Three elderly women walked among them, examining them, paying particular attention to the little girls. Some they dismissed with a wave; others they gestured to stand aside.

“What are they doing?” Juliana couldn’t help asking the question.

“The children are for hire … some of them for sale,” her companion told her nonchalantly. “The bawds are picking the ones that might appeal to their customers’ particular fancies.”

Juliana gripped her hands tightly in her lap and stared straight ahead.

“If they’re hired, they’ll get a decent meal and earn a few shillings,” the duke continued in the same tone. “Of course, most of their earnings will go to whoever put them up for hire in the first place.”

“How interesting, my lord duke.” Juliana found her voice as she finally understood the point to this little tour of London’s underbelly. Unless she was much mistaken,
the Duke of Redmayne was showing her what life was like for the unprotected.

Tarquin turned the phaeton onto the Strand. He maintained a flow of informative chat as he drove her through St. James’s Park and along Piccadilly, and Juliana was soon seduced by the other sights of London: the lavish shop fronts, the town carriages, the horsemen, the sedan chairs. Ladies carrying small dogs promenaded along the wide street, greeting acquaintances with shrill little cries of delight, exchanging curtsies and kisses. They were followed by powdered footmen in elaborate liveries and, in most cases, small liveried pages loaded with bandboxes and parcels.

Juliana began to relax. The streets in this part of London were cleaner, the cesspit stench not so powerful, the buildings tall and gracious, with glass windows glinting in the sunlight, shining brass door knockers, white honed steps. This was the London she’d imagined from the sheltered Hampshire countryside. Impressive and wealthy, and full of elegant people.

The duke drew up before a double-fronted mansion on Albermarle Street. The front door opened immediately, and the groom he’d sent home at Covent Garden came running down the steps. The duke descended and reached up a hand to Juliana.

“You will wish for some refreshment,” he said pleasantly.

Juliana remained where she was. “What is tins place?”

“My house. Be pleased to alight.” The touch of flint she’d heard before laced the pleasant tones. Juliana glanced up the street, then down at the groom, who was staring impassively ahead. What choice did she have?

She gave the duke her hand and stepped out of the carriage. “Good girl,” he said with an approving smile, and she wanted to kick him. Instead she twitched her hand out of his and marched up the steps to the open front door, leaving him to follow.

A footman bowed as she swept past him into a marbletiled
hall. Juliana forgot her anger and apprehension for a moment as she gazed around, taking in the delicate plaster molding on the high ceiling, the massive chandeliers, the dainty gilt furniture, the graceful sweep of the horseshoe staircase. Forsett Towers, where she’d grown up, was a substantial gentleman’s residence, but this house was in a different class altogether.

“Bring refreshment to the morning room,” the duke instructed over his shoulder, slipping an arm around Juliana’s waist and sweeping her ahead of him toward the stairs. “Tea, lemonade, cakes for the lady. Sherry for myself.”

“I imagine your servants are accustomed to your entertaining unchaperoned ladies,” Juliana stated frigidly as she was borne up the stairs with such dexterity that her feet merely skimmed the ground.

“I have no idea whether they are or not,” the duke responded. “They’re paid to do my bidding, that’s all that concerns me.” He opened a door onto a small parlor, sunny and cheerful with yellow silk wallpaper and an Aubusson carpet. “I have it in mind that this should be your own private parlor. Do you think you would care for it?” A hand in the small of her back propelled her forward even as she wondered if she’d heard him aright.

“It’s pleasant and quiet, overlooking the garden at the back,” he continued, gesturing to the window. “If you wished to change the decor, then, of course, you must do whatever pleases you.”

Juliana told herself that this was some dream … some ghastly, twisted nightmare that would all fall apart in a moment like a broken jigsaw puzzle. But he’d turned back to her and was smiling as he took her hands and drew her toward him. Her eyes fixed on his mouth, thin but so beautifully sculpted. There was amusement and understanding in the deep-set gray eyes, and something else—a flicker of desire that set her blood frothing again. And then she was lost in the warmth and scent of his skin as his mouth took hers, without hesitation, with assertion. And she was responding in the same way, without will or thought. His
mouth still on hers, he ran a fingertip over the rich swell of her breasts above her décolletage. She moaned against his lips, and when his finger slid into the deep valley between her breasts, her stomach contracted violently with a wild hunger that she couldn’t put words to. Instead she pressed herself against him, a deep, primitive triumph flowing through her as she felt his hardness rising against her belly.