by Maya Rodale
A Tale of Two Lovers
Maya Rodale
This book is dedicated to Denise,
who is also typically forthright.
Happy Birthday, D-bird!
and
For Tony,
even though I didn’t take your suggestion
to name all the characters Tony.
Happy 25th Birthday, Baby!
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part II
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Author's Note
About the Author
Romances by Maya Rodale
ASCENSION Sneak Peek
Copyright
About the Publisher
PART I
The Gentleman’s Trouble and Strife
Chapter 1
London, 1823
The backstage of the Drury Lane playhouse was no place for ladies, but Julianna, Lady Somerset, had suffered enough of what proper women did and did not do. She adjusted the short veil slightly obscuring her face, clung to the shadows and kept her eyes wide open for scandal.
She had seen the notorious Lord Roxbury exit this way. Without a second thought, she followed him. In her experience, to rely on a man was the height of folly—unless it was to count on Lord Roxbury to get tangled up in a scandalous situation. He was a godsend to gossip columnists everywhere.
It was widely suspected but never confirmed that Julianna was the infamous Lady of Distinction, author of the column “Fashionable Intelligence” for the town’s most popular newspaper, The London Weekly. Since that was, in fact, the truth, she was on a perpetual quest for gossip.
Thus, if Lord Roxbury went skulking off backstage at Drury Lane, she followed.
She sought a tall man who moved with confidence and radiated charm. His hair was black and slightly tousled, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. Frankly, he probably had. Many a woman had sighed over his eyes—plain brown, in her opinion. And his mouth was another subject of intense adoration by women who either had kissed this infamous, glorious rake or longed to do so.
Julianna Somerset could not be counted among the legions of ladies who fawned over him. Her heart and body belonged to no man—not after she had survived a love match gone wretchedly wrong. Like Roxbury and his ilk, the late Lord Somerset was a charmer, a seducer, a man of many great passions, and ultimately a heartbreaker.
Julianna had tasted true love once; it had a remarkably bitter aftertaste.
But that was all in the past. Julianna no longer had to sit at home wondering where her husband was, whom he was with, and how their love had faded to nothing. Other people’s business was her focus now.
Hence the following of Lord Roxbury, backstage at Drury Lane, late at night. A man like that could only be up to no good.
“Ah, there you are!”
Julianna turned to see Alistair Grey, her companion for the evening. He reviewed plays for the same paper and they often attended the theater together. Tonight they had seen She Would and She Would Not, starring their friend, the renowned actress, “Mrs.” Jocelyn Kemble.
“Have you discovered anyone in compromising positions yet?” Alistair asked in a low voice, linking his arm with hers.
“Everyone is on their best behavior this evening,” Julianna lamented softly. “But I swear that I saw Roxbury dash off this way.”
“I don’t know how you see anything with that veil in this light,” Alistair said.
“I see plenty. Certain things are hard to miss,” Julianna replied. She had a gift for eavesdropping and an eye for compromising positions and drunken antics. Dim lighting and a black mesh veil did nothing to diminish her talents.
“This hall is desolate, Julianna. Let’s go back to the dressing rooms where everyone is drinking and in various states of undress. Surely you’ll find more to write about there than in this dark and dusty corridor.”
“Yes, but I saw a couple go off this way, and the man looked just like Roxbury. You know how he is,” she persisted. That, and she didn’t particularly want to be in a crowded dressing room with a half dozen women in their underclothes and two dozen men ogling them.
“I know, but it’s probably just some prop mistress and a third son of an impoverished nobleman,” Alistair said dismissively.
“In other words, nothing remarkable,” Julianna said, heaving a sigh.
The low rumble of a man’s laugh broke the silence. In the dark, Julianna gave Alistair a pointed look that said, “I told you so.” Together they crept closer, always taking care to remain in the shadows.
There was just enough light from a sconce high on the wall to discern a couple embracing. It was not the wisest position—in a corridor, near a light—she thought, when there were certainly darker and more anonymous locations here for a little romp. But one could be overwhelmed by passion anywhere. Her own deceased husband had been overwhelmed with passion while driving his carriage, and that was the last thing he ever did. In fact, he had been overwhelmed with passion quite frequently, though never with her.
Pushing aside bitter memories of her past, Julianna stepped closer, intent upon discerning their identities. The couple might only be theater underlings but if perchance one of them was a Person of Consequence, she would certainly need to report it.
What she saw shocked even her.
Two pairs of shiny black Hessians, two pairs of breeches-clad legs, two linen shirts coming undone, two dark coats hanging open.
“Oh, my . . .” Julianna murmured under her breath.
As her eyes adjusted to the light overhead, she identified their position: One—tall and dark-haired—clasped the other around the waist, from behind, pulling his partner flush against him. As for the other one . . . his hands were splayed upon the wall, supporting them both, arching his back, turning his head back to accept the kiss of his mysterious male paramour.
Julianna grasped Alistair’s arm, giving it a squeeze.
This was beyond scandalous.
This was the sort of item that would cement her reputation as the very best.
It would be a serious blow to her archrival, the infamous gossip columnist at The London Times otherwise known as the Man About Town. He would never be able to top this!
Julianna cursed her veil and stepped forward to gain a closer look.
In the process, she tripped over a broom that someone had left carelessly propped against the wall. She swore under her breath.
It clattered onto the floor. The couple jerked apart and instinctively turned in her direction. One man’s face was obscured, ducking behind the other for cover. Thanks to the light above she could see the other man’s face clearly.
Oh Lord above! Lord Roxbury! With a man!
An earl’s only son embracing another man was news. In her head she began to compose her column:
Has London’s legendary rake, Lord R—so thoroughly exhausted the women of the ton that he must now move on to the stronger sex? Indeed, dear readers, you would not believe what this author has seen. . . .
Chapter 2
Carlyle House
A few days later
Like most gentlemen of his acquaintance, Simon Sinclair, Viscount Roxbury, was equally averse to both matrimony and poverty. His chief aim was to live and die a wealthy bachelor. He had succeeded admirably thus far.
However, his father, the lofty, prestigious, and esteemed Earl of Carlyle had vastly different expectations for his sons’ futures. The eldest had expired, and now Roxbury’s life, particularly his matrimonial state, was the earl’s focus. It was a constant point of disagreement.
Whereas the son was a gallant and charming rake, the elder was a solid, reputable man who dutifully took up his seat in parliament, tended to his estates and gave his wife plenty of pin money but otherwise ignored her. As long as she had new gowns, jewels and a circle of friends, Lady Carlyle cared not for much else.
Roxbury lived in mortal terror that his life should be the same.
He craved passion and lived for the thrills of falling in love . . . over and over again.
Roxbury crumpled the note summoning him to his father’s study for another lecture on the duties of a proper heir: not blowing through the fortune, getting married, and producing brats. He deliberately dropped the ball of paper onto the Aubusson carpet in one small sign of defiance.
They would always be father and son, but Roxbury was not to be ordered around like a child any longer.
“You are aware, of course, that I am able to receive correspondence at my residence,” Roxbury began. “Sending a summons to my club is really unnecessary.”
He had received the missive yesterday afternoon, as he was enjoying a game of cards with some fellows at White’s. Roxbury only now found the time to venture over—after a soiree last night and a very leisurely lie-in with the delightful (and flexible) Lady Sheldon this morning.
On his way from her bedchamber to his father’s study, Roxbury had paid call upon some of his acquaintances and paramours. None had been at home to him, which was deeply troubling. Not to be boastful, but he was a popular, well-liked fellow. No one ever refused his calls. He could not dwell on it now, though.
“It is necessary to send word to your club,” his father said, with the sort of patient tone one reserves for toddlers or the mentally infirm. “Lord knows I could not possibly anticipate which woman’s bedchamber you would be in. You certainly are never at your own horrifically decorated residence.”
That was true on all counts. A series of angry mistresses had taken their vengeance by decorating the rooms of his townhouse in a uniquely wretched way, with each room worse than the last. There was an excessive amount of gold, and a revolting quantity of red velvet furniture. Roxbury vaguely understood that it was a desperate plea for his attention as the relationship wound down and his eye wandered to other women. However, he generally avoided thinking about it at all costs.
Thus, he preferred to spend his days at his club and his nights with other women. He’d been in three different women’s bedchambers this past week alone. Or was it only two? It seemed ungentlemanly to keep count.
Funny, then, that he should have been refused by two or three women this morning. He frowned.
Roxbury loved women. Their lilting laughs, pouting lips, and mysterious eyes. The smooth curves and contours of a female body never failed to entrance him, as did their soft skin and silky hair. Most women were completely and utterly mad—but always to his endless amusement. Women were beautiful, charming, perplexing, delightful creatures, each in their own unique way. How could he limit his attractions, attentions, and affections to just one?
He couldn’t possibly. He did not even try.
“I do not mind paying for your residence, and your allowance,” his father droned on. He sat comfortably in a large chair on the other side of his desk. It was warm enough to go without a fire, but the windows were closed, too, lending a stale, suffocating air to the room.
“I thank you for that,” Roxbury said politely, even though it was his portion from the family coffers, not some gift or charity. It went with the title—one he never asked for and would rather not have, given what it cost him to get it. The name of Roxbury was just a courtesy until he assumed the name and title of Carlyle—and all the responsibilities that came with it.
“After all, a gentleman must maintain a certain style and standard of living,” the earl said as he reached for a cigar from the engraved wooden box on his desk, next to a letter opener fashioned from pure gold and studded with emeralds.
“I heartily agree,” Roxbury said, wary of where his father’s argument was going. He was fond of his fine things, too, but who wouldn’t be?
The earl offered a cigar to his son, who accepted. Something strange was going on, he could just tell. First, those refused calls this morning. Lady Westleigh never refused him. And now this rambling from his father about living in style. Deuced unusual.
“Part of the duty of a father—a duty I take very seriously—is to provide for one’s children. Fortunately, due to my intelligent management of the Carlyle estates, it’s something I am able to do.”
“I agree,” Roxbury said. “Careful management of estates is essential. I am proud to report that Roxbury Park has been making a small profit of late.” It was his own parcel of land that he’d been given at the age of eighteen as a future residence and independent source of income. That was when he’d been the second son, and didn’t stand to inherit the vast lands and wealth of all the Earls of Carlyle.
Now, as was custom, he went by one of his father’s lesser, spare titles—Viscount Roxbury. It had been Edward’s name once, Roxbury thought, but then he shoved aside those memories. Now wasn’t the time.
“Congratulations,” his father said, and Roxbury did acknowledge a surge of pride at the accomplishment and recognition. It was dogged by a nagging sense of dread. This could not be the purpose of the meeting—there must be something else.
The clock on the mantel clicked loudly.
“You are going to need that money, I fear,” his father said. Each word was heavier than the last.
The earl paused to light his cigar from the candelabra on his desk. The flame illuminated the slanting cheeks that puffed and pulled on the cigar until the end was aglow and the old man exhaled.
They had the same high cheekbones. The same black hair, though the elder’s was graying. Edward, too, had shared these traits. And like his younger brother, Edward had also inherited a wild temperament and passionate nature from some long forgotten ancestor. How their staid and proper parents had raised such hellions was still a mystery to Simon.
They were down to one hellion, one heir, now.
The three of them had shared the same love of money, too. Money was freedom, comfort, and pleasure. It was a necessity and a luxury all at once. The scent of banknotes or the clink of coins did not excite him, but there was a way a man moved, lived, existed when he had an income—to say nothing of a fortune. He did not want to lose that.
Roxbury lifted one of the candles to light his own cigar.
Women. Money. Marriage. Something nefarious was underfoot, he could just tell.
“I have been fulfilling my duties as a father—providing for you, raising and educating you, etcetera, etcetera. However, you have not been fulfilling your duty as a
n heir.”
Roxbury inhaled and exhaled the smoke in perfect rings, in defiance of the earnest and ominous direction of the conversation they’d had a thousand times before.
“I have given the matter much thought, and discussed it with your mother. We both agree that this is the best course of action.”
Obviously, his mother generally agreed with whatever her husband suggested.
His father enjoyed his cigar for a moment, leaving Roxbury sitting and smoking in annoyed suspense.
“You have one month to take a wife of proper birth,” the old man said. Roxbury choked on a rush of smoke. His father merely smiled and carried on. “In that time, if you have failed to marry a suitable woman, I shall cease to pay your bills.”
“Poverty or matrimony?” Roxbury gasped.
“Precisely,” the earl said, with a proud, triumphant smile.
“That can’t be legal.”
“I don’t care. And you can’t afford the solicitors to deal with the matter, so the point is moot.” The smile broadened.
“This is a devious, manipulative, and—” Roxbury would have gone on to say it was repugnant, a violation of the rights of man, and generally an unsporting thing to do, but he was cut off.