A Tale of Two Lovers

by Maya Rodale

  Julianna wrapped her arms around him, tracing the muscles of his back with her fingertips. Her breath hitched in her throat when his hands rakishly and a little bit roughly caressed her, from just below her breasts, along her side and down to her hips . . . and down farther to the hem of her nightgown.

  Julianna quickly discovered that there was nothing, nothing, like the sensation of silk slowly sliding along one’s skin. Especially when it was propelled by the knowing hands of an accomplished lover, and when she was on the verge of complete abandon, and falling in love and . . .

  Roxbury pressed a warm kiss in the delightful spot where her shoulder curved to her neck. Julianna couldn’t restrain a moan, nor could she help arching her back and moving to make it easier for him to give her more of that exquisite sensation.

  Meanwhile, he was slowly pushing the silk straps of her nightgown off her shoulders and leaving her exposed to his dark, heated gaze.

  In a flash, she was suddenly acutely conscious of all the other women he’d seen thusly. She moved to cover herself, but he shook his head no, and looked at her as if she was the first, last, and loveliest woman in the world. So she let him look, even though it made her blush and even though it made heat pool in her belly.

  Julianna took a good, long, leisurely look at him, too—with his hair falling into his eyes, his gaze wild and dark, his lips parted. She traced the contours of all the muscles on his chest before resting her palm over his pounding heart.

  He began to tug up her nightgown, before pulling it off entirely. It joined his shirt on the floor. She closed her eyes, having forgotten about how this made one’s heart race, and how it was possible to be so damned warm from the inside out, even though one was utterly naked. Julianna had also forgotten about the shivers of anticipation and the curious, intense throbbing between her legs. She’d forgotten about her own desire.

  Or had she never known it?

  The wicked rake gave her a grin that promised all kinds of unimaginable pleasure. At his gentle urging, she leaned back against the pillows, completely at his mercy. Thus far, she’d been enjoying herself, but thanks to his dangerous, roguish smile, she knew it was only just beginning.

  He began with his hand clasped around her ankle, which didn’t seem like very much at all, until he began to move his grasp higher. The gentle, slow caress was lovely; the anticipation and suspicions of just where he was going with his wicked touch was quite another. That was what had her lips parting in an “o” of shock and excitement and nervousness.

  The man knew it, too.

  And just when he was about to touch her in that most intimate place, he stopped. Instead, he lowered himself over her, adding another layer of heat. Roxbury kissed her as if he had all night. And then he began to feather kisses along her neck. And then just when she was starting to writhe with the pleasure from that, he began to feather kisses lower still.

  Roxbury covered her breast with his palm, and she arched her back for more. It was involuntary, of course. When he closed his mouth around the dusky pink center and a genuine moan escaped her lips, there was no way on earth she could have stopped it. And then when he began to give his attentions to her other breast . . . she knew she could enjoy this all night long and then even longer.

  She knew Roxbury was an accomplished lover. Everyone knew it. But to experience it—that was quite another thing entirely. And Julianna knew that for all of his practice and experience this lovemaking meant something to him. It was there in the darkness of his gaze, or the way his caress wasn’t always smooth and perfect, but a little rough, or when he groaned in pleasure from her touch. She could tell in the way that their mouths occasionally fumbled, searching, and tasting.

  She knew because she had done this before with her previous husband, and it had never been like this. So every imperfect kiss was exquisite. Every time their limbs became tangled or they laughed softly at a little bit of clumsiness—they were still learning each other, after all—well, that made it all the more real, and theirs alone. And that was what allowed Julianna to let go.

  At first, she surrendered just a little bit, giving in to those sighs and moans. And then when he did begin to touch her, there, she gave in a lot more. And when those hot, loving kisses went lower and lower and found her, there, she let go even more. And then after a few seconds, or a few moments of sheer, unbridled bliss, there was no way she could hold on any longer.

  Julianna never cried—but dear God did she cry out with pleasure and sob with relief. She could not move, nor could she breathe; she just barely registered that something earth-shattering had occurred, and it had happened to her. And Roxbury, the man that had just shown her heaven, tucked her into his arms and held her close.

  Roxbury had spent hours, days, fantasizing about Julianna’s kiss. Now that it was possible for him to enjoy it, he could not stop. What if she came to her senses? Or what if she changed her mind? Or what if she fell asleep? That was what he always did after he climaxed and dear God was he aching to do so now. Climax, not sleep, that is. He could barely contain himself and sleep was the last thing his body wanted at the moment.

  “More?” she asked, or mumbled rather. He nibbled her earlobe and she giggled.

  “If you can handle it,” he murmured and by that he meant, For the love of God please.

  “If you insist,” she said lazily, stretching out beneath him. He bit back a groan because as she arched her back, she brushed against his hard arousal. He was beyond desperate for a release. But still . . .

  “Whatever the lady wishes,” he said, but what he really meant was, In the name of everything sacred, please say yes.

  “Your lady says hurry up,” Julianna murmured. She barely finished the sentence before he was tugging off his breeches.

  He kissed her again. And then she relaxed and melted into his embrace. He kissed away her worries, and soon they both forgot, so lost in a mad, hot rush of pent-up desire on the verge of release.

  He was an experienced lover, but tonight everything felt like an expedition into uncharted territory. He’d made love to women, but he’d never made love to this woman. Roxbury knew her, too, in a way he’d never before experienced. He knew of her anger and her fears and her past and he knew that there was a damn good chance that he was her future, too.

  All this knowledge made the experience of making love seem utterly different—and its own kind of wonderful. It had to be perfect, and it had to be true. Above all, it had to be magical and exquisite and . . . he wanted her to enjoy it. Lord knew he was reveling in the pleasure of her full breasts in his hands, and her soft skin hot against his, and the delicate sound of her sighs, and the passion of her kiss.

  They’d barely begun, and already he didn’t want it to end. But he could ignore his needs no longer.

  Any semblance of rational thought was swiftly evaporating, and he was completely overtaken by the primal urge to claim her as his own. He lowered himself above her, with his arousal nestled between her thighs and straining to be inside of her.

  Julianna writhed beneath him, mercifully making room for him. Roxbury claimed her mouth with his, because he had to have all of her all at once. He urged in slowly, achingly aware that this was his last first time with a woman. It was just something he knew, and he wanted to remember every vivid detail. Deeper and deeper he moved within her, and for all the obstacles she’d thrown in his path before, there were none now. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him like a loving wife.

  He pushed in farther, all the way, groaning in pleasure while still managing, barely, to keep kissing her. And then he began to move inside her, slowly at first, before everything was utterly beyond his control.

  It hadn’t been like this before . . . that was the only thought he could manage. His mind was otherwise blank. His heart was pounding, though, like never before. And by God . . . her hands pressed into his back, urging him deeper. He buried his face in her neck, and his hands roughly caressed her. She held him tighter.

  Wh
en she murmured, “Oh, Simon,” he was lost. Completely. He cried out her name—or some mumbled version of it—as he reached his own climax, burying himself as deep inside of her as he could while holding her as tightly as he could.

  He had meant to claim her as his own, and she had claimed him, too.

  Chapter 43

  The following morning

  If one wanted sweet reassurances from a friend, Annabelle was their girl. If one wanted humorous conversation, Sophie was the one. But when a friend was needed to embark on dangerous adventures, Eliza was just the person to turn to.

  “What is the plan for today?” she asked with a devilish grin as they climbed into a hired hackney.

  “We are going to St. Bride’s to visit the Man About Town during his calling hours,” Julianna said with a hint of excitement in her voice. She had never gone before because, given her previous work, she did not want to risk providing any information to her rival that might expose her. Now, she had nothing to lose.

  Now, she had something to protect. Almost everything had changed late last night, and it wasn’t the intruder that she was thinking of. She ought not to think of that rapturous lovemaking with Simon, lest she begin to blush. Nothing escaped Eliza and Julianna wanted to keep this budding romance with her husband to herself. For now.

  “And then what are we going to do?” Eliza asked. “Murder? Feed him false information? Follow him?”

  “One of the above. Mainly, I’d love to see his face,” Julianna said. Having seen the face of the intruder last night, she wanted to investigate her hunch that it was the Man About Town. She explained the incident of the previous evening to a very rapt audience of one. After expressing her shock and horror, Eliza said, “Good luck with getting a glimpse of his face. He might not have gone himself, you know. He could have sent some minion. Although, I would never leave such important work to just anybody.”

  “That is what I am counting on. But really, there is just no way of knowing. And we might not discover anything today. But I must do something,” Julianna said. Specifically, she needed to do something out of the house. Memories of last night flooded her with loving, lusty feelings. But then . . .

  “And what does your husband have to say about this?” Eliza asked with a suggestive lift of her brow.

  “He is not aware of it,” Julianna said, vexation creeping into her tone.

  “Ah. I see,” Eliza said crisply.

  “Do you know why he doesn’t know?” Julianna asked, her voice involuntarily rising.

  “No, but I suspect you are about to tell me,” Eliza replied.

  “Oh, indeed I am, Eliza. He doesn’t know because he left shortly after breakfast this morning and has not yet returned,” Julianna said. They had woken up together. They made love again first thing—a luxury she’d never before experienced and ached for again. They finally made their way down to breakfast where they read the newspapers. Then Roxbury said he was going out and that he would return later. In spite of her pleas and promises, he would not reveal his destination.

  “Where did he go?” Eliza asked.

  “I would guess to Gentleman Jack’s, or White’s or someplace I can’t get to him. But that is just a guess. The truth is that I have no idea.” It burned, it stung, and it rankled. Once again, he’d gone off with nary an explanation. And he didn’t need to tell her his whereabouts at any given moment, but it would be considerate. He knew how she felt about secrets being kept from her.

  “Are you merely upset that he’s gone off, or done so in light of the break-in last evening, or is there something else?” Eliza was remarkably astute. Nothing escaped her.

  Julianna did her best to maintain a passive expression, but her blush gave her away.

  “Oh my,” Eliza murmured with a sly smile. “Definitely something else.”

  “We made love . . . or something like it,” Julianna mumbled.

  “Something like it?” Eliza echoed.

  “Well, there’s been no mention of love. But we did . . .”

  “And?” Eliza prompted, clearly delighting in this conversation, probably in part because the typically forthright Julianna Somerset Roxbury was tongue-tied and blushing furiously like an innocent schoolgirl.

  “I know exactly,” Eliza said. “This morning he is having a panic about it because he’s discovered that his feelings are involved.”

  “Is that what it is? Is that why he’s gone?” Julianna’s heart sank. She did not want him to have second thoughts or doubts or to leave. She was on the verge of love—and if he left now, she’d really be ruined forever. But she recalled those kisses and those caresses, and it had to mean something beautiful, lasting, and true.

  “I’d wager on it. Now, hush, we are here.”

  Julianna wasn’t consoled in the slightest, but their mission distracted her, which had been her intention.

  They alighted from the carriage and dashed through a light drizzle for the entrance. Julianna slowed considerably as she passed through the doors. It was her first time here since she’d been married.

  She recalled the cold-minded and iron-hearted determination with which she’d walked down the same aisle and greeted her future. The marriage was only to salvage her reputation; it was only a matter of convenience.

  And now, weeks later, it might be love.

  Julianna ventured down the aisle once more, this time with Eliza by her side. Thoughts of love, Roxbury, lust, and wonder were on her mind. Focus, she told herself. This was why she feared falling in love, because she would forget serious matters in favor of woolgathering about romantic midnight adventures and very wicked, pleasurable things she’d only discovered last night.

  Today, the man she walked toward was the ever-mysterious, ever-annoying Man About Town. It was just like the stories claimed: a man in a voluminous black cloak knelt in prayer by the altar. One by one, a few of the people milling around would take turns and kneel beside him. With their heads bowed together, secrets, lies, and scandal were exchanged.

  “Look,” Eliza whispered, subtly gesturing to some very thuggish-looking men lurking in the shadows and near the altar. It was likely that they were there to protect the Man About Town’s identity. Lord help anyone that tried to yank back that cloak and catch a glimpse of the face underneath.

  There he was, just there—her arch nemesis and sworn enemy. Why had she never come here before? Because she did not want even a chance of being discovered. Because she was too jealous or too busy accumulating her own stockpile of scandalous tidbits that she didn’t have the time to share any—true or false—with her rival.

  “You have to admit that this is a brilliant arrangement,” Eliza said quietly.

  “Yes, grudgingly. He’s been at this for forty years, though,” Julianna replied. She’d had only one year as an acclaimed gossip.

  “Forty years . . .” Eliza remarked, adding a low whistle. “Impressive.”

  When it was her turn, after thirty minutes of loitering about, Julianna proceeded directly to the altar and knelt beside the only man who had vexed her more than Roxbury.

  “I have a confession,” she began because it seemed the thing to say. He didn’t say anything, only nodded that she should continue. She bit her lip in annoyance, for she so wanted to hear his voice. Perhaps she might recognize it . . . perhaps that was exactly why he said nothing.

  “Lady Rawlings and Lady Stewart-Wortly were seen acknowledging Lord and Lady Roxbury in Hyde Park yesterday,” she said softly, attempting to disguise her voice as best she could. “And Lady Feversham has invited the couple to her soiree Thursday next.”

  Lady Feversham had done no such thing, but Sophie had mentioned the party and Julianna thought she’d like to attend. There was only one way to secure an invitation—and that was publicly, via the Man About Town.

  “Really? I find that surprising,” he remarked, to her annoyance. But at least she heard his voice, which was so very English, yet with an indiscernible accent.

  The Man About Town lifted
his head, slightly, to look at her. Julianna, keeping her own face bowed down and covered by a large bonnet and black mesh veil, dared a sideways glance. She saw a clean-shaven chin. But most of all, she noticed very bruised, very swollen hands tug his cloak back into place.

  Her heart started to pound, because those hands belonged to a young man.

  Having seen enough, she stood and walked away briskly with her excitement barely contained.

  All this time she had been searching for an old man! When in fact, he was young. How had she not guessed that it hadn’t been an old man writing gossip for forty years? To be fair, no one considered otherwise. Not in all those years! But that explained how he had kept his identity a secret for so long.

  The Man About Town was a young man, with bruised and swollen hands. Julianna thought of last night—not the part where she made love with her husband for the very first time, but the part where her husband engaged in a rousing, vicious bout of fisticuffs quite nearly to the death on her bedroom floor. Two gentlemen had been brawling.

  Was the intruder the Man About Town?

  Chapter 44

  28 Bruton Street

  “Where have you been?” Roxbury bellowed when she returned home after parting ways with Eliza. He greeted her in the foyer—yet another horrifically decorated room. This one featured black-and-white etoile wall coverings, black-and-white-checked marble floor, glittering chandeliers, and gold-framed paintings of utterly barren landscapes. It was bizarre, frankly.

  “Hello to you, too, darling,” she said breezily. One of these days she would have to hire someone to redecorate this entire house. Perhaps tomorrow.

  And by golly was that bruise on his cheek a rival to hers!

  “Where did you go?” he demanded. “And in a hired hack, nonetheless!”

  “You took the carriage,” she pointed out as she removed her hat and veil and handed them to Pembleton. “How else was I going to get to St. Bride’s?”

  “What the bloody hell do you need to go to St. Bride’s for?” Roxbury asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He was really in quite a huff, and it was adorable. Unless she was mistaken, this probably meant that he cared for her. If he didn’t care about her, he certainly wouldn’t be the slightest bit interested in her whereabouts.