The wave of shock was almost tangible as it rippled around the table…

On the silver tray in the middle of the table Lady Juliana reposed in all her nude and provocative glory. Slivers of grape, strawberry and melon were strewn strategically around her nakedness. Her whole body was dusted with icing sugar and shone in the pale candlelight like a statue carved from ice, an untouchable snow maiden. But there was nothing maidenly about the expression in her narrowed green eyes as she invited the men to eat….

Lady Juliana turned her head and her gaze fell on a gentleman, his face unreadable in the shadowed room. Juliana felt a curious sense of recognition. She smiled at him. “Come along, darling. Don’t be shy.”

The gentleman looked up, his green-blue eyes appraising her with complete indifference. “I thank you, ma’am, but I have never liked dessert.”

Wayward Widow

Harlequin Historical

Praise for Nicola Cornick’s latest books

The Notorious Marriage

“This is a delightful Regency romp of manners, mores and misunderstandings. Cornick’s characters come to life in this well-written story.”

—Romantic Times

Lady Allerton’s Wager

“A charming, enjoyable read.”

—Romantic Times

“Ms. Cornick has managed to pack a whole lot of mystery and humor in this highly romantic and fast-paced story and is nothing short of a pure delight to read.”

—Writers Unlimited

“The Rake’s Bride” in The Love Match

“Through vivid detail, the author firmly establishes time and place for her rollicking tug-of-war.”

—Publishers Weekly

The Virtuous Cyprian

“This delightful tale of a masquerade gone awry will delight ardent Regency readers.”

—Romantic Times

Nicola Cornick
WAYWARDWIDOW

Available from Harlequin Historicals and NICOLA CORNICK

The Virtuous Cyprian #566

Lady Polly #574

The Love Match #599

“The Rake’s Bride”

Miss Verey’s Proposal #604

The Blanchland Secret #630

Lady Allerton’s Wager #651

The Notorious Marriage #659

The Earl’s Prize #684

The Chaperon Bride #692

Wayward Widow #700

To the girls.

Thank you.

This one is for you.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Prologue

1802

Lady Juliana Tallant had no memory of her mother. She had been only four years old when the Marchioness had run off with a lover and the Marquis of Tallant had banished his errant wife’s portrait from the blue saloon. These days it lay swathed in sheets in the attic, gathering a layer of dust and dead spiders. The Marchioness’s warmth and vitality, captured so accurately by the young artist who had been another of her lovers, was quenched by the shadows.

When matters in the house were particularly grim, Juliana would creep up to the attic and pull back the sheet that covered her mother’s disgrace, and stand for hours staring at that pretty, painted face. There was an old spotted mirror in the corner of the attic and she would pose before it in her too-small gowns, her slippered feet stirring the dust as she tried to trace the resemblance between her own features and those on the canvas. The eyes were the same, emerald green with specks of gold, and the small nose and the generous mouth, too wide for true beauty. The shape of Juliana’s face was different and she had what she thought of as the Tallant auburn hair, although she had heard her father say that she was none of his begetting and so it was hard to see how she could have inherited his hair.

‘It is difficult for the girl to be without her mother,’ Juliana had once heard her aunt Beatrix say to the Marquis, but Bevil Tallant had given his sister a look that said she was a simpleton and told her that the child had the servants and a governess, and what more could she want?

On that particular summer’s afternoon, Juliana had grown bored with the French lessons that Miss Bertie had been trying to drum into her and had begged and begged to be released into the sunshine. In the end the beleaguered governess had agreed and Juliana had skipped downstairs, ignoring Miss Bertie’s instructions to take a parasol and behave with decorum. Young ladies always wore bonnets; young ladies did not run through the wildflower meadow, young ladies never spoke to a gentleman without first being introduced…Even at fourteen, Juliana knew that being a young lady could be a tiresome business. Even at fourteen, she was a rebel.

The door of the blue saloon was ajar and she could hear her father’s voice above the clink of the teacups. Aunt Beatrix was making one of her infrequent visits to Ashby Tallant.

‘I found Marianne living in Rome with Count Calzioni,’ Juliana heard her spinster aunt say, in answer to a question from the Marquis. ‘She asked after the children, Bevil.’

The Marquis grunted.

‘I do believe that she would like to return to England to see them, but it is impossible, of course.’

The Marquis grunted again. There was a pause.

‘I hear that Joss does very well at Oxford,’ Beatrix said brightly. ‘I am surprised that you do not send Juliana away to school as well. I am sure that she would blossom this time. You know she is eager to please you.’

‘I’d be glad to send her away but it is all a waste of damned time,’ the Marquis said. ‘Did as you suggested last time and look what happened, Trix! The girl’s wild to a fault, just like her mother.’

Beatrix tutted. ‘I do not believe that one can condemn Juliana so harshly, Bevil. The incident at the school was unfortunate—’

‘Unfortunate? Reading French pornography? Outrageous, more like. I ask you, Beatrix—’

‘It was scarcely pornography,’ Beatrix said calmly. ‘Some naughty cartoons smuggled in by one of the other girls…Besides, if Juliana wished to read that sort of book, she need look no further than your own library, Bevil!’

The Marquis grunted a third time in a very bad-tempered way. Juliana checked that there were no servants lurking, then leaned more closely towards the half-open door so that she could hear more clearly.

‘There is always marriage,’ Beatrix was saying thoughtfully. ‘She is a trifle young yet, but in a couple of years…’

‘As soon as she is seventeen,’ the Marquis said crossly. ‘Married off and an end to it.’

‘Let us hope so,’ Beatrix said drily. ‘It was not an end for Marianne, was it, Bevil?’

‘Marianne was a wanton,’ Bevil Tallant said coldly of his estranged wife. ‘She lost count of her own lovers. Aye, and the child is cut from the same cloth, Trix. You mark my words. She will come to a bad end.’

The voices continued, but Juliana turned away and traipsed across the black-and-white marbled entrance hall and down the wide stone steps at the front of Ashby Tallant House. The heat struck her as soon as she was out of the shadow of the portico, bouncing up from the white stones and burning her face. She had forgotten her bonnet. And her parasol. There would be more freckles tomorrow.

She walked across the drive, taking the path that ran between the lime trees and away across the meadow towards the river. Her footsteps were slow and her thoughts dragged as well. She did not understand why her father always wanted to send her away. Every day he would endure a painful quarter-hour with her when she told him what she had learned at lessons that day, but with a child’s instinct she knew that he was not really interested. When the clock chimed he would send her away without a backward look. On a larger scale, he had been pleased to pack her off to school at Miss Evering’s Seminary and was awesomely angry when she had made her unscheduled return. Now it seemed that if she wanted to please him, she would have to marry as soon as possible. Juliana thought that she could probably do that. She knew that she was pretty. All the same, a little voice told her that she might do that and more, and her father would never be pleased with her. He would never love her.

Juliana took the path through the reed bed that bordered the river. Here the water flowed sluggishly in a series of bends as it approached the village of Ashby Tallant, and there was a big pool by the willow trees where the ducks preened and the fish sunbathed in the shallows. Juliana pushed the willow curtain aside and slipped into the golden darkness.

Somebody was already there. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Juliana saw a boy scramble hastily to his feet, rubbing the palms of his hands on his breeches. He was tall and gangling, with straw-coloured hair and a face pitted with the cruel spots of adolescence. Juliana stopped dead and stared at him. He looked like a farmer’s son, or perhaps a blacksmith’s boy. For all that he was the taller of the two, she still looked down her nose at him.

‘Who are you?’ She spoke with the cut-glass condescension she had heard in Beatrix’s voice when she addressed the servants, and she expected it to have the same effect.

However, the boy—or perhaps he could more accurately be described as a young man since he must be at least fifteen years old—merely grinned at her tone. Juliana noticed that he had very white, even teeth. He sketched a clumsy bow that looked incongruous with his grass-stained shirt and ancient breeches.

‘Martin Davencourt, at your service, ma’am. And you are—?’

‘Lady Juliana Tallant of Ashby Tallant,’ Juliana said.

The boy smiled again. He had a most engaging smile. It made two deep creases appear in his cheeks. It drew attention away from the disfiguring spots and made Juliana think of the brightness of sunlight on water.

‘The lady of the manor herself!’ he said. He gestured to a jumble of stones, the remnants of an old mill, which were scattered in the long grass. ‘Will you take a seat with me, my lady?’

It was only when Juliana looked down at the grass that she saw the book lying there, its pages riffled by the slight breeze. There were diagrams and pictures, and beside it lay some paper and a pencil, where Martin Davencourt had evidently made sketches of his own. Bits of wood, string and nails were scattered in the long grass between the stones.

Juliana stared. She had evidently been embarrassingly wide of the mark when assessing his social status and now she felt at a disadvantage.

‘You are not from the village!’ she said accusingly.

Martin Davencourt’s eyes widened. They were beautiful eyes, Juliana thought, greeny-blue, with thick dark lashes.

‘Did I say that I was? I am staying at Ashby Hall. Sir Henry Lees is my godfather.’

Juliana came forward slowly. ‘Why are you not at school?’

Martin smiled apologetically. ‘I have been ill, I am afraid. I go back at the end of the summer.’

‘To Eton?’

‘Harrow.’

Juliana sat down in the grass and picked up one of the oddly shaped pieces of wood, turning it over in her fingers.

‘I am trying to build a fortification,’ Martin said, ‘but I cannot get the angle of the wall quite correct. Mathematics is not my strong point—’

Juliana yawned. ‘Lud, mathematics! My brother Joss was the same as you, always playing with his toy soldiers or building battlements. It quite bores me to death!’

Martin squatted beside her. ‘What sort of games do you enjoy then, Lady Juliana?’

‘I am too old to play games,’ Juliana said scornfully. ‘I am fourteen years of age. I shall be going to Town in a few years to catch myself a husband.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Martin said, his eyes twinkling. ‘All the same, it seems melancholy not to play any games. How do you spend your time?’

‘Oh, in dancing and playing the piano, and needlework and…’ Juliana’s voice faded. It sounded quite paltry when she listed it like that. ‘There is only me, you see,’ she added quietly, ‘so I must amuse myself.’

‘In playing truant by the river when the sun is shining?’

Juliana smiled. ‘Sometimes.’

She stayed for the rest of the afternoon, sitting in the grass whilst Martin struggled to fit together the pieces of wood to form a drawbridge, with frequent recourse to the book and a certain amount of mild swearing under his breath. When the sun dipped behind the trees she bade him farewell, but Martin barely looked up from his calculations and Juliana smiled as she walked home, imagining him sitting in the willow tent until darkness fell and he missed his supper.

To her surprise, he was there the next afternoon, and the next. They met on most fine afternoons throughout the following fortnight. Martin would have some peculiar military model that he was working on, or he would bring a book to read—philosophy or poetry or literature. Juliana would prattle and he would answer in monosyllables, barely raising his head from the pages. Sometimes she chided him for his lack of attention to her, but mainly they were both content. Juliana chattered and Martin studied quietly, and it suited them both.

It was on a late August afternoon, with the first hint of autumn in the air, that Juliana threw herself down in the grass and moodily complained that it was foolish for her to go up to London to catch a husband, for no one would ever want to marry her, never ever. She was ugly and unaccomplished and all her gowns were too short for her. No matter that it was another two years before she would be able to visit the capital. Matters would get worse rather than better.

Martin, who was idly sketching two ducks that were flirting in the shallow pool, agreed solemnly that her dresses would be much shorter in two years’ time if she carried on growing. Juliana threw one of his books at him. He fielded it deftly and put it aside, picking up his pencil again.

‘Martin…’ Juliana said.

‘Hmm?’

‘Do you think me pretty?’

‘Yes.’ Martin did not look up. A lock of fair hair fell across his forehead. His brows were dark and strongly marked, and they were drawn together a little in concentration.

‘But I have freckles.’

‘You do. They are pretty, too.’

‘Papa says that I will never get a husband because I am a hoyden.’ Juliana plucked at the blades of grass, head bent. ‘Papa says that I am wild just like my mama and that I will come to a bad end. I do not remember my mama,’ she added a little sadly, ‘but I am sure she cannot be as bad as everyone says.’

The pencil stilled in Martin’s hand. Looking up, Juliana saw a flash of what looked like anger on his face.

‘Your papa should not say such things to you,’ he said gruffly. ‘Was he the one who told you that you are ugly and unaccomplished?’

‘I expect that he is right,’ Juliana said.

Martin said something very rude and to the point that fortunately Juliana did not understand. There was a silence, whilst they looked at each other for a long moment, then Martin said, ‘If you are still in want of a husband when you are thirty years of age I shall be glad to marry you myself.’ His voice was husky and there was shyness in his eyes.

Juliana stared, then she burst out laughing. ‘You? Oh, Martin!’

Martin turned away and picked up his book of philosophy. Juliana watched as a wave of colour started up his neck and engulfed his face to the roots of his hair. He did not look at her again, concentrating fiercely on the book.

‘Thirty is a very great age,’ Juliana said, calming down. ‘I dare say that I shall have been married for years and years by then.’

‘Very likely,’ Martin said, still without looking up.

A slightly awkward silence fell. Juliana fidgeted with the hem of her dress and looked at Martin from under her lashes. He seemed engrossed in his book, even though she could swear that he had read the same page time and time again.

‘It was a very handsome offer,’ she said, putting a tentative hand out to touch the back of his. His skin felt warm and smooth beneath her fingers. Still he did not look at her, but he did not shake her off either.

‘If I am unmarried at thirty I would be happy to accept your offer,’ Juliana added, in a small voice. ‘Thank you, Martin.’

Martin looked up at last. His eyes were smiling and his fingers closed around hers tightly. Juliana felt a strange warmth in her heart as she looked at him.

‘You are very welcome, Juliana,’ he said.

They sat for a little while holding hands until Juliana started to feel chilled with the breeze off the water and said that she must go home. The next day it rained, and the next. After that, Martin was no longer to be found in the pavilion beneath the willow trees. When Juliana asked, the servants said that Sir Henry Lees’s godson had gone home.

It was almost sixteen years until Juliana Tallant and Martin Davencourt met one another again and, by then, Juliana was well on the way to the fate that her father had predicted for her.

Chapter One

1818

Mrs Emma Wren was commonly held to host the most dashing and daring parties in the ton and invitations were eagerly sought by that raffish group of fast matrons and bachelor rakes whose exploits were loudly denounced by the more staid elements of society.

On a hot night in June, Mrs Wren was holding a very special and select supper party to celebrate the forthcoming nuptials of one of her circle, that shocking womaniser Lord Andrew Brookes. The menu for this event had been hotly debated between Mrs Wren and her cook, who had almost resigned on the spot when appraised of the plans for the dessert. Eventually a compromise was reached when a French chef was hired especially for the occasion and the cook retired to his corner of the kitchen, muttering that no doubt Carème, the Prince Regent’s chef, would have been the best choice, being far more accustomed to this sort of immorality than he was.

The hour was late and the dining-room air was thick with candle smoke and wine fumes when the dessert was brought in. The guests, predominantly gentlemen, were lounging back in their chairs, well fed, pleasantly inebriated and entertained by the ladies of the demi-monde whom Mrs Wren had daringly placed amongst her acquaintance. One of these Cyprians was perched on the bridegroom’s knee, feeding him grapes from the silver dish in the centre of the table and whispering provocatively in his ear. His hand was already inside her bodice, fondling her absent-mindedly as his face flushed a deeper puce from drink and lust.

As the double doors were thrown open and the footmen staggered in, Mrs Wren clapped her hands for silence.

‘Ladies and gentlemen…’ her voice dipped provocatively ‘…pray welcome your dessert, a most special creation to mark this sad occasion…’

There were murmurs and laughter.

‘I am sure that Andrew will not be lost to us,’ Mrs Wren continued sweetly, glancing meaningfully at Brookes, who had an overflowing brandy glass in one hand and the lightskirt in the other. ‘It takes more than marriage to come between a man and his friends…Andrew, this is our gift to you.’

There was a smattering of applause. Mrs Wren drew back and gestured to the footmen to place their huge tray in the centre of the table. They stood back and the liveried butler whipped off the silver lid.

There was a silence. The wave of shock was almost tangible as it rippled around the table. Several of the rakes sat up straighter in their chairs, their mouths hanging open in amazement. Brookes went quite still, the girl sliding unnoticed from his knee.

On the silver tray in the middle of the table Lady Juliana Myfleet reposed in all her nude and provocative glory. Her auburn hair was fastened up in a dazzling diamond tiara. There was a jewelled garter about her right thigh and a thin silver chain about her neck. There was a grape in her navel, curlicues of cream placed strategically about her body, and slivers of grape, strawberry and melon strewn artfully across her nakedness. Her whole body was dusted with icing sugar and shone in the pale candlelight like a statue carved from ice, an untouchable snow maiden. But there was nothing remotely maidenly about the expression in her narrowed green eyes. She held out a silver spoon to Brookes with a little catlike smile.

‘You have first dip, darling…’

Brookes obliged with alacrity, scooping up some fruit and cream with such enthusiasm that his hand shook and he almost spilled it on the floor. The other men pressed close with catcalls and cheers.

Sir Jasper Colling, one of Lady Juliana’s most persistent admirers, pushed to the front. ‘I want to get my spoon into that pudding—’

He was pushed back again by Brookes. ‘You’ll have to wait your turn, old chap. This is my party and my pudding. Damned if I won’t be licking it up in a minute.’

The demi-mondaine looked extremely put out to be upstaged.

Lady Juliana turned her head lazily and her gaze fell on a gentleman she had not seen before at Emma’s soirées. He was tall and fair, and though he was of a slim build he had broad shoulders and a durable air. With his strong, bronzed face and the ruthless line to his jaw, he looked as though he would be a useful ally in any altercation. He was sitting back in his chair as though scorning the eager blades who circled the table, and his gaze was dark and unreadable in the shadowed room.

Juliana felt a curious sense of recognition. She smiled at him, her come-hither smile. ‘Come along, darling. Don’t be shy.’

The gentleman looked up. His eyes were a very dark greeny-blue and they appraised her with complete indifference. ‘I thank you, ma’am, but I have never liked dessert.’

Juliana was not accustomed to being rejected. She gave him back level stare for level stare. He looked close to her own age of twenty-nine, or perhaps a little older. There was a certain world-weary look in his eyes, as though he had seen all this and more many times before. A faint, cynical smile curved his lips as he held Juliana’s gaze.

A strange wave of feeling swept over Juliana. Just for a second she felt very young and very confused, as though the whole tawdry tableau was some dreadful mistake that she had stumbled into by accident. The predatory smiles, the grasping hands…For a moment she almost slid off the salver and ran, shaken by the cool challenge in the man’s eyes. Her smile faltered, yet she could not tear her gaze away from him.

Then he turned away to gesture to a footman to fill his wineglass and the strange feeling passed. Juliana turned one shimmering shoulder and bent a smile on the youngest and most excited of the gentleman there.

‘Simon, my pet, why do you not lick the cream off…just there…?’

Juliana arched her body briefly to the scavenging hands, then stood up, scattering the fruit on the tiled floor, and beckoned to a maid to pass her her wrap. There were groans of disappointment from the men, but already the more enterprising of the Cyprians and the more daring of the ladies were moving in to take up where Juliana had left off, spooning the fruit and cream from the salver and feeding the gentlemen. Juliana, casting a quick look over her shoulder, saw that the evening was already set fair to descend into one of Emma’s famous orgies.

A footman, scarlet to the ears, held the dining room door open for Juliana to exit. She swept through in her bare feet, spilling the last remaining bits of food across the polished tiles of the marble entrance hall. The cream was sticking to her wrap and the icing sugar was starting to itch. She hoped that Emma had remembered to tell the maid to draw a bath for her.

The dining-room door closed behind her and Juliana could hear the roar of conversation swell to a new, excited level as everyone started to pick over her latest, outrageous exploit. A little smile curved her lips. That would give them something to talk about in the clubs! No matter how tasteful the wedding on the morrow, Brookes’s marriage would be remembered for the disgraceful exploits the night before. Once again, society matrons would exclaim over the shocking behaviour of Lady Juliana Myfleet, the Marquis of Tallant’s daughter, who had once been one of their own and had fallen from grace so spectacularly.

‘This way, my lady.’ The maid was gesturing her towards the curved staircase. She was very young and she looked plain. Juliana reflected that Emma always chose plain maids, being unable to stand any competition. The girl ushered Juliana through a doorway on the landing and into the room that Juliana had used earlier when she changed out of her clothes. Another door led into a smaller room, where another maid was pouring steaming water into the bathtub. She looked up as Juliana came in and her perspiring face flushed a deeper red. She emptied her jug of water, dropped Juliana a flustered curtsy and fled, as though just being in the same room as the ton’s most wicked widow might put her in danger.

Juliana turned her bewitching smile on the first girl, slipped off her wrap, bent to remove the garter from her leg and stepped into the water.

‘Thank you. You may leave me now.’

The maid gave her a tight-lipped smile in return and took the soiled robe in her hand. She too dropped a curtsy, disapproving and not over-awed, and left the room. Juliana laughed.

The icing sugar was turning sticky in the water and Juliana reached for the long, wooden-handled brush to give her skin a good scrub. She preferred to do it for herself. The thought of some ham-fisted maid attacking her tender flesh made her wince. The remains of the cream were floating on the top of the water like some unpleasant scum and there was a sliver of apple swirling around in the brew. Juliana grimaced. The after-effects of her outrageous behaviour were proving a deal less pleasant than the trick itself. At this rate she would require a second bath to wash away the residue of the first.

She lay back and closed her eyes, recapturing the moment when the footmen had whipped the lid off the silver salver and exposed her in all her glory. To cause such an uproar had been such fun. The women had looked furious and the men had looked like little boys in a sweetshop. Juliana smiled with satisfaction. It was so very pleasant to be able to arouse such emotions. Admiration, desire…and contempt.

She sat up abruptly, remembering the expression on the face of the fair-haired stranger.

‘I thank you, ma’am, but I have never liked dessert.’

Infernal impudence! How dared he be so disdainful? It had only been a joke. And what was such a puritan doing at one of Emma’s debauched suppers anyway? Perhaps he had been looking for a church meeting and had taken the wrong turning.

For a moment Juliana remembered the look in the man’s blue eyes and felt disturbed all over again. She had been so certain that she knew him, with a bone deep recognition that she had never felt before. Yet it seemed that she was wrong.

She stood up, slopping water over the side of the bath on to the floor, and reached for the towel. The diamond tiara snagged on the material as she drew it about her shoulders and with a quick impatient movement Juliana pulled it from her hair and cast it on the dressing table. Suddenly she was anxious to be gone. She padded across the bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the carpet. Her clothes were all laid out on the bed. She need only ring the bell to summon the disapproving little maid to help her dress, but she did not want to wait. She had left Hattie, her own maid, at home in Portman Square. Hattie invariably disapproved too, to the point where Juliana’s friends enquired why she did not find herself a new maid rather than tolerate Hattie’s censure. Juliana never answered. The truth was that she rather liked having a strict maid. It made up in part for the mother she could not remember.

On impulse Juliana started to dress herself, getting into a tangle as she tried to fasten her silk stockings to her garters, casting her stays aside and slipping into her chemise. The evening dress she had chosen was deceptively simple, a wrap of aquamarine gauze. Even so, she found it surprisingly difficult to fasten it without help. The diaphanous material was intended to cling and drape seductively and it was almost transparent. Juliana frowned at her reflection. The dress was gaping inelegantly like that of a blowsy, drunken trollop and looked not so much seductive as ridiculous. Clearly there was more to this business of dressing oneself than met the eye. She would not try it again. She could not bear to look unkempt.

She sat down at the dressing table and studied her reflection. She had not the first idea of what to do with her hair, which, now that the tiara was removed, tumbled down her back in auburn profusion. To have her hair loose about her face softened the breathtaking angles of her cheekbones and made her look younger. The sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose only added to the youthful impression. Those freckles had withstood years of forceful scrubbing and all her attempts at removal with Dr Jinks’s Lemon Ointment. Juliana leaned closer. There was a hint of vulnerability in her eyes that she did not wish to acknowledge. It made her feel strange, just as she had when the unknown man had looked at her.

The door opened and Emma Wren rustled in. Juliana could immediately tell that Emma was a little the worse for drink. Her colour was high, the rouge on her cheeks smeared, and her hairpiece slightly askew.

‘Juliana, my dear!’ Emma was high with excitement. ‘You were utterly magnificent! Why, the gentlemen can talk of little else! They are all waiting for you, my dear. Are you ready to go down?’

Juliana turned back to the mirror. She was aware of making excuses. ‘Not quite. I need some help with my gown and my hair.’

Emma tutted. ‘You should have called my maid. Dessie will fix it in a trice. Although…’ she stood back and considered Juliana’s appearance ‘…you do look quite charmingly rumpled and wanton like that, my dear. I am sure the gentlemen will appreciate it. Tumbled curls are quite the thing, you know, and make you look so young and innocent.’ She gave a peal of laughter. ‘You will quite sweep them away!’

Not for the first time, Juliana reflected that Emma was wasted as the wife of a junior government minister and would have been most successful as the madam of a bawdy house. There was, in fact, very little difference between Mrs Wren’s elegantly appointed town house and a Covent Garden bordello. Or a rookery in a less salubrious part of Town, for that matter. Juliana turned her shoulder. She might connive at some of Emma’s more outrageous games for her own amusement, but she had no intention of playing to someone else’s rules. The trick played on Brookes had alleviated her boredom for at least an hour, but now she did not propose to go downstairs and act the harlot.

‘Sir Jasper Colling is asking for you,’ Emma said meaningfully, putting her painted face close to Juliana’s, so that Juliana could smell the stale wine on her breath. ‘And Simon Armitage. He is a sweet boy, Ju—and so very young and eager. Think what fun it might be to initiate him…’

Juliana felt a wave of repulsion. There was something sweet about Simon Armitage’s untried adoration and it would be a gross betrayal to take that adoration and use it for her own gratification. She was hardly so steeped in dissipation, whatever the gossips might say. She was determined to refuse Emma’s blandishments, but before she disappointed her hostess’s expectations and drew her ire, there was something that she wanted to know. She tried to make her voice sound casual.

‘That gentleman, Emma—the one who looks like a rake but behaves like a priest—who is he?’

Emma’s expression cleared. ‘Oh, I see! You prefer someone new! There is nothing so intriguing as a stranger, is there, my dear?’ She frowned. ‘A few hours ago I should have said that you could not have chosen better, but now I am not so sure…’ She flung herself down on the end of the bed. ‘That is Martin Davencourt. One of the Somersetshire Davencourts, you know. No title, but rich as Croesus and connected to half the families in the land. He is back in London following the death of his father last year.’

‘Davencourt,’ Juliana repeated. The name rang a very faint bell, but the memory escaped her.

Emma’s voice had taken on a petulant note. ‘Yes, Martin Davencourt. I was told that he was amusing—indeed, he should be amusing, for he has knocked about the capitals of Europe for several years.’ Juliana, watching in the mirror, saw her pull a face. ‘I invited him because I thought he would be fun, but he seems the most prosy bore. Perhaps it is because he wants to be a Member of Parliament now and seems to take himself so seriously. Some MPs do, you know. Or perhaps it is having those seven tiresome half-brothers and half-sisters to care for. Whatever the case, he declines to enter into the spirit of things tonight, but perhaps you could change his mind for him.’

‘Martin Davencourt…’ Juliana frowned. ‘The name is familiar, but I do not believe we have met. I am sure I would have remembered him. I could almost swear that we had met, yet I cannot think when…’

Emma arched a knowing eyebrow. ‘I believe his diplomatic work has kept him out of the country for a good while. Still, even if you do not really know him, you can always pretend. Come downstairs and persuade him to renew old acquaintance, Ju.’

Juliana hesitated, then shook her head. She stood up, scooping her cloak from the bed where it rested beside Mrs Wren’s elaborate coiffure.

‘I do not think so, Emma. Mr Davencourt is proof against my charms. And I fear I must decline your offer of entertainment tonight. I have the headache and think I will have an early night.’

Emma sprang to her feet, looking affronted.

‘But, Juliana, the gentlemen are waiting. They are all expecting you! I promised them—’

‘What?’ Juliana stared. There had been a note of panic in Emma Wren’s voice and with a sudden insight she realised what had happened. She had been promised as part of the entertainment—not simply offered on a tray, as it were, but to be thrown to the guests afterwards at the orgy, along with the Haymarket ware that Emma had imported for the occasion. The thought made her furious. Emma knew perfectly well that Juliana might indulge in risqué tricks to entertain herself and her friends, but to promise her services to the guests was another matter.

‘I am not going downstairs to play the Cyprian for Simon Armitage, Jasper Colling or indeed anyone else,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘I am tired and I wish to go home.’

Mrs Wren’s painted mouth thinned to an obstinate line. There was a knowledge in her eyes that was as old as the hills and it made Juliana, for all her experience, feel very naïve.

‘I fail to see why titillating their appetites by appearing naked on a tray is more acceptable than spending a little time with my gentleman—’

‘It is not merely my time you wish me to give,’ Juliana said stiffly. She could feel her colour mounting as she stared at Emma’s contemptuous face. She knew there was an element of truth in her erstwhile friend’s assertion. She had deliberately set out to shock and provoke and now she wanted to retreat from the consequences of her actions. She took a breath.

‘I agreed to play the trick on Brookes because it was fun, a joke to tease and shock your guests! Anything else is out of the question.’

Emma made a noise of disgust. ‘At least the lightskirts are honest in what they do!’

Juliana flushed. ‘They are doing their job. As for me, I have no taste for masculine company tonight.’

‘You seldom do.’ Emma’s eyes had narrowed to a glare. ‘You think that I have not observed that? How you flirt and flaunt and tease, yet never deliver on what you promise? I do believe, my dear—’ she thrust her face in Juliana’s, reaching up, for she did not have Juliana’s height ‘—that your reputation for wickedness is nothing but a sham!’

Juliana laughed. It was best to ignore Emma when she was in her cups, for if she answered in kind their friendship would be lost. Juliana needed that friendship.

‘And I believe that you are a little castaway, Emma. Perhaps you should return to your guests. I will see you tomorrow at the wedding.’

‘I’ll see you in hell!’ Emma shrieked, picking the silver-backed hairbrush from the dressing table and throwing it inaccurately at Juliana’s departing back. ‘You’re nothing but a milk-and-water miss who hasn’t the stomach for the games you play. Run away, little girl! I’ll never forgive you for spoiling my party.’

‘You will forgive me soon enough when you want to take money off me at whist,’ Juliana said coldly.

She hurried down the curving staircase. Behind her she could hear the crash of objects bouncing off the walls as Emma devastated the bedroom. She had always known that Emma had a bad temper, had seen it turned against luckless servants and shopkeepers, but it had never been directed at her before. For a second, the image of her father rose before her. She could well imagine his disapproving expression, his cold, cutting words: ‘You count this woman your friend, Juliana? An ill-bred fishwife who has neither taste nor quality? Upon my word, how did you come to this?’

Juliana shivered violently. It was no secret that the Marquis of Tallant disapproved heartily of his only daughter—no secret that he doubted she was actually his child and deplored the fact that she had apparently followed in her mother’s immoral footsteps. Whilst he sat in cold judgement in his house at Ashby Tallant, Juliana ran riot in town, playing for high stakes and keeping low company. Since her brother Joss’s marriage two years before, she had inherited the mantle of family black sheep and had played up to it with a vengeance.

The entrance hall was in darkness but for one tall stand of candles by the front door. From the dining room came the sounds of masculine laughter, the tinkle of music and roars of encouragement. Evidently one of the Cyprians—or perhaps one of Emma’s guests—was performing the dance of the seven veils. Juliana reflected that the party was progressing well without either its hostess or herself to add to the entertainment.

She espied a footman standing like a sentinel by one of the pillars and beckoned him over. She wondered if it was one of the men who had carried her into the dining room earlier. Certainly he was avoiding her eyes, as though he had not quite recovered from gazing at other parts of her anatomy.

‘Summon my carriage, if you please,’ Juliana said imperiously. It would do no harm to show some authority.

‘Certainly, my lady.’ The man shot away like a scalded cat and Juliana turned towards the door. Her coachman knew better than to keep her waiting. In a few minutes she would be free of this house and an evening turned sour. All the fun that she had derived from the trick on Brookes had evaporated with Emma’s tantrum. Juliana sighed. She should have known better, known that her friend’s licentiousness went far beyond the playing of a simple joke, known that there would have been another side to the evening.

She had reached the steps up to the main entrance and was looking around for the butler to open the door for her when a man stepped from the candlelit shadows.

‘Running away, Lady Juliana? Are you not intending to finish what you started?’

The deep voice made Juliana jump. She had not seen the figure until the last minute and his sudden appearance had startled her. He was dressed for the outdoors and was drawing on his gloves, and now he gave her a glimmer of a smile that for some strange reason set her pulse awry. Juliana recognised Martin Davencourt and felt an unfamiliar lack of self-assurance. He was watching her steadily and there was something in his gaze that made her feel vulnerable. Something about this man made her sophistication feel parchment thin. Juliana would have said that her brother Joss was the only one who knew her well, was the only one who was allowed close to her, yet she had the strangest feeling that Martin Davencourt’s searching blue gaze saw far more than she wanted him to see. She raised her chin, instinctively on the defensive.

‘I am going home.’ She allowed her gaze to scan him from head to foot. ‘It seems that the entertainment is not to your taste either, Mr Davencourt.’

‘Indeed, it is not.’ There was a note of grim amusement in Martin Davencourt’s voice. ‘I am cousin to Eustacia Havard, Lady Juliana—the lady who is marrying Lord Andrew tomorrow. I had not realised that this was his…’ he paused, finishing ironically ‘…his bachelor swansong, I suppose it could be called.’

Juliana smiled sweetly. Cold disapproval was something that she could easily deal with. She had encountered it often enough.

‘I see that you do not approve of our little entertainments, Mr Davencourt,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should try Almack’s, or the débutante balls in future. I hear that they even serve lemonade there. That might be more to your taste if this is too stimulating for you.’

‘Perhaps I shall take your advice,’ Martin Davencourt said slowly. He was watching her thoughtfully and now he gestured towards the closed door of the dining room. ‘I am surprised to see you leave so prematurely, Lady Juliana. The party is only just starting, and after your performance earlier I would have thought that you had plenty to contribute to the rest of the evening.’

Juliana laughed. No matter how dull Martin Davencourt’s tastes, his wit was still sharp. She was enjoying crossing swords with such a man.

‘I apologise for confounding your expectations, Mr Davencourt,’ she said. ‘Emma’s entertainments are not to my taste tonight.’ She narrowed her gaze on him thoughtfully. ‘Though if you were inclined to join me I might be persuaded to change my mind.’

Martin Davencourt gave her a smile—and a look from those sleepy dark blue eyes that made her feel hot and very bothered. He spoke gently.

‘Are you always this persistent, Lady Juliana? I would have thought that one refusal would be enough for you.’

Juliana raised a haughty brow. ‘I am not accustomed to rejection.’

‘Ah. Well, it happens to us all at some point.’ Martin Davencourt gave her a rueful smile. ‘Accept it.’

Juliana felt a hot rush of annoyance, mainly with herself for inviting a rebuff a second time. It had been her pride that had spoken—she had wanted Martin Davencourt to regret his previous indifference towards her. She had wanted him to want her, and then she could have played her usual game, leading him on a little but not too much, his admiration balm to her soul. She had played the game so often, first encouraging a suitor and then dropping him before his attentions became too pressing. She was an expert at the art. Except that Martin Davencourt did not want to play her games…

Juliana ran her fingers over the wooden edge of the doorframe and looked at him thoughtfully from under her lashes. He gave her back look for look, direct and clear. Juliana thought she could distinguish a flicker of cool amusement in that blue gaze.

‘I had heard that you were a man of experience, Mr Davencourt,’ she said coldly, ‘yet you behave more like an Evangelical. You are sadly out of place in this house.’

She saw him frown and felt a skip of excitement, like a naughty child provoking the adults. She imagined that it might be exciting to provoke Martin Davencourt and to see how deep that calm self-control actually went. Or perhaps not. There was something about him that suggested it might actually be rather dangerous to push him too far.

He smiled at her gently. ‘I realise that I am in the wrong place,’ he said, ‘but perhaps you are, too. Take my advice, Lady Juliana, and cut loose of all this. Everyone has to grow up some time. Even a lady rakehell, such as you profess to be.’

Juliana laughed. ‘Is that what you think me? That I am a rake?’

‘The role is not necessarily confined to the male of the species. Is it not the reputation that you cultivate?’

Juliana shrugged. ‘Reputations may be exaggerated.’

Martin Davencourt inclined his head. ‘True. They may also be encouraged.’

A crash from upstairs made both of them jump. Emma Wren’s voice rose to a crescendo. The door to the servants’ quarters thudded open and a couple of frightened-looking maids scurried up the stairs.

‘Time to leave,’ Juliana said. ‘I fear that Emma is cross with me tonight. A refusal to join in the game so often offends, does it not?’ She smiled. ‘But I do not need to tell you that, do I, Mr Davencourt? You strike me as a man quite happy to cause offence by refusing to conform.’

‘I play by my own rules,’ Martin Davencourt said. ‘One cannot allow someone else to dictate the game.’ He threw her an appraising glance. ‘In that sense I do believe we are two of a kind, Lady Juliana.’

Juliana laughed. ‘If that is so, then I think it must be the only thing we have in common, sir.’

Martin Davencourt tilted his head enquiringly. ‘Are you sure of that?’

Juliana raised her brows. ‘How could it be otherwise? You are staid and orthodox and ever so slightly shocked at the company you find yourself in.’

Martin laughed. ‘You have divined a great deal about me in a short acquaintance.’

Juliana shrugged. ‘I can read a man at thirty paces.’

‘I see. And yourself? You were about to make some observation about your own character, I infer.’

‘Oh, well, I am unorthodox and rebellious and—’

‘Wild?’ There was an ironic inflection in Martin Davencourt’s voice, as if such qualities were scarcely admirable. Juliana shrugged carelessly.

‘We are chalk and cheese, Mr Davencourt. No, on second thoughts, not. Cheese can be quite delicious. Wine and water? You remind me of flat champagne. So much potential wasted.’

She heard Martin take a careful breath. She could not see him clearly but she could hear the repressed amusement in his voice.

‘Lady Juliana, are you always so rude to chance acquaintances?’

‘Invariably,’ Juliana said. ‘But this is nothing to how I can be, I assure you. I am being nice to you.’

‘I believe you.’ Martin’s tone changed. ‘You should think twice before you indulge in these games, Lady Juliana. One day you will take on more than you can deal with.’

There was a pause.

‘I do not think so,’ Juliana said coldly. ‘I can take care of myself.’

She saw a smile touch the corner of Martin Davencourt’s mouth. His gaze swept over her slowly, thoughtfully, from head to toe. It lingered on the tumbled auburn curls that framed her face and on the freckles across the bridge of her nose. It considered the curve of her waist and the dainty slippers that peeped from under the hem of her gown. He did not make any move towards her and yet Juliana felt strangely vulnerable. A deep, disturbing sense of awareness swept over her, leaving her breathless. She wrapped the cloak closer about her, her fingers clenching at her neck in an attempt to conceal the flimsy aquamarine dress. Ridiculous, when Martin Davencourt and many others had seen her stark naked only an hour before, and yet she suddenly had an intense desire to shroud herself in as many layers as possible.

‘Are you sure?’ Martin Davencourt spoke softly and his searching blue gaze held hers relentlessly. ‘Are you sure you can take care of yourself?’

Juliana cleared her throat, her fingers tightening unconsciously on the cloak. ‘Of course I am sure! I live alone and do as I please, and have been doing so since I was three and twenty.’

Martin Davencourt straightened up. He was smiling. ‘That sounds like a mantra, Lady Juliana. The sort of thing that if you repeat it often enough you start to believe it. So if it is true that you are a…hardened lady rakehell, it is strange that on occasion you should look like a frightened schoolgirl.’

Juliana felt a shiver go through her. She did not like his observation. It accorded too closely with what she had seen earlier in the mirror. ‘It is a very useful accomplishment, I assure you,’ she said flippantly. ‘The gentlemen find it fascinating that I am able to play the innocent. Many a Cyprian has asked me how I manage it. I believe they charge a great deal for false virtue.’

She saw the expression in Martin’s eyes harden. ‘You are very cool, I will say that for you, Lady Juliana. Nevertheless, I am offering a word of advice. If you proposition a gentleman, be sure that you are prepared to deliver on your promise. Otherwise it brands you a cheat.’

Once again Juliana felt a rush of annoyance. ‘Two pieces of advice in one evening,’ she said, in honeyed tones. ‘You should charge for your opinions, Mr Davencourt. You might make a fortune. Then again…’ she pulled a face ‘…perhaps not. You are not very interesting.’

Martin Davencourt laughed. ‘You used to be such a sweet girl, Lady Juliana. Whatever happened to you?’

Juliana paused, looking at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Are you trying to claim a previous acquaintance with me, Mr Davencourt?’

She saw the flash of Martin Davencourt’s teeth in the darkness as he laughed. ‘I am not trying to claim anything, Lady Juliana. I suppose you do not remember our previous meeting. Let me remind you. We met at Ashby Tallant, by the pool under the willows on those long hot summer days. You were fourteen years old and a very sweet and unspoilt child. Whatever happened to change that?’

Juliana turned away. ‘I expect I grew up, Mr Davencourt. I would like to say that I remember you, too, but I do not.’ She raised a brow. ‘I wonder why that would be?’

Martin Davencourt held her gaze for a long moment and Juliana found herself fidgeting under his scrutiny, her cheeks growing hot. She was about to burst into speech, any speech, to ease the discomfort of that moment, when she heard the sound of the clatter of hooves on the cobbles as the coach was brought round. Seldom had she felt so relieved to escape a situation.

‘Oh! My carriage, I think.’

Martin smiled. ‘How timely. Enabling you to run away yet again, Lady Juliana.’ He held the door open for her courteously. ‘Goodnight.’

He followed her out through the door and with a negligent wave of the hand he strolled away down the street.

Juliana paused, staring after him into the darkness, her foot poised on the carriage step. She was used to people trying to scrape an acquaintance—they were usually gentlemen—but Martin Davencourt hardly struck her as the type. He had made it plain that he did not admire her. Yet if they had really met as children it might explain that peculiar sense of recognition that possessed her whenever he was nearby.

The touch of raindrops on her face recalled her to the present and she climbed up into the coach, leaning forward to draw the curtains against the dark. As she did so a movement across the other side of the square caught her eye. A man was standing in the shadows and now he stepped forward into the pool of light thrown by the lamps. Juliana stared. Her heart started to race. He was staring directly at her and the tilt of his head and the set of his shoulders was oddly familiar. It looked like her late, unlamented husband, Clive Massingham. Except that Massingham was dead, knifed in a brawl in an Italian jail.

The coach started with a jolt and the curtain fell back into place and Juliana relaxed back against the seat. It had been a trick of the light, that was all. That, and her memory playing tricks. There was no cause for alarm.

As for Martin Davencourt, it would be better to stop thinking about him and his stern disapproval. Except that Juliana had the strangest feeling that forgetting Martin Davencourt would not be easy at all.

Martin Davencourt breathed in the fresh night air with a sense of relief. The atmosphere in Emma Wren’s house had been stifling in more ways than one. He squared his shoulders, shaking off the niggling sense of irritation that had pursued him throughout the evening. It had been his own fault for thinking that Mrs Wren’s supposedly sophisticated supper would be a place for stimulating discussion. Clearly he had been out of London for too long. Either that, or he was getting too old.

The cheap lasciviousness of the whole evening had disgusted him. Martin shook his head. God knew, he was no plaster saint himself, but the pointless immorality of Emma Wren’s guests had been more depressing than anything else. Most depressing of all was that Andrew Brookes was marrying his cousin on the morrow. Martin did not know Eustacia Havard well—he had been out of the country for several years and had an affectionate but distant relationship with his aunt and her family—but nevertheless he did not like to think of his cousin marrying such a loose fish as Brookes. He had disliked Brookes on sight and he did not rate Eustacia’s prospects of marital bliss as any better than those of the Prince Regent.

He turned into Portman Square. The night was dark with an edge of rain on the breeze. It smelled fresh, like the country. A sudden, fierce ache to visit Davencourt possessed him. Once the Season was over, perhaps…It would be impossible to leave Town just now for, in addition to his work, his younger half-sisters were enjoying the novelty of their visit and would complain if he brought it to a premature end. It would also be unfair to their older siblings, especially Clara, whose début had already been delayed for a year because of their father’s death. She had caused quite a stir in society and might well make a dazzling match in her first season if only she could be persuaded to stay awake long enough to offer one of her suitors some encouragement.

If he could see her settled, and find a husband for Kitty as well…But Kitty was far more of an intractable problem.

Martin frowned. Kitty had shown no interest in any of the entertainments that London had to offer, other than the opportunity to lose endless sums of money at the gambling tables. Martin was aware that a deep unhappiness was driving his half-sister’s behaviour, but she would not speak to him about it. It was hardly surprising, for he was a good ten years older than she and they did not yet know each other well. And in the meantime, Kitty was gambling recklessly and people were talking.

Thinking of gamblers made Martin’s thoughts turn to Lady Juliana Myfleet. Juliana, trailing two marriages and a string of lovers behind her like a gaudy comet. He had heard much of her exploits—who had not—but it had been almost sixteen years since they had met. No wonder she had forgotten.

In the intervening time he had met plenty of women like Juliana Myfleet; bored wives whose beauty had hardened into dissatisfaction or widows who had the jaded shell of the society sophisticate. Martin pulled a face. The only difference between Juliana Myfleet and a whole host of other women was that she frequently went too far. He thought she did it deliberately, to test and provoke, a spoiled child grown into a spoiled woman.

Except that when their eyes had met for the first time that night, all he had seen was a vulnerable girl acting a part that was too grown-up for her, like a child in adult’s clothing. The impression had hit him with the force of a blow to the stomach, contrasting as it did with the provocative shamelessness of her pose on the silver salver. Whilst all the others had been burning with lascivious excitement he had been possessed by an astonishing urge to protect and cherish her, whilst at the same time feeling a sick disappointment to see what she had become. No doubt youthful infatuations always ended in disappointment.

Perhaps he had been mistaken in thinking her vulnerable. Martin’s steps quickened. Later she had shown nothing but the brittle boredom he would have expected, plus a malice that betrayed a certain unhappiness. At any rate, it was none of his business. She was none of his business. And he had too many other things to worry about.

He turned into Laverstock Gardens and went up the steps of his town house. All the lights were blazing, despite the fact that it was just past two. Martin recognised this as a bad sign.

Liddington, the butler, opened the door with an expression so blank that Martin’s heart sank even further.

‘That bad, Liddington?’ he murmured, as he divested himself of his coat.

‘Yes, sir.’ The butler was matter of fact. ‘Mrs Lane is awaiting you in the library. I did try to suggest that she should leave the matter until the morning, but she was most insistent—’

‘Mr Davencourt!’ The library door opened and Mrs Lane swept out in a swirl of draperies. She was a large woman with greying hair and a perpetually agonised expression. When Martin had first met her he had wondered if she was plagued by some medical complaint that kept her constantly in pain. These days he realised that it was apparently the effort of chaperoning his sisters that caused her misery.

‘Mr Davencourt, I simply must speak with you! That girl is quite hopeless, and does nothing that I tell her! You must speak to her. She is fit for Bedlam.’

‘I assume you refer to Miss Clara, Mrs Lane?’ Martin asked, catching the matron’s arm and steering her back into the library and away from the servants’ stifled amusement. ‘I know that she can be a trifle indolent—’

‘Indolent! The girl is a minx.’ Mrs Lane pulled her arm away huffily. ‘She pretends to fall asleep so that she may ignore her suitors! It is no wonder that she has yet to attract an offer from a gentleman. You must speak with her, Mr Davencourt.’

‘I shall do so, of course,’ Martin said. The last time he had tried to talk to Clara about her behaviour he had felt as though he was wrestling with a very slippery fish. She had looked innocent and puzzled and told him that she tried very hard to show an interest but she found the Season dreadfully fatiguing. There had been a stubborn look in her eyes and Martin had been uncomfortably aware that his half-sister was trying to hoodwink him, but he had not even scratched the surface of the reasons for her behaviour.

‘As for Miss Kitty…’ Mrs Lane swelled wrathfully. ‘That girl is getting into bad company, sir. How is she to catch a husband when she spends all her time at play? Gambling away her allowance, I have no doubt, though the chit will tell me nothing.’

‘I shall speak with Kitty as well,’ Martin said. He felt in desperate need of a drink. ‘May I offer you a glass of ratafia, Mrs Lane?’

‘No, thank you, Mr Davencourt,’ Mrs Lane said, as though Martin had suggested something unspeakably vulgar. ‘I never take spirits after eleven. It upsets my constitution.’ She billowed to her feet. ‘I merely wish to add that if Miss Davencourt and Miss Clara do not reform—and quickly!—I shall be taking my services elsewhere. There are plenty of young ladies who would be glad to have my chaperonage and would not cause me one moment’s anxiety. I am much in demand, you know!’

Martin felt panic and irritation stirring in equal measure. The thought of losing Mrs Lane, humourless as she was, was terrifying. He would never find another reputable lady willing to chaperon Kitty and Clara about town, not in the middle of the Season when the girls had a reputation for being so difficult. His sister Araminta had had to work very hard to persuade Mrs Lane in the first place. The chaperon had implied that a house with seven children and lacking the steadying hand of a mistress must surely be a hotbed of wickedness, and now his half-sisters were proving precisely that. Martin ran his hand through his hair.

‘Please do not leave us, Mrs Lane. You have done such a splendid job so far.’ He could hear the insincerity in his own voice.

‘I will think about it,’ the chaperon said graciously. ‘Of course, if you think that I have done such a splendid job, Mr Davencourt, you might consider reflecting that fact in my fee…’

Martin could feel the screws of blackmail turning. Only the previous week he had been obliged to increase the wages he paid to his younger brother’s tutor to prevent him from handing in his notice. Then the governess had threatened to leave after his younger sisters filled her bed with stewed apple. It only required the nursemaid to resign and he would have a full house.

He held the door open for Mrs Lane. ‘I shall see what I can do, madam. In the meantime, be assured that I will speak to both Kitty and Clara—’

‘Martin!’ A plaintive voice floated down from the staircase. Daisy was sitting halfway up the stair, swinging her feet through the delicate iron tracery of the banisters. She was clutching her teddy bear and looked tiny and dishevelled. Daisy was five years old and a late child, the result of Mr and Mrs Davencourt’s last, ill-fated attempt at reconciliation. Martin hurried up the stairs to scoop her up into his arms, and felt the fierce heat of her tears against his shirt.

‘I had a bad dream, Martin,’ his youngest sister hiccupped. ‘I dreamed that you went away and left us for ever and ever—’

Martin smoothed his hand over her hair. ‘Hush, sweetheart. I am here now and I promise never to go away—’

The nursemaid came hurrying along the landing, a candle clutched in her hand, a wrap thrown hastily over the nightdress. Her eyes were full of sleep and anxiety. She held her arms out.

‘Now then, Miss Elizabeth, what’s going on here? Come back to bed.’

Daisy clung to Martin with the tenacity of a limpet, winding her fat little arms about his neck. ‘I want Martin to put me to bed and tell me a story!’

Martin thought longingly of the huge glass of brandy as yet unpoured in the library and the pristine newspaper he had not even unfolded. But the nursemaid’s look was pleading.

‘If you would be so good, sir…Miss Elizabeth has been having so many nightmares lately and I am sure she will sleep better if you tuck her up.’

Down in the hall Mrs Lane was still watching him with a look of cupidity in her sharp grey eyes. Her expression reminded Martin of a hunting cat closing in on the kill. He felt anger and helplessness in equal measure. He turned away deliberately, pressing a kiss on Daisy’s tumbled fair curls.

‘Come along then, sweetheart. I will tell you the story about the Princess and the Pea.’

Daisy snuggled up to him. Her warmth comforted him. When the terrible news of their parents’ death had reached him the previous year, he had been stunned and appalled. The late Mr and Mrs Davencourt lived for most of the time in a state of armed neutrality towards each other, barely spending any time together. It had been ironic in the extreme that they had died together in a fire at their London house. Philip Davencourt had been a staunch Tory who had deplored his son’s Whiggish tendencies, but for all their political disagreements, father and son had had a healthy respect for each other and Martin knew that his father had been proud of him when he had been appointed to Castlereagh’s delegation at the Congress of Vienna. The only thing that his father had disapproved of was Martin’s failure to marry.

Perhaps his father had had a point, Martin thought ruefully, as he carried Daisy back to the nursery. A man who had seven younger half-brothers and half-sisters to care for needed help and a far more permanent relationship than the transient affairs that he had been accustomed to in the past. Not only that, but in future he would need a wife to act as political hostess as well.

He held Daisy close. His sister Araminta, the only other child of his father’s first marriage, had argued that the younger girls should go to live with her when their parents had died. Martin had been tempted, but in the end he had decided against it. He might only be thirty-one years old, he might have no wife to support him, but that was as nothing compared to the powerful sympathy he felt towards his younger siblings. They had endured enough misery over the death of their parents and he would not be responsible for separating them now. They stayed with him and he did the best he could for them. But he needed a wife.

Juliana lay in her huge canopied bed and watched the play of shadows across the wall. The house was completely silent. Even in the daytime there were no children to spoil the peace and nothing to disrupt the almost sepulchral silence. Juliana lived entirely alone, with no companion to give her countenance and to quell the tongues of the gossips. She had chosen it that way, declaring that to live with some tedious poor relation would make her run mad.

Juliana rolled over on to her side and pressed her cheek against the cool pillow. She felt hot with the effort of repressing her tears and angry because she did not understand why she wanted to cry, except that it had something to do with Martin Davencourt. She thumped her pillow. How maudlin could a person be? She had everything she could possibly want, so there was no reason to be sad.

Remembering a game she had played when she was a child, Juliana tried to enumerate the reasons why she should be happy.

One. She had money—enough money to buy anything she wanted and to gamble the rest away. Her father, whilst deploring her behaviour, was quick enough to spare her financial embarrassment, so she need never worry that she would go without.

Two. Tomorrow Andrew Brookes was marrying Eustacia Havard and she was invited to the wedding. That gave her a purpose, something to do, a reason to get out of bed. She would not be bored tomorrow. She would not even be lonely, for she would be surrounded by people. Juliana felt slightly better at the thought. Her misery receded slightly. This was a good game.

Three. She was beautiful and she could have any man that she wanted. Juliana frowned. Instead of making her feel better, the thought engendered a slight chill. Firstly she had not met any man that she genuinely wanted. Armitage, Brookes, Colling…they were at her beck and call, as were countless others. But the truth was that she did not want to call them. Since the end of her disastrous marriage to Clive Massingham, she had been wary of love. She would not let it make a fool of her again.

Then there was Martin Davencourt. His stern face was before her still. Severe, upright, steady. She was not sure why she had wanted him. She did not even like him. He was everything that she usually dismissed in a man. Perhaps that was why she had decided to try to attract him. She had wanted to see if he was really as sternly honourable as he seemed. She had wanted to see if she could corrupt virtue.

Juliana rolled over on to her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows. She hoped that that was the reason. God forbid that she should suddenly and inexplicably be attracted to an honest man. That would ruin her bad reputation once and for all.

‘We met at Ashby Tallant, by the pool under the willows on those long hot summer days. You were fourteen years old and a very sweet and unspoilt child…’

Martin Davencourt’s words had struck a vague chord of memory. Generally Juliana tried not to remember her childhood because it had not been a particularly happy time. Now, however, she deliberately tried to recall that summer. There had been a pool under the willows, where she would sometimes run away and hide from her governess when the days glowed with sunlight and the schoolroom was intolerably stuffy. She had lain in the long grass and watched the sky through the shifting branches of the trees, and listened to the splash of the ducks on the still water. It had been her secret place, but one day—one summer when she had been about fourteen or so—there had been someone else there; a boy, all straw-coloured hair and gangling limbs, reading some dry tome of philosophy…

Juliana sat bolt upright. Martin Davencourt. Of course. He always seemed to have his nose in a book, or to be fiddling with some sort of mechanical invention. He had had no interest in her girlish chatter about the Season and balls and parties and the eligible gentlemen that she would meet when she made her debut…

They had made some childish pact that summer. Juliana wrinkled up her nose, trying to remember. She had been fretting that she would never meet a man to marry and Martin had looked up from trying to fix the arm of a catapult or some such tiresome invention, and had said that he would marry her himself if they were both still unwed at thirty. She had laughed at him and his chivalrous impulses.

Juliana had laughed then and she laughed now. It had been very sweet of Martin, but of course she had gone to London and had fallen head over heels in love with Edwin Myfleet and had married him instead. She had not seen Martin Davencourt from that day to this.

Juliana pulled her knees up to her chest and sat there, curled against her pillows. It had been a sunlit summer even though Martin, with his bumbling ways and obsession with his books, had been a bit of a bore. She smiled. Some things did not change. He had been dull then and he was dreary now. His looks had improved considerably, but that was the best thing that she could say for him.

Juliana paused. She knew that that was not strictly true. Somehow—and Juliana was not quite sure how it had happened—Martin Davencourt had managed to get under her skin like a sharp thorn. His observations were acute, his gaze far too perceptive. There was something decidedly disturbing about him, and about the treacherous sense of familiarity she felt in his company.

Juliana realised that Martin would be at Andrew Brookes’s wedding on the following day and her heart missed a beat with a mixture of anticipation and something approaching shame. She felt vaguely embarrassed about confronting him again after their encounter that evening. She did not understand why. Her exploits at Emma’s party had only been in jest and it was not for Martin Davencourt to approve or disapprove.

Juliana lay down, and then sat up in bed again. She knew she would not sleep, for her mind was too active. But if she did not sleep, she would look like a hag at the wedding and no one would admire her. That was inconceivable. She reached over to light her candle, then trod barefoot across to the wooden chest in the corner of the room. The box of pills was at the back of the top drawer, beneath her silk stockings. She took two laudanum tablets quickly, washing them down with a draught of water from the jug on the nightstand. That was better. She could almost feel the tiredness creeping up on her already. Now she would sleep and when she woke it would be the morning and there would be things to do and people to see, and everything would be well. Within five minutes she was asleep.

Chapter Two

‘We are relying on you, Martin.’ Davinia Havard, mother of the bride, fixed her nephew with a menacing look. Over her shoulder, Martin could see his sister Araminta, pulling an apologetic face at him. Now Araminta was gesturing widely to indicate that she had tried to calm their aunt, but to no avail. Martin grinned back sympathetically. He and Araminta had always been close. The only children of Philip Davencourt’s first marriage, they had been natural allies, and Martin was grateful for Araminta’s uncomplicated support and affection.

They were in church and there were only ten minutes to go before Eustacia’s wedding service began. The conversation was therefore being conducted in discreet hisses from Mrs Havard and polite whispers from Martin in reply. Mrs Havard had penned her nephew in a pew and was leaning over him, keeping him in his place by her sheer bulk and force of personality. Martin shifted, crossing one leg over the other in an assumption of ease and wishing his aunt would back away a little. She smelled very strongly of camphor and it always made his nose itch.

‘I am at your service, of course, Aunt Davinia,’ he whispered politely, ‘but I am a little at a loss. Precisely what task do you wish me to perform?’

Davinia Havard gave a long sigh. ‘I am depending on you, Martin—’ she stabbed him in the chest with one stubby finger in emphasis ‘—depending on you to prevent that appalling woman Juliana Myfleet from ruining Eustacia’s wedding. I knew it was a mistake to permit her to attend! Lady Lestrange has just told me what she did last night at the dinner given for Andrew Brookes. Have you heard?’

‘Heard?’ Martin murmured. He gave her a rueful smile. ‘I fear I saw what happened rather than merely heard about it!’

There was a sharp intake of breath from both his listeners. Araminta, his staunch supporter, looked both reproachful and amused. She leaned forward and added her own hissing whisper to the conversation.

‘Martin! Surely you were not at one of Emma Wren’s orgies? How could you have had such poor taste?’

‘I left before the actual orgy,’ Martin whispered, giving his sister the ghost of a grin. ‘I merely stayed for the hors d’oeuvres. I made the mistake of thinking that “stimulating”, when applied to Mrs Wren’s dinners, meant that the conversation would be good.’

Araminta stifled a laugh. Davinia Havard looked disgusted. Martin immediately regretted the impulse that had led him to joke. Unlike Araminta, their aunt had no sense of humour.

‘Then you know what that Myfleet creature is capable of, Martin! I am sure that she will do something unspeakably vulgar and my poor little Eustacia will be humiliated on her wedding day!’

Martin grimaced. To his surprise he felt a strong surge of irritation to hear Juliana referred to as ‘that Myfleet creature’ in so disparaging a way. He struggled with his annoyance.

‘I am sure that you are letting your imagination run away with you, Aunt Davinia,’ he said coolly. ‘I am persuaded Lady Juliana intends no such thing.’

His aunt gave him a darkling look. ‘I will remind you of that when she disrupts the proceedings and makes us a laughing-stock! Martin…’ Her voice dropped even further in an attempt at conciliation. ‘Perhaps it is fortunate that you are a man of the world. I know I can rely on you to deal with the creature, should anything untoward arise.’

By now almost every member of the congregation was studying them with ill-concealed curiosity as they craned their necks to try and eavesdrop the conversation. Andrew Brookes was sitting across the aisle, looking thoroughly sick and jaded, and Martin felt a sharp stab of anger followed by resignation. At least the man had turned up for the wedding, even if he was still warm from a courtesan’s bed.

Martin took his aunt’s arm and shepherded her firmly into her own pew. He bent close to her ear.

‘It may be that your fears are all for nothing, Aunt Davinia, for I do not see Lady Juliana amongst the congregation. Nevertheless, should the situation arise, I shall do what I can.’

Mrs Havard collapsed nervelessly into her seat. ‘Thank you, Martin dear. There is so much to worry about at a time like this.’

Martin pressed her hand, feeling a rush of affection. ‘Do not worry. Eustacia will be here in a moment and then everything will progress smoothly, I have no doubt.’

Mrs Havard groped in her reticule for her smelling salts. Somewhere in the congregation, someone tittered at the sight of the mother of the bride in such a state. Martin, deploring the fashionable and malicious crowd who had gathered to see his cousin wed, made a mental note that if and when he married, it would be in the most private ceremony imaginable. This public show was a sick mockery. Most of the people there cared little for Eustacia’s happiness and were only present for the entertainment. He strode back to his sister’s side, a heavy frown on his face.

‘I cannot believe that any of Aunt Davinia’s fears are like to materialise, Minta,’ he complained.

Araminta put a soothing hand on his arm. ‘Martin, surely you know that with Aunt Davinia, it is simply easier to agree? Then, in the unlikely event of Lady Juliana Myfleet…um…unveiling herself in the church, we shall all be confident that you will handle the situation!’

Martin groaned, resisting the temptation to put his head in his hands and garner even more public attention. For a moment, his mind boggled at the thought of Lady Juliana Myfleet slowly peeling off her clothes before the altar. He boggled even more at the idea of physically grappling with a nude woman in a place of worship. If she chose to display herself as she had done the previous night, the entire congregation would be riveted…

‘Martin!’ Araminta said sharply.

Martin sighed. ‘Minta, I have four children here to keep an eye on. It is asking too much to expect me to act as nursemaid to Lady Juliana Myfleet as well. I do not know why she was even invited if she is Andrew Brookes’s mistress. It seems the most shocking insult to Eustacia.’

Araminta sighed and edged closer to him along the pew. ‘I suspect that tells us what sort of a man Andrew Brookes is.’

‘Surely you knew that already!’

‘I knew, but Aunt Davinia did not.’ Araminta sighed again. ‘For all her bluster she is quite naïve in the ways of the world, Martin. Apparently Brookes put forward the names of his guests and Aunt Davinia accepted them at face value. She almost had an apoplexy when she discovered the truth!’

Martin shook his head. ‘If they had not had the folly to marry Eustacia off to Brookes in the first place…’

‘I know.’ Araminta made a slight gesture. ‘He is sadly unsteady, but he is the son of a Marquis and Eustacia cares for him.’

‘And which of those factors weighed most heavily with Havard when he was agreeing the match?’ Martin asked sarcastically. He had little time for his uncle, who was an inveterate social climber. Martin had always believed that Justin Havard had married into the Davencourt family to further his social ambitions and now he was selling his daughter off in the same manner. A fortune here, a title there…it was the manner in which a man like Havard might make himself influential.

Araminta was looking at him with resignation. ‘You are too principled, Martin.’

‘I beg your pardon. I was not aware that that was possible.’

Araminta gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Everyone has to bend a little. As a future Member of Parliament, you should know that.’

Martin did know. He just did not like it. He heaved a sigh.

‘In the unlikely event of Lady Juliana Myfleet causing a disturbance, I promise to carry her bodily from the church. But in return, you must promise to keep an eye on Daisy.’

Araminta bent over to kiss his cheek. ‘And Maria and all the rest of the brood. I promise. Thank you, Martin! You are truly kind.’

‘Let us hope I am not called upon to fulfil my pledge,’ her brother said darkly.

Lady Juliana Myfleet slid into a pew at the back of the church and bent a brilliant smile on the young groomsman who had offered his escort. She was not sitting at the back in order to be discreet but simply because she was late. The decision of what to wear, demure green or shocking scarlet, had been a difficult one. In the end she had chosen the low-cut scarlet, embellished by the silver crescent moon necklace that she always wore and a matching silver bracelet.

Her obscure position at the back of the church did not prevent her from being recognised by her acquaintance. She had chosen to sit alone, but there were people she knew in the congregation, both friendly faces and those less so. She could see her brother Joss and his wife Amy sitting next to Adam Ashwick, his new wife Annis and his brother Edward. Edward Ashwick smiled at her and sketched a bow. Juliana felt her heart unfreeze a little. Dearest Ned. He was always so kind to her, despite the fact that he was a vicar and she was such a fallen angel.

Other members of her acquaintance were less kind. Already several heads were turning and bonnets nodding as the members of the ton passed on the delicious gossip about her activities at the party the previous night. Juliana smiled slightly. No doubt the tale had grown as it was whispered around the clubs and passed from there to the houses of the nobility. It was amazing how quickly a story could travel. Now the staid dowagers would have another reason to tut when she passed by, another story to add to the shocking list. Her father had heard of them all—the outrageous tricks, the extravagant gambles, the parade of supposed lovers. There were many who thought that Juliana and Andrew Brookes had had a love affair, but Juliana knew better. He had squired her about town for a few months, but there had been nothing more to it than convenience and entertainment. It meant that she had an escort and Brookes had a beautiful woman on his arm, and neither of them saw any reason to complain at that.

Juliana found it amusing that Brookes now looked supremely uncomfortable as he waited for his bride. His fair, florid face was flushed, as though he had imbibed too freely to give him the Dutch courage to go through with the wedding. He was running a finger around the inside of his neck cloth as though he found its constricting folds stifling. Juliana cynically reflected that Brookes probably found the whole idea of marriage oppressive, even with a fortune of fifty thousand pounds to sweeten the pill. Still, the marriage bed would not be cold before he was returning to his latest inamorata.

As Juliana settled the skirts of her exquisite scarlet silk dress about her and tilted her bonnet to a demure angle, she reflected that money would never be enough to hold a man of Brookes’s stamp. She almost felt sorry for Miss Havard. A small, sneaking feeling of sympathy touched Juliana’s heart, then fled as swiftly as it had come. One made one’s bed—and then one lay in it. There was no place for sentiment in modern marriage.

A man was watching her. He was standing in the shadow of the open door, where the sun cast a blinding arc of light on to the flagstone floor. Juliana was attuned to male admiration and she could tell that this man was studying her intently. She flicked him a glance from under the brim of her hat, then felt her stomach drop. It was Martin Davencourt.

She met his eyes. They were very dark blue and contained a look of cold dislike as they swept over her from the feather in her hat to the tips of her bright red pumps. It was easy to read his thoughts. He was deploring her deliberate choice of scarlet and the attention she was drawing to herself. Juliana conceded that it had not been subtle, but then she had not intended it so. It was only now, confronted with Martin Davencourt’s disgust, that she wished she had chosen the green and faded into the background.

For a frozen moment they stared at each other and then Juliana dragged her gaze away with a little jerk and fixed it on the carved angel high on the organ screen. She was trembling with surprise and anger, and she knew that her colour had risen. She was blushing. That rarely happened to her. How dared he have that effect on her? Normally disapproval only made her behave all the more outrageously.

The bride had arrived, a winsome little girl with blonde curls. Juliana grimaced. She hated these milk-and-water misses. The Season was full of them these days, with their simpering manners and their giggles and their innocence. The bride was dressed simply in white muslin, with a white shawl over her gown. The hem of the gown and the edge of the shawl were embossed with white satin flowers and the shawl was shot through with primrose yellow thread. She looked pretty and excited. Six small bridesmaids in white dresses with white ribbons on their straw bonnets, jostled and milled about in the doorway. Out of the corner of her eye—for she was certainly not looking at him—Juliana saw Martin Davencourt bend down with a smile and touch the cheek of the smallest bridesmaid. She remembered that Emma had said he had several younger sisters. Juliana gave a small, unconscious sigh.

The bride began her progress up the aisle and Juliana admired the look of pure terror that came and went on Andrew Brookes’s face. This is it, she thought. Brookes is caught in parson’s mousetrap at last. It happened to all the eligible rakes eventually. There was only Joss’s friend Sebastian Fleet left, if one discounted utterly ineligible libertines like Jasper Colling. Soon she would have no one to escort her about town. At least Brookes had made no bones about the fact that he was marrying for money. Both Joss and Adam had been odiously mawkish and had actually fallen in love with their brides. Juliana had no time for such sentiment. She had tried that and found it wanting.

She shifted a little on the pew, wishing that she had not come. It was one thing to cause a stir by attending the wedding of a supposed lover, but it was quite another to be obliged to sit quietly during the tedious proceedings. No one was looking at her now, for their attention was on the bride and groom. Juliana tried not to sneeze. For several minutes she had been aware of a large urn full of lilies that was placed on a plinth to her right. The lolling stamens were loaded with rich, orange pollen and looked vulgarly fecund. Juliana wondered if Eustacia would prove similarly blessed. Brookes had never wanted children. He had said that they were a tedious interruption to pleasure. Juliana had agreed with him, but when she had seen Martin’s tiny sister she had felt a pang…

Juliana sneezed and buried her nose in her handkerchief. Her throat felt thick with the pollen and her eyes had started to water. It was undignified. She was afraid that she would start to look ugly soon. She sneezed again, twice. Several people turned to hush her. The vicar was droning on about the reasons for marriage. Juliana’s memory suddenly presented her with the image of herself standing before the altar, a young débutante of eighteen, fathoms deep in love. Edwin had gripped her hand in his so tightly and she had smiled at him with a radiance that paled the sun. Eleven years ago…If only he had not left her…

The obstruction in Juliana’s throat suddenly seemed like a huge lump of stone and her eyes were streaming so much that she could not see properly. She knew that she had to escape.

She got to her feet and started to edge out of the pew towards the main door, treading on peoples’ toes as she went. She could not really see where she was going, and when she tripped over the end of the pew and someone caught her arm and steadied her, she was grateful.

‘This way, Lady Juliana,’ a low voice said in her ear. Her arm was seized in a firm grip and she was guided towards the door.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Juliana said.

She knew that she was outside when she felt the sun on her face and a soft breeze caressing her skin. Her eyes were still streaming and she was tolerably certain that she would be left looking red and watery, like a rabbit she had once owned as a child. It could not be helped. She had suffered from the hay fever for years, but it was unfortunate that she had had to experience an attack in public.

She felt her nose run and groped desperately for her handkerchief. One large blow was all the delicate cambric could take. It simply was not up to the task. As Juliana hesitated between the twin shame of wiping her nose on her sleeve or leaving it to drip, a large, white gentleman’s kerchief was pressed into her hand. Juliana grabbed it gratefully.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said again.

‘This way, Lady Juliana,’ the gentleman repeated. His grip on her arm increased as he urged her down the church steps. Juliana stumbled a little and felt one of his arms go about her. She drew breath to protest, for this was downright improper, but it was already too late. Through streaming eyes she saw a carriage draw up before them, then the door was thrown open and the gentleman bundled her inside. She did not have time to scream. She barely had time to breathe before the gentleman had leaped in beside her and the coachman gave the horses the office to move off. Tumbled on the seat, out of breath, her skirt rucked up about her knees, her eyes still blinded by tears, Juliana strove to regain her balance and her dignity.

‘What in God’s name do you think you are doing?’

‘Calm yourself, Lady Juliana.’ The gentleman sounded amused. ‘I am abducting you. Surely that is all par for the course for a lady of your reputation? Or do you prefer to do the kidnapping yourself?’

Juliana sat up straighter. She recognised that voice with its undertone of mockery. Now that her vision was clearing she could see her companion’s face. She sat up straighter.

‘Mr Davencourt! I did not request your escort anywhere! Kindly instruct your coachman to halt the horses so that I may get down.’

‘I regret that I cannot do that,’ Martin Davencourt said imperturbably. He had taken the seat across from Juliana and now sat negligently at ease, watching her with casual indifference. Juliana felt her blood fizz with irritation.

‘Pray, why not? It seems a simple enough request.’

Martin Davencourt shrugged. ‘Did you ever hear of an abduction ending so tamely? I do not think so. I cannot let you go, Lady Juliana.’

Juliana felt as though she was going to explode with annoyance. Her eyes were still streaming, her head ached and this insufferable man was acting as though one of them was mad and she knew which one. She tried to speak calmly.

‘Then the least that you can offer me in all courtesy is an explanation. I can scarce believe that you make a habit of abducting ladies like this, Mr Davencourt. You would be in Newgate if you did, and besides, you are far too respectable to do such a thing!’

Martin tilted his head to look at her. ‘Is that a challenge?’

‘No!’ Juliana turned her face away haughtily. ‘It is an insult!’

She diverted her gaze to the window, where the London streets were slipping past. She briefly considered jumping from the carriage, but rejected the idea as foolhardy. They were not travelling quickly—London traffic seldom did—but it was still a reckless idea and she would end up looking untidy or, worse, twisting her ankle.

She glanced back at Martin Davencourt. Perhaps he had conceived a hopeless passion for her the previous night and thought to carry her off to press his attentions on her. Juliana had a certain vanity, but she also had common sense and she knew this was unlikely. Only a half-hour earlier, Martin had looked at her with contempt, not appreciation. He was looking at her again now. His gaze moved over her thoughtfully as though he was making an inventory of her features. Juliana raised her chin.

‘Well?’

A smile twitched Martin Davencourt’s firm mouth. There were sunburned lines about his eyes that suggested that he laughed often. There were also two long grooves down his cheeks that deepened when he smiled. With a jolt of memory, Juliana recalled the curious pull of attraction she had felt for that smile when she was a girl. It was very appealing. He was very attractive. Juliana was irritated to realise that she found him so.

‘Well what?’ Martin said.

His coolness set Juliana back a little. She cleared her throat.

‘Well…I am still awaiting your explanation, sir. I realise that you have been absent from London for a long time, but it is not customary to behave in such a manner, you know. Even I seldom get abducted these days.’

Martin laughed. ‘Hence the need to create a stir in other ways, I suppose. I do feel that disrupting your lover’s wedding is particularly bad ton, Lady Juliana.’

Juliana frowned. ‘Disrupting…Oh, I see! You thought that I intended to make a scene!’

Despite herself, Juliana could not help a smile. So Martin had thought that she was intending to act the discarded mistress, throwing herself before the altar in a last passionate, tearful farewell. She stifled a laugh. Andrew Brookes was scarcely worth such a scene even if she had been inclined to make one. She looked at Martin, her eyes bright with mirth.

‘You are mistaken, sir. I had no such intention—’

But Martin had seen her smile and misinterpreted it. His lips set in a hard line.

‘Save your breath, Lady Juliana. I thought that your escapade last night was outrageous enough, in all truth, but this is beyond everything. The scarlet dress…’ His gaze flicked her again. ‘The crocodile tears…You are a consummate actress, are you not?’

Juliana caught her breath. ‘Tears? I suffer from the hay fever—’

Martin looked out of the window as though her explanations were of no interest to him. ‘You may spare me your denials. We have arrived.’

Juliana peered out of the window. They were in a pretty little square with tall town houses that were much like her own. The carriage rattled through a narrow archway and into a stable yard. Juliana turned to look at Martin.

‘Arrived where? The only place at which I wish to arrive is my own doorstep!’

Martin sighed. ‘I dare say. I cannot leave you alone, however, so I have brought you to my home. I promised my aunt that I would keep an eye on you and prevent you from ruining the wedding.’

Juliana sat back. ‘Your aunt? I collect that you mean Miss Havard’s mama?’

‘Precisely. She heard that you were Brookes’s mistress and was afraid that you would do something outrageous to ruin her daughter’s wedding day. It seems that she was quite right.’

‘I see.’ Juliana took a deep breath. ‘I thought that I was inventive, Mr Davencourt, but your imagination far outruns mine. Still, with such madness in the family, who can be surprised? I assure you that you—and Mrs Havard—are quite mistaken.’

‘I would like to believe you,’ Martin said politely, ‘but I fear that I cannot take the risk. If I let you go now, you would surely be in time to ruin the wedding breakfast.’

‘Perhaps I could dance on the table,’ Juliana said sarcastically, ‘unveiling myself as I did so!’

‘You did that last night, as I recall.’ Martin Davencourt’s gaze pinned her to the seat. ‘Now do you come inside willingly or must I carry you? It would be undignified for you, I fear.’

Juliana glared at him. ‘I never do anything undignified.’

Martin laughed. ‘Is that so? What about the time you visited Dr Graham’s famous nude mud baths in Piccadilly and insisted on the servants taking the bathtub outside? That must have provided quite a spectacle for the populace! How decorous was that?’

‘The mud-bathing was for the good of my health,’ Juliana said haughtily. ‘Besides, one would hardly bathe with one’s clothes on. Think of the dirtiness.’

‘Hmm. Your argument is unconvincing. And what about the occasion on which you dressed as a demi-mondaine to trick Lord Berkeley into betraying his wife? Was that dignified? Was it even kind?’

‘That was only a jest,’ Juliana said sulkily. She was beginning to feel like a naughty child receiving a telling off. ‘Besides, Berkeley did not fall for it.’

‘Even so, I doubt that Lady Berkeley found the joke prodigiously amusing,’ Martin said drily. ‘I hear she cried for several days.’

‘Well, that is her problem,’ Juliana said, her temper catching alight. ‘And what a bore you are proving to be, Mr Davencourt! What do you do for entertainment? Read the newspaper? Or is that too dangerously exciting for you?’

‘Sometimes I read The Times,’ Martin said, ‘or the parliamentary reports—’

‘Lud! I might have known!’

Martin ignored her. A footman opened the carriage door and let the steps down. Juliana accepted Martin’s hand down on to the cobbles with a certain distaste, removing herself from his grip as quickly as possible. The whole situation seemed absurd, but she could not immediately see what she could do about it. Martin Davencourt was disinclined to listen to her explanations and by now she was so angry with him for his accusations that she was unwilling to elucidate anyway. They were at an impasse.

She looked about her with some curiosity. They were in a neat brick coach yard at the back of the row of town houses and now Martin guided her towards a door leading into the building. His hand was warm on the small of her back, his touch decisive.

A strange sensation crept through Juliana. Annoyed with herself, she retorted, ‘Smuggling me in through the back door, Mr Davencourt? Are you afraid that I will kick up a fuss if you allow anyone to see me?’

‘I certainly do not trust you,’ Martin said, with the hint of a smile. He held the door open for her. ‘This way, Lady Juliana.’

The door closed with a quiet click behind them and the stone-flagged passage was cool after the sunshine outside. As Juliana’s eyes adjusted to the dimness she saw that Martin was leading her into a wide hallway floored in pale pink stone and decorated with statues and leafy green plants. Most of the light came from a large cupola set above the stair and the sunlight filtered through the leaves, making dancing shadows on the floor. It was charming and restful.

‘Oh, how pretty!’ Juliana had spoken before she thought and now she saw that Martin was looking a little surprised at her unfeigned enthusiasm. He also looked pleased.

‘Thank you. I was very pleased when the reality matched my plans.’

Juliana looked at him in surprise. ‘But surely you did not design it yourself?’

‘Why not? I assure you it was not difficult. I saw plenty of Italian palaces to inspire me when I was travelling. My sister Clara helped with the colours and the design. She has a flair for these things.’

Juliana sighed. She, too, had travelled in Italy, but the sights that she had seen had been as far removed from palaces as it was possible to be. Lodging houses with flearidden beds and damp running down the walls; stinking canals where rotten vegetables and the decaying corpses of dogs floated together…The heat, the smell, the noise…and the constant, drunken ranting of Clive Massingham, who had run away with her to escape his debts, only to abandon her within two weeks of their wedding.

Juliana shuddered.

Martin opened a door for her and Juliana preceded him into a small drawing room. It was painted in lemon and white and consequently seemed full of light. The rosewood furniture complemented it perfectly. Juliana reflected that Clara Davencourt must indeed have an eye for style.

‘May I offer you some refreshment, Lady Juliana?’ Martin asked, with scrupulous courtesy.

Juliana gave him a level stare. ‘I will take a glass of wine, thank you. Or will my stay be a protracted one? Perhaps I should request an entire dinner?’

Martin smiled. ‘I hope that you will not have to stay here too long—’

‘Oh, you hope it, too! Well, that is an encouragement!’ Juliana gave him a wide smile. ‘I shuddered to think that you intended to inflict your company on me for hours!’

Martin sighed. ‘Please sit down, Lady Juliana.’

Juliana sat on the rosewood sofa, jumping up a moment later as something sharp pressed into her hip. Investigation proved that it was a small, wooden sailing ship, a child’s toy. She placed it carefully on the table.

‘My sister Daisy’s boat,’ Martin said. He passed her a glass of wine. ‘I do beg your pardon, Lady Juliana. Daisy leaves her toys all over the house. Ships are a particular favourite with her at the moment for I have been telling her about my travels.’

He broke off abruptly as though he had just remembered that he was not chatting to an acquaintance but that there was another purpose to their engagement. A rather strained silence descended.

After several minutes had passed, the exquisite white gold clock on the mantel struck twelve. They both jumped at the loud chime.

Juliana was starting to feel amused.

‘I do believe, Mr Davencourt, that now you have me you are not sure what to do with me! It occurs to me that as we are to be here some little time we might get to know each other better, so why don’t we—?’

‘No!’ Martin did not wait for her to finish. He was scowling. ‘I have no wish to take up your offer, Lady Juliana. Besides, my younger brother is returning from Cambridge shortly—’

‘Then perhaps I may talk to him, if you do not care to speak with me,’ Juliana said neatly. She saw with satisfaction that she had actually put him to the blush. Caught, fair and square.

‘Talk! I thought that you meant—’ Martin Davencourt stopped abruptly.

‘You thought that I meant to proposition you again.’ Juliana rearranged her silken skirts demurely about her and took a sip of wine. She watched him over the rim, a smile in her eyes. ‘My dear Mr Davencourt, I do assure you that I can take a hint as well as the next person. Besides, you yourself suggested that you were not an appropriate conquest for me and that I should be more particular.’

‘I suppose that I deserved that.’ A faint, self-deprecating smile touched Martin Davencourt’s mouth. He looked rueful. Juliana rather liked him for it. She could not help herself. So many men were so proud that they could not bear to be caught out, but Martin had the confidence to admit when he had been worsted.

‘As you do not care to be seduced by me,’ she continued sweetly, ‘why do we not talk about old times? How long ago was it that we met at Ashby Tallant? Fourteen years? Fifteen?’ She put her head on one side and gave him an appraising look. ‘I might have guessed that you would turn out like this. A dull boy so often becomes a dull man, although I suppose that you have improved in looks at least.’

Martin did not appear remotely insulted by this backhanded compliment. He laughed. ‘You have changed, too, Lady Juliana. I thought you such a sweet child.’

‘Either your memory is faulty or your judgement was not sound at the age of fifteen,’ Juliana said. ‘I am sure that I was exactly as I am now. Though I am surprised that you remember me at all, sir, for you were forever damming the stream or building fortifications or doing whatever it is that boys do.’

Martin smiled. ‘I am sure that we both found the other tiresome, Lady Juliana. Adolescent boys and girls seldom have much common ground. You were interested only in balls and dancing and you fell asleep when I tried to explain to you Nelson’s battle plan at Trafalgar—’

‘And you could not have performed the quadrille to save your life,’ Juliana finished. ‘I dare say that we had little in common then and nothing in common now.’ She smoothed her scarlet skirts and yawned ostentatiously. ‘This is going to be an unconscionably long hour or so, is it not?’

Martin sat back in his chair and studied her thoughtfully.

‘Indulge my curiosity then, Lady Juliana. Did you truly imagine that Andrew Brookes would leave Eustacia at the altar for you? Or were you merely seeking to cause trouble?’

Juliana sighed. So they were back to that again. She knew that he had not believed her before.

‘Mr Davencourt,’ she said, with heavy patience, ‘you do not strike me as a stupid man so I shall repeat this only once. Your suspicions of me are false. I had no scheme to wreck your cousin’s wedding, still less to keep Brookes for myself. Why, I have exhausted all his potential! I assure you I would not have him if he were packaged in gold!’

She saw a flicker of a smile in Martin Davencourt’s eyes, but it vanished as swiftly as it had come. His blue gaze was keen on her face. ‘Yet he was your lover.’

The colour came into Juliana’s cheeks. She raised her chin. ‘He was not. And even had he been, I would not have stooped so low as to spoil your cousin’s wedding day.’

Martin looked thoughtful. ‘No? Love can prompt one to all kinds of irrational acts.’

‘I am aware. But I doubt that you are, Mr Davencourt. I think it unlikely you have ever fallen in love. No doubt you would consider it too dangerous.’

Martin laughed. ‘You are mistaken, Lady Juliana. I am sure that all young men fall in love at some point in their salad days.’

‘But not when they have reached the age of discretion?’ Juliana pulled a face. ‘I expect you are too old for that sort of thing now.’

Martin sat back in his chair. ‘Touché, Lady Juliana. I confess that I have not felt any partiality for a lady for many years. And better that way. Matters such as marriage are best conducted with a clear mind. But we were speaking of your past loves, not mine.’

‘No, we were not,’ Juliana snapped. ‘I have no desire to rehearse my past history, nor to debate morality with you, sir. I find that men are tiresomely hypocritical on such matters.’

‘Are we? You mean that you dislike the double standard that is so often applied?’

‘Of course I do! What right-thinking woman would not dismiss it as unreasonable? A tenet that says a man may behave as a rake without censure, yet if a woman does the same she is branded a whore? It has to be a man who made that rule, do you not agree?’

Martin laughed. ‘I concede that it is unjust, but there are plenty of people, women as well as men, who believe in it.’

Juliana turned her shoulder. ‘I am aware. Let us change the subject, or I fear I shall become very ill-tempered.’

‘Very well. Let us return to the case in point.’ Martin sighed. ‘If I have made a mistake about your intentions at the wedding, then I apologise, Lady Juliana. It was an honest mistake.’

‘Based on a ridiculous assumption,’ Juliana said.

‘Not quite ridiculous. Not after your behaviour last night.’

‘I do wish you would stop raising that!’ Juliana said furiously. She felt very frustrated. ‘Last night was intended as a jest. As for my tears at the wedding, if you suspect that I am deceiving you about my hay fever—’ she invested the words with a heavy sarcasm ‘—then approach me with that vase of roses from the mantelpiece and I will sneeze for as long as it takes to convince you.’

She put her wineglass down and got to her feet. ‘I do believe that we have exhausted this topic, Mr Davencourt. Certainly I am becoming quite dreadfully bored of your company. I assume that I am free to go now?’

Martin made a slight gesture. ‘Of course.’

‘You are not concerned that I will return to disrupt the wedding breakfast?’

‘I think not. You have said that that is not your aim and I believe you.’

Juliana inclined her head frigidly. ‘Thank you. Then it would be helpful of you to procure me a hack. I do believe it is the least you can do.’

Martin got to his feet. ‘I will send for the carriage for you.’

He came across to her and looked down into her face for a moment. ‘Hay fever,’ he said slowly. ‘When I saw you in the church I was so sure that you were crying…’

He raised a hand and gently brushed away the smudge of a tear on her cheek with one thumb. Juliana felt her pulse skip a beat.

‘Andrew Brookes is not worth anyone’s tears,’ she said abruptly.

Martin’s hand fell. He stepped back. Juliana felt relieved. Just for a second he had completely undermined her defences.

‘I share your opinion of Brookes, Lady Juliana,’ he said, ‘but I want Eustacia to be happy. It would be a shame for her to be disillusioned so early in her marriage.’

‘It will happen to her sooner or later,’ Juliana said, moving towards the door, ‘and you would be a simpleton to think otherwise. Andrew Brookes is not capable of fidelity.’

Martin pulled a face. ‘I bow to your superior knowledge of the gentleman, Lady Juliana. You sound very cynical. Do you then believe all men faithless?’

Juliana paused, swallowing the confirmation that instinctively rose to her lips. There was something about Martin Davencourt that always seemed to demand an honest answer. It was disconcerting.

‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘Where a man truly loves I believe he may be faithful. But there are some men who are not capable of love or fidelity, and Brookes is one of those.’

‘I hear that it is your preferred type. Brookes, Colling, Massingham…’

Juliana had herself in hand again. ‘Lud, I do not choose men for their fidelity, Mr Davencourt. What an odd notion! I choose them for their entertainment value.’

‘I see,’ Martin said, heavily ironic. ‘Then I had better detain you no further. I cannot imagine that you will find what you are seeking in this house.’

Juliana grimaced. ‘No. Nor can I.’ She paused. ‘The wedding service will be over now, I suppose.’

‘Indeed.’ Martin checked the white gold clock on the mantle. ‘Do you have regrets about letting Andrew Brookes go after all, Lady Juliana?’

‘No,’ Juliana said pleasantly. ‘I was merely concerned about your sister Daisy—the little bridesmaid? She will be wondering where you are.’

There was a pause. For a second Juliana saw a quizzical look in Martin’s eyes, as though she had surprised him.

‘My sister Araminta is taking care of Daisy and the other girls,’ he said. ‘Besides, she is in such high good spirits to be a bridesmaid that I am sure she will scarcely miss me.’

‘I doubt that,’ Juliana said, feeling a small pang for Daisy Davencourt. ‘I assure you that children notice these things.’

She realised that her tone had been more wistful than she had intended. Martin was still watching her with speculation in his eyes. His perception unnerved her. She gave him a bright smile.

‘If you will excuse me, sir, I will leave. So many more marriages to blight, you know! I cannot afford to waste time here. Although…’ her voice warmed as a thought struck her ‘…perhaps it will enhance my bad reputation for it to be known that you whisked me away from the wedding service. Yes, I do believe I shall encourage that rumour. We were overcome with wild passion and could not restrain ourselves.’

‘Lady Juliana,’ Martin said, a thread of steel in his tone, ‘if I hear for one moment that you are putting that story about I shall denounce it—and you—publicly.’

Juliana opened her eyes wide. ‘But this is all your fault, Mr Davencourt, with your ridiculous suspicions of me! Most young ladies would take advantage of their abduction to oblige you to marry them!’

Martin’s lips twitched. ‘Doing it too brown, Lady Juliana. I cannot imagine that you would wish to marry me even for a minute!’

‘No, of course not. But the very least you could do is permit me to use it to enhance my poor reputation.’

‘Certainly not.’

Juliana pouted. ‘Oh, you are so stuffy! But I suppose you are correct in one sense—no one would believe in a hundred years that I could possibly be attracted to you!’

They stared at one another for a long moment, but before Martin could respond there was the sound of voices and footsteps on the tiled floor of the hall. The door was flung open and a gentleman burst in.

‘Martin, I’ve—’ He stopped abruptly, looked from Martin to Juliana and back again. ‘I beg your pardon. I had thought you to be at the wedding, and when Liddington said that you were home I did not realise you had company.’

‘I was at the wedding and I do have company,’ Martin said. He smiled slightly. ‘Lady Juliana, may I make you known to my brother Brandon? Brandon, this is Lady Juliana Myfleet.’

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