A Tale of Two Lovers

by Maya Rodale

  “I’m sure he’ll survive,” Julianna lied, to herself as much as Eliza. “Roxbury was too angry to see straight, let alone shoot straight.”

  At the far end of the field, a hunter green carriage emblazoned with the Roxbury family crest, gilded in gold and silver leaf, came into view. The impressive vehicle was pulled by a team of gray chargers and it came to a sudden stop, kicking up pebbles and dirt and punctuated by the whinnying of the horses.

  Roxbury alighted from the carriage, in quite a rakish manner.

  “He’s deuced handsome,” Eliza whispered, voicing Julianna’s own thoughts. At liberty to stare brazenly at him from her hiding place, she took full advantage.

  Handsome was insufficient. There was an air of strength and vitality about him, from his shiny black hair to the slightly tanned color of his skin. He strolled confidently over to the dueling field. His movements were quick and certain, but tense.

  His breeches fit him to perfection, showing off well-muscled legs. She assumed his arms were muscular as well, and she idly wondered what it’d be like to have those arms embracing her . . .

  She need only ask almost any woman in London for a definitive answer based on experience. He probably came to the dueling field straight from a woman’s bedchamber.

  Such thoughts aside, Roxbury seemed far too young and handsome and alive to actually die. He very well might this morning, and because of her and what she wrote.

  Her heartbeat quickened, and remorse burned in her gut.

  “Do you really think he was with a man?” Eliza wondered.

  “It could very well have been Jocelyn. I know not.”

  It seemed so stupid now.

  Julianna watched as the adversaries shook hands, and their seconds did the same. She did not recognize Roxbury’s second—he was some average-sized man, in slovenly attire. After a quick conversation, pistols were taken in hand, the seconds moved away, and Knightly and Roxbury stood back-to-back.

  It was Roxbury that she watched. Given the distance, it was impossible to discern his expression, but he carried himself as if fearless. This struck her with awe.

  The men started taking their steps away from each other in anticipation of firing. Mehitable bellowed the numbers in his baritone, his voice easily carrying across the field.

  One.

  Two.

  Julianna’s heart pumped hard. Terror. It wasn’t the threat of a stray bullet striking her, but that Knightly’s aim would be true. How could that be? She cared nothing for Roxbury. She barely knew him. He was just another good-for-nothing rake, and this town had plenty of those. And yet . . .

  Three. Four.

  She was equally terrified that Knightly would not survive. It was unlikely she and the other Writing Girls would survive in the world without him. His death would be because of her doing, too. The bullet may not be hers, but at the end of the day, the fault would be her own. Her stomach ached with guilt.

  Five.

  Her heart was pounding heavily in her breast, and she was quite overheated. With one gloved hand she undid a button or two at her throat.

  With the other, she clasped Eliza’s hand. What if they lost Knightly? What would become of them?

  Six. Seven. Eight.

  And what of Roxbury? He was too young, too beautiful to die. Knightly, too, but she was thinking of the enraged and wronged Roxbury and she did not know why.

  Nine. Ten.

  Julianna bit down on her fist to keep a cry from escaping.

  Eleven. Twelve.

  And then—so quickly she might have missed it had she blinked—the gentlemen turned, and fired.

  The Man About Town hated reporting on duels. Getting up at dawn to travel to far-flung and desolate corners of town was not his idea of a good time, especially the mornings after what was his idea of a good time—late nights, fancy balls, and gaming hells.

  Compounding his hatred was the fact that such effort was required for an event that lasted all of a minute. One had to count the time spent traveling to some remote outpost of London, skulking about in the bushes while awaiting everyone’s arrival and then negotiating and confirming the terms, checking the pistols, etcetera, etcetera. For a minute of activity, if that.

  Not for the first time did the Man About Town consider retiring.

  Chapter 6

  That evening at Lady Walmsly’s soiree

  “Dueling is a despicable habit,” Lady Stewart-Wortly opined to her group of listeners. She approved of very little, other than modesty, chastity, piety, and, above all, complaining about the sins of others. One could read all about it in her book, Lady Stewart-Wortly’s Daily Devotional for Pious and Proper Ladies, which she mentioned at every opportunity.

  Julianna found her a tremendous bore at best.

  “Some people think dueling is quite dashing,” replied the young Lady Charlotte, sister to the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon.

  “Some people are idiots,” Lady Stewart-Wortly replied haughtily.

  “Indeed,” Lady Charlotte murmured, looking Lady Stewart-Wortly in the eye.

  Lady Sophie Brandon, Charlotte’s sister-in-law, bit back a smirk and Julianna did her very best to appear unaffected by the conversation or what she had witnessed this morning.

  Lord Wilcox, with the penchant for women’s undergarments, hovered behind her, nodding his head heavily in agreement. Lord Walpole smoothed back his gray hair, and bore an expression of disinterest, though Julianna could tell he was listening. Not for the first time did Julianna wonder if he was The Man About Town.

  Apparently, she and Eliza hadn’t been the only ones skulking about in the bushes. Word of the duel had spread around town as fast as the Great Fire of 1666.

  There was no doubt that the Man About Town would report on it in his next column. He wrote for a daily paper, and his columns appeared three days a week. Because of that, he broke more stories than she. It rankled very, very much.

  And because he was the Man About Town he also had access to sources of information that were forbidden to her. This morning’s paper had featured the following scene about Roxbury at White’s Gentlemen’s Club:

  Upon reading the latest “Fashionable Intelligence” about himself, Lord R—stood to make his advan—addresses to his fellow peers in White’s. “You are all safe from my advances, though your wives are not.” Ladies, you have been warned!

  A few “little” lines in her column had sparked this rabid curiosity for all things Roxbury.

  “To look at him, you’d never think that he’d risked his life this morning,” Lady Sophie said, gesturing toward Roxbury. They all turned to look in his direction. He was standing at the edge of the ballroom, dressed in black save for the severe contrast of his white linen shirt. His eyes were dark, with a gaze suggesting utter boredom. His lips curved in a firm, wry smile. He stood with a glass of brandy in hand, tall and proud, and utterly ignored.

  The sight took Julianna’s breath away.

  Typically, at a ball, Roxbury was to be found, charming and smiling and laughing, surrounded by bored wives and young widows taking full advantage of their freedom. A swarm of giggling debutantes was never far behind. Women and Roxbury went hand in hand, and it was ludicrous that the ton should believe the insinuations in her column.

  But they did, and now this handsome charmer was receiving the cut direct from five hundred people simultaneously and still standing proud.

  Definitely awe-inspiring and breathtaking.

  And tremendously guilt inducing. A stroke of her pen, and the ton’s darling was now an absolute outcast. She had thought only to best the Man About Town, and hadn’t considered that a few lines of speculation would result in such an adored man standing utterly alone. He wasn’t happy, but he was too proud to brood or hide at home. This had not been her intention, and she had never witnessed the devastating effects of her column so closely. Julianna felt quite sick.

  “Lady Hortensia Reeves still seems quite interested in him,” Sophie pointed out. Indeed, the lad
y was obviously and frequently staring at the outcast lord. It was nice to know that some things never changed: rain in England, the sunrise in the morning, and Lady Hortensia’s deep and abiding infatuation with Roxbury.

  “Did you hear about her newest collection?” Lady Charlotte asked. “Dung beetles.”

  “Oh, my,” Sophie murmured.

  “Well, everyone ought to have a hobby,” Julianna said with a shrug. At least collections of insects didn’t get anyone nearly killed. Well, except for the insects. Which wasn’t quite as bad as nearly getting another person shot.

  She wondered how Knightly was faring. Roxbury had not aimed wide, and now her beloved employer had a bullet wound and a raging fever because of her.

  Julianna took a long swallow of her champagne. She had not foreseen these consequences and desperately wished she had. Knightly would be well, Roxbury would be flirting, and her stomach wouldn’t ache with remorse.

  Lady Stewart-Wortly was hitting the stride in her ballroom sermon and her booming voice distracted Julianna from her thoughts.

  “Morals today are shockingly lax. The things the gossip columnists report! They are the scribes of the devil and authors of evil. Why, last week’s “Fashionable Intelligence” reporting on the scandalous proclivities of Lord Roxbury has corrupted legions of youth across London. The author ought to be ashamed of herself.”

  Julianna studied the hemline of her gown.

  “Lady Stewart-Wortly, you are remarkably well versed in the contents of numerous gossip columns, considering that you wouldn’t possibly read them and expose yourself to such debauched literature,” Lady Charlotte pointed out. For a seventeen-year-old girl she was quite astute.

  “You are an impertinent girl,” Lady Stewart-Wortly huffed.

  “I know, everybody says so,” Charlotte said, heaving a dramatic sigh, making Sophie purse her lips in an effort to restrain her laughter.

  Julianna was still smoldering from Lady Stewart-Wortly’s remarks, and too vexed to laugh. Scribe of the devil! Corruptor of legions of youth! Ashamed of herself!

  She was, on the whole, damned proud, if anyone wanted to know—not that she could tell them, given that her identity was still somewhat of a mystery. She supported herself by her wits, talent and daring! She was making history and living a life of freedom that most women only dreamed of. She loved her writing and The Weekly and wished she could shout that love from the rooftops.

  Not tonight, though.

  Given the events of the morning, in which two men nearly lost their lives because of her writing, Julianna’s pride was tempered considerably. She loved her writing, but it came with great responsibility to, say, not get innocent men injured or killed.

  She dared another glance in Roxbury’s direction, and found that his gaze was intensely focused upon her.

  She needed to escape Roxbury’s line of vision. The way he looked at her made her skin feel feverish, and she felt agitated in a manner she could not describe or understand.

  Julianna excused herself from the group and walked away, with her dark green silk skirts rustling at her ankles as she wove through the crowds. She passed by the Baron and Baroness of Pinner as they began a waltz, dodged an encounter with notorious talker Lady “Drawling” Rawlings, and nodded as she strolled by Lady Walmsly, the hostess, who smiled warmly.

  “Lady Somerset.” Someone called her name. She had her suspicions.

  A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed them. It was Roxbury calling her—nay, commanding her—to stop.

  Julianna faced forward, smiled blandly, and nodded politely at her acquaintances as she passed by them. Everyone nodded or smiled in kind acknowledgment. She had come far from the days after Somerset’s death, when the name, and she, were tainted by his scandalous death. Now the ton thought her a respectable young matron. She was welcomed by one and all as a nice young widow, who may or may not write fiercely damaging things in the paper. Everyone took a precautionary approach and deemed it best to stay on her good side, just in case those rumors were true.

  She was not eager for another rake to drag her down to the dregs of society, again, so she ignored the irate man trailing behind her, and prayed no one noticed that he followed her.

  “Lady Somerset.”

  Julianna snapped open her fan and fanned herself with feigned ease as she slipped through the crowds. Lady Walmsly had really outdone herself this evening. She’d write all about it in her column . . . that is, if Knightly lived and the paper continued. Oh, Knightly! What had she done?

  Finally Julianna stopped behind a pillar at the far end of the ballroom, and was not surprised when Roxbury cornered her there. At least here they were out of sight.

  His eyes were dark and his mouth was set in a firm, hard line. She was tall, but he towered over her. Much to her annoyance, Roxbury’s mere presence set her heart aflutter.

  The Man About Town watched Lord Roxbury follow Lady Somerset through the crowds. What business he could have with her, he knew not, though it did lend a certain amount of credence to the rumors that she was the Lady of Distinction. Then Roxbury absolutely would have business with her.

  But how could that fun-loving, good-for-nothing rake know it when he, the Man About Town with years of experience in gossip and sleuthing, did not? How would one even confirm such a suspicion?

  It was on his list of great mysteries to uncover.

  He plucked a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter and forged ahead through the crowds, intent upon following the two of them. He knew a scandal in progress when he saw it.

  Lady Somerset ducked into a discrete position behind a pillar. Roxbury followed. Then that damned old nag Lady Rawlings—otherwise known as the notorious Drawling Rawlings—appeared before him.

  “Did you hear?” she asked slowly, fanning herself all the while. “Lord Roxbury fought a duel with that newspaperman this morning!”

  The Man About Town fought the urge to sigh and say, “I know. I was there.”

  Chapter 7

  “Good evening, Roxbury,” Julianna said smoothly, as if he did not affect her in the slightest. As if she wasn’t backed up against a pillar with his towering, angry form looming over her. As if her heart wasn’t pounding.

  Yes, the man had a strange effect upon her, one that she did not care to explore. Part of it was certainly that gnawing guilt; part might have been attraction but she would be damned before she admitted to that. She thought it wise to keep this conversation short and light, and then make a quick escape.

  “Lady Somerset,” he murmured her name this time, and his lips curved into a slight smile as he gazed down at her. It was altogether too clear how he had seduced so many women. A half smile, a name murmured so it sounded like a caress. She would not fall for that. She would not.

  “I trust you are enjoying yourself this evening,” she said lightly.

  “I most certainly am not.” The smile vanished and his expression hardened.

  If only he would just go away! She could more easily ignore him and her guilty feelings about this scandalous situation. Knightly, near death’s door. Roxbury, an overnight social pariah. All of it her fault.

  Fortunately, social murder was not a hanging offense.

  Her every instinct, however, urged her to keep her guard up around Roxbury. Men like him were trouble. She knew that all too well. Often, she made sure the ladies of London knew it, too, so they might not suffer the same as she had done.

  “Perhaps you’d enjoy yourself more if you were engaged elsewhere, in other pursuits,” she suggested. Perhaps she could irk him into quitting her company.

  “Witty, aren’t you?” he remarked, seemingly at ease, but she saw the tension in his jaw.

  Then Roxbury smiled once more, and in a way that made her insides quake. He pressed one hand on the pillar behind her head, and leaned in. Her cheeks flushed and her lips parted of their own volition. He smiled triumphantly.

  “I might enjoy myself this evening after all,” he murmured.

>   Trouble, indeed.

  “Not with the likes of me,” she said, ducking under his arm and slipping away. The last time a man had that effect on her, she married him. She’d been a nitwit of seventeen. She was older and wiser now.

  Life with Somerset had been full of teachable moments and lessons learned the hard way. First: flirts, rakes, rogues, and charming men of all sorts are not to be trusted, especially when they smile at a girl so that her pulse begins to quicken and her cheeks turn pink.

  The nearest escape from the ballroom was just ahead, so Julianna quickly exited through the double doors only to find herself in a long, empty gallery. Portraits of dead ancestors gazed down upon her in a dark, barely lit chamber. She shuddered.

  It was a stupid direction to take. She hadn’t been thinking. But now there was no escape.

  Heavy, male footsteps echoed behind her. After a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw Roxbury pursuing her through the shadows.

  “You’re following me,” she said. What had she been thinking about older and wiser? Perhaps she spoke too soon. She had to attend this party for her column, but she didn’t think he would dare. She certainly never considered he would wish to speak to her.

  “You are leading me on a merry chase. You do know how men love a chase.” Roxbury continued to walk toward her.

  The instinct to run was great. To be here, alone, with the likes of him could not possibly lead to anything good. Instead, with some idea of bravery, Julianna stood her ground and turned to face him.

  “I confess I don’t know what men love. A woman thinks it’s this, when it’s actually that . . .” She added a little shrug of her shoulders. Her heart pounded. She could not stop provoking him, dangerous as it was.

  “Enough of the insinuations, Lady Somerset.” His voice carried a whisper of a threat as he took one step toward her. She took one step back. “I can’t fathom why you hold the opinion of me that you do. We’d never even met before yesterday.”

  Yes, but she was well aware of him, that he was like Somerset and that other women mustn’t make the same foolish and uninformed decisions she had.