Vice (32 page)

George didn’t seem to hear him. He was staring at Juliana, willing her to look at him. But she was a graven image, her eyes fixed straight ahead. He reached to touch her ankle, and she didn’t move.

“Any advance on five hundred for my dear wife, or shall this gentleman have her?” Lucien called out merrily. “He’s got a bargain, I’m telling you.”

“There are times, Edgecombe, when you surprise even me with the depths of your depravity.” The cool voice cut through the raucous merriment as the Duke of Redmayne crossed the room from the door, where he’d been standing unnoticed for the last few minutes.

The nightmare had such a grip upon her that for a moment Juliana didn’t react. Then the clear tones of salvation pierced her trance. Slowly she turned on her perch, George forgotten in the flood of incredulous relief. He’d come for her.

“Tarquin …” It was more plea than statement, as if she still didn’t dare to believe that he was there.

“I’m here,” he affirmed. His voice was a caress, the soft reassurance balm to her agonized soul. His gray gaze encompassed her, all-seeing; then he turned on Lucien.

Lucien shrank back against the table as his cousin’s livid eyes blazed at him. A muscle twitched in the duke’s cheek,
but he said nothing, merely tapped one clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. Then, very slowly, he brought up the fist and—almost gently, it seemed—touched Lucien on the edge of his chin. The viscount fell back into the crowd without a sound.

A murmur passed through the throng as the duke’s eyes ran slowly around them. Suddenly a wicked blade flickered in his hand at the end of the swordstick. He still said nothing, but the crowd fell back, and the two men holding Juliana’s ankles stepped away from the table.

George Ridge cleared his throat. He didn’t know what was going on here, but he could see his prize slipping away from him. The newcomer spun round at the sound, and George flinched from the piercing stare, as cold and lethal as an arrowhead. He dropped his gaze in involuntary submission to this unknown but infinitely more powerful force.

Tarquin turned back to Juliana. He reached up and lifted her to the ground. He removed the halter and threw it into the crowd.

His eyes were still those he’d turned upon Lucien, cold and deadly, but he touched her hair, brushing a strand from her forehead. His long fingers moved fleetingly over the curve of her cheek. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. Her voice was barely a whisper, but she managed to say frankly, “Only my pride.”

Surprise glimmered in his eyes, softening the implacable steadiness of his gaze. Any other woman would have broken down in tears and hysteria. But Juliana was unique. “Can you walk?”

Her knees were quivering uncontrollably, but there was something in his appraising scrutiny that gave her strength to say “Of course,” even as she clutched his arm for support. Somehow she put one foot in front of the other as the crowd fell back. Then they were outside. Dawn was breaking, and a curious quiet had fallen over the Piazza and the square. A few bodies lay sleeping under the colonnades, a pair of slatternly women leaned in a doorway, drinking ale
between yawns. A shout and a crash came from Tom King’s coffeehouse as a man flew through the door to land in the gutter, where he lay in a heap, clutching a stone jar of gin.

The duke raised a finger and a hackney appeared as if by magic. Tarquin gave Juliana a boost into the interior with an unceremonious hand under her backside and followed almost in the same movement, pulling the door shut with a slam.

For the first time in hours Juliana was no longer terrified. The gloomy, musty interior of the carriage was a haven, private and utterly protected. Faint gray light came through the window aperture, showing her the duke’s countenance as he sat opposite, regarding her in reflective silence.

“What are you thinking?” Her voice sounded shrunken, as if the events of the night had leached all strength from it.

“Many things,” he replied, running his fingertips over his lips. “That you are the most perverse, stubborn, willful wench it’s ever been my misfortune to have dealings with…. No, let me finish answering the question.” He held up an arresting hand as Juliana’s mouth opened indignantly. “That Lucien’s evil tonight surpassed even my expectations; and most of all, that I should never have let you set eyes on him.”

“So you’re sorry you devised this demonic scheme?”

“No, I didn’t say that. But I deeply regret involving you.”

“Why?”

Tarquin didn’t immediately reply. It was on the tip of his tongue to say simply that she wasn’t cut out for the role, not sufficiently compliant. It was how he believed he would have responded just a few short hours ago. But something had happened to him when he’d seen her on that table, exposed to the sweating, lusting, depraved gaze of London’s vicious underworld. When he’d seen her freshness, her simplicity, her ingenuous candor mentally fingered by that vile mob, he’d known a rage greater than
any he could remember. And to his discomfort and confusion that rage was directed at himself as much as at Lucien.

“Why?” Juliana repeated. “Am I not sufficiently biddable, my lord duke?” As her terror receded, her bitterness grew. On one level Tarquin was as guilty of that hideous violation as Lucien had been. “I’m sorry to have put you to such inconvenience this evening.” She tore angrily at a loose cuticle on her thumb, stripping the skin away with her teeth.

Tarquin leaned over and took her hand from her mouth. He clasped the abused thumb in his warm palm and regarded her gravely in the growing light. “I’m willing to accept a hefty share of the blame for this night’s doings, Juliana, but you, too, bear some responsibility. You chose to cultivate Edgecombe to be avenged upon me. Will you deny it?”

Honesty forced her to shake her head. “But what else would you expect me to do?”

The exasperated question brought a low, reluctant chuckle to his lips. “Oh, I expected you to be good and obedient and allow me to know what’s best for you. Foolish of me, wasn’t it?”

“Very.” Juliana tried to extricate her hand, but his fingers closed more firmly around hers.

“I will ensure that Lucien doesn’t come near you ever again. Do I have your assurance that you won’t seek him out?”

“I learn from my mistakes, sir,” she said with acid dignity.

“I shall endeavor to learn from mine,” he said wryly, releasing her hand as the carriage came to a halt on Albermarle Street. “And maybe we can look forward to a harmonious future.”

Maybe, Juliana
thought, but without too much optimism. She’d finished with Lucien, but after tonight she was more than ever determined to help the women of Covent Garden.

Her head swam suddenly as she stepped to the pavement.
Her knees buckled under an invincible wash of fatigue, and she reached blindly for support. Tarquin caught her against him, holding her strongly.

“Easy now,
mignonne”
His voice steadied her, and she leaned into the warmth and strength of his hold.

“I’m all wobbly,” she mumbled apologetically into his coat. “I don’t know why.”

He laughed softly. “Well, I do. Come on, let’s get you to bed.” He lowered his shoulder against her belly and tipped her over. “Forgive the indignity, sweetheart, but it’s the easiest way to accomplish the task.”

Juliana barely heard him. She was almost asleep already, her body limp and unresisting as he carried her inside.

T
arquin awoke to filtered sunlight behind the bed curtains. The covers had been thrown back, and his naked body stirred deliciously as he felt the moist, fluttering caresses over his loins. Juliana’s skin was warm against his, her hair flowing over his belly, her breath rustling on his inner thighs. Her fingers were as busy as her mouth, and he closed his eyes on a wave of delight, yielding to pleasure. His hand moved over her curved body, caressing the small of her back, smoothing over her bottom, tiptoeing over her thighs. He felt her skin quiver beneath his fingers and smiled.

He’d helped her undress and tumbled her into bed in the clear light of a rosy dawn, and by the time he’d thrown off his own clothes and prepared to join her, she’d been sleeping like an exhausted child, her cheek pillowed on her hand. He’d slipped in beside her, wondering why he chose to share her bed only to sleep when his own waited next door. He made it an invariable practice never to spend an entire night with his mistresses, but there had been something so appealing about Juliana. The deep, even breathing, the dark crescent of her eyelashes against the pale cheeks, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the turn of her bare shoulder against the pillow, the vibrant
cascade of her hair escaping from her lace-trimmed nightcap. Unable to resist, he’d slid in beside her, and she’d stirred and nuzzled against him like a small animal in search of warmth and comfort.

He’d fallen asleep smiling and awoken with the same smile. Now he smacked her bottom lightly.
“Mignonne
, come up.”

Juliana raised her head and turned on her belly to look up at him. “Why?” She pushed her hair away from her face and gave him a quizzical smile.

“Because you are about to unman me,” he replied.

Juliana reversed herself neatly and stretched her body over his, her mouth nuzzling the hollow of his throat, her loins moving sinuously over his. “Better?” she mumbled against his pulse.

With a lazy twist of his hips he entered her as she lay above him. He watched the surprise dawn in her eyes, to be followed immediately by a wondering pleasure. “This is different.”

He nodded. “If you kneel up, you’ll find it’s even more so.”

Juliana pushed herself onto her knees. She gasped at the changed sensation and slowly circled her body around the hard, impaling shaft. She touched his erect nipples with a feathery fingertip, searching his face for his response, chuckling when he groaned with pleasure.

“Does it feel good when I do this, sir?” She rose on her knees, then slowly sank down again, arching her back as she grasped her ankles with her hands. His flesh pressed against her body’s sheath, and she suddenly lost interest in Tarquin’s reaction as a wave of glorious sensation broke over her. She cried out, her body arched like a bow, the near unbearable tension building in ever tightening circles.

Tarquin lay still, knowing she needed no help from him to reach this peak. He watched her through half-closed eyes, reveling in the innocent candor of her joy. And when she cried out again, he grasped her hips and held her tightly
as she rocked on his thighs with each succeeding wave of her climax.

“But what happened to you?” she gasped when she could finally speak, tears of joy glistening in her eyes. “Did I leave you behind?”

“Not for long,” he promised softly. The exquisitely sensitized core of her body lay open for his touch, and he played delicately upon her as Juliana moved herself over and around him, her tongue caught between her teeth as she concentrated on her lover’s pleasure, her own ever present but taking secondary importance. But when he drove upward with another almost leisurely twist, she was surprised yet again by the rushing, heated flood of ecstasy that dissolved muscle and sinew like butter in the sun.

He gripped her hips, his fingers biting deep into the rich curves, holding her as if she were his only anchor to reality in the storm-tossed sea of sensual bliss. And when it was over and he became aware of the lines and contours of his body on the mattress, of the dust motes in the ray of sun creeping through the curtains, he drew her down to He along his length, his hand stroking over her damp back, his flesh diminishing slowly within her.

What was it about this woman that she could so transport him? Make him forget everything but the glories of their joining? What was it that made him want to protect her, to make her happy? He was thirty-two, affianced from childhood to a perfect match—a woman who would be his wife but who would not object to his mistresses. A woman who knew the rules of their society. A woman he
wanted
to marry. So why, then, did the prospect suddenly seem drab? When he thought of the well-ordered years ahead, he felt dull and depressed. But why? He and Lydia were two grown people who knew what each expected of the other. His marriage would follow the rules of all successful relationships. He gave people what they expected from his money, position, and influence, and he made sure he received what he was due in his turn.

It had always worked before, but it wasn’t working with
Juliana. He was convinced that another woman in her position would have jumped at the chance of a tide and a comfortable settlement for life. But not Juliana. She wasn’t interested in what he had to offer; she seemed to want something more. She wanted something from
him.
Something far deeper than mere material offerings. And the thought stirred him, filled him with a restless excitement, was the source of this sudden impatience with his carefully laid-out future.

And holding this long, luscious body, feeling her jade gaze on his face, fiery tendrils of hair tickling his nose, he understood deep at his core that he lacked something fundamental to his happiness. He held it in his arms, but he couldn’t grasp it and make it his. He didn’t know how to. It was embodied in Juliana’s unusual, tempestuous, forthright spirit, and he didn’t know how to capture it. He didn’t understand Juliana’s rules.