by Maya Rodale
“Your God-given, eternal, immortal soul,” Lady Stewart-Wortly pressed on. As she thought of his soul, he thought of a woman’s breasts. That made him grin.
“Thank you for your concern, madam,” he replied, extricating his hand. “You need not worry yourself. I am not concerned in the slightest.”
Her brow furrowed, considering his lack of worry about his eternal salvation and other weighty matters. Roxbury took a sip of champagne, nodded, and began to walk away.
“But—” she began.
“Worry leads to wrinkles,” he murmured with a suggestive nod, and her hand flew up to touch the fine lines in her forehead. Then Lady Stewart-Wortly recalled her reputation for deriding vanity and other earthly concerns.
“It is not only you, of course, but young people today!” she carried on. He winced as he recognized her sermon voice booming forth. ‘There is an epidemic of wild and unchristian behavior!”
She adopted the tone and volume of a preacher and carried on about the morals of the youth today, of ladies led astray by novel reading, and of gentlemen engaged in all manner of debauchery.
“I wish,” Roxbury muttered under his breath. He scanned the ballroom for Lady Somerset’s telltale auburn hair and statuesque figure.
Lady Stewart-Wortly added that surely he was well aware of the evils she spoke of.
“Unfortunately, madam, of late I have not had even the passing acquaintance with evil or even the merely naughty. I intend to rectify that as soon as possible,” he answered, and grinned when Lady Stewart-Wortly’s complexion took on the hue of an eggplant.
Those nearby—Wilcox, Count Forsque, and Lady Walmsly among them—were listening with varying levels of discretion. Lord Walpole strolled away, apparently bored, and asked a young lady to waltz.
Roxbury downed his champagne, wished he could do the same, accepted another drink from a passing footman, and entertained his own inner dialogue.
It’s not true! he wanted to bellow. I am not the sinner you think I am.
I love women—I love making love to women.
“Such behavior is an affront to all that is sacred,” Lady Stewart-Wortly persisted. She clutched his arm so that he could not leave. Again, he looked for Julianna; somehow this scene was all her fault and he wanted to complain to her about it—preferably in a dark, secluded place where the ranting might turn to something equally passionate, though much more romantic.
Nothing is as sacred to me as the pleasure between a man and a woman.
That was his church; that was the altar at which he worshipped.
“We have a duty to refuse temptation and to deny the fleeting pleasures they afford,” she insisted in a bellow that disturbed the gossipy, trivial, and pleasant conversations in the vicinity.
Life was too short to deny exquisite, earthly pleasures like the smile of a beautiful woman; her sigh when a man touched her just right; waking up with a woman’s head resting on your chest; lovemaking in the morning, or afternoon, or night.
Or a sweet, private glance in a crowded room, of the heightened senses at the start of a new love affair, of soulful pleasure of a good, deep, passionate kiss with a woman on the verge of utter abandon.
Roxbury was not sure which woman he was angrier at—Lady Somerset for penning the fateful words that cast him out of his heaven or Lady Stewart-Wortly for publicly taking him to task for a supposed crime he did not commit, and for the purpose of championing her own cause, namely God, Christianity and above all, Lady Stewart-Wortly’s Daily Devotional for Pious and Proper Ladies.
Roxbury downed the rest of his champagne in one long, defiant swallow.
“I am praying for you, Roxbury,” Lady Stewart-Wortly said earnestly, with her enormous bosom heaving.
A dozen rude thoughts crossed his mind. In the end, he suggested that she save her prayers for things that actually mattered more than idle good-for-nothing rakes, like starving children or destitute widows. The list could go on, but he left it at that. The point had been made.
As the Man About Town waltzed with a young, talkative debutante, he listened for something useful to his column. Young girls never knew what to keep private, especially the ones on their first year out. It was almost embarrassing how indiscrete they were.
Lady Charlotte Brandon was full of outrageous tales, but not one of them containing any sort of printable, verifiable gossip. Instead, he kept an eye on Roxbury who was stuck listening to one of Lady Stewart-Wortly’s tirades. He couldn’t hear, but he could see her posture, and it was that of a preacher in full swing. As the girl chattered on about some Miss Millicent Strangle or Strange or something, the Man About Town composed the item for the next column in his head.
Seen at a party: Lord R— drinking heavily while suffering through one of Lady S—W—’s tirades against debauchery, vice, pleasure, and other enjoyable activities worth living for. (We know you are reading this, Lady S— W—!). Our hats go off to Lord R— for managing to endure her for a record ten minutes. On behalf of gossips everywhere, we hope her efforts at reform are unsuccessful.
Chapter 20
Between the glasses of brandy Roxbury had consumed at home and the copious amount of champagne he drank at the ball, he was now good and drunk. Utterly, totally foxed one might say. Three sheets to the wind. Deep in his cups, etcetera, etcetera.
He almost entered the wrong vehicle, were it not for the excessive decoration of the Roxbury carriage—the family crest was emblazoned in gold and silver leaf—reminding him which was his.
Drunk as he was, one thing was clear to him after this evening: He was not going to marry anyone, ever. To hell with his father’s ultimatum. To hell with the lectures of Lady Stewart-Wortly. To hell with Lady Somerset and her “Fashionable Intelligence.”
He would live on credit, his own meager income, and his own damn wits rather than do his father’s bidding, and let Lady Stewart-Wortly think she had reformed him. If he had nothing to lose, Lady Somerset and her loathsome column would have no power over him.
A surge of triumph coursed through him. To hell with it all!
But then his thoughts turned to Lady Somerset. She was supposed to attend the ball tonight, so he could express his frustration, disappointment, and anger about her latest column directly to her lovely face. He did not see her, and he had looked.
“Home, my lord?” his driver asked.
Roxbury thought about it for a second.
“To 24 Bloomsbury Place,” he told his driver. He did not know what he intended to do when he got there. In his drunken state, it seemed imperative that he give her a piece of his mind.
Then he was going to celebrate his freedom—loudly and publicly. That was the thing about having no reputation to salvage, he thought drunkenly. It opened up all kinds of opportunities for scandalous behavior with minimal consequences.
To that end, he sent the driver to procure a bottle of champagne from a nearby tavern. Roxbury waited with the horses.
The neighborhood was quiet, for the hour was late. Everyone was either in bed or at a ball. Soon enough, however, people would start arriving home and the sun would rise not long after that. Servants would begin their chores, and deliveries from all over London would arrive. Gossipy housewives would open the curtains and survey the Square. Working men would leave for their offices. The city would come to life.
Everyone would see the unmistakable Roxbury carriage parked directly in front of the house of the respectable Lady Julianna Somerset.
He laughed softly to himself. An eye for an eye, or a reputation for a reputation.
Most, if not all, would tell a friend on the best authority, who would tell another friend in the strictest confidence, who would tell another friend . . .
By noon every person in London would know that Roxbury had spent the night at the home of Lady Somerset.
A woman’s reputation was a delicate thing, vulnerable to the merest whisper of scandal. A gentleman took care of a lady’s good name. That was a well-known fact. Roxbu
ry knew all of that.
He also knew that Julianna had played fast and loose with his reputation—she had only suggested he was a lover of men, but that had been enough to destroy him socially. That was why he was going to very publicly spend the night at a woman’s house, and why that lucky lady was Julianna Somerset.
And so, drunkenly and defiantly, Roxbury uncorked the bottle of champagne his driver had brought for him. And then he began to sing.
Chapter 21
Julianna awoke to the bizarre sound of a man singing in the dead of the night. At first she thought she was dreaming. After lying quietly and listening to the words, she knew the singing must be real, for never in her wildest dreams would she come up with such lyrics herself.
A country John in a village of late,
Courted young Dorothy, Bridget, and Kate,
And . . . Julianna Somerset.
Her heart quite stopped at that. Her name was not an original lyric in the song; someone had squeezed it in. She had a sinking, irritating suspicion that she knew who.
After lighting a candle and checking the clock, she noted the hour was long past midnight. His voice, loud and clear, carried on:
He went up to London to pick up a lass,
To show what a wriggle he had in his a . . .
Appalling! She walked over to the window and peered out. The moonlight shined brightly, illuminating a carriage with the gold and silver Roxbury family crest. She would recognize it anywhere. It was parked in front of her house.
She saw Roxbury. In the middle of the street. Bottle in hand. Singing.
This was not good, and that was the understatement of the decade.
“Oh, blazing hell and eternal damnation,” she muttered.
O when he got there it was late in the night
Two pretty young damsels appeared in his sight
Roxbury was either a massive idiot or this was a calculated attempt to ruin her. Either way, the result would be the same—she would be destroyed and it would be entirely his fault.
That she deserved it was a fleeting consideration. Nothing quite compared to drunkenly singing grossly inappropriate ballads in the dead of the night outside the window of a proper lady.
Said one to the other here’s country John
I’ll show him a trick before it be long
Some serenade!
The other houses around the square showed the telltale sign of alert residents—little glows of candlelight began appearing in quite a few windows. Julianna groaned.
Another man’s voice pierced through the night air:
“Quiet down, you damned fool!”
“Thank you,” she said, though no one could hear her.
I’m as handsome a girl as any in town,
Why dang it, says he, then I’ll give thee a crown.
She gasped. This was not to be tolerated. Julianna donned her wrapper and went off to find Frank, her man of all work. She found him in the foyer, already preparing to go out and do something.
“Don’t you worry, Lady Somerset,” he said, and she was comforted that her loyal—and large—servant was going to tend to the situation outside. She looked forward to watching the forcible removal of that infernal nuisance otherwise known as Lord Roxbury.
Julianna went to the window in the drawing room to watch. Except, like anything else involving Roxbury, it was not so simple.
If she hadn’t been so blazing mad, it would have been laughable—indeed, she even heard a few neighbors chuckling loudly and cheering at the farce ensuing.
Being in an advanced state of intoxication, Roxbury’s movements were wildly unpredictable. Frank was not quick and certainly no fighter, so while another man might have knocked the lights out of Roxbury, Frank tried to wrangle the drunken sot into the carriage. The driver had vanished.
As soon as Frank succeeded in getting Roxbury into the carriage, the drunk buffoon simply burst out through the other door and carried on with his song:
O where shall we go for to find a bed,
That I may enjoy your sweet maidenhead.
“Oh, you bounder!” she cried, but her voice did not carry far.
By now, every resident of Bloomsbury Square was wide-awake and half hanging out an open window to watch—and even participate.
They were not quiet. There were passionate calls for him to shut up and there were violent shouts for him to expire on the spot. A few louts added their own voices to the song, so when Roxbury got to the next verse, his voice was not alone:
Why dang it, says she, there’s no bed to be found
But I’ll show you fine sport as I lie on the ground.
Julianna thought that there weren’t enough curses in the world to express the bottled up, choking, hot, burning, numbing, stunning rage she was currently experiencing. Worst of all, in the far recesses of her mind, she could see the humor of the situation—were it happening to someone else, that is. Oh, dear God, the glee that Man About Town would find in this!
The singers gained in number and in strength, drowning out the calls for silence.
Oh, then they were all in a woeful condition
They sent up to London to find a physician.
Julianna issued a strangled cry of mortification, frustration, and blazing anger. Carriages now began to roll into the square, bringing people home from parties. Roxbury’s vehicle was parked directly in front of her townhouse, but at an angle that inhibited the passage of others.
A blockage of traffic ensued.
Roxbury continued to sing. His loyal supporters added their voices to his song.
Calls for his immediate death increased in number and in volume.
Everyone in Bloomsbury Square was surely involved now, and with his distinct carriage—thanks to that gold and silver crest—parked directly in front of her house, this fiasco was clearly linked back to her. Not to mention that he had included her name in this vile song!
And when Doctor Mendcock heard of their ills
He sent down amongst them a cartload of pills.
Enough was enough. Julianna did not pause to consider her state of undress—she wore only a dressing gown and wrapper—before opening her front door to confront the drunk, devilish, beast herself.
If there is one thing she’d learned in all her years, it was that men must be managed and if one wished for something done, she ought to just go and do it herself.
“Roxbury,” she said in a low voice. He didn’t seem to register her appearance. And then she said again, a little louder, “Roxbury.”
She folded her arms across her chest. It was cold outside this late, especially when one wore so little. Her anger kept her warm, though. That, and the prickling heat of embarrassment as she realized that nearly all of her neighbors were witnessing her on the street, arguing with Roxbury, while wearing nothing more than a white silk dressing gown, and a silk wrapper of the palest blue.
“My lady calls me!” he cried loudly. She winced. Some of the singers did not hear him and carried on with the song. Country John got exactly what he deserved, in her opinion.
“Quit your caterwauling, Roxbury, and listen to me carefully.”
“I await your command with bated breath, my dear Lady Somerset!” he shouted. She wished she had brought a blunt heavy object or another weapon. A few onlookers shushed in order to overhear. Others kept singing. The calls for silence and death carried on.
“I am not your dear lady. You must leave at once. You are bothering the entire neighborhood.” She spoke through clenched teeth, furious with Roxbury and angry with Frank for giving up and returning to the house.
“You break my heart, Lady Somerset,” he said, stumbling toward her. Instinctively she took a step back. If there was one thing she loathed more than a rake, it was a drunk one, and one who claimed he cared for her despite all evidence to the contrary. Somerset, all over again. Just with more flair, she had to admit.
“You don’t have a heart, Roxbury, and if you did it certainly doesn’t beat for me,�
�� she told him. He couldn’t possibly feel anything for her other than complete disdain and unrelenting hatred. Witness his behavior this evening.
His only response was to launch another ballad:
A wealthy young squire of Tamworth we hear
He courted a nobleman’s daughter so fair
In another time, another place, and with another man and a different song, it might have been romantic to be serenaded outside her window.
The worst part of all—Roxbury was still dashing, even as he stumbled drunkenly toward her. He treated her to that rakish grin of his that weakened women’s knees and made their hearts skip a beat. She was not immune, which was the problem.
Oh, she was mad as hell, but she also had to admit he was a handsome man. In another time, and place, they might have . . . no, she corrected her ridiculous train of thought. She and Roxbury were no match—not in this lifetime, or any other. Especially not after this escapade.
He opened his arms wide and sang:
And for to marry her it was his intent
All friends and relations gave their consent
Now that she was close enough to hear him above all the others, she annoyingly noted that he did have a very fine singing voice. No off-key wailing from him, but a rich baritone singing of fair maidens, marriage, and prostitutes. Oh dear Lord.
The other singers finally caught on to the change in song and joined him. Their voices filled the Square and she wouldn’t be surprised if they were audible all the way in Mayfair.
The lady went home with a heart full of love
And gave out a notice that she’d lost a glove
Handsome as he may be, and however fine his singing voice, what trumped them all was this: Roxbury’s carriage in front of her house. Roxbury causing a scene of epic proportions outside of her residence. Roxbury ruining her, one verse at a time.