Wayward Widow. Nicola Cornick
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