A Tale of Two Lovers

by Maya Rodale

  She paused in her rant only to take a breath.

  “And it’s not just gossip, or silly frivolous society news! Other people’s business is a valuable commodity and a reflection of our deepest held values. If I write that red silk is the latest fashion of the fabulous, people will demand it and markets will shift to supply it. If I claim that jaunts to Gretna Green are all the rage, I can guarantee even among couples with parental approval and no need for the lengthy trip will elope there,” Julianna said.

  “You’ll be back in no time,” Eliza said, smiling broadly, and the others nodded resolutely.

  “You never did tell us about how your marriage is faring,” Sophie said again.

  “Oh. That.” Julianna sipped her tea. She eyed one of the ginger biscuits but found she had no appetite.

  “You have spent almost a week together now,” Annabelle added.

  “You have every comfort available to you,” Eliza said. “Except good taste in decorating.”

  Julianna had to crack a smile at that.

  “Where is he, anyway?” Annabelle wondered, idly looking around as if Roxbury had been overlooked in a corner or something.

  “I have no idea! He’s not here!” Julianna exclaimed. She had woken to discover him missing. His slovenly attired valet refused to talk free of charge, and Penny still hadn’t uncovered Roxbury’s whereabouts. She had to wonder, did rakes go to visit their mistresses at first light? Most men probably didn’t, but then again, she hadn’t married most men—either the first time or the second.

  It rankled that there were secrets in her marriage. It also rankled that she could have sworn he was about to kiss her last night, and he did not. Why, oh, why had he not done so? She’d been so certain that he was considering it. And, terrifyingly, she wanted him to!

  Even at the best of times, Julianna’s store of patience was not vast.

  “He insists that I must stay here for the sake of appearances, which I know is the thing to do. But then he goes out, where I know not. He left at dawn this morning and no one will tell me where he has gone. Yesterday, he spent hours at Gentleman Jack’s.”

  “Do you think . . .” Eliza dropped her voice “. . . that he might not be where he says he is?” Julianna knew what she was really asking—could he be with another woman, already?

  “I think he was just boxing,” Julianna said resolutely. “But if he’s betrayed me already, I will murder him.”

  “Quite a vehement response,” Eliza mentioned, while pouring another cup of tea.

  “Especially since you don’t really care for him at all,” Sophie said, but she was looking again at the curtains—and not looking Julianna in the eye.

  “What are you saying?” Julianna asked of her friends. She looked at Annabelle for an answer.

  “I think they are remarking that you seem to care more deeply for Roxbury than previously admitted. But I could be mistaken,” Annabelle hastily added.

  “You are mistaken. I care not. It’s my pride that I’m concerned with, that’s all,” Julianna said dismissively—or as much as she could manage. “And it’s barely been a week since we’ve exchanged our vows. Really, it’s too soon to start ignoring them.”

  “When is it acceptable, then?” Eliza wondered, sipping her tea.

  “I believe it is until death do you part,” Sophie said. “So, never, basically.”

  “It’s not acceptable at all. Ever,” Annabelle said resolutely.

  “That’s all beside the point entirely. The real issue is that he has left for no apparent reason, and without informing me. He went off yesterday, and again today,” Julianna said. But then she thought of the previous evening’s activity, and knew she had to tell her friends. She grinned and said, “But last night, he taught me to box.”

  “Really?” Sophie asked. “And I merely take tea after supper.”

  “What was it like?” Annabelle asked, tilting her head curiously.

  “It was very . . . oh, just wonderful. I learned how to throw a punch and I got to hit him, which I had been aching to do for weeks now.”

  “How did it feel?” Annabelle asked. “I could never imagine striking someone.”

  “It was deeply satisfying. At the same time, the lesson was oddly . . . seductive.”

  “How so?” Eliza asked, leaning in curiously.

  “Just the close proximity, the touching, the shivers. And having my urge to hit him satisfied, so now I feel . . . Oh, I can’t quite explain,” Julianna said. She had enjoyed herself, with him, and wished to do so again. But now he had vanished.

  “We’re all dying to know, if . . . you know . . .” Sophie said quietly.

  “No,” Julianna said, dropping her voice as well. “I thought he might try last night, but he just said good-night and went whistling on his way to his bedchamber.”

  “What does that mean?” Eliza wondered.

  “I have no idea. Men generally do not make sense,” Julianna replied.

  “He’s trying to seduce you,” Annabelle said flatly. Three pairs of eyes widened in shock at dear, sweet, innocent Annabelle speaking so plainly about seduction.

  “How do you figure?” Sophie asked.

  “I read it in a Minerva Press novel . . . or twenty,” Annabelle said, sighing impatiently. “Honestly, how have you not figured this out?”

  “I don’t follow,” Julianna said. “He taught me how to box. That’s all.”

  “No, that’s not all, you ninny! He’s making you want him by giving you a little bit—a gentle caress, the suggestion of more—but not going all the way. At least, that’s what it sounds like. If nothing else, it’s Roxbury, for heaven’s sake! Before you spread those rumors, he was legendary for seducing women.”

  “And he has you captive under his roof,” Eliza said with a mischievous grin.

  “Oh, Jules, you don’t stand a chance!” Sophie exclaimed.

  “You’re going to fall in love with your husband!” Annabelle said gleefully.

  “I will do no such thing. I will not be seduced and I will not fall in love. And if he should try anything . . .”

  “You know how to fight now,” Eliza finished.

  “I wish I knew how to box,” Annabelle said.

  “I’ll teach you,” Julianna offered. “Let’s do it right now. First, let’s move the furniture out of the way.”

  Annabelle sensibly rang the bell to request assistance from the footmen.

  “Can we move it outside of the house entirely?” Sophie asked, once they began pushing tables and chairs aside.

  “I know it’s awful, but it’s pointless to redecorate when I won’t be staying to enjoy it,” Julianna said. In another day or two she’d return to 24 Bloomsbury Place. If her legendary husband was indeed bent upon seducing her, it would be far too dangerous to stay, because . . .

  She wasn’t quite sure why, actually. She bit her lip, dismissed the thought, and adopted the boxing position, just as Roxbury had taught her.

  “The most important thing is a strong stance,” she said, raising her fists.

  Chapter 38

  When Brandon occasionally referred to the Writing Girls “taking over” his home, Roxbury never gave much thought to it. Brandon’s home was vast, and there were only four women. Surely, it was an exaggeration.

  Upon entering his foyer after a long day away, Roxbury learned that it was not an exaggeration at all. Who knew that four women could make so much noise at such an impossibly high pitch?

  Pembleton, the butler, looked close to tears. Behind him stood Mrs. Keane, the housekeeper, with a handkerchief pressed to her mouth and her eyes bright with tears. It was not clear, however, if she was stifling sobs or laughter. Timson leaned against the wall, smirking. Behind them, it seemed the entire household staff was gathered around the closed drawing room doors.

  The noise—God above, the noise that four women could make! Roxbury was painfully curious and terrified.

  “Julianna, watch out!” someone shrieked. He—and his staff—all winc
ed at the sound of shattering pottery. The Chinese vases. He’d never cared for them but hopefully they were not valuable antiques.

  One of the girls yelled, “Use both fists, Sophie!”

  Roxbury’s eyes widened. A few of the footmen snickered until given a stern glance. That was a duchess they were laughing at.

  Another hollered, “Harder, Annabelle.”

  Then even Roxbury could not contain his smirk. Pembleton gave him a sharp look for setting a bad example for the staff.

  The girls were either boxing—a hilarious and horrifying thought—or . . . he did not dare consider what other activities they might be engaged in. Boxing. It had to be that.

  Something else shattered. They all winced again. Mrs. Keane sobbed, “Oh, the vases!” A maid standing to his left muttered, under her breath, “Good riddance. I hate dusting the darn things.”

  His staff looked imploringly at him—none more so than Pembleton.

  “I will take care of this,” Roxbury said, squaring his shoulders and standing up straighter.

  Slowly, reluctantly they dispersed. After a deep breath, he pushed open the heavy oak doors.

  He saw four women, fighting. They wore their nice day dresses, like proper ladies, but their fists were flying like those of brawling boys. Elegant coiffures had not survived the melee. Julianna, he noticed, looked particularly fetching with her hair tousled and falling in disarray.

  Two of the girls practiced throwing punches while Julianna and Sophie held up down pillows; little white feathers clouded the air like a winter snowfall. Mrs. Keane was not going to be laughing when she saw that—or the remnants of a teacup shattered on the floor. So it had not been any of the vases to go, to the disappointment of his maid.

  But none of that compared to the fighting girls. Roxbury leaned against the doorframe, folded his arms, grinned, and watched.

  They were having a ball. Rocking on their feet, dodging jabs, and ducking punches. There was much laughter, and more shrieks to “watch out” or “hit harder.” He did not want to bring an end to such joy. And, oh, the blackmail possibilities!

  It was Sophie who noticed him first. Her eyes widened in shock. Eliza paused in her punches to turn and look. She gave him a cheeky grin.

  And Julianna . . .

  She looked at him, and then she surveyed the damage to the room, as if seeing it through his eyes. The furniture shoved against the walls, shattered china, the down feathers, the destroyed pillows, the girls in utter disarray. Her lips parted and she mouthed the words “Oh damn,” but then she gave in, lowered the pillow she held, and smiled.

  The blonde one, however, was not attending to her surroundings. Her back was to the door and she must have been boxing with her eyes closed—a tactic not recommended. Her fist flew out and landed on Julianna’s cheek.

  “Ow!”

  “Oh! Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed and all the girls oohed and fluttered around. A thousand apologies followed. Roxbury would have done something, but the girls formed a wall around his wife. There were calls for smelling salts and a doctor and medicine and even a surgeon. He called to one of the maids to hurry for supplies.

  Julianna sat down on a chair, with her hand over her cheek. It wasn’t long before she was laughing so hard that tears came to her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” Annabelle said for the thousandth time.

  “It’s fine, Annabelle. It was only an accident.”

  “Does it hurt?” Sophie asked.

  “Not really. You’ll have to try harder next time, Annabelle,” Julianna replied. But Roxbury saw her wince when she touched the already developing bruise. It was not going to be pretty.

  A maid arrived with a cold compress and the Writing Girls parted to let him close to Julianna. He knelt before her and pressed the cold towel to her bruised cheek.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “Of course,” he replied. Other than the cause of her injury being so very unusual, it did feel right to be tending to her. He wanted to take her in his arms. In fact, he wanted to take her upstairs to his bedchamber.

  Through it all, Julianna’s gaze never wavered from his. After a moment, he realized they had all fallen silent. Being women, they were probably assigning all kinds of significance to his act of applying a cold compress to his wife’s bruise. He wanted to say it was nothing of significance, simple care and concern. But that wouldn’t have been the complete truth.

  Instead, he stood up and surveyed the damage to the drawing room.

  “At least you had the good sense to close the curtains,” he remarked. Really, they were the most hideous, god-awful things he had ever seen. Given how many bedroom curtains he had made a point of closing, this was saying something. Lydia certainly had her revenge. “Just imagine if the Man About Town got word of this.”

  “Writing Girls engaged in fisticuffs,” Sophie remarked, giggling.

  “Writing Girl brawls,” Annabelle said with a chuckle.

  “The Brawling Girls,” Julianna shouted, to much laughter.

  “The Weekly’s wrestling wenches,” Roxbury added, to all the girls’ merriment.

  “Skirmish in skirts,” Eliza said, amidst the laughter.

  “I imagine Knightly would be proud of your headlines,” Annabelle said. “But how happy would he be with a cartoon of this for the front page?”

  “We’ll have to pose for a cartoonist!” Sophie leapt up to strike a pose, and in the process she knocked over one of the Chinese vases on the mantel.

  “Oh dear,” she said woefully. “I hope that wasn’t a priceless family heirloom.”

  “I as well,” Roxbury replied. Given that it had been selected by his former mistress Lydia Smythe, who had no idea about things like priceless objects and valuable heirlooms, he didn’t think they were of any worth whatsoever.

  “You’re just trying to rush the redecorating!” Julianna exclaimed.

  Sophie shrugged with a little grin, and pushed the shards of broken pottery aside with her foot.

  “Redecorating?” he echoed, looking from Writing Girl to Writing Girl.

  “I will not be redecorating,” Julianna affirmed.

  “Pity, that,” Roxbury, Annabelle, Sophie, and Eliza all said at once. That set off another round of laughter.

  “Would you ladies like to join us for supper this evening?” Roxbury asked. Rule: Win over a lady’s friends.

  “Oh how lovely! Thank you, but I promised Brandon . . .” Sophie said, beginning to gather her things.

  “I have a column to write,” Eliza explained. Simon noticed that Julianna winced at that.

  “I must help my sister-in-law,” Annabelle said with such a sad sigh that Simon did not get a very good opinion of her relative.

  Julianna escorted them to the foyer to say goodbye, leaving him alone in the devastated drawing room. His staff was going to suffer apoplexies in droves when they saw it.

  If anyone had told him that marriage would involve coming home to a skirmish in skirts with four brawling girls, he might have considered it sooner. Married life was definitely not as boring as he feared it would be.

  A moment later, Julianna burst into the drawing room. “We have received an invitation! It’s for Lady Mowbry’s ball tomorrow night. I can wear my new cerulean blue satin and I can borrow Sophie’s sapphires . . .”

  It did not escape his notice that she lovingly traced the script, or how she clearly enjoyed the feeling of crisp vellum under her fingertips. If she slept with the invitation under her pillow tonight, he would not be surprised.

  But he suspected that he would have a bruise to match hers when he said they could not attend. There would be no sapphires and satins of any color, or waltzes with the ton looking on.

  “Oh Roxbury, do you know what this means?” she sighed. “We are no longer complete and utter social outcasts. Our reputations are on the mend and soon, darling, we shall be able to pretend this whole thing never happened.”

  Just imagining that happy day brought a bright s
mile to her face, but it hit him like a jab to the gut. She was eager to move out and move on when he was bent on seducing her. He was already losing her—and he didn’t even have her.

  These past few days he savored the novel sensation of someone waiting for him at home. It changed things. Where he might have lingered away from home, he did not. When he might have stopped at the club, he did not. All he could think was to return to her.

  It wasn’t something he’d ever experienced with another woman. Naturally, he had anticipated a midnight visit or a quick, illicit afternoon call. But he never experienced an urgent need to be under the same roof as a woman.

  “Darling . . .” he said gently, and she looked up curiously. He would have to tell her they were stuck together for yet another evening.

  Roxbury guided her to the mirror above the mantel, where he stood behind her. He watched as she looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and wonder. Then her lips parted in horror as she noticed the big, purple bruise on her cheekbone.

  At first, he noticed the way she bit her lip. And then he noticed her lovely green eyes were bright with tears. She was desperately trying not to cry.

  Though he hated when women cried, Roxbury took some comfort in that Julianna probably loathed it just as much. There was one thing to do: he turned her toward him, enclosed her in his arms, and allowed her to nestle against his chest and bury her face in the crook of his shoulder and wet his shirt with her tears.

  He felt rather than saw her sobs. She twined her arms around him and rested her cheek on his shoulder. Julianna Somerset Roxbury, infamous author of “Fashionable Intelligence,” crying in his arms, in his horribly decorated drawing room. What had the world come to? A month ago, a week ago even, he would have scoffed had someone suggested the notion.

  For better or for worse, Roxbury was fairly experienced with weeping women. All the ended affairs, or rumors about him with other women . . . these things tended to make a woman cry and they tended to make him deal with it.