Forever yours, (damn you),
Sidney
Her conversation with Tilly earlier that day returned to Julianna as she lingered in the library, reading to distract herself as she awaited Shelbourne’s evening return from his club. As the duchess had said, Julianna could not live in the past, could not change it. She was clinging to past fear and anger instead of moving forward. She could see it now, given the clarity of some hours spent outside his presence.
She could also see she had overreacted about the daisy incident.
Julianna was willing to admit it.
She was protective of her daughter, fiercely so. And when she had returned home to discover Emily was not in the nursery where Julianna had expected to find her, she had been initially frantic. After learning from Johnston that Shelbourne had taken Emily for an excursion in the garden, she had rushed instantly there. Her frenzy had not been aided one whit by the sight of Shelbourne scooping a decimated flower from their daughter’s mouth, followed by Emily’s subsequent tears.
But he had been right when he said he had been attempting to smooth the transition for them. Oh, he was stubborn and cruel when he wished. But there had been softer moments. The nursery he had readied for Emily. The food offerings he had sent to her that first night, and the fact he remembered in great detail what she preferred to eat for breakfast. He had stopped over-imbibing as well, as near as she could tell, and his kisses and touches…
A shudder went through her, along with longing so acute, it built in her core as a physical ache. This would not do. She intended to have a conversation with Shelbourne when he arrived. Not to throw herself into his arms and kiss him. Her intention was to leave. And sooner rather than later, she reminded herself. This marriage of theirs could not end in anything other than sadness for the both of them unless something changed.
That something was Julianna. She had to return to New York City. Scarcely any time as Shelbourne’s wife, and already, she had grown weak.
She was saved from further torment when a change in the air alerted her to another presence. His. She knew before she looked up from her book to find him sauntering toward her.
“Wentworth suggested you wished to see me, my lady.” He reached her and bowed, calm, elegant.
A world away from the angry man who had confronted her in the parterre.
She put her book aside and rose, disliking the manner in which he towered over her. He was still taller than she was, but at least they were more evenly matched this way.
“Thank you for seeking me out,” she said, for she had not been certain he would.
Shelbourne was not the sort of man easily brought to heel. And the way they had left things earlier in the garden—her hasty retreat after their heated exchange, followed by his departure—had left her uneasy.
His lips firmed. “You are my wife, Julianna. I can hardly ignore you.”
He was not harsh and forbidding, but neither was his countenance pleased or welcoming. She gathered the courage to say what she had been practicing in the time since she had seen Emily to bed for the night.
“Still, I know all too well that you could have circumvented me and gone to bed for the evening. I am grateful you did not.”
A lone, dark brow rose. “And what, pray tell, is the reason for this tête-à-tête?”
One deep breath, and she rushed forward. “I wished to apologize for what happened earlier. I was wrong to assume you had not been properly looking after Emily, and I am sorry for leaping to erroneous conclusions. After I had time to calm down, I realized how quickly she can get into trouble, and that you acted in haste to remove the daisy before she could swallow it. You did everything you could. I should not have been so harsh.”
He stared at her for so long, his emerald gaze indecipherable, that her cheeks went hot beneath his scrutiny. Which was foolish, of course, for this man had seen and known every part of her. All there was to see and know.
And yet, he still affected her.
In some ways, she was still the same foolish chit who had taken one look at her friend’s handsome older brother and lost her heart. Nothing had changed. Except that she was older now. Wiser. She knew what she had to do, the distance she needed to maintain. But mayhap treating him with kindness and understanding would pave the way for the future she sought to secure.
“Do you have nothing to say?” she asked him when at last she could bear no more waiting. No more ceaseless contemplating, longing.
She was on the edge of a dangerous realization, and she wished to do everything in her power to avoid it. To quash her heart’s rebellion. To keep it quiet and cold and safe, just as it had been for the last two years. Everything she wanted was within her grasp. She had only to bide her time. Maintain her calm.
“Thank you.” He bowed to her again. “I bid you good evening, Julianna.”
And then, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door he had so recently entered.
She rushed after him without thinking. “Shelbourne, wait.”
But he continued, his long-legged strides taking him away from her.
“Shelbourne.”
He stopped abruptly and spun about. The intensity in his expression took her by surprise. She stopped, heart pounding. The politeness had leached from his face.
“What do you want, Julianna? I accept your apology. And now, I wish to go to bed.”
She bit her lip at the ferocity in his voice. Mayhap she had pushed him further than she had believed that afternoon. Or mayhap it was the strain of their sudden marriage and being a father, hitting him all at once.
She summoned some more daring. “I want to speak with you. Please.”
His nostrils flared, his eyes dark and tempestuous. “But I do not wish to speak with you any longer.”
Her insides coiled into a familiar knot. “You took dinner elsewhere this evening again?”
He sighed, then raked his fingers through his hair. “And?”
“Why?” she asked. “Where were you?”
“Wherever I wished to be.”
“Not at home.”
His jaw tensed. “I never dine at home.”
Of course he did not. Why had she supposed he would? What did she expect from him? Besides, the more he stayed away, and the more removed he was from her, the better it would be for her resolve. Why, then, did she argue? Julianna knew not. And yet, she continued, for reasons she did not care to examine.
“You missed putting Emily to sleep for the night.”
His lips tightened. “Would I have been welcome? What happened in the gardens leaves me doubtful of that. Understandably so, I should think.”
It was a valid question. Would she have wanted him to join in her nightly ritual of rocking Emily and singing to her until their daughter fell sweetly, soundly asleep? She had not meant to say those words, it was true. But they had come from some place deep within her. A place of truth. She was accepting his place in Emily’s life. Slowly. Painstakingly. But he had also proven himself worthy of that acceptance.
Still, she was so filled with confused emotion, and her pride kept her from making any such concessions to the devil himself. “Emily would have wanted you there.”
He cocked his head, his gaze sweeping over her in considering fashion, lingering on her lips. “And what of her mother?”
“I would not have objected.”
“Hmm. Hardly a welcome.” His expression remained solemn.
The air between them was stilted. Cold and yet hot. Angry and yet passionate. It struck her then, that she could just as easily kiss him as cut him down with her words.
But she did not want to cut him down. Did she?
Yes, she did. And also no, she did not.
“I would have welcomed you,” she forced out. “There. Are you pleased now, Shelbourne?”
“Ça dépend, chérie.” He had somehow moved closer. Near enough that he took her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. “Are you telling me what you think I wish to hear,
or are you telling me the truth?”
Both. Neither. Oh, she did not know. His scent was curling around her, as heady as any caress. Bay and Shelbourne, leather and musk, seduction and temptation. Those last two were not scents, but if they were, they would have smelled exactly like him.
She nibbled on her lip, contemplating her response.
“Christ,” he growled. His thumb swept over the seam of her lips, pressing. “Cease doing that, damn you.”
Julianna was certain her mind was in proper functioning order. She was certain the room had not grown smaller and hotter, that her mouth had not suddenly turned to flame from the slightest touch.
And yet she was breathless, giving a lie to all those convictions. “Cease doing what?”
“Biting your lip.” His thumb settled over her philtrum, lingering there. “It makes me bloody wild when you do that. It always has.”
Heavens. Did she still bite her lip so often? She knew she did it when she was nervous or contemplating something. Mama had chastised her for the unladylike habit more times than she could count. Apparently, her discomfit in Shelbourne’s presence overshadowed her mother’s stern edicts.
His thumb still lingered there, on the bow of her lips, warm and tantalizing. She tipped her head back, until the pad landed on her mouth, then slipped to her chin. “Why does it make you wild?”
She was tempting them both, and she knew it. After the unexpected lovemaking in his bedchamber the night of their wedding, Julianna had been stern with herself, knowing she needed to keep her distance from him, to rebuild her walls. However, building walls was the last thing she wanted to do now.
Because what she wanted to do now was kiss him. And then kiss him some more.
It was wrong and she knew it. Falling under Shelbourne’s spell was not something she could bear to do again. He was unpredictable, untrustworthy, and dangerous to her in so many ways. A rake, a rogue, a scoundrel. The man who had taken her innocence and broken her heart. But he was also the father of her daughter. Her husband.
The lines of demarcation had decidedly blurred.
And he had yet to answer her question.
“Well?” she challenged. “Why should anything I do affect you?”
His lips curved into a wry grin, unabashedly sensual. “Everything you do affects me. It has from the moment I first saw you.”
She swallowed against a rush of yearning. “Tell me another lie.”
“It isn’t a lie, Julianna. I wish it were.”
Something inside her froze, for she had felt the same way about him. “I hardly remember when I first met you.”
That was a lie. A horrid one.
He rubbed her chin slowly, tenderly, his expression intense, unreadable. “It was at Farnsworth Hall, 1881. I was out riding, and when I returned, you had arrived with Hellie to spend the week. You were wearing a blue dress that matched your eyes, and you had a volume of Keats.”
She recalled that day. Remembered, even, the poem she had been reading before his dramatic entrance in the cavernous library. Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art. He had been muddied and dressed to ride, having just returned from a morning lather. And he had been looking for Hellie when he had found Julianna instead.
Had she been wearing a blue gown? She had quite forgotten the color of it. But how could it be that Shelbourne recollected?
“I…” She paused, searching his fathomless gaze, at a loss for what to say.
His touch upon her—so simple, a mere thumb, and yet searing as a brand—was robbing her of the ability to think, she was sure.
“Do you remember, Julianna?” he asked, his mellifluous baritone cascading over her.
“Yes.” The admission was torn from her. “You told me Hyperion was your favorite Keats poem.”
“It still is.”
“Saturn is fallen,” she quoted, “am I too to fall?”
“You have read it at last.” His thumb brushed over her lower lip. “Am I to leave this haven of my rest?”
Yes, she had read the poem. It had been her way of getting to know him, and his mind, better. And of course he would have the entire poem memorized, know the very next verse. Just as he would know the specifics of that day better than she did, down to the color of her dress. To do so was Shelbourne. There was no other way to describe it.
“You were decidedly uninterested in me,” she recalled. “You had come to fetch a book, straight from riding, only to find an intruder within.”
“Why did you read Hyperion?” he countered, ignoring her observations.
“Because it was your favorite.” Once again, she was revealing too much.
“Did you enjoy it?” Stroke went his thumb, leaving a trail of fire behind.
She enjoyed his touch on her. Curse him.
Julianna resisted the urge to bite her lip. “I still like Bright Star better.”
“Hmm. You would.”
She wondered what he meant by that. “I have never preferred epic poems.”
“And I have always preferred you. Because I am a stupid sod.”
“If you preferred me, then why did you—”
“No more talking, Julianna,” he interrupted. “You wanted me to remain here, and now you must pay the forfeit.”
His thumb left her, replaced by his mouth.
* * *
Yes, Sidney was a stupid sod.
The stupidest of the stupid sods.
More stupid, even, than Past Sidney.
Because he had heeded Julianna’s request and come to the library in the first place. Because he had not departed in haste as he had told himself he must. Because he had lingered. Touched her. Been tempted by her. Recited fucking poetry.
And most certainly because he was giving in to all his base urges and kissing her now.
Especially because he did not want to stop.
She opened for him on a heady wisp of sound. It was the sound of surrender, carnal and raw and erotic as hell. His cock was rigid as marble. Had been since the moment he had given in to his weakness and touched her lips. They were soft and warm and lush. And he had not been able to keep himself from imagining what it would feel like for his cock to be there, gliding between them. For her to take him down her throat.
Lust, he told himself as he kissed her harder. That was all this was. He felt nothing for her. Julianna’s actions had chased any tender feelings from him. She had cured him of the plague of fancying himself in love with her, but not of the scourge of desiring her.
He plundered her mouth with his tongue, and she kissed him back, arms locked around his neck, luscious body pressed to him from hip to chest. Hunger pounded through him. Ravenous. He had to have more of her.
He wanted to fuck her on the floor of the library as he should have done the first night she had reappeared in his life. Or bent over a chair. A divan. Anything. He was that desperate to be inside her.
But somewhere within him, the faint strains of responsibility remained, reminding him he had already taken her like a common strumpet on the floor of his bedchamber on their wedding night. And after nearly knocking off his damned toenail. Regardless of what had passed between them over the years—hell even since her return to London—she was his wife now. The mother of his child. He owed Julianna more than a frantic shag in the library.
He broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to hers so they remained connected, their ragged breaths mingling, lips near.
“Come to bed with me.”
Her coppery lashes flitted over her eyes. She rubbed her nose along his. Inhaled deeply, as if she wanted to trap his scent in her lungs. “Shelbourne.”
Fuck Shelbourne.
And fuck formality.
He kissed her again, long, lingering. She kissed him back, her tongue sliding into his mouth. When he pulled away again, he cupped her face. “I am your husband.”
He was saying that as much for his benefit as for hers. It still felt surreal, this union of theirs. Temporary. A dream. But it was forever, what
they had done. They were bound to each other.
“Yes,” she whispered. “You are.”
“I want my name on your lips.”
He felt the subtle movement beneath her silken skin as she swallowed. Knew what it meant. She was not any less affected by this bloody attraction between them—which had burned like an inexplicable flame from the first moment—than he was.
“I cannot—”
He cut her off. “Cannot or will not? You have called me Sidney before. I want it again, Julianna. Give it to me.”
And the unspoken: give yourself to me.
She had already done both. But that was not enough. Nothing ever would be. Every woman he had bedded in the past two years had been a pale imitation of her, a lackluster replacement. He had been biding his time. Waiting.
Waiting for her to come back to him.
And she had.
She was here.
She was his.
“Sidney,” she said, giving in. “Sidney, please.”
He liked her begging. Hell, yes. He wanted her desperate. Unraveled. Undone. He also wanted her to have everything she desired. And more. “Tell me what you want.”
The breath fled her in a rush, her lips parted. She was hot, so hot, smoldering. Burning him. Tantalizing.
“I want…you.”
A thrill shot up his spine. Fire and anticipation. Longing and lust and wickedness.
He kissed her, settling his lips in the seam between hers, sucking on that upper lip she loved to worry so much. He kissed her and kissed her, thinking this must be how generals felt on the battlefield in the moment they realized the tide had turned in their favor and their enemies were being vanquished. Not that he was battling her, that she was his enemy, or that he wished supremacy over her, but that their every interaction thus far had been painful, protracted. Bitter and dangerous. He felt as if he had been waging war. But now?
Lady Wicked: Notorious Ladies of London Book 4 Page 19