Lady Wicked: Notorious Ladies of London Book 4

by Scott, Scarlett

  But truly, had he thought she would? Not for a moment.

  “I do despise following rules,” she said softly, her gaze dipping to his mouth.

  He remembered that part of her. God, how he remembered.

  “We broke rules together.”

  So many of them.

  Her hands had settled on his biceps, her head tilted back. “We should not have done so.”

  He ran his forefinger along her jaw, could not resist. “Do you regret what happened between us?”

  He had to know.

  Did not want to know.

  But everything hinged upon her answer, just the same.

  “Of course not.” She rolled her lips inward for a moment, then released them. “If we had not broken rules, Emily would not be here.”

  “I am grateful Emily is here. And I am glad you are here as well.”

  “You were not happy to see me when I first arrived.”

  No, he had not been. There was good reason for that, but he was pacing himself. He wondered if she had been about to chew on her upper lip again. And he wanted to kiss her. Very much. But that was not what this evening was about.

  Her skin was smooth, so smooth. “You feel like silk and velvet mixed together, only better.”

  The compliment bolted from his lips before he could think better of it or offer something more polished.

  A flush crept over her cheeks, deliciously pink. “It is my face cream.”

  He had never felt another woman with skin as soft or beheld another with a complexion so lustrous.

  “Face cream,” he repeated, almost incredulous at her suggestion. No mere cream could achieve such a feat, he was sure.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “My face cream. I have all the ladies in New York City wearing it.”

  “Hmm.” He trailed his knuckles over her cheek, and it was every bit as soft, just as seductive. “Your cream, you say?”

  “Yes. I have been planning to see it manufactured and sold. I have been in the process of finding a suitable location for it to be manufactured…”

  He paused, studying her. “You mean the recipe for the cream is yours?”

  “It was an old family recipe, but I have improved upon it.”

  There was an unmistakable pride in her voice. More realization hit him, right in the heart. She was even more impressive than he had supposed, this wife of his.

  “And you have been giving the cream to all your friends?” he asked, thinking her rather ingenious.

  “Yes.” She sent him a hesitant smile. “I have plans to see it produced on a much larger scale than what it is currently being made. However, the small batches we have been able to produce have made it somewhat sought-after.”

  Bloody hell. “You have been selling it? Do you mean to tell me you have a business in New York City?”

  He could scarcely credit it. Of course, she was intelligent and daring enough to do anything she wished. Here was yet another part of her that was unknown to him, a mystery. From the sounds of it, she had begun an entire business in New York City, one she intended to expand further. It was impressive. She was impressive.

  Her tongue slid over her bottom lip. “I have the beginning of a business. Unfortunately, producing my cream in the batches necessary to allow us to sell it beyond New York City required an investor.”

  Something inside him curdled.

  Died.

  “An investor?” Surely now was not the time she was going to tell him she’d had a lover in New York City. He couldn’t bear it. He had taken lovers after her, while they had been apart, and he regretted each one of them now.

  He had put all such questions from his mind, but suddenly, unbidden, an image of her laughing with that bastard on the street hit him like a fist to the jaw. It had been the day he had been determined to see her, after his foolish transatlantic voyage, and he had been trapped inside his carriage, watching her with her beau. Watching her laugh with him.

  “Me,” she said, chasing the old ghosts.

  “You?”

  He did not follow.

  She smiled. “Yes. With my uncle’s fortune, I will be able to invest in my cream.”

  Ah. Now he followed. He was not certain, however, if this belated discovery of her motivation for marrying him should make him feel better or worse.

  “You are full of surprises, are you not, Lady Shelbourne?” He stopped touching her then and stepped away. Had to. Distance, common sense, a clear head—that was what he required. “Tell me about this cream of yours whilst we play.”

  He reached for two cues and handed her one. Safety there—with a billiards table between them and his hands occupied by the cue, he could not get himself into much trouble.

  Or so he hoped.

  Chapter 17

  Two years earlier

  Word arrived this morning that Grandmother is desperately ill. Hellie, Mother, and I are off to Tarlington Court in Buckinghamshire to say our farewells. I write from the train as we make our agonizing passage there, with the hopes she may wait to join the angels until we arrive. Parting with Julianna brought its own torment. I will forever regret the haste with which I took my leave. My only consolation is that when we are able to reunite in London, I shall, with clear conscience and open heart, ask her to be my wife.

  ~from the journal of Viscount Shelbourne, 1883

  Julianna’s time at Farnsworth Hall had passed in a dream.

  But now, it was ending in a nightmare.

  Hellie and Sidney’s beloved grandmother had suffered a stroke. Word had reached them that morning by telegram. The gathering, once filled with lightheartedness and joy, had become solemn and bleak. It was decided the guests would leave at once, whilst Hellie, Sidney, and their mother would travel on to Buckinghamshire. If the family acted in haste, it had been reported, there could be time enough for goodbyes to be said.

  First, however, there was another goodbye which must be said. Julianna had already embraced her tearful friend Hellie. Now, Sidney stood before her in the chamber she had been given with its sweet morning light and view of the lake. After receiving his note, passed to her surreptitiously by a footman, she had dismissed her lady’s maid so they might have a private moment of farewell.

  The sadness haunting his handsome face made her heart ache.

  “Sidney, I am so sorry,” she said softly, not knowing what to offer, how to comfort him.

  “It is the way of life, though I wish it were not.” He caught her in his arms, holding her tight, burying his face in her hair. “We are born and we die. None of us leave this world alive.”

  Her arms went around him, and she pressed her cheek to his steadily thumping heart.

  “Four seasons fill the measure of the year,” she recited Keats. “There are four seasons in the mind of man.”

  “This is her winter,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Christ, Julianna. I am going to miss her desperately. She was the heart and soul of this family.”

  His shoulders shook—he was sobbing. And so was she. Tears trailed down her cheeks as they held each other, both of them trembling. How she hated his pain. His sadness. If she could, she would take it all from him, bear it herself so that he would never hurt.

  But that was not how life worked either. She could no more take on his pain than she could accompany him to Buckinghamshire. Because she did not belong in his world.

  Not yet.

  They had grown close—incredibly, intimately so. They had made love not just in the Palladian temple as they had that first day, but they had met again and again clandestinely. His chamber. Hers. In the darkened halls. The shadowy library. Anywhere they could. They spent their nights learning everything about each other. Talking until the sun rose. Whispering, laughing, kissing.

  And here they were, about to be ripped apart.

  He had been courting her, but there had been no discussion of a betrothal. Now, there could be none. Not yet. She understood, of course. His grandmother was dying, and he needed to be at h
er side. But that did not make their parting any easier. Nor did it calm Julianna’s suddenly frayed nerves or quell her concerns. Every lady knew her reputation was paramount. Every lady knew she should never allow a gentleman liberties without benefit of marriage.

  But Julianna had been a wicked lady, and she had not wanted to wait.

  “This is not the way I wanted our days together to end,” he said hoarsely. “It is not at all what I intended.”

  “You must not fret over that,” she reassured him, her palms coasting over his broad shoulders as she inhaled deeply of his familiar scent.

  How she wished she could carry it with her until they met again. But that, too, was impossible.

  “Julianna, there is so much I want to say.”

  She sniffled against his chest. “Save it for when we meet again. You must go to your grandmother. Be with her. Ease her final days.”

  “Are you weeping, darling?” He drew back, looking down at her, frowning.

  She attempted to dry her tears with the back of her hand, feeling like a ninny. She had never met his and Hellie’s grandmother. But their pain was hers. Because she loved them both.

  He whisked a handkerchief from his waistcoat, then used it to dab at her cheeks.

  His grandmother was dying, and Sidney was drying her tears. With another sniffle, she took the scrap of linen from him. “You needn’t do that. I ought to be strong for you and for Hellie, and yet here I am, an utter watering pot.”

  She dried the tracks on her cheeks, but her gaze was still swimming with more tears. And he was looking down at her with such undisguised tenderness, she fell in love with him again, right then and there. His handkerchief smelled of him, bay and musk and leather, his initials embroidered on the corner. S. E. D. She would ask him what his middle initial stood for later. Something else to learn about him. Another secret to unlock and cherish.

  “You are one of the strongest ladies I know.” He swept a stray curl from her cheek.

  She did not feel terribly strong just now. Indeed, she felt wretchedly weak. She would miss him dreadfully.

  Still, it was not lost on her that he was being a pillar of strength when she should be that for him. “I am the one who ought to be reassuring you.”

  “Seeing you, touching you, holding you is all I needed.”

  Oh, Sidney. I feel the same.

  But she didn’t say that. Instead, she nodded. “I wish there was more I could do.”

  “There is not. I haven’t much time. My cases are packed, and we leave in the next few minutes for the train station,” he said, his eyes traveling over her as if he were committing the sight of her to memory.

  She knew the feeling; she, too, was memorizing everything about him. The divot in his chin, the chisel of his jaw, the slash of his cheekbones, those lips that kissed her so sweetly, his emerald eyes and dark, wavy hair. He was so handsome and so beloved, and try as she might, she could not shake the inner prodding of fear tainting her every thought.

  This did not feel like goodbye. It felt like something deeper and longer. She could not shake the worry within her. The voice in the back of her mind warning her that with their idyll at Farnsworth Hall at an end, so too was everything between them.

  Courting was not a promise. It was not marriage or a betrothal.

  She swallowed, extending him his handkerchief. “I expect you may need this.”

  His hands closed over hers. “Keep it. Think of me.”

  She bit her lip to stave off another wave of tears. “Always.”

  “I will return to London and call on you. Wait for me.”

  Julianna gave him a tremulous smile. “I will.”

  He kissed her swiftly, then released her and backed away, looking as if he wanted to say more. “I must go.”

  Yes, he had to leave. Time was running out for him, for his grandmother.

  For us, whispered an insidious voice she promptly quashed.

  “I hope you arrive in time to say your goodbye,” she said, her voice trembling.

  She clutched his handkerchief as tightly as she had held him, all she had left until he returned. He bowed, cast one last, lingering look in her direction, and left her chamber.

  When he had gone, she pressed the linen to her lips to stifle her sob. Life was unfair and cruel. She would miss Sidney.

  Oh, how she would miss him.

  * * *

  Sidney returned to London a fortnight later and what felt like a century wearier. By the time they had reached Grandmother in Buckinghamshire, she had only hours left to live. She spent her final moments surrounded by family.

  The sole comfort was that she had not died alone and that she would be joining Grandfather at last. Her funeral had been simple, as she had wanted. Sidney had adorned her grave, beside Grandfather’s, with red roses from Farnsworth Hall. He had made the return journey in a trance of grief. Traveling by rail had not soothed him. Nor had returning to an empty house at Farnsworth Hall, bereft of all the gaiety which had so recently occupied it.

  Bereft of her.

  Before collecting the roses for Grandmother, Sidney had done something for himself. He had torn a page from the visitor’s book—the one containing Julianna’s picture and her signature. Her picture gave him comfort as he waded through the days of sorrow. Kept him company on the journey back to Buckinghamshire, and then on his trip to London.

  It was still tucked inside his waistcoat pocket now, carefully folded to avoid creasing her photograph. He had looked upon it so many times over the past two weeks, he saw her when he closed his eyes. The barest hint of a smile on her lips, those brilliant eyes framed with long lashes, the elegant way she held herself, the creamy column of her throat. There was an aura of mystery about her, the suggestion she alone knew a secret that made everyone who gazed upon her want to be privy to it.

  God, he could not wait to see her again. To hold her in his arms. To ask her to marry him. But before he could go to her in good conscience, he needed to break ties with his mistress, Baroness Richards. The first order of business would be to pay her a call.

  He had already sent a note round to her, giving her the courtesy of knowing he had returned to London and that he wished an audience with her. Putting an end to their understanding was necessary before he proposed to Julianna. He would not dream of dishonoring her by such an oversight. He intended to marry her—and soon—but he wanted to do everything right.

  What he had done at Farnsworth Hall had decidedly not been right. Hell, he was still not proud of himself for failing to behave as a gentleman. Sidney raked a hand through his hair and heaved a sigh. The stack of correspondence on his desk, neatly sorted by his secretary, taunted him. All he could think of, however, was her.

  He never should have made love to Julianna, and he knew it. But he had been overwhelmed by the way she made him feel. Spurred by his love for her. From the moment he had spied her in the library with that book of Keats, she had charmed him. He had fought against it mightily, but in the end, his efforts had proven futile. This summer at Farnsworth Hall, he had finally given in to temptation. The day he had come upon her in the lake had sealed his fate.

  A knock sounded on his study door, tearing him from further ruminations. He threw down the letter he had been attempting to read.

  “Come.”

  Wentworth hovered at the threshold. “Lady Richards for your lordship. I have seen her to the salon.”

  Christ. Alice was here. Although he had not objected to her calling on him in the past, that had been before. The last thing he wanted now was for any taint of scandal when he was about to become a betrothed man. He would sooner cut off his own ear than hurt Julianna in any way.

  He ground his molars and pressed his fingers to his already throbbing temples. “I will be with her momentarily, Wentworth. Thank you.”

  “Will she be joining your lordship for supper?” his butler asked, the soul of discretion.

  Lady Richards had been a frequent guest at Cagney House. And ordinar
ily a most welcome one. But much had changed since this moment and her previous visit. Everything had changed. Sidney had too.

  “No, she will not. I do not expect her visit to be a lengthy one.” He was grim as he rose from behind his desk and headed toward the salon.

  The quicker he had this interminable interview out of the way, the better. Since the baron’s death some three years prior—and hell, even before the doddering lord’s death—Alice had been taking lovers. Sidney had not been her first, and nor, he knew, would he be her last. However, he respected her. She was intelligent in a way many in their set were not, and she was also vivacious and giving. An excellent hostess in her own right, much sought-after. She would have no trouble moving on to whomever she wished, if anyone.

  However, he had not intended to give her the congé the day of his return to London. His grandmother’s death, coupled with all his recent travels, and combined with his fits of conscience over the way he had parted with Julianna, had him in an upheaval.

  Alice was fiddling with the mantel clock when he entered. The whole thing was turned about, and she had removed the back.

  “Lady Richards,” he greeted, opting for formality between them, offering a bow.

  “Shelbourne! Your clock is slow. I do believe it was in need of a winding. I hope you do not mind.” She gave it another wind, replaced the back, and then carefully spun it about so it faced the room once more.

  Where some would have been shocked at a lady who bothered herself with the punctuality of a mantel clock—and indeed, one who dared to wind it herself—Sidney was not. He had been acquainted with Alice for several years, and he knew her well enough to understand she had an affinity for objects with mechanisms. Once, she had taken apart his pocket watch. On another occasion, she had dismantled his pencil, only to return it to him in far better working condition than it had previously been.

  Her smile was dazzling as she swept toward him, and there was no denying her beauty. But he felt nothing as she approached him, save the same respect and admiration he would feel toward any lady. The attraction he had felt for her paled in comparison to the blazing desire and all-consuming love he felt for Julianna.