by Joanna Shupe
He was grinning. Nick couldn’t help it. “Actually I’ve been keeping company with Winchester’s former mistress. Someone you’ll know. Mrs. Juliet Leighton.”
Quint cocked his head. “Who?”
“Mrs. Leighton.” Quint’s puzzled expression remained unchanged, so Nick elaborated. “Romanced both Wellington and the Prince Regent at the same time. Had a dinner party and served champagne from a chamber pot. Possesses a collection of diamonds rumored to rival the Crown Jewels. Surely you remember?”
“Sorry, Colt. I have no idea who you’re talking about. Winchester’s old mistress, you say?”
“She’s from London. Juliet Leighton. You must have heard of her.” Nick frowned and tried not to be annoyed at the failing of his friend’s memory. But the rumors about Juliet were wildly fantastic. Any red-blooded male in London over the age of twelve would know her name. “Come on, Quint.”
“No. I haven’t heard of her. And she sounds like a woman I wouldn’t soon forget. Maybe Winchester is pulling one over on you. You know how much he enjoyed playing pranks on us.”
Quint quietly sipped his coffee while Nick struggled with that statement. Would Winchester do such a thing? What would he hope to gain? Juliet’s cooperation would be required in such a scheme. Why would the two of them . . . No, such an idea was ludicrous.
Nick shook off the gnawing feeling in his gut, and their talk soon shifted to other matters. A few hours passed and Nick found himself anxious to see Juliet.
“I must go, Quint. But send round later and we’ll go out this evening.”
Nick departed and Fitz met him outside, the valet straightening off the side of the building as Nick came forward.
“I plan to walk over to Mrs. Leighton’s palazzo. Take the gondola and meet me over there, will you?”
Fitz nodded. “Be careful.”
“It’s the middle of the day. I’ll be fine. I need the walk to clear my head.” Without another word, he spun and strode away, threading through the soldiers, shoppers, and visitors in the Piazza San Marco.
By the time he made it to Juliet’s palazzo, Nick convinced himself there was no reason for concern. Quint certainly did not know everyone in London, and he’d been traveling recently. Of course there was also the possibility that Mrs. Leighton wasn’t as notorious as the rumors made it seem. Nick was no stranger to the power of falsehoods and how quickly they spread.
But a small amount of doubt remained. He’d been burned before, and Nick knew better than to trust anyone.
He attempted to calm himself with a few deep breaths. It didn’t work. He wouldn’t be better until he saw Juliet and asked her these very questions himself. Who are you? Have you and Winchester been making a fool of me?
He rapped on the door, waiting in the balmy Venetian afternoon while he shifted his weight from one foot to another. He knocked once more. Where the hell was everyone?
Nick turned the handle and the door creaked open. He stepped into the entryway. “Juliet? Winchester? Is anyone about?”
No one appeared, so he continued up the stairs to the main floor. Darkness surrounded him. No lamps or candles burning, windows closed, and fear tightened his chest. “Juliet?” he called.
Rushing up another flight, Nick found his answer.
In the first chamber, drawers were opened, all ominously empty, as if the occupant left in a hurry. “Goddamn it!” he roared, charging from room to room—only each chamber looked the same.
He stumbled to the first floor, reeling. Gone? And she left without a bloody word?
The truth could no longer be denied. He’d been duped. Why else would she flee the palazzo without telling him? God, no wonder Quint had never heard of the woman.
Nick staggered into the sitting room, hoping to discover some sign of life, some proof she had not truly deserted him. Only, there was none. The furniture stood silent, the living, breathing occupants gone.
A note on the mantel caught his eye. It was addressed to him. His heart stuttered. Perhaps it was from Juliet, explaining her hasty departure. Nick lunged for it and broke the seal, expecting to read of some unforeseen event that had pulled her away from Venice.
It was not from Juliet, however. The note was from Winchester. And the words turned Nick’s blood cold.
Colt,
If you’re reading this, then you already know we’ve left.
I once told you, my friend, if you continued to ignore your wife, you would regret it. I fear that day has come.
Mrs. Juliet Leighton never existed. She was a figment of the imagination of a woman driven to desperation. A woman on the brink of despair, who was convinced she had no other hope but to invent a legendary persona in order to capture the attention of her husband. You.
Yes, Juliet Leighton is really Julia Seaton, the Duchess of Colton.
I know you may never forgive me for what I’ve done. I only hope you come to understand the reasons why I had compassion for the woman you’ve abandoned for eight years. As well, I have your best interests at heart.
We are to return to London. I do not know what transpired between you and Julia over the last few days, but she is frantic to leave Venice. I have no choice but to escort her and her aunt back home.
I don’t know when I will see you again, Colt, but it is my fondest wish to remain friends. I hope someday you will understand.
Yours,
Simon
Nick stumbled to a chair, stunned. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears. The room was spinning, so he grabbed the armrests to steady himself.
Bloody hell, was it true?
Juliet was . . . his wife?
He crumpled the note in his hand, his disbelief shifting into white-hot rage. His muscles clenched and he could hardly see through a haze of anger. He’d been tricked. By his wife. She’d stood there, smiling at him, laughing at him, bedding him . . . the whole time knowing she was lying.
That whore.
It had all been a game. The rumors, the flirting, the kissing. She’d merely wanted him to chase her, to fall at her feet. And he had, goddamn nitwit that he was. It was some sort of revenge for ignoring her for eight years. God, and the things he’d told her. Nick had revealed parts of himself to her that he hadn’t shown anyone, ever.
And she and Winchester had been laughing at him the whole time.
The pain nearly doubled him over. Nick had never felt this betrayed. Not even when his brother hadn’t believed him, or when his family had turned their backs on him. No, this was a hundred times worse. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and shoved the note into the pocket of his coat.
Nick stalked out of the palazzo toward his gondola, his boots snapping on the stone floor. His chest felt hollow, frozen. Empty of all feeling and emotion. Fitz stood on the dock, impassively awaiting his return. “Home,” Nick barked and jumped into the boat. He dropped onto the seat and put his head in his hands.
Every moment with her, every lying smile, every deceitful sigh played back in Nick’s head while they floated the short distance to his palazzo. Were she and Winchester lovers? Winchester had denied having feelings for the duchess, but what man would go to such lengths to help a woman he did not care for?
Whatever he had to do, wherever he had to go, Nick vowed the two of them would regret making a fool of him.
When the gondola stopped at the dock, Nick leaped out and his hand brushed against a lump in the pocket of his greatcoat. He suddenly remembered the gift he’d bought Juliet—no, make that his wife. The intricately carved, unique cameo set. Simple and elegant, just as he’d once thought Juliet to be. He took the box out and held it in his trembling hand, rage coursing through him. His own stupidity mocked him.
And what of your wife? she’d asked. Aren’t you curious about her?
With a soul-shattering roar, Nick hurled the box as far as he could into the black waters of the canal.
“Colton, what is it? What’s happened?” Quint asked from the doorway.
It was earl
y evening, and Nick was rapidly attempting to wrap up all his business in Venice. He now remembered telling Quint to come by tonight. The last thing he needed was company, but he found himself strangely unable to ask his friend to leave.
Quint lowered himself into a chair across from Nick’s desk. “I can see you’re angry. What is it?”
There was no reason to hide the truth from Quint. All of London would be laughing at Nick shortly, reveling in the humiliation of the Depraved Duke. Nick didn’t trust his voice, so he merely tossed Winchester’s note in Quint’s direction and went back to writing.
A long minute went by. The room remained deathly quiet while Quint read the letter. When he finished, he folded the paper and placed it on Nick’s desk.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Nick’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowed on Quint. “Yes, for a whore. Quite.” He refocused on the letter he was composing, barely seeing the words on the page.
“Oh, come now, Colton. So you bedded your wife. And it sounds as if you enjoyed it, if your earlier comments at the coffeehouse were any indication. While no one wants to be duped, at least you can cross ‘consummate my marriage’ off the items to accomplish before you die.”
“That was on my list of things not to accomplish—ever,” Nick shot back. “And the woman I bedded was no virgin, Quint. She was experienced in the arts of fornication. So with whom has she been gaining such experience? Winchester?” He realized he was shouting, so he forced himself to relax.
Quint frowned. “Well, that does seem unlikely. But you’ve washed your hands of her since the wedding ceremony. One can hardly blame the girl for wanting to be loved.”
“Jesus, Quint. This is no time for logic.” Nick dragged a hand down his face. “Fine, if what you say is true, then why come and find me? She could have any man in London. Why create this fantastic story, of a courtesan no man can resist, and then seduce me?”
“I should hate to speculate, but perhaps you have not considered the most obvious reason of all.”
Other than humiliate him, or to seek revenge, Nick couldn’t fathom a guess. “And what would that be?”
“Perhaps another man planted his seed in your wife, and she is trying to convince you it is yours.”
His breath caught, and then a new, brighter fury raced through him, clogging his throat. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.
Driven to desperation, Winchester had said in his note. A woman on the brink of despair.
And then it all made sense. The persona, the fact that she’d targeted him, Winchester’s cooperation . . . The woman wanted to pass off some other man’s bastard as Nick’s child.
Goddamn her to hell.
“Wait,” Nick suddenly said. “Her stomach exhibited no signs of rounding. At what month do women start showing?”
Quint lifted his hands and shrugged. “Damned if I know. I had heard she and Wyndham were quite close for a time. But even if she is to have another man’s by-blow, do you really care? I should think you’d be relieved, considering you never planned to give her a child.”
Nick rubbed his forehead. Maybe he would have felt that way before he’d met her. Before he’d held her in his arms. The thought of another man having her, losing himself inside her body . . . it made him nearly mad with jealousy. “I am not relieved,” he said before returning to his papers. “Is that all, Quint?”
He heard Quint sigh. “I know you well enough to see you shall not let this go. So what are you planning to do?”
Nick kept his eyes on his writing. “Make them regret it, of course. I am leaving for London as fast as I can manage.”
Quint sighed, heavier this time. “Well, I had better come with you, then.”
Julia gripped the sides of the boat, rising from over the side where she’d just emptied her stomach into the English Channel. Again. Heavens, she’d never been so nauseated in her life.
The four-week journey from Venice had been miserable. In addition to the guilt she felt over leaving Nick so abruptly, she’d missed her monthly courses. Julia had actually achieved her goal. She was enceinte.
She pressed a hand to her abdomen, where a tiny life now grew inside her. While part of her was relieved her plan had worked, another larger part grieved for the father her baby would never know, the husband Julia would never have. For Nick.
But Julia had no time for regrets. What’s done was done, as Aunt Theo would say. Julia had to move forward and nurture the child she carried.
Once back in London, Julia planned to write him. She would apologize for leaving Venice so suddenly and tell him of her real identity. And even though he would hate her, at least she could give him the reasons behind her actions. Someday, perhaps, he could forgive her.
Lord, she missed him. That last night with him, their lovemaking had been explosive. After leaving his palazzo’s roof, they had been ravenous for one another, barely making it to his chamber before tearing off each other’s clothes. After, he’d held her so tightly, with something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Julia was almost sure he had developed feelings for her.
Perhaps he had come to care for her as much as she loved him.
Which was why she’d left Venice, to put a stop to her scheme before either of them were hurt further.
“Are you feeling better?” Aunt Theo appeared at Julia’s side, her cherubic face etched with concern.
“Yes,” Julia answered, slowly finding her way to a deck chair. She sat down and closed her eyes, utterly exhausted. The bracing cold wind helped counteract the choppy waves and her stomach calmed. She hunched further into her ermine-lined cape and placed her hands in the matching muff.
“I am worried,” Theo said, and settled into the chair next to Julia. “I’ve never seen you quite this bad off.”
“Merely mal de mer. I’ll be fine once we reach Dover.”
“I don’t mean that. Your husband, I mean. You are in love with him.”
Tears gathered and Julia bit her lip in an effort to keep the moisture from falling. She didn’t answer Theo, but her silence said enough.
“Oh, my dear.” Theo reached into the muff to clasp her niece’s hand. “You’ve been so unhappy on this trip and I suspected the cause. I am so sorry. To love a man who does not return the sentiment . . . it is quite painful, to be sure.”
“That’s the thing. I believe he did come to have feelings for me—I mean Mrs. Leighton. Perhaps he even loved her. And hurting him that way . . . I could not do it any longer. That’s why we had to leave.” Julia took a shaky breath. “I never expected it to go this far. I never expected to love him.”
Theo sighed. “The heart loves whom it loves. We wish we could control it, but we cannot.”
They sat in silence for several minutes.
“Are you going to tell him, then?” Theo asked.
Julia nodded. “As soon as we return to London. I owe him that at least.”
“Are you going to tell him about the baby as well?”
Julia’s head snapped to her aunt. “You knew?”
“Of course! They might be a bit bleary some nights, but I still have my eyes. Are you happy about the baby?”
She gave her aunt a tremulous smile. “I am. I’ll always have a part of Nick, and even though we’ll never see one another again, I’ll have a son or daughter that resulted from one beautiful week together.” She squeezed her aunt’s hand. “Theo, will you help me raise my baby?”
“Of course!” Theo exclaimed. “Oh, my dear, I’d be honored.”
“You’d be honored to do what?” Simon appeared, his hat pulled low and a heavy wool greatcoat protecting him from the stiff breeze.
“Theo,” Julia said. “Would you excuse Simon and me for a moment?”
Her aunt nodded and stood up. “Pray come below and get some rest when you’re finished.”
“I will,” Julia promised before her aunt walked away. “Please sit, Simon.”
Simon looked at her warily but sat down. “Are
you still ill?”
“Yes, but that’s not what I have to tell you.” She took a deep breath. “I am with child. Colton’s child.”
He smiled. “Then felicitations are in order. I am very happy for you.”
“You are? I assumed you would be angry. Colton is your friend, after all. And you likely knew he did not want children.”
“I’m not angry, Julia. I’m happy you got what you wanted. And who knows? Perhaps it will all turn out better than we expected.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
He shrugged and turned to stare at the water.
“I plan to write to Colton as soon as we arrive in London,” she told him after a bit.
“I assumed as much.” Simon stretched his legs in front of him. “I am curious as to what his reply will be.”
Julia’s stomach clenched. Would he even send a reply? It seemed unlikely from her perspective. Nick was going to be furious. But she needed him to acknowledge the child as his own.
“How many more days until Dover, do you think?” she asked.
“Two. Why?”
“Because I do not know if I can make it that long.” Julia bolted out of her chair and rushed to the side, where she promptly threw up.
Chapter Eight
Take care to be sweet and amenable, avoiding arguments when possible. An angry, vindictive lover will bring you naught but trouble.
—Miss Pearl Kelly to the Duchess of Colton
Could she stand here all night without vomiting on the floor?
Such was the thought in Julia’s head as she waited at the side of the Collingswood ballroom. The heat and crowd had made her queasy, so she’d stationed herself near the terrace door in order to crack it. Drawing deep breaths of the bracing cold February air had helped to settle her stomach.
So far, carrying a child was not the joyous condition she’d imagined in her youth. She spent far more time emptying the contents of her stomach than actually eating.