Wayward Widow

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.