Not supposing he would be here, staring at her across the table, unfairly handsome and everything she wanted but dared not trust. This charming, almost sweet Shelbourne was an illusion, and she knew it.
He had been tender and charismatic before, and look at where that had landed her.
She settled her soup spoon down. “I did not wear it knowing it was your preferred shade. Indeed, I was not aware you had a favorite shade of blue.”
“I do.” He took a sip from the glass before him, the contents of which were clear—water, it would seem. She had failed to take note that he had turned down the offer of wine. “Your eyes.”
Something inside her kindled into a flame.
She was burning.
This was torture.
“Flattery shall get you nowhere, Shelbourne,” she warned, before turning her attention wholly upon her soup.
It was delicious. And she was going to eat every drop, whilst ignoring him in the process.
“How can truth be flattery?”
She almost choked. Taking great care, she swallowed before glancing back to find him watching her, intent. More heat slid through her, decadent and dangerous.
“My eyes are hardly the same shade as my dress,” she countered, pleased with herself for the calm of her voice, completely at odds with her vast inner turmoil.
“On that we shall have to disagree.” A small smile curved his sensual lips, almost sad. “Your eyes are what I noticed about you first, brilliant and blue, bluer than the sky. A vibrant, rich hue. The second thing I noticed was your hair.”
Everyone noticed her hair first. It was brazen and bold and the bane of her existence. That was how she knew he was cozening her.
“You would have taken note of my hair, just like everyone else. It is quite loud and brash, unfortunately.”
“It is copper spun into silk, sometimes tawny depending upon the light, with hints of cinnamon. It is longer than I remembered.”
Her heart, her stupid heart, sped up, like a wild horse galloping away from someone attempting to rein it in.
She flushed, her discomfit rising at his regard and reference to their past both. “Many things can change in two years’ time.”
“Not everything.” He returned his attention to his bowl of soup, quite abruptly, leaving her staring at him.
Admiring the slash of his jaw, the purse of his lips as he raised his spoon to them. Since when had the act of eating soup been so erotic? Never, she was sure.
“What has not changed?” she asked, giving in to her blazing curiosity, quite against her better judgment.
The servants returned, whisking away the soup course and bringing in the next before he could respond. By the time the Rissoles à la Reine Victoria had been placed on the table, accompanied by peas on a macédoine of vegetables with mushroom sauce, she lost the daring to repeat her query. The food laid before her, garnished with fried parsley, ought to have been mouthwatering. It certainly presented a pretty picture.
But she found herself distracted, her appetite suppressed. Once more, the servants flitted away after presenting the plates.
Revise your battle plan, Julianna.
Ah, but there was the trouble. Currently, she had none. Julianna lifted a bite of the rissoles to her mouth, chewing. If she could not speak, she reasoned, neither could she say anything foolish. Nor could she offer her question again.
This was a dinner. Nothing more. Theirs was a marriage of convenience. Also nothing more. The passion they shared was as potent and all-consuming as ever. But she could not allow it to distract her from her true course. Nor could she let it divert her from the fact that Shelbourne had pretended to be smitten with her before, only to run off to his mistress at the first possible opportunity.
The misery of that day, watching him with another woman, the widowed Lady Richards, renowned for her ethereal beauty and stinging wit—returned to her. Lady Richards was an immensely popular hostess in the Marlborough House set. Artists painted her. Sculptors sculpted her. Even the prince was said to be in love with her.
But it had not been Julianna’s rival’s looks which had dealt the death blow to Julianna’s heart when she had chanced upon Shelbourne and his mistress two years ago. Oh, no indeed. It had been the kiss. Dear, sweet God, that awful kiss. Seeing another woman’s mouth on his. The betrayal had been cutting. It still was. The bitter reminders coiled around her now, curdling her stomach. Why had she allowed herself to be in this position? Softening toward him, allowing him to charm her, to kiss her, touch her, make love to her…
“Julianna?”
She jerked at his voice, which clawed her back from the ugliness of the past. She had done her best to bury those memories deep, but he was affecting her in ways she had not anticipated.
She met his gaze. “What is it, Shelbourne?”
“Will you not call me Sidney when we are alone?”
She tamped down more unwanted longing. “Why should I wish to do so?”
“Because I am your husband.”
Yes, he was, wasn’t he?
She caught her lip between her teeth, worrying it, before she realized what she was doing. Old habits. Drat this man, for he had her at sixes and sevens, always. And longing for him was the worst habit of all. She forced herself to still.
“Sidney then,” she said coolly, as if she were entirely unaffected and gave not a fig either way, “if it pleases you.”
“Other things would please me more.”
The wicked rumble of his voice and the blazing heat in his stare were undeniable.
“Perhaps you ought to try those things on your own,” she suggested sweetly.
His mouth kicked into a half grin. “Touché, chérie. Though I expect you know it is not nearly as lovely on one’s own, is it? Much like dinner.”
Ha! She had a rather different idea about the latter, even if she could not argue against the former. He was right about that. No amount of released desire on her own could match the conflagration they shared together. However, she had no intention of admitting that, so she returned her attention to her plate with a renewed sense of determination.
They resumed eating, and by the time the last course had been taken away, they had reached the customary hour for Emily to go to sleep for the night. Julianna excused herself with the simple explanation.
“I shall accompany you this evening,” he said, surprising Julianna.
Disappointment and anticipation warred within her, but she nodded. “If you insist, my—Sidney.”
At the last moment, she corrected herself.
“I do.”
Together, they went to the nursery.
* * *
Sidney had not been prepared for the sight of Julianna holding their daughter in her arms, rocking her and putting her to sleep. Oh, he had known it would affect him. But he had not realized it would be akin to a dagger in the heart.
Sharp blade, reminding him of all he had missed.
Vicious blade, taunting him at the long battle which lay ahead of him.
Wooing the hell out of his wife was proving more problematic than he had initially supposed. Dinner had been marked with heat and awkwardness, her cool civility, his attempts to charm. He had earned the use of his Christian name without a fit of passion. And he was here, in the nursery for the nightly ritual. The one he had missed so many times before.
The one he never wanted to miss again.
Blast, were his eyes burning again?
He swallowed a knot, seated beside Julianna and Emily. His beautiful girl was smiling at him, her lashes growing heavier. Her thumb was tucked into her mouth, and she looked at peace with the world in a way his jaded mind could scarcely comprehend.
“Pa,” she cooed, plucking her thumb from her mouth and reaching for him.
Her chubby hand glistened with saliva, but he did not hesitate in offering his fingers for her to grasp. She did, smiling as her eyes slipped closed. Emily astounded him.
Humbled him.
She filled
him with love in a way he had never imagined possible. He loved how perfectly she was a combination of both him and Julianna. She had her mother’s determination and fiery spirit. She was stubborn, too. She had Julianna’s eyelashes and high forehead. A miracle, so small and yet so strong.
“Papa is here, poppet,” he said softly. “Go to sleep now.”
Her eyelids drooped, then stayed. All the while, Julianna rocked her, rubbing a soothing hand up and down their daughter’s spine. She was a good mother, Julianna. He wanted to understand why she had done what she had. He wanted to understand her. To move beyond the past and into a future.
But first, she had to let him into more than just her body.
Emily’s lips parted and she sighed, even breaths of slumber overtaking her, her grip on his fingers loosening. But he remained where he was, soaking in the simple joy of this moment, the miraculous nature of life. How amazing Emily was. How beautiful, how perfect, how beloved.
And to think, not long ago, he had not been aware of her existence. That seemed a lifetime ago. For now, he was content to sit here while she slept, allowing her to cling to him with her slobbery fingers, until his wrist began to tire from the unnatural angle he was being forced to hold.
“She is asleep now, is she not?” Julianna asked softly.
He flicked his gaze from Emily to her mother. In the low light of the gas lamp, her eyes were almost the same hue as the sky on a clear night, lit with stars. Navy velvet rather than summer sky, laden with mysteries. Puzzling and beautiful.
Bloody hell. Sitting here with the two of them was making him maudlin. Or mayhap the discovery he had never stopped loving his wife had.
He swallowed. “Her eyes have been closed for some time now.”
“Thank you, Sidney.”
He had come to expect any number of emotions from Julianna. Gratitude was not one of them, and hearing it now took him by surprise. “For what?”
“For being here to put her to sleep for the night.” A small smile briefly flitted over her lips. “For wanting to be here. Indeed, for wanting to take such a big part in her life. I had not imagined… Well, it is neither here nor there now.”
He stiffened, because her words hurt. How could they not? Furthermore, he knew what she had been about to say. She had not imagined he would want to have any part in his daughter’s life. That was the reason she had never returned to him until she had been forced by circumstance—and mayhap greed, he thought unkindly. That realization still put a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Do you think me a heartless ogre, Julianna?” he asked, careful to keep his tone quiet, to strip his voice of all the tumult within.
He loved this woman, yes. He always had. Always would. But that did not mean he agreed with what she had done. Nor did it mean he did not need to find a way of finding peace with it, with her.
“I…” Her coppery lashes fluttered, hiding her eyes from him. “Of course I do not. It is merely that you are a man more concerned with other matters.”
He raised a brow. “Other matters? Do elaborate, if you please.”
There went his bloody charm. Gone.
“Keep your voice low,” Julianna chastised, frowning at him. “Emily does not always stay settled when I put her down in her crib for the night, and she will wake if you insist upon raising your voice at me.”
She thought he had raised his voice? By God, the woman had no idea. He was being quite calm. Had been ridiculously calm ever since her arrival in his library.
For himself, anyway.
“Forgive me.” He paused, searching for the proper words to convey what he wanted to say next. This was important. He felt as if he were walking across an ice-covered lake and with one wrong step, he would fall through and drown.
Sidney did not want to drown.
Nor did he want to lose this second chance they had been given. He needed to tread with care. Proceed with caution. So much of the woman before him remained a mystery. As mysterious and unfathomable as any ice-laden lake, as it happened.
Julianna nodded. “I am going to put her down now.”
He swallowed another knot of emotion and forced himself to pull his fingers from Emily’s grasp. No small feat, it proved—his daughter had a firm grip, even in her sleep. He extracted a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and dried the wetness from his hand as he rose, watching Julianna cross the nursery to the crib.
She laid Emily down, pulled a blanket over her, then gently stroked her head. “Mama loves you so. Sweet dreams.”
There went the blade again, turning. How many nights like this had been denied him? And some because of his own obstinacy, too. But he was going to make amends for his absence.
The nurse, Johnston, arrived as if on cue, with a curtsy and a smile. A testament to her efficacy in her position, he supposed. “Have a good evening, Lord and Lady Shelbourne.”
“Thank you, Johnston,” he and Julianna said simultaneously.
He offered his wife his arm, and then escorted her from the nursery, leaving their daughter beneath the watchful eye of the domestic. They had scarcely crossed over the threshold when Julianna stopped them, turning to face him in the hall.
“Thank you for accompanying me this evening,” she said. “And thank you for joining me at dinner as well.”
He sensed yet another of her buts, and he did not like it. “But?”
“But I ought to go to sleep.”
Sleep. Ha! It was doubtful he would even find a moment of peace this evening after all that had come to pass.
“Join me in the library.” The invitation fled him instantly, so desperate was he to prolong their time together.
It was pathetic, really, but he did not give a damn.
Tonight was about wooing her.
He could not allow her to attempt to resurrect the walls she tried to keep between them.
“The hour is late, Shelbourne.”
“Sidney,” he countered.
She sighed. “The hour is late, Sidney.”
“The hour is late for babes. Not for a husband and wife who have much to discuss.”
“Have we not already discussed all there is?”
“Darling, we have not scratched the surface.” He raised a brow. “The choice is yours. Shall we have our conversation in the library, or shall we have it in your bed?”
Her eyes widened. He did not mistake the desire simmering within their vivid depths. Regardless of how much she desired to maintain a distance between them, she wanted him every bit as much as he longed for her.
He wanted to believe that passion could turn into something more, over time.
Hell, he had to believe that, or else, he was doomed to a hopelessly miserable marriage. A marriage of convenience was one matter. A marriage in which he loved his wife wholeheartedly whilst she felt nothing for him—he did not think he could bear it.
Pity he had not realized how much was at stake before speaking his vows. But then, he would happily do anything to raise Emily as his and claim her before London and all the world. Because she was his daughter, damn it, and he loved her. That love supplanted all pride and even his own sense of happiness.
“Well?” he prodded when she failed to answer him. “We can either stand here in this bloody hall at a stalemate, or you can join me in the library. Or in your bed. The choice is yours, chérie.”
Damnation. There was no charm left in him, but she had driven him to the edge. As always.
“I shall join you in the library,” she relented, reluctance dripping from her voice, etched in her visage.
But then an idea occurred to him. There was a place that was better than the library. One more suited to wooing. He offered her his arm, and when she took it, he steered them toward the billiards room instead. Down the stairs, and to the left.
Her fingers clenched his arm. “This is decidedly not the direction of the library.”
“I changed my mind.”
Into the billiards room they went. The lights were out, a
nd he could hardly blame the servants for such an oversight; he could not recall when the last time was that he had made use of the chamber. And certainly not with his wife. He had always spent most evenings at his club or with his mistress. Christ, what a time to think of Charlotte. He was going to have to end his understanding with her. It had been his intention to do so imminently, but the matter of his hasty marriage and then settling into life with a bride and child had rather usurped the secondary need to cut ties with a woman he had not seen in over a month, since well before Julianna’s return to London.
“I cannot see a dratted thing,” Julianna said at his side.
Well, neither could he. Mayhap this had not been the best of sudden plans. But he was reasonably certain he could find his way around in the—
“Fuck!” he howled as his hip connected with something hard and immovable.
The bloody billiards table. At least he had not walked straight into it with his cock. That would have been truly wretched.
“What happened?” she asked.
Did he detect a note of concern in her voice? He rubbed his hip, wincing, and dared to hope. “I walked into the damned table.”
“Are you injured?”
“I shall live,” he declared grimly, feeling like the world’s greatest lummox.
He had brought her here to distract her, woo her. Win her.
And instead, he was walking into tables and groping about in the darkness.
“You truly ought to watch your language,” she pointed out.
Yes, he bloody well should. And he would, but Emily was not here, and his hip hurt, damn it.
He found her hands and placed them on the table. “Stay here whilst I light the lamps.”
Now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness in the room—belatedly, of course—he found his way through the shadows. The lamps hissed to life, casting the room in a warm glow.
“There we are,” he declared, feeling triumphant until he spun about to find her there. Just behind him.
He had almost mowed her down.
His hands settled on her waist, and it felt right. Too right. So right. “Here you are.”
“Here I am,” she agreed.
“You did not stay where I told you to,” he observed wryly.
Lady Wicked: Notorious Ladies of London Book 4 Page 22