Wayward Widow

‘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?’