by Sylvia Day
His mouth curved with a heart-stopping smile. “It’s your turn, sweet.”
She ran up the wide, grassy steps toward the manse, but he caught her easily and dipped his head for a kiss. Julienne savored the heady taste of him for a moment before pulling away.
“No, Lucien,” she scolded, even as her heart raced at the seductive promise in his eyes. “You mustn’t touch me again tonight. With your reputation, it would not be amiss for you to return to the ballroom looking as you do now, but if I were to return looking that way, it would be a disaster.”
He ran his hand down her arm, grinning as he saw her shiver. “I shall feel like a selfish cad, sweetheart, if you don’t allow me to pleasure you in return.” Lucien bent his head to nuzzle her neck, but she backed away with a chastising wag of her finger.
“Now you see how I felt the other evening when you refused my touch.” Julienne turned away and neatly avoided his grasping arms. “Remain in the garden for a few moments. I’m certain my aunt must be frantic by now. You may call on me tomorrow at two. Aunt Eugenia has an appointment, and she’ll be gone for hours.”
“Where shall I meet you?”
“Come through the mews. I’ll find you.”
The light in his eyes dimmed. “You’re putting yourself at great risk to see me.”
“I know.”
Lucien was right, of course. But her reputation, so vital to the well-being of her family, stood no chance against her desire to steal whatever time she could with him. “But you’re quite impossible to resist.”
He grasped her elbow when she tried to move away. “You shouldn’t like me, Julienne. I’m not good for you.”
“Oh, Lucien.” She sighed. She brushed his damp hair back from his face and watched his eyes close with pleasure at her touch. How she adored him, this beautiful, wicked man, with his carefully hidden honor. “You act as if I have more control over this than you.”
She lifted onto her toes and pressed her lips to his with a soft moan. “Come tomorrow. Or not. The choice is yours.” Turning quickly, Julienne left him in the garden.
“You look . . . respectable,” Marchant said, with wide eyes. “What’s the occasion?”
Lucien ignored him. “Did you compile the list I requested?”
“Prospective suitors for Lady Julienne? Of course.” Marchant slid the file across the desk.
Scanning through it, Lucien grumbled, “Why is Fontaine at the top?”
Marchant arched a brow. “Besides being an extremely handsome marquess with seventeen estates, hundreds of servants, unlimited funds, and considered the catch of the Season by the entirety of the Beau Monde?”
Lucien snorted. “What about his personal life?”
“He’s a known womanizer, but he doesn’t gamble or drink to excess. I was unable to find any evidence of his siring any bastards.”
“And socially?”
“He maintains his seat in the Lords, and he’s held in high esteem by the peerage.”
Lucien dropped the folder. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, remembering the sight of Julienne kissing Fontaine.
From that recollection came unbidden images—Fontaine holding Julienne and caressing her luscious breasts. Fontaine riding between her thighs, plunging into the silken heat of her, as Lucien could not. Sick with jealousy, he clenched his teeth until his jaw ached.
Julienne was a lady to the core. Lucien knew he could do nothing but ruin her, nothing but cause her to be ostracized by her peers, shaming her, until her spirit was crushed and the affection in her eyes faded to bitter resentment.
“Mr. Remington? Are you feeling unwell? You look feverish.”
Lucien opened his eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Perhaps you should rest a bit. You’ve been working too hard lately.”
Lucien stood and collected the folder. “No, I have an appointment.”
“With whom? I see nothing on your schedule.”
“It’s none of your damn business,” Lucien growled.
“Your attire . . .” Marchant glanced at the file in Lucien’s hand. “Tell me you don’t intend to call on Lady Julienne!”
For the first time, Lucien damned the high intelligence of his man-of-affairs.
But instead of censure, Marchant laughed. “Are you branching out into matchmaking, Lucien? Or do you hope to collect on Montrose’s debt through his brother-in-law?”
“Go to hell, Harold,” he growled.
Sobering, Marchant asked, “Are you quite certain you know what you’re doing?”
“Of course.”
“And what is it you’re doing?”
Lucien paused on the threshold of his office. “The honorable thing. For once.”
“Marriage prospects?” Julienne gaped at him, her dark eyes wide with disbelief.
Lucien clutched his hat in his hands. His throat was so tight, it was hard to swallow. Seeing Julienne’s golden beauty in daylight made him think of all the things they’d never be allowed to do together. They would never go for rides in the park or strolls down the street. They could never enjoy a picnic or even the simple act of tea. Hell, he’d had to use subterfuge merely to exchange a few words with her. The harsh reminder strengthened his resolve. He had to remove her from his reach before he destroyed her.
Lowering himself to the chaise, Lucien nodded. “I know your brother has deserted you, sweet. You must marry quickly, and I thought perhaps I could assist you with that endeavor.”
She set the folder on the seat between them, her eyes downcast, hiding her thoughts.
“Aren’t you even going to look at it?”
“Certainly.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “But you know far more about my circumstances than I do about yours. So, before I choose my future husband, I want to discover all there is to know about you.”
He scowled. The less she knew about him, the better. “I dislike discussing myself.”
“Why? I find you fascinating. Your deportment is faultless, your manners impeccable, your taste excellent. You’ve obviously had some schooling—”
“Didn’t you listen to Fontaine last night? I’m a mongrel, a blight on Society.”
“No, you are not,” she argued. “I’m sorry you overheard that.”
“It was nothing I haven’t heard before.” He smiled and reached for her hand. “Although I thank you for defending my honor.”
The feel of her skin against his was heaven. And hell. He glanced down at their joined hands, hers so pale, so tiny and delicate. Lucien remembered the feel of those hands on his body, their gentle exploration belying her ravenous hunger for him. Knowing he would soon lose her touch forever made his heart ache.
Julienne bit her lower lip. “Why say such horrid things about you merely because you are in trade?”
“’Tis more than that, Julienne.” He was silent for a moment, wanting to hide the things she didn’t know. But the moment was intimate, her gaze tender, and he found himself sharing the things he discussed with no one. “I’m a bastard by birth.”
She didn’t even blink. “You have no control over such things!”
“It gets worse,” he said dryly, squeezing her hand in silent appreciation. “I am the product of a long-term affair between a courtesan and a nobleman.”
“Good heavens!”
Lucien waited for her to put the pieces together. It took only a moment.
“Remington. Your mother is Amanda Remington? The famous demimondaine?”
He nodded, and wondered if Julienne would think less of him now that she knew he was the bastard son of a prostitute. A very wealthy, extremely discriminating, and, for the last thirty years, monogamous prostitute, but a one-time whore nevertheless. It was common knowledge. The fact that Julienne knew nothing of it proved once again how far removed their existences were from one another.
“How romantic,” she sighed, and Lucien almost fell off the chaise. “You’re a love child! How lucky you are.”
He stared at her, agape.
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br /> With gentle fingertips, Julienne urged his mouth closed. “Your blood is almost as blue as mine, Lucien. No wonder you carry yourself with such pride.”
“Are you quite mad?”
“Beg your pardon?”
He shook his head. It was almost as if she didn’t see his tarnish. Or perhaps she didn’t care . . . The possibility made his heart race, a tiny flame of hope sparking to life within him.
“Julienne, every moment I spend with you brings you closer to ruin. Why don’t you see that? I’m a hedonistic, self-centered bastard who has taken liberties with you that deserve to get me drawn and quartered. Beheaded. Hanged. Shot. Run through—”
“Fine,” she said sharply, pulling her hand from his and straightening her spine.
“Fine?”
“Yes. Fine. You are a horrible, wretched excuse for a man. Is that what you want me to say? Do you feel better?” She lifted the folder and opened it. “I will choose a husband posthaste so you will have no further need to seek me out.”
Julienne looked briefly at the column of names, then snapped the folder shut. “The Marquess of Fontaine, it is.”
Lucien’s hands clenched right along with his jaw. He was ashamed by how badly her words cut him when it was his own ill humor that had goaded her into saying them. Stung, he spoke rudely.
“Fontaine will never be faithful to you. He’s just like me. He’ll bed anything in a skirt.”
“I know.” Her voice held no censure, no sadness.
Her ready acceptance of another man, one who didn’t deserve her any more than he did, infuriated Lucien.
“That doesn’t disturb you?” he bit out.
“Certainly I wish things could be different,” she admitted, her fingers fidgeting with the file. “But it’s a common arrangement, Lucien. You are lucky to have two parents who care deeply for each other. They’ve been together for many years, have they not? Your mother and the duke?”
So, she knew who his father was. “Yes, almost two-score years now.”
“A lifetime of happiness. Some of us will have only fleeting moments of it. Your birth is nothing to be ashamed of. You have choices, many paths you can take. Some of us have only one.”
“And what of your happiness?” he asked harshly.
Julienne’s smile was brittle. “I am one of those born with only one choice.”
Lucien swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the folder. He recalled every name it contained, men who were considered his superior because their parents had married while his had not. He had more money than every one of them, more property, more affection for Julienne.
If she would give up her station for him, he would give her the world.
Words tumbled out of his mouth before he thought them through. “If you are so open to having a philandering husband, why not wed me?”
The file slipped from her hands, papers spilling out and spreading all over the floor. She dropped to her knees, scrambling to gather the sheets together.
Lucien joined her, noting the shaking of her hands and her rapid breathing. He said nothing, startled by what he’d asked and afraid to say something that would affect her decision.
Long, torturous moments passed in silence.
“Aren’t you going to answer?” he asked finally, unable to bear the suspense any longer.
“Beg your pardon?” She turned her head to look at him, her expression bemused.
“Bloody hell! I just asked you to marry me.”
Her lashes lowered, shuttering her gaze. Julienne hesitated before choosing her words carefully. “While I admit to the need for haste, I’m not desperate. I have several excellent prospects. There is no need for you to make such a sacrifice.”
Lucien stared blindly ahead. He’d never imagined proposing to anyone, but he also never imagined being refused. He felt ill. Maybe Marchant was right. Perhaps he had caught the fever.
He set his hand atop hers, stilling its movement. “I realize I cannot compete socially with your other suitors, Julienne, but financially I can hold my own with any of them.” He steeled himself inwardly and then bared his thoughts. “I want you in my bed. I need to be inside you so badly, I’m about to lose my mind, and I’m beginning to think one time won’t be enough. It might take weeks, months, to rid myself of this craving. It doesn’t matter how many women I take, and hell, I’ve had at least a dozen since—”
“Stop!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “I don’t want to know.”
Lucien straightened, staring at the top of her downcast head. “Julienne.” His voice dropped seductively. “I’m extremely wealthy. I can help your brother, and I can give you everything Fontaine can, except for a title. Is a title so important to you?”
She lifted her chin, her gaze soft and liquid with tears. “No. A title does not matter to me, Lucien.”
He reached out and captured her hand. “Then take me,” he urged, sweat misting his skin. “I’ll take care of everything. I’ll take care of you.”
“Oh, Lucien,” Julienne breathed. “I cannot.”
“Why?”
Her chin quivered. “Because I couldn’t bear to share you if you were mine.”
Lucien was stunned. “But you will tolerate a peer’s indiscretions? I don’t understand.”
“I know.” She sighed miserably. “We must forget this conversation. Your friendship is important to me, Lucien. I—”
“Friendship?” His hands tightened brutally on hers. She winced, but he couldn’t make himself release her. “We are more than friends, Julienne. My fingers have been inside you. I’ve held your naked body against mine. You have taken my cock in your mouth—”
She covered his mouth with her hand. “Please, don’t be angry. I would never take advantage of your desire by forcing you into marriage. You would be miserable tied down in such a way, which would, in turn, make me miserable. I can meet with you. We can arrange to—”
“You will fuck me,” he snapped, “but not wed me?” He broke into a sweat, even though his heart was cold.
A tear rolled down her cheek, breaking him, and he fought back in self-defense.
“You act as if my background and social standing were of no consequence to you, but that’s a lie, Julienne. You consider me beneath you. Not worthy of marriage. I’m good enough to fuck, but nothing more.” Lucien dropped her hand and turned away. He didn’t trust himself to touch her. He might do something completely idiotic—like drop to his knees and beg.
“That’s not true!” she cried. “You know that’s not true.”
He shot her a furious glance, and the sight of her tore at him. Her lush mouth, which had loved his body so ardently the night before, was quivering, and she was struggling to hold back tears.
The damned thing was, so was he.
Without a word, Lucien strode through the open French doors and out to the garden beyond. He heard Julienne calling his name, her voice choked and pleading, but he couldn’t go back.
God, how he wanted her! His hands were shaking and his breath shuddering as he mounted his horse in the mews. He was completely undone, knowing, as he pulled away from Julienne’s home, that it would be the last time he ever spoke to her.
Chapter Seven
Julienne watched Lucien boldly, uncaring who saw her. After weeks of self-imposed exile, he’d reappeared in Society looking leaner and paler, the skin around his eyes shadowed. He didn’t look well, but to Julienne he looked wonderful. Beautifully dressed in evening attire, he stood out from the crowd, his presence so compelling and so uncivilized despite his refined exterior.
Lucien must have felt her regard. He turned his head and met her gaze, his expression altering not at all upon seeing her. He turned back to his companion, a voluptuous and obviously smitten woman of the world. An experienced femme fatale, with flame-red hair and lips, who held his arm and rubbed her full breasts against it, while Lucien sliced Julienne through the heart with the cut direct.
She reminded herself that she’d never had a clai
m to him. Even when he’d rashly offered marriage, Lucien had never agreed to be hers. But that didn’t stop her from feeling as if she would cast up her accounts all over the ballroom floor.
“What are you contemplating, Lady Julienne?” Fontaine asked as he leaned over her.
“I’m thinking you should ask me to dance.”
Her handsome suitor’s mouth curved in a smile that caused other women to swoon, yet affected Julienne not at all. “Another dance?” he murmured. “How deliciously scandalous.”
With consummate skill, he moved her from the edge of the dance floor and into the line of waiting couples. As the music began and they moved with the other dancers, she watched Lucien lead the redhead to a deserted corner, his hand cupping the curve of her derriere. Dismayed, Julienne missed a step. Fontaine’s arm tightened, supporting her, his quick response preventing any embarrassment for them.
“Thank you,” she said, with a grateful smile, swallowing back her misery.
Justin tilted his head in acknowledgment. “We rub along well together.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “We do.”
His gaze filled with satisfaction. Their nuptials were quickly becoming a foregone conclusion. Soon, very soon, Julienne would have to explain her brother’s plight. Raised an aristocrat, the same as she was, the present Marquess of Fontaine knew the workings of upper-tier marriages, and her situation, while pitiable, was fairly common. In fact, she was almost certain he already knew of her brother’s troubles.
When the reel ended, Justin escorted her back to Aunt Eugenia before departing for another event. Try as she might, and she did try, Julienne couldn’t stop herself from looking for Lucien. When she found him, she clasped a gloved hand over her mouth, containing a sob. Lucien was leaning over his red-haired lover, whispering in her ear and nuzzling her throat, the picture of rapturous attentiveness.
“Excuse me, Aunt Eugenia.” She turned away, her chest tight. “I have to sneeze.” She moved with haste toward the nearest hallway.
Afraid to go into the ladies’ retiring room and hazard running into other guests, Julienne made her way farther down the hall, where unlit tapers offered privacy. She slipped into the third closed door and shut it behind her. For a moment, she was blind in the darkness, but she stumbled her way to an open-sided chaise, where she threw herself down and began to cry in earnest. Arrested by grief, she didn’t hear the bolt slide home. When a large, ungloved hand covered her mouth, her eyes flew open in shock.