Wayward Widow. Nicola Cornick
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