Julia London 4 Book Bundle

by The Rogues of Regent Street

  Dismissed. It was the same scene that had been played out hundreds of times in this house and one that never failed to embarrass her. She was to retire to her rooms, fret over hats and gowns and teas while they, the men, talked about the king and the affairs of the monarchy, and reforms and—

  “Madam? Shall I ring for your maid?”

  She realized she was still standing in the corridor, staring at the closed oak door. Claudia glanced at the footman from the corner of her eye. “Thank you, Richard, that won’t be necessary.” Pivoting on her heel, she marched smartly down the corridor.

  Even the footmen were trained to think her helpless and fragile, she thought irritably as she bounced up the wide, curving staircase to the floors above. Fragile and empty-headed and useful for only one thing in particular. Ah, but it was the way of the man’s world—a little fact of life she had never realized until Phillip was gone.

  She supposed that at the very least, she could thank the Rake for waking her up to the inequities between men and women.

  That, and the passion between them.

  Claudia paused at the door of her suite and laid her forehead against the cool oak as she recalled that wondrous, searing kiss. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it for even a moment all day, and every time she closed her eyes, she saw his tousled hair, the glitter in his black eyes, the dark stubble on his chin. Worse, she felt him—oh God, she felt him—his hands on her skin, his tongue in her mouth, his breath in her ear.…

  She abruptly straightened and frowned at the door. She had never felt such gut-wrenching yearning for Phillip. Phillip! Lord above, she was making herself insane! Shoving the heavy door open, she stepped across the threshold and headed straight for her bedchamber, not bothering to ring for her maid. She peeled off her pelisse, untied the sash at her waist, and unbuttoned the front of her travelling gown as she went, then collapsed, facedown, on her bed.

  There he was again. That devilish smile haunted her mind’s eye. Why did he have to charm her so? Why must he be such a rotten rogue? Seeing him again in France had dredged up old feelings for him that she had thought long dead. If he hadn’t kissed her like that, she was quite certain she could have buried them again. She had to bury them, because, unfortunately, the passage of time has not really changed her opinion: Julian Dane had led Phillip on that fatal course with no regard for anyone but himself, and least of all, her. But then, he had made it quite clear that she was not worthy of Phillip’s affections … just as he had once made it abundantly clear she was not worthy of his.

  All right. In truth—not that she would ever admit it—no one was more surprised than she when she caught Phillip’s eye at the Sutherland ball. It had astounded her that Lord Rothembow, one of the Rogues of Regent Street, the elite of the ton’s most eligible bachelors, would be interested in her. As charming as he reputedly was reckless, he was a figure bigger than life to her, terribly handsome with his blond curls and laughing blue eyes. She had thoroughly enjoyed his attentions, but who wouldn’t? In the beginning, Phillip made her feel as if she meant something to him, as if she were important. He escorted her to a number of events, gave her trinkets as a token of his admiration, and seemed truly genuine in his affection.

  Naturally, it hadn’t been very long before her friends were whispering that Phillip would offer for her. Even Phillip hinted at it once—nothing very direct, really, but just a casual remark of their future together. God knew she was certainly open to the possibility. Rather hoped for it, actually. But then, in the last few weeks of his life, Phillip grew distant—even belligerent—and that could only be blamed on the Almighty Lord Kettering. She remained quite convinced that Phillip never would have fallen so far had it not been for him. Even that horrible, wretched night Phillip had called unexpectedly, well into his cups—even then he had been out with Julian.

  That night was her worst memory. Phillip was obviously quite inebriated, although he was usually a master at masking it. But she hadn’t really known just how inebriated until she did not receive him as ardently as he thought she should. Angered, he had lunged at her, trapping her against the door in an attempt to force her affection.

  A shiver ran down Claudia’s spine as she recalled how he had shoved his hand into her bodice, cruelly squeezing her breast while his other hand groped for the most private part of her. Fear had quickly turned to terror when she could not stop him, could not stop him from taking her like that, in her father’s house, like a whore.…

  By some miracle, she had managed to wrench her arm free and slap him, hard, with every ounce of strength she possessed. Stunned by the blow, Phillip had staggered backward as he lifted a hand to his face. And then he had laughed. Had laughed at her in that same indolent way Julian had laughed when she insisted Phillip cared deeply for her.

  She never saw Phillip again. He was dead a scant two weeks later, having followed Julian Dane and the others to some remote hunting lodge for a weekend of debauchery.

  Adrian Spence pulled the trigger, but Julian Dane put him in the line of fire.

  And she could not, would not, forgive it, no matter how hotly he made her blood run.

  But really, with the extraordinary exception of last night, he had never shown her the slightest bit of attention in all the years she had known him. If anything, he had run with horror in the other direction. She couldn’t help but recall the summer of her twelfth year and the night she had done the unthinkable by kissing him full on the lips. She scarcely had a moment to wonder at her own madness before he jerked her away from him so hard that her arms felt as if they had been yanked from their sockets. “If you ever do something so foolish again, I will send you home at once with a letter explaining to your father exactly why you are being sent home from Kettering Hall!” he snapped in a terrifying voice.

  Her stomach had twisted with the horror of her mistake, and she had whirled away from him, fleeing the terrace with tears of shame blinding her.

  Thirteen years later and it was still a painful memory.

  Claudia restlessly pushed herself off the bed and crossed to the window.

  Even though she continued on at Kettering Hall each summer, she saw him less frequently after that—rarely, if at all, by the time she was grown. But oh, how she had relished the many rumors that circulated about the Rogues of Regent Street! Julian was considered the most handsome scoundrel among them, the one who could turn a woman to butter with just a smile, which he apparently did with alarming frequency—if one listened to gossip, one would think he changed his attentions as often as he changed his shirt. Of course, now that she was older and more experienced in the ways of the world, Claudia understood men like Julian ultimately loved themselves above all else.

  Devil take him.

  Oh, all right. She had seen a different Julian when Valerie died. The Julian who stood vigil at Valerie’s coffin in the black-draped drawing room as friends and family came to pay their last respects. He would not eat or drink for two days. When Louis Renault tried to coax him to come away, if only to rest, he had lashed out in grief, assailing those around him, begging them to leave him be.

  When the Redbourne coach pulled away from Kettering Hall two days later with her in it, Claudia had seen him in the chapel graveyard, down on his knees next to a fresh earthen mound, and her heart had shattered. She had sobbed all the way back to London for a man who was suffering beyond her comprehension.

  She had never seen that Julian again.

  The worst of it was that with the benefit of time, she could see that Phillip really wasn’t much different from Julian. In the end, she was nothing more to him than what women were to men in general—mere objects of pleasure, fundamentally insignificant to the world.

  After the sting of Phillip’s death had passed, she had begun to look around her and really see the inequality between genders. Regardless of rank, women were chattel in English society: typically undereducated, living under a man’s thumb, and completely subject to his whims. If Claudia had learne
d anything, it was that she wanted more from life than to be someone’s hostess, wife, or lover. Yet how did she break the bonds of society’s restrictions or social mores she had never even questioned before then?

  She had mulled it over for a time, feeling inadequate to the task, lacking the imagination necessary to force change. Then one day, she found the young daughter of a kitchen maid wandering about the main library. Happy to have a little company, Claudia had fetched a book her governess had read to her as a child and invited Karen to sit beside her so that they might read the book together.

  But Karen did not know her letters, and she was well past the age a girl should know her letters. Worse, Karen didn’t seem particularly bothered by it. Claudia had known instantly what she must do.

  The very clear notion had come to her almost immediately: Women had to open their minds if they were to gain equality and respect. Girls had to be educated beyond rudimentary language and math so that they might fill their heads with endless possibilities. The girls of the lower class, who were the least likely of all to receive an education, needed her help the most.

  It was with great enthusiasm and a sense of purpose that Claudia embraced her worthy goal, and it was one that she had worked relentlessly toward since, her conviction strengthened every day by the women she met and the many dreams and aspirations they held, regardless of rank or situation. She used her position—or rather, her father’s position as confidant to the king—to further her cause. Her efforts, she would admit, had not always been met with great enthusiasm. Most men and women among the ton believed that the woman’s place in the home and in society was as it should be and resisted any change. There were times that Claudia felt as if she was trying to move a mountain, but not once did she give up. In fact, she was enjoying a respite at Eugenie’s before tackling her largest project to date: She was determined to garner the financial backing necessary to open a school for girls near the London factories where many women and children worked.

  And that was what she would focus her attention on forthwith. She would forget the Rake, forget the kiss, and forget everything about France altogether.

  So, after a hot bath, when she descended to the lower floors for supper, she was feeling much improved, her energy renewed and focused on the important tasks before her. She was met at the dining room door by a footman carrying a huge bouquet of daffodils, irises, and roses—a very unusual but pleasing hodgepodge of the finest hothouse flowers.

  “How very lovely, Jason. Did Papa have them sent?” she asked, beaming as the footman set the monstrous bouquet on a small console.

  “No, milady,” he said, and handed her a card. She opened the card, glanced at the signature, and felt an immediate flurry of butterflies in her stomach.

  I recall with a smile the pleasure of our acquaintance in Dieppe, but the crossing is remembered with even greater fondness. Please accept this token of my thanks for your very charming company during what could well have been an intolerable wait.

  Yours, Kettering

  The Rake had found his way home after all.

  Five

  KETTERING HOUSE, ST. JAMES SQUARE

  WALTER TINLEY, the Kettering butler for more than forty years, opened the door of the mansion on St. James Square and immediately wrinkled his age-spotted nose. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but it would seem a rather pungent odor has accompanied you home.”

  Julian glowered at the ancient butler—the older Tinley got, the less reverent he became. Every year at Christmas, Julian offered the man a very generous pension and a lovely cottage at Kettering Hall in Northamptonshire. Every year, the old sawhorse declined, determined to serve until his dying day. “Are you going to let me in?” he growled.

  Tinley stepped out of the way, drawing an audible breath when Julian passed.

  Irritable and exhausted, the noise of running feet assailed his frayed nerves as Julian stepped inside. With a squeal, his youngest sister, Sophie, came flying down the marble staircase and into the foyer. “You’re home!” she cried as she flung herself into his arms. He caught her about the waist, finding his balance just before they both would have landed on the floor. “I’ve missed you terribly, Julian! Aunt Violet said you’d be another fortnight or more—Oh, my,” she said, and gingerly pulled away, nose wrinkled. “Oh, dear,” she repeated, and took several steps backward.

  With an impatient sigh, Julian tossed his gloves at a hovering footman. “It has been a rather arduous journey,” he groused. “Tinley, I should very much like a bath. Have one drawn, will you?”

  “Most immediately,” the old man replied, and hurried as fast as his ancient legs would take him. Julian scowled at his retreating back; fortunately, Rosie, the proprietor at the Park Lane hothouse, had not been so affronted. But then, he was one of her best customers. The two gentlemen waiting to purchase fresh flowers had seemed a little offended, particularly the one who pulled out a kerchief and held it over his nose. Well, devil take them all! When he had offered that stubborn Demon’s Spawn the use of the one coach he had been able to find for hire in Newhaven, he had fully intended to ride along. But oh no. That did not suit Lady Claudia. She wouldn’t take his money, but she’d damn sure take his coach and leave him stranded in the rain with no mode of transportation. It was bloody fortunate that he had been able to find a man willing to sell an old nag to him instead of the rendering factory.

  “I’ve so much to tell you!” Sophie said excitedly, and Julian forced a smile. Standing in the low light of the foyer, she looked pretty. Of all his sisters, Sophie was the plainest. She did not have the stunning eyes that Eugenie and Ann had, or the lovely, thick black hair Valerie had been blessed with. Her hair was a mousy color, her brown eyes small and set wide apart. Not that it mattered to him—he saw her beauty in so many other ways—but it mattered to the ton and Sophie had had very little success on the marriage market. That lack of success had, unfortunately, begun to erode her self-confidence. And for that reason above all else, Julian despised the ton.

  “Have you?” he asked, and gestured for her to accompany him as he moved up the stairs.

  “Lady Farnhall invited Aunt Violet and me to a tea last Tuesday while Lord Farnhall was in Edinburgh or some such place, and I didn’t really want to go because I had quite a headache, but Aunt Violet persuaded me, and I am quite happy that I went!”

  “Were you? And whom did you see?” he asked absently, reaching the first floor and moving down the corridor to the master suite of rooms. Sophie quickly rattled off all of the attendees, then reviewed what each was wearing as they crossed the threshold of his suite. Nodding to Bartholomew, his valet, Julian removed the grimy neckcloth and tossed it to his outstretched hand. The fastidious man instantly made a face and held the offensive garment between thumb and forefinger, away from his body, while Sophie continued her chatter about a silk or something that Miss Candace Millbrook had worn to the tea party. With an appropriate ah now and then, Julian disappeared into his dressing room to remove his boots and was fanning the rank odor from his nose when he heard the name Sir William Stanwood. He sat up. “Pardon?” he called through the open door.

  That was followed by a moment of silence, then a faint, “Sir William called.”

  Julian was at once on his feet and in the main room, oblivious to his stockinged feet and dangling shirttails. “I beg your pardon?” he demanded.

  The color instantly bled from Sophie’s face. “He … he called Wednesday.”

  He made a supreme effort to maintain his composure, but blast her, it was difficult! Several years her senior, Sir William Stanwood was an odious man with no more interest in Sophie than her obscenely large dowry and the generous annuity her father had left her. He had a sordid reputation, was known to have one foot in and the other just out of debtors’ prison, and was rumored to have something of a mean streak when it came to the baseborn women with whom he consorted. His connection to the fringes of the ton was tenuous at best, owing chiefly to a nebulous but apparently rea
l blood relationship to Viscount Millbrook.

  “Sophie,” Julian began, but stopped as she sank into a leather chair at the hearth, her expression both hopeful and fearful. Marvelous—he was about to crush the one true hope the girl thought she had. Oh, he had no doubt Sophie would marry one day, and when she did, it would be to a man who was not only of suitable rank, but one who could be counted on to treat her well. It most definitely would not be to William Stanwood.

  He thrust his hand through his hair and turned to his valet. “Nothing more,” he said, and waited for Bartholomew to quit the room before speaking again. “I thought we agreed during the Season that Sir William’s attentions were not to be acknowledged or returned, did we not? We had an agreement, you and I.”

  Her gaze fell guiltily to her lap. She shrugged, studied her hands. “I merely said he called. I didn’t say that I had received him.”

  Oh, no. He hadn’t raised four girls without learning one or two of their tricks. “No, you didn’t say … did you receive him?”

  Another, smaller shrug. “Perhaps for a moment,” she muttered, and glanced up, cringing at whatever she saw in his face. “It would have been terribly rude to turn him away! Aunt Violet chaperoned! He called as he was nearby and thought to wish us well! Where is the harm?”

  The harm? The harm was that Stanwood would slither into her life like a snake, then squeeze the very breath from it! How did he tell a young woman that the one man in all of England she thought esteemed her above all others was a degenerate blackguard in pursuit of her money? He walked to the window, the muscle in his jaw working frenetically as he tried to think exactly how to put things so that he did not hurt her.