by Jane Feather
“Oh, be damned to you for a Judasly rogue!” Juliana cried. “Base whoreson! Stinking gutter sweeping. If you think you can bend me to your will, then I tell you, you have never been more mistaken in your entire misbegotten existence!”
She leaped across the space separating them, tripped over the hem of her gown, grabbed at a chair to right herself, and turned on him, shaking her hair out of her eyes, her fingers curled into claws, her teeth bared, her eyes spitting hatred.
Tarquin took a hasty step back. Abruptly he lost the desire to laugh. Miss Juliana didn’t take kindly to mockery. “Very well.” He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I ask your pardon for being so flippant. Sit down again, and we’ll begin anew.”
Juliana stopped. A hectic flush mantled her usually creamy cheeks, and her bosom rose and fell in a violent rhythm as she struggled to control herself. “You are the son of a gutter bitch,” she said with low-voiced savagery.
Tarquin raised his eyebrows. Enough was enough. He said nothing until her flush had died and her erratic breathing had slowed; then he asked coolly, “Have you finished roundly abusing me?”
“There’s no abuse I can inflict on you, my lord duke, to equal that which you would inflict upon me,” she said bitterly.
“I have no intention of abusing you. Sit down before the room disintegrates in your cyclone and take a glass of claret.”
The deliberately bored tone was deflating. Juliana sat down and accepted the glass of wine he brought her. The outburst had drained her, leaving her hovering on the brink of hopelessness. “Why won’t you find someone else?” she asked wearily.
Tarquin sat down opposite her. “Because, my dear, you are a perfect choice.” He began to tick off on his fingers. “You have the necessary breeding to appear as Lucien’s wife without causing raised eyebrows. And you have both the breeding and certain qualities that I believe will make you a good mother to my child. And, finally, you need what I am offering in exchange. Safety, a good position, financial security. And most of all, Juliana, independence.”
“Independence?” She raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “And how does that square with being a brood mare?”
Tarquin stood up and went to refill his glass. The girl was not a simpleton, but he was beginning to wonder whether, unusual or no, she was worth the time and the trouble he was expending. There were other women, as she so rightly pointed out. Women who’d jump at what he was offering. He turned back and examined her in silence, reflectively sipping his claret.
She was sitting back again, her eyes closed, her hair living fire around her pale face. The deep cleft between her breasts drew his eye. There was something intriguing as well as unusual about her. Her defiant resistance was such a novel challenge, he found it irresistible. He wanted to know what made her so unexpected, so out of the common way. What soil had she grown in? Maybe he was being a fool, but his blood sang with the conviction that Miss Juliana was definitely worth the time and the trouble to persuade.
He put his glass down and came over to her. Bending, he took her hands and drew her to her feet. “Let me show you something.”
Juliana opened her mouth in protest and then gasped as his mouth closed over hers. His hands were in her hair, holding her head steady, and his lips were firm and pliant on hers. His tongue ran over her mouth, darting into the corners in a warm, playful caress that for a moment took her breath away. She was enclosed in a red darkness, all her senses focused on her mouth, on the taste and feel of his. Her lips parted at the delicate pressure, and his tongue slid inside, moving sinuously, exploring her mouth, filling her mouth with sweetness, sending hot surges of confused longing from her head to her toes.
Slowly he drew back and smiled down into her startled face, his fingers still curled in her hair. “That was what I wanted to show you.”
“You … you ravished me!”
Tarquin threw his head back and laughed. “Not so, mignonne. I made you a promise.” He moved one hand to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her reddened mouth.
Juliana stared up at him, and he read the confusion, the dismay, and the excitement in her eyes.
“I promised you that what happens between us will bring you only pleasure. Nothing will happen to you, Juliana, that you don’t wholeheartedly agree to.”
“Then let me go,” she begged, recognizing with quiet desperation that if she was compelled to remain, then Tarquin, Duke of Redmayne, would defeat her. She had yielded to his kiss. She hadn’t fought him. Sweet heaven, she’d opened her mouth for his tongue without a moment’s hesitation.
“No, you must remain in this house—that I insist upon.”
Slowly Juliana crossed the room and picked up her discarded shoes. Sitting down, she slipped her feet into them. She knew he would see it as a symbolic gesture of acceptance, but at the moment she was too dispirited for further fighting.
She rose as slowly and walked to the door. “I beg leave to bid you good night, my lord duke.” She curtsied formally, her voice low and expressionless.
“You have leave,” he responded with a smile. “We will begin anew tomorrow.”
Chapter 6
You want me to take a wife!” Lucien threw back his head on a shout of derisive laughter that disintegrated into a violent fit of coughing. Tarquin waited impassively as his cousin fought for sobbing breaths, his chest rattling, a sheen of perspiration gathering on his pale, sallow complexion.
“By God, Tarquin, I do believe you’ve finally lost your wits!” Lucien managed at last, falling back into his chair. He was clearly exhausted, but he still grinned, a gleam of malevolent interest in the dark, burning sockets of his eyes.
“I doubt that,” the duke said calmly. He filled a glass with cognac and handed it to his cousin.
Lucien drained it in one gulp and sighed. “That’s better. Eases the tightness.” He patted his chest and extended his glass. “Another, dear fellow, if you please.”
Tarquin glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was ten in the morning. Then he shrugged and refilled the viscount’s glass. “Are you able to listen to me now?”
“Oh, by all means … by all means,” Lucien assured him, still grinning. “Why else would I obey your summons so promptly? Amuse me, dear boy. I’m in sore need of entertainment.”
Tarquin sat down and regarded his cousin in silence for a minute. His expression was dispassionate, showing no sign of the deep disgust he felt for this wreck of a young man who had willfully cast away every advantage of birth, breeding, and fortune, pursuing a course of self-destruction and depravity that considered no indulgence or activity too vile.
Sometimes Tarquin wondered why Lucien had turned out as he had. Sometimes he wondered if he, as the boy’s guardian, bore any responsibility. He’d tried to be an elder brother to Lucien, to provide an understanding and steadying influence in his life, but Lucien had always evaded him in some way. He’d always been dislikable, defeating even Quentin’s determination to see the good in him.
“Your passion for little boys has become something of a family liability,” he observed, withdrawing a Sevres snuffbox from his pocket. “That rather nasty business with the Dalton boy seems to have become common knowledge.”
Lucien had ceased to look amused. His expression was sullen and wary. “It was all hushed up quite satisfactorily.”
Tarquin shook his head. “Apparently not.” He took a pinch of snuff and replaced the box before continuing. “If you wish to continue with your present lifestyle in London, you need to protect yourself from further whispers. A charge against you would inevitably mean your exile … unless, of course, you were prepared to hang for your preferences.”
Lucien glowered. “You’re making mountains out of molehills, cousin.”
“Am I?” The duke raised an eyebrow. “Read this.” He drew a broadsheet out of his waistcoat pocket and tossed it across. “That story on the front has been providing entertaining gossip in every coffeehouse in town. Remarkable likeness, I think. The artist h
as a fine eye for caricature.”
Lucien read the story, his scowl deepening. The artist’s caricature of himself was as lewd and suggestive as the scurrilous description of an incident in the Lady Chapel involving a nobleman and an altar boy at St. Paul’s Cathedral.
“Who wrote this?” He hurled the sheet to the floor. “I’ll have his ears pinned to the pillory.”
“Certainly. If you want everyone to know who you are,” the duke observed, bending to pick up the sheet. He shook his head, marveling, “It really is a remarkably good likeness. A stroke of genius.”
Lucien tore savagely at his thumbnail with his teeth. “A plague on him! Just let me find out who he is, and I’ll run him through.”
“Not, I trust, in the back,” Tarquin said, his voice mild but his eyes snapping contempt.
Lucien flushed a dark, mottled crimson. “That never happened.”
“Of course not,” Tarquin said in silken tones. “Never let it be said that an Edgecombe would put his sword into a man’s back.”
Lucien sprang to his feet. “Accuse me of that again, Redmayne, and I’ll meet you at Barnes Common.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Tarquin responded, his lip curling. “I’ve no intention of committing murder.”
“You think you could—”
“Yes!” the duke interrupted, his voice now sharp and penetrating. “Yes, I would kill you, Lucien, with swords or pistols, and you know it. Now, stop sparring with me and sit down.”
Lucien flung himself into the chair again and spat a piece of thumbnail onto the carpet.
“I lost interest long ago in trying to persuade you to choose another way of life,” Tarquin said. “You are a vicious reprobate and a pederast, but I’ll not have you bringing public dishonor on the family name. Which is what will happen if the parent of some other altar boy decides to bring charges against you. Take a wife and be discreet. The rumors and the scandals will die immediately.” He tapped the broadsheet with a finger.
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not foolin’ me, Redmayne. You wouldn’t give a damn if they hanged me, except for the blot on the family escutcheon.” He smiled, looking very pleased with himself as if he’d just successfully performed a complex intellectual exercise.
“So?” Tarquin raised an eyebrow.
“So … why should I do what you want, cousin?”
“Because I’ll make it worth your while.”
A crafty gleam appeared now in Lucien’s pale-brown eyes. “Oh, really? Do go on, dear boy.”
“I’ll take your creditors off your back,” the duke said. “And I’ll keep you in funds. In exchange you will marry a woman of my choosing, and you will both reside under this roof. That shouldn’t trouble you, since Edgecombe House is in such disrepair at the present, and it will relieve you of the burden of maintaining a household.”
“A woman of your choosing!” Lucien stared at him. “Why can’t I choose my own?”
“Because no one remotely suitable would take you.”
Lucien scowled again. “And just whom do you have in mind? Some ancient antidote, I suppose. A spinster who’ll take anything.”
“You flatter yourself,” the duke said dryly. “No woman, however desperate, would willingly agree to be shackled to you, Edgecombe. The woman I have in mind will do my bidding. It is as simple as that. You don’t need to concern yourself about her. You will have separate quarters and you will leave her strictly alone in private. In public, of course, you will be seen to have a young wife of good breeding. It should provide you with a satisfactory public facade.”
Lucien stared at him. “Do your bidding! Gad, Tarquin, what kind of devil are you? What hold do you have over this woman to compel her in such a matter?”
“That’s no concern of yours.”
Lucien stood up and went to refill his glass at the sideboard. He tossed the contents down his throat and refilled the glass. “All my expenses … all my debts … ?” he queried.
“All of them.”
“And you’ll not be prating at me every minute?”
“I have no interest in your affairs.”
“Well, well.” He sipped his brandy. “I never thought to see the day the Duke of Redmayne begged me for a favor.”
Tarquin’s expression didn’t alter.
“I have very expensive habits,” Lucien mused. He glanced slyly at the duke, who again showed no reaction. “I’ve been known to drop ten thousand guineas at faro in an evening.” Again no reaction. “Of course, you’re rich as Croesus, we all know that. I daresay you can afford to support me. I wouldn’t like to bankrupt you, cousin.” He grinned.
“You won’t.”
“And this woman … ? When do I see her?”
“At the altar.”
“Oh, that’s going too far, Tarquin! You expect me to trot along to church like the veritable lamb to the slaughter without so much as a peek at the woman?”
“Yes.”
“And what does she say about it? Doesn’t she want to see her bridegroom?”
“It doesn’t matter what she wants.”
Lucien took a turn around the room. He hated it when his cousin offered him only these flat responses. It made him feel like a schoolboy. But then again … the thought of Tarquin’s funding Lucien’s lifestyle despite his unconcealed contempt and loathing brought a smile to the viscount’s lips. Tarquin would squirm at every bank draft he signed, but he wouldn’t go back on his word. And he had set no limits on Lucien’s expenditure.
And to live here, in the lap of well-ordered luxury. His own house barely ran at all. He could rarely keep servants beyond a month. Something always happened to send them racing for the door without even asking for a character. But here he could indulge himself to his heart’s content, live as wild and reckless as he pleased, all at his cousin’s expense.
It was a delicious thought. In exchange he simply had to go through the motions of a marriage ceremony to some unknown woman. He’d never have to have anything to do with her. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
“Very well, dear boy, I daresay I could oblige you in this.”
“You overwhelm me, Edgecombe.” Tarquin rose to his feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”
“Go to it, dear fellow, go to it. I’ll just sip a little more of this excellent cognac.” He rubbed his hands. “You have such a magnificent cellar, I can hardly wait to sample it…. Oh, Quentin, my dear …” He turned at the opening of the door and greeted his cousin with a flourishing bow. “Guess what. I’m to take a wife … settle down and become respectable. What d’you think of that, eh?”
Quentin shot his half brother a look more in sorrow than in anger. “So you are proceeding with this, Tarquin.”
I am.
“And my wife and I will be taking up residence under Tarquin’s roof,” Lucien continued. “More suitable for the young lady … more comfortable. So you’ll be seeing a lot of us, my dear Quentin.”
Quentin sighed heavily. “How delightful.”
“How un-Christian of you to sound so doubtful,” scolded Lucien, upending the decanter into his glass. “Seems to be empty.” He pulled the bell rope.
“Good day, Lucien.” Abruptly Tarquin strode to the door. “Quentin, did you wish to see me?”
“No,” his brother said. “It would only be a waste of breath.”
“My poor brother!” Tarquin smiled and patted his shoulder. “Don’t despair of me. This is not going to turn out as badly as you think.”
“I wish I could believe that.” Quentin turned to follow Tarquin from the library. Lucien’s chuckle rang unpleasantly in his ears.
“Last Friday, you say?” Joshua Bute pulled his left ear, regarding his customer with a benign attention that belied his shrewd, cunning calculations.
“Friday or possibly Saturday,” George Ridge said, raising his tankard to his lips and taking a deep, thirsty gulp of ale. “Off the Winchester coach.”
“A yo
ung lady … unattended?” Joshua pulled harder at his ear. “Can’t say I did see such a one, guv. A’course, the York stage comes in at the same time. Quite a bustle it is ’ereabouts.”
George leaned heavily on the stained counter of the taproom. Gold glinted between his thick fingers as he spun a guinea onto the countertop. “Maybe this might refresh your memory.”
Joshua regarded the guinea thoughtfully. “Well, per’aps ye could describe the young person agin?”
“Red hair, green eyes,” George repeated impatiently. “You couldn’t mistake her hair. Like a forest fire, all flaming around her face. Pale face … very pale … deep-green eyes … tall for a woman.”
“Ah.” Joshua nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll jest go an’ ask in the kitchen. Mebbe one of the lads saw such a one in the yard, alightin’ from the coach.”
He trundled off into the kitchen, and George cursed under his breath. The Rose and Crown in Winchester had been no help. They couldn’t remember who was on the waybill for either Friday or Saturday. The scullery maid thought she remembered a lad boarding on the Friday, but the information had been elicited after the outlay of several sixpences, and George couldn’t be sure whether it was a true recollection. Anyway, a lad didn’t fit the description of the voluptuous Juliana.
He loosened the top button of his waistcoat and fanned his face with his hand. A bluebottle buzzed over a round of runny Stilton on the counter. His only other companion was an elderly man in the inglenook, smoking a churchwarden pipe, alternately spitting into the sawdust at his feet and blowing foam off the top of his ale.
The sounds of the city came in through the open door, together with the smells. George was no stranger to the farmyard, but the rank odor of decaying offal and excrement in the midday sun was enough to put a man off his dinner. A wagon rattled by on its iron wheels, and a barrow boy bellowed his wares. A woman screamed. There was the ugly sound of a violent blow on soft flesh. A dog barked shrilly. A child wailed.