Wayward Widow

‘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.’