A Tale of Two Lovers

by Maya Rodale

  This time, it was different.

  “I never cry,” she sobbed. He murmured his agreement, and stroked her lower back with his palm and just listened. “Not even when Somerset died. Or when Sophie left. Or when Knightly fired me. Or even when we married.”

  “Why are you crying now?” he asked.

  “I want my life back. I want to get out of this house. I want to write and go to parties and buy my own dresses. I want to live in my own home and be my own mistress.”

  At least, that’s what he thought she said. Between the sniffles and sobs, with her face now buried in his cravat, everything was a bit muffled and barely audible.

  What he did understand made him burst out laughing.

  She stood back, affronted.

  “What is so humorous about this? I pour my heart out to you and you laugh? You are utterly heartless, Roxbury,” she said, with her mouth forming into a perfect, kissable pout.

  “So many women have schemed, plotted, and begged to become my wife, or mistress, or to reside here. They wanted me to buy them dresses and take them to parties. Of all the women in the world, I end up with the one who doesn’t want any of that.”

  “Women can be idiots when it comes to rich, handsome, and charming men. Marriage. Dresses,” she scoffed. “As if any of that matters.”

  It didn’t matter at all, and she knew it. The pace of his heart quickened, because he’d never been with a woman who cared so little for those things. What could he provide her, then? Love, or something like it—but would that be enough?

  To ponder that was to venture into uncharted emotional depths and he wasn’t equipped for such an expedition at the moment.

  Instead, he said with the classic Roxbury grin, “So you think I’m handsome and charming?”

  “Occasionally,” Julianna admitted. She took a few steps and collapsed onto the settee. He followed and sat beside her. “But it doesn’t count for anything. Somerset was handsome and charming and a horrible husband.”

  “How so?” Though he would never admit it aloud, Roxbury was tremendously curious. What had gone so wrong with her first marriage?

  Usually, he couldn’t muster up much interest in the husbands of his lovers. But in this instance, it was different. He was desperate for a glimpse of the girl so in love she eloped at seventeen. How had she ended up here in his arms, in his drawing room?

  “Does it matter now what made him so terrible?” she asked with a shrug.

  “I’ll probably be a horrible husband whether you tell me or not, but I’d at least like to be horrible in my own unique way,” he answered truthfully.

  Julianna assessed him frankly with her lovely green eyes.

  “Very well,” she said matter-of-factly. After a deep breath, she told him. “His death involved alcohol, a prostitute, and a moving carriage—and he was attempting to manage all three himself. He died doing what he loved best—drinking and whoring and generally behaving like a halfwit. His will included provisions for three former mistresses and their bastards. I was left the house in an unfashionable neighborhood and a pittance of an annuity.”

  “That explains our extremely detailed marriage contract and settlement requirements for you,” he remarked, when really he was confounded by what she described. How could one manage a woman and drive a carriage, whilst drunk? Apparently, one could not.

  His wife had been married to a man who thought that was a suitable combination of companions and activities. Idiot.

  No wonder she was such a shrew.

  “That’s exactly why,” she said. “I’m not making that mistake twice.”

  “Smart girl,” he answered. “Did your family not help you?”

  “I foolishly eloped with a man they disapproved of. My mother, bless her, has never ceased writing to me thrice weekly, so I wasn’t disowned. But while they might have helped me, I would be damned before I asked.”

  “Of course,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. When he had been faced with poverty he had raged about it, but he had not done anything. Only at the end, when compliance with the ultimatum seemed hopeless did he think about going alone. Shameful.

  He had become one of those people that married for money. Granted, she had, too, but it wasn’t the same.

  “I wrote, Roxbury, so I could have a roof over my head. So I could have my dignity.” She spoke with a bone-deep certainty, and her voice carried a sad note of longing. Writing for Julianna wasn’t just the glamour of a gossip column in a popular newspaper, or being a Writing Girl. She wrote to live, with the world knocking at her door, and a hunger in her belly. Her soul, her pride, her dignity, her livelihood were on the line with every stroke of pen on paper. She was a Lady but she was no idle society girl.

  Somewhere along the line Roxbury had begun to fall in love with her—perhaps the first seed was sown with the first kiss, or during their first waltz. It might have been what he was trying to tell her the night he sang “Country John” outside her window. His decision to seduce her had been made long before, and it wasn’t a decision so much as accepting his fate.

  As for the marriage, and the money . . . the truth was that he married her for the money. But equally true was the undeniable fact that he had gone and fallen in love with his wife.

  If hell froze over, he couldn’t quite tell.

  The planet did not seem to shift, and he didn’t know if the stars had realigned or not. His heart didn’t pound and his breath did not catch. But he felt different—he felt sure and strong. And terrified. Could he be a man worthy of her love?

  She was a stunning, determined, revolutionary, history-making woman. He was just some rich, idle rake who married a scandalous woman for money and to vex his parents.

  “Where were you today?” she asked, and he heard the years in her voice. Years of strain from wondering where her husband was, who he was with, what trouble he was up to. Somerset had caused his fair share of her weariness. Roxbury resolved to stop adding to her heartache.

  How well did she distinguish between him and Somerset in her head and heart? Roxbury suspected not very much. Suddenly, he could see everything in a different light.

  So, he did not take the accusation to heart. It was clear to him now that his task was to prove he was nothing like Somerset.

  “I was not with a woman today,” he said, knowing that he should say something quickly. He did not wish to tell her where he really had been. Not yet.

  “Were you with a man?” she asked, but he could see she was teasing. Mostly.

  “No. And you know that I was not with a man that night. Or any night,” he said, resting his hand over hers.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” she said with a little laugh. “You are a hot-blooded man, with an insatiable appetite for making love to women all through the day, and all through the night.”

  “Do you not believe me?” he asked. “Shall I prove it to you?”

  “Oh, I believe you,” she replied. “No proof necessary.”

  “Oh darling,” he murmured, grinning, as he put his arm around her shoulders. She burst out laughing and he did, too.

  Julianna did not move away.

  He saw that she was stealing glances at him from behind lowered lashes.

  From years of experience, he knew the moment for a kiss when he saw it. Still, he felt as nervous as a schoolboy. As if it was his first time. As if it meant something. They sat close together, with his arm around her on the settee in the drawing room with the curtains closed and a few candles burning slowly.

  Logic and reason had not left him. He knew very well he was nervous because he loved her, they were married, and he was uncertain of her feelings for him.

  His heart began to pound because he was about to kiss the woman he loved. Already, he didn’t want it to end.

  Julianna, her full lips slightly parted, looked at him curiously, nervously. He saw uncertainty in her eyes. He had to take her in his arms and show her the passionate love of a reformed rake.

  This was the perfect moment.<
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  It was also the moment that Pembleton knocked on the door to say that supper was ready at their convenience and that the small matter of the attempted burglary had been resolved.

  Chapter 39

  The next morning

  “Attempted burglaries, violent ladies, mysterious disappearances . . . So much excitement and drama yesterday,” Julianna mused to Roxbury at the breakfast table. Beginning with boxing with her friends (most unusual) and ending with . . . that deeply personal conversation with her husband (also a novelty).

  Julianna sipped her tea and marveled at that.

  She and Somerset had a wild passion; there was little conversation and none of it had been deeply personal. To her shock, it seemed Roxbury might not be another Somerset after all. Apparently one rake was not the same as another. This was a revelation to her, the implications of which had kept her up tossing and turning quite late. She still wasn’t entirely sure of what to make of it all.

  If Roxbury was not some run-of-the-mill, garden-variety rake, then who was he?

  She eyed him as he drank his coffee and read the paper. Roxbury was handsome. He was by all accounts a very good-natured, charming man—except he was often angry with her. Admittedly, she provoked him. He liked boxing, he liked his club, and he liked singing ballads. He loved women.

  But what else did she know of him? His family? There was that brother in the portrait, but Roxbury never spoke of him, which meant that some sleuthing was in order.

  “What disappeared?” he asked, looking through the paper.

  “You did. Yesterday. I still do not know where you had gone,” Julianna said.

  “Funny, that,” he responded evasively. There was a spark of mischief in his eyes.

  “Yes, it’s hilarious,” she said dryly. But there was a spark of mischief in her eyes, too. She might like him, after all. Certainly not love—that was another mistake she would not make twice. But it turned out that Roxbury wasn’t so awful. He taught her to box, held her when she sobbed, and inspired all sorts of naughty thoughts.

  “You don’t like having secrets kept from you, do you?” he asked.

  “I’m a gossip columnist. It’s torture,” Julianna answered. Honestly, she was like a dog with a bone when it came to secrets. Until she knew where he had gone, she would think of nothing else.

  Except, perhaps, kissing him.

  Well, she would also wonder incessantly about that attempted burglary last night. One of the scullery maids had heard a racket and found an open window, a fallen pile of boxes, and a general muck of things that had been carelessly stacked in his way. Roxbury and the staff concluded that the burglar had knocked over the boxes while attempting to enter, then become scared and fled without bothering to close the window.

  It was probably just someone hungry from the streets, and attempting to break in for a bite to eat. She could not fault that, and hoped they got what they wanted.

  Roxbury had been about to kiss her last night, she was sure of it. She glanced at him again, and he looked up to catch her eye. She smiled slightly. He winked and returned to the newspaper. She smiled more broadly.

  Yes, he had been about to kiss her. Even thinking about it now made her feel giddy and nervous all at once. She became warm as she thought about it more—and at the breakfast table nonetheless! It was not the place for a lady to have such thoughts.

  “What wicked things are you thinking?” Roxbury asked, having finished with the paper and clearly taking note of her blush.

  “Secret ones,” she responded. Suddenly she didn’t loathe him anymore. She said it suddenly, but over the course of days or weeks that anger had faded. Now she lived with a handsome, charming man who was not, in fact, a typical rake, and she was glad he had been about to kiss her and disappointed that he hadn’t.

  “I’d suggest an outing for today, except for that bruise. The last thing I need the ton to do is add wife abuse to my list of sins.”

  “Oh, please let’s go out. We don’t need to get ices at Gunther’s. We can do something where they might not notice.” Getting out of this house and escaping her plaguing, wicked thoughts would be just the thing. She might even engage him in a conversation in which he would reveal where he’d been yesterday.

  After a short, heated debate it was settled that they would go for a drive in Hyde Park and she would keep her bonnet low to cover the purple bruise on her cheek. In fact, they would venture to join the promenade of the high and mighty of society out for a drive on Rotten Row. As long as Julianna kept her head ducked low.

  They took Roxbury’s shiny black phaeton instead of the enclosed carriage with the bullet hole through the family crest still awaiting repairs.

  “You know it is a ruled case in all romances that when a lover and his mistress go out riding together, some adventure must befall them,” Julianna recited as they drove away from the house.

  “Who says that?” Roxbury asked.

  “It’s from Belinda by Maria Edgeworth.”

  “I didn’t read that one,” said Roxbury.

  “I’m not surprised,” she remarked. It was an incredibly popular women’s novel that she had enjoyed once upon a time. She wondered how true it was. Would an adventure befall them today?

  She always did enjoy a spot of excitement.

  They proceeded to the park without incident and joined the promenade of other carriages along Rotten Row.

  “They are all watching us,” Roxbury remarked. They were not subtle about it, either. Many a carriage slowed down as they passed the unfathomable sight of Lord and Lady Roxbury in public, together.

  Lady Drawling Rawlings was traveling with Lady Stewart-Wortly and neither lady acknowledged the Roxburys, though Lady Rawlings demanded the carriage to slow as they drove by. Carriages full of their former friends and acquaintances passed by, but no one condescended to even wave hello.

  “They are waiting for us to cause another scandal,” Julianna said softly. Those who snubbed them now had once fallen all over themselves to associate with them both. God, if she still had her column the revenge she could enact . . .

  “I am sorely tempted to provide a scandal,” Roxbury replied tightly. Her skin tingled with a sense of delightful anticipation.

  “What would you do?” she asked curiously.

  “Oh, darling. Where to begin?” Roxbury said with a laugh. “I could kiss you right now. Deeply and passionately kiss you. It would give Lady Stewart-Wortly an apoplexy and for that reason alone, I’m considering it.”

  “While driving the carriage?” Julianna asked, slightly wary.

  “No, I would stop so that everyone could jostle around for the perfect view,” he answered, and she knew he had really listened when she told him about Somerset.

  More carriages slowed to ascertain that yes, Lord and Lady Roxbury were indeed out and about. She could practically hear the old matrons exclaiming “Oh the horrors!” and Lady Stewart-Wortly was probably preparing a harangue about their violation of all decency.

  But she was with a devilishly handsome man who listened to her, taught her to box, and who, any day now, was going to kiss her senseless, so she couldn’t quite care that an old bat like Lady Stewart-Wortly stuck up her nose as she drove past them.

  “For a scandal, I was thinking more along the lines of removing my bonnet, exposing my bruise, and you could lose your cravat,” she said.

  “Publicly in a state of undress. Now you’re talking,” he replied, grinning.

  “If you had a cheroot I could smoke it,” Julianna said, a note of glee creeping into her voice. It was quite fun to think of all the naughty things she could do. Her reputation couldn’t sink much lower, so there was really no reason not to remove her bonnet to feel the sun on her face and light up a cheroot for a smoke while on a leisurely drive on Rotten Row with her equally scandalous husband.

  “If I had a cheroot I would smoke it—in front of a lady,” he dared.

  “Shocking. Do you have the brandy in this carriage, as well?”r />
  “Darling, it’s not yet noon,” Roxbury chided.

  “The purpose is to cause a scandal, mind you,” she lectured.

  “Then why don’t you prop up your feet and give the ton a glimpse of your lovely ankles.”

  She burst out laughing, loudly. Heads turned to look, with mouths open and eyebrows raised. Not only had Lord and Lady Roxbury left the house, but they were enjoying themselves, too! Socially ostracized people were not supposed to be out laughing in the sunshine. Everyone knew that.

  “Oh! My modesty!” she exclaimed, still laughing.

  The picture she was imagining was just delightful: A lady without her bonnet and the sun on her face, bruised from boxing, smoking a cheroot, and sipping a brandy with her feet propped up on the carriage and ankles exposed. Of course, it wasn’t complete without the rakish husband beside her, also smoking, drinking, and lacking articles of clothing.

  “If I have so shocked your gentle sensibilities, you might also pretend to swoon,” Roxbury suggested. “Though, unfortunately, I am not in the habit of carrying smelling salts.”

  “I am not the sort of woman who needs them.”

  “My kind of woman,” he said. “Though a well-timed faint can be used to great effect.”

  “And if I were to do so now?” she asked coyly.

  Roxbury turned to look at her, and her breath caught in her throat. He was so handsome and charming, and he was looking at her with a little bit of mischief and lust and something like adoration. Most of all he seemed happy to be with her. That was what took her breath away and made her heart pound.

  “If you fainted, I would catch you, my Lady Scandalous,” he murmured.

  “Lord and Lady Scandalous. The name suits us,” she remarked softly.

  “It does,” he agreed. And for the first time, it felt like they were an “us,” a pair, a couple, united. There would be other Roxburys and Somersets but this was a name that was theirs alone.

  She added a feeling of warmth to the breathlessness and the heart pounding. It wasn’t just the weather, either. It was a feeling of something like safety, or the comfort that came from knowing one was not alone in the world.