A Tale of Two Lovers

by Maya Rodale

  Roxbury, again, had to remind himself that he was the one seducing her, and that he was not to succumb himself.

  “Shall we begin this evening? Right now?” she asked eagerly.

  “Why not?” he responded.

  With the help of footmen, they cleared a space in the drawing room by pushing all the wretched red velvet furniture against the equally awful gold damask papered walls. In the center of it all, Julianna stood in a silky blue dress with a big smile, bright eyes and little, ladylike fists at the ready.

  Roxbury couldn’t help but grin, and he barely suppressed a laugh.

  Rule: Enjoy it.

  “First, it’s important to maintain a strong stance. Watch,” he ordered. He stood with his feet comfortably apart, and his knees slightly bent.

  “Done,” she said, but he couldn’t discern any difference, thanks to her voluminous skirts.

  “I cannot tell if you are doing it correctly with your dress in the way,” he said.

  “Are you just trying to catch a glimpse of my ankles?” she asked, stunning him with the flirtatiousness in her voice.

  “Perhaps,” he admitted with a grin. It hadn’t been his intention, but he wouldn’t let the opportunity pass him by.

  Julianna’s only response was a sly smile and to lift her skirts inch by taunting inch. He saw that she wore dark blue satin slippers, decorated with silver embroidery and a few jewels, suggesting a vanity he had not attached to her. Her ankles were lovely and shapely but most entrancing of all—Lady Julianna, his former tormentor and architect of his downfall, was flirting with him.

  “Now you’ll also need to put your weight on the balls of your feet,” he instructed. She followed. How strange. “A good stance is important because it’s the source of your strength, and so you can be steady and ready for anything that comes at you.”

  She dropped her skirts and lifted her little female fists.

  “When do I punch you, Roxbury?” she asked, so sweetly he had to smile. This was a far cry from the rough-and-tumble world at Gentleman Jack’s. This was a far cry from how she usually was.

  “Not yet. First you need to make a proper fist.”

  “Like this?” Julianna held her hand out, all balled-up and he could only think of how tiny and delicate it was. He suspected that he’d be thankful of her small, ladylike fists when she started throwing punches.

  “It’s important to keep your thumb on the outside,” he said, taking her fist in his hands and gently urging her fingers to open.

  Had they even held hands before? He didn’t think so. Her soft hands felt so fragile in his. There were a few fading ink stains on her fingertips that he dared not question now—not when they were having a pleasant time and she was about to hit him.

  Roxbury glanced at Julianna and saw that she, too, was staring curiously at the sight of her hand in his.

  Rule: Affection. Check.

  Gently, Roxbury pressed her fingers into a proper fist, with her thumb on the outside.

  “There. That’s how to make a fist,” he said. “Never keep your thumb on the inside, otherwise you’ll risk breaking it.”

  “That would never do—I wouldn’t be able to write,” Julianna said. So she still hadn’t given up on her column.

  “On second thought . . .” he drawled.

  “Oh, you devil!” she exclaimed, punching him lightly on the shoulder.

  But Roxbury noticed that, she, too, was laughing.

  “So you have your strong stance, and you have a fist. Now, you want to hold a steady, ready position. Like this.” He demonstrated with his feet slightly apart, knees a bit bent, elbows, too, with fists out in front of him. He was an agile, strong boxer, but in the drawing room, surrounded by breakable things and a female, he felt like a clumsy giant that might inadvertently cause mass destruction merely because of his size.

  Julianna studied his position, adorably nibbling on her lower lip, and then tried it herself. He burst out laughing when he saw it.

  The sight of a woman—with skirts, embroidered and bejeweled satin slippers, “done” hair, and small, delicate hands—in such a bloodthirsty pose struck him as utterly unexpected, comical, and charming.

  “What is so funny?” she asked, lowering her fists and straightening.

  “You’re adorable,” he said.

  Julianna scowled at him, but he saw that she was fighting a smile. It must be damned hard to be her—scowling when she wanted to smile, biting back laughter, and Lord only knew how else she restrained herself.

  “We’re fighting, Roxbury,” she reminded him, dropping back into position.

  “Yes, dear,” he replied. “When you are ready, go ahead and hit me.”

  “I’ve dreamt of this,” Julianna told him. She dreamt of pummeling him and he dreamt of making love. How splendid.

  “Are you ready?” she asked, waving her little fists around.

  “Ready,” he answered.

  Julianna’s fist shot out and landed squarely, but lightly, on his chest. He barely felt it, and she knew it.

  “I hit you harder in my dreams.” Her mouth twisted into a scowl of annoyance. It was irritating when a punch didn’t hit with enough force.

  When Edward taught him to fight, Roxbury had the same experience—he could never hit hard enough. To teach him, Edward taunted him by calling him a sissy, a weakling, a missish twit, a sapling. And then, by God, did he land a damn good punch in his gut. His older brother had collapsed and, lying on the ground, gasped, “Well done.”

  That was not a method he was going to employ with Julianna out of fear she would get frustrated and call for her pistols.

  “I’m sure you did hit harder in your dreams, because that punch was nothing. Do you want to know why?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “You’re not using all of your strength. Right now, you’re hitting from here—” And to indicate exactly where, with his fingertips, Roxbury lightly traced the length of her bare skin from her shoulder to her elbow, and then to her wrist.

  She shivered under his caress, and he heard the faintest gasp from her lips. He resisted the urge to smile in triumph. He also fought to keep her pleasure from affecting him. They were fighting now, but it was a prelude to making love. He should not move too fast but slow down and deeply enjoy Julianna melting under his touch.

  He carried on, tracing that same line on the soft sensitive skin inside her arm. She bit her lower lip. His voice was raspier than it usually was.

  “But you have much more muscle to put behind it. When you throw a punch, it should come from here,” he said, stepping closer to her and placing his hand squarely on her lower back.

  He was tempted to lean in and press his lips to that secret spot on a woman’s neck, just below the earlobe. And that was just to start . . .

  With just his fingertips, Roxbury skimmed his palm up from the dip in her lower back, valiantly ignoring the great temptation to move his hand farther down. Gently and slowly he traced the line around her hip and up along her side, all the way up to her shoulder before going the length of her arm again. Soft, bare skin under his hot, bare hands.

  A gentleman did not touch a lady thusly in a drawing room. But they were married and the hideous drapes were closed to the outside world. They were quite alone.

  Julianna shivered again. She might have just been ticklish, but it could also be the shiver of pleasure from his touch. The man dared to dream.

  “And a good punch should also come from your heart, from your gut and from your head,” he added. The mechanics and muscles weren’t everything. Without passion, it would never work. He was no longer strictly on the subject of boxing.

  “With everything I’ve got,” she said succinctly.

  “Yes,” he said. Her eyes met his. All the smoldering glances and delicate, secret caresses in the world couldn’t match true longing. That initial spark could never be forced.

  Rule: Throw out all the rules and just feel it.

  “Now try again. Hi
t me here,” he said, indicating his chest, right above his heart.

  First, Julianna pushed a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes. Then she took a deep breath and assumed the position. She rocked on her feet for a second, with her fists up near her face. And then, so fast he barely saw it, her arm shot out, landing hard on his chest and knocking his breath away.

  He gave in to the urge to double over, for her sake.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

  Julianna fluttered over him, wrapping her arms around him. It was such a lovely feeling—that of her tending to him and embracing him—that he shamelessly added a groan to encourage her. She wrapped her arms around him and “helped” him over to the settee.

  “You must lie down,” she demanded. Simon resisted the urge to smile or tell her that he did not need to lie down after taking a little hit from a lady—that would definitely result in a smack that would do serious damage.

  So he let her fuss about, fluffing pillows and resting her hand on his chest.

  He added a new rule to his repertoire: Act hurt; encourage their tendency to nurture.

  For the very first time, she gave a damn about him. It was hilarious and wonderful all at once.

  “I’ll call for the smelling salts,” she said, leaving him sprawled on the settee.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. That was taking things too damn far. He was a man, for Lord’s sake!

  “I didn’t hurt you very badly?” Julianna asked cautiously, as she took a seat beside him. “Not that you would admit it if I did.”

  “No, and you did very well. Now you have another manner of defending yourself,” he said.

  “In the event that I do not have my pistols,” she remarked, grinning.

  “That, too, though I was thinking of that sharp tongue of yours,” he said, with a wry smile.

  At that, she laughed, and it was a pretty laugh. She really needed to do it more often.

  “Thank you, Roxbury,” she said genuinely. He got up from his sprawl and sat up next to her.

  “You might as well call me Simon,” he said. “After all, we’re married and have just enjoyed a good tussle in the drawing room.”

  She rolled her eyes like a young girl, but she was smiling.

  At this moment, he was fairly certain of a good reception if he were to kiss her. She was clearly happy and feeling fond of him—more than she’d ever done, at least. She’d exercised some of her anger, making some room for pleasure.

  To test the waters, he rested his hand on hers. Julianna looked up at him, curiously, but she did not move or tug her hand away. She didn’t scowl, either, or make some wisecrack about his proclivities or vast previous experience in the gentle caress of a woman’s hand.

  This was progress.

  Nevertheless, he decided he would not try to kiss her tonight, even though her lips were luscious and slightly parted. Even though he wanted to keep feeling close to her, and even though he ached to be with a woman. More startlingly, he ached to be with this one, his wife, and no other.

  No, he would not kiss her tonight because these things should not be rushed and because once they began down that road, of kisses and caresses and lovemaking there would be no going back.

  “Let’s call it a night, shall we?” he suggested, before he changed his mind and attempted to have his way with her on the drawing room floor.

  “Very well,” she said promptly, and he could not detect any regret or longing in her tone.

  As he followed her up the stairs, he took tremendous pleasure of the view—she had a very shapely backside. By the time they reached the top, he was sorely regretting his suggestion to end the evening, especially when she glanced over her shoulder at him, with a little suggestive flash of her green eyes and a coy smile forming on her lips.

  Chapter 37

  When her fellow Writing Girls arrived for afternoon tea, Julianna reluctantly showed them to the drawing room.

  “How nice,” Eliza said, her voice hollow, and looking around at the harvest gold damask, and the red velvet furniture, and the horrible everything. Her expression was such that nice was a hyperbole—and she hadn’t even taken a close look at the drapes.

  “Indeed,” Sophie managed. “How nice.”

  “It’s very bright,” Annabelle said, making an effort to be cheerful. “And this dog is darling,” she said, standing before one of the portraits of an English bulldog. For some reason, the decorator had decked the walls with an assortment of portraits of various canines.

  “The house is good, and one can understand why he was loath to give it up,” Julianna said. Underneath all the rubbish, it was a good home in a fashionable neighborhood.

  “But the decorating is horrific,” Sophie said, surveying the room again with her hands helplessly by her side. “Tell me the rest of the house is not so bad.”

  “You should see my bedchamber. It’s very pink,” Julianna said distastefully.

  “Oh dear,” Annabelle said with a sigh, holding a handful of drapery.

  “I wonder what angry mistress did this to him,” Eliza said, now examining a row of blue-and-white porcelain Chinese vases along the mantel.

  “I keep meaning to ask,” Julianna said. “Unless he did this to himself?”

  “When do we redecorate?” Sophie asked. “Please say today.”

  “I’m not planning on staying here long, and I do like the idea of leaving him with this,” she said, with a sweep of her hand to indicate the drawing room. She took a seat on one of the horrible velvet chairs, and her friends joined her around the tea tray.

  “I was going to ask how your marriage was faring, but if you are leaving soon, I suppose that’s my answer,” Sophie said. Julianna handed her a cup of tea, and then poured for the others as well.

  “Was it worth it?” Eliza asked.

  “That depends. Is there still talk about his preferences?” Julianna asked. “When those rumors are silent, my job here is done.”

  “Brandon tells me that on the whole, most gentlemen are too uncomfortable to discuss it, but some of the younger, drunker lads still enjoy jokes about it,” Sophie shared.

  “Oh dear,” Annabelle murmured before taking a bite of a ginger biscuit.

  “And the ladies of the ton?” Julianna asked, with a heavy heart.

  “They’re all shocked, simply shocked,” Sophie declared. “They never saw any of this scandal coming. But there are a few former paramours with suspicious husbands that are fully embracing the rumor that Roxbury might have only been chatting with their wives, rather than . . .”

  Annabelle blushed and sipped her tea.

  “So this is all progress, I suppose,” Julianna said even though it wasn’t, really. She had so badly wanted to hear, “Oh, no talks about you or Roxbury anymore, except to wonder where you are.”

  “It will die down eventually,” Sophie said. “It always does.”

  “And my reputation, dare I ask?” Julianna ventured.

  “It’s all quite confusing,” Eliza said.

  “Many are shocked at the marriage, for they never saw it coming,” Sophie explained.

  “None of us did,” Annabelle said. “I still can’t quite believe that you married the great rake Roxbury.”

  “No one believes it was a love match,” Eliza said plainly.

  “And they are having great fun at speculating what secret, scandalous reason drove two people to the altar, when they had so rarely been together publicly. Well, save for that serenade . . .” Sophie said.

  “I’m not sure ‘serenade’ is the word for what happened,” Annabelle mused.

  “I’m not sure there is a word for it,” Eliza replied.

  All Julianna could think of were the missed opportunities for “Fashionable Intelligence.” If she’d only written about her own scandal as Eliza advised and Knightly wished, she could have led the conversation among the ton. She could have introduced exclusive details, false leads, and fictitious stories that could have chang
ed everything.

  Julianna suffered hot, shooting pangs of regret.

  But no—she’d been too stubborn. She had tried to ignore it, hoping it would go away. She was trying to protect the name of Somerset—and when had that ever done anything good for her? Now she didn’t even have that anymore. Oh, how it burned.

  “So my marriage is discussed,” she summed up bitterly before taking a sip of her tea.

  “In drawing rooms and ballrooms all over town, I’m afraid,” Sophie replied breezily, and reaching for a ginger biscuit.

  “That must mean that I haven’t a hope of reclaiming my column anytime soon,” Julianna said glumly.

  “Not necessarily. It’s not going so well without you, in fact. At least, not as well as Knightly had hoped.”

  “Grenville just doesn’t have the same deft touch with society gossip as you,” Annabelle added.

  “Grenville! They gave my precious “Fashionable Intelligence” to that cranky old bat? Grenville?”

  The man in question covered parliamentary reports and other very important but very boring news and business. Not only did he not love gossip, he thought it trivial, frivolous, and a tremendous waste of time.

  That he should compose editions of her precious “Fashionable Intelligence” truly made her burn hot with regret. What had she done?

  “Alistair and I are doing the bulk of it, but I’m afraid we just don’t have the same wit, either.”

  “Oh, my baby . . . My poor, precious baby,” Julianna lamented.

  Thankfully, no one said something to the effect of “oh, it’s just a newspaper column” because the Writing Girls—and only the Writing Girls—knew it was so much more. It was their identity, their livelihood, and their income. It was a point of pride and a source of deep satisfaction. It was anything but some column inches in news rag.

  “I created ‘Fashionable Intelligence’ from nothing,” Julianna began passionately. “Before I went to see him that day, Knightly was publishing ‘News from Court’ that was about as interesting as a schoolboy’s grammar lesson and as widely read. I built up my own network of informants—Penny and her six sisters, and my favorite penny-a-liners. Within a year, I was rivaling a gossip columnist who had been at work for forty years!”