Vice

She looked up, shaking her hair away from her face, and he saw he'd been exactly right. 'I don't give a damn what other women manage! I find them insupportable.' She extended one foot, flexing it to stretch the cramped arch.

'Practice makes perfect,' Tarquin said, taking the discarded shoe off the console table. He picked up the other one that had come to rest in the coal scuttle. He blew coal dust from the pale silk, murmuring, 'What cavalier treatment for a fifty-guinea pair of shoes.'

So he had paid for them. Juliana leaned back in her chair and said carelessly, 'I'm sure they won't go to waste, Your Grace. There must be harlots aplenty eager to accept such gifts.'

'That might be so,' he agreed judiciously. 'If women with feet this size were easy to find.'

The return of the footman with the claret gave Juliana the opportunity to bite her tongue on an undignified retort. When the man had left, she was prepared to launch her appeal to the duke's finer feelings.

'My lord duke,' she began, getting to her feet, standing very straight and still. 'I must beg you to cease this persecution. I cannot do what you ask. It's preposterous… it's barbaric that you should demand such a thing of someone you know has no protection and no friends. There must be women who would be willing… eager, even… to enter such a contract. But I'm not of their number. Please, I beg you, let me leave this place unmolested.'

Almost every woman Tarquin could think of in Juliana's situation would leap at what he was offering-wealth, position, security. The girl was either a simpleton or very unusual. He kept his thoughts to himself, however, remarking, 'Somehow, I have the impression that pleading is foreign to your nature, mignonne.' He took a sip of his claret. 'That little speech lacked a certain ring of conviction.'

'Oh, be damned to you for a Judasly rogue!' Juliana cried. 'Base whoreson! Stinking gutter sweeping. If you think you can bend me to your will, then I tell you, you have never been more mistaken in your entire misbegotten existence!'

She leaped across the space separating them, tripped over the hem of her gown, grabbed at a chair to right herself, and turned on him, shaking her hair out of her eyes, her fingers curled into claws, her teeth bared, her eyes spitting hatred.

Tarquin took a hasty step back. Abruptly he lost the desire to laugh. Miss Juliana didn't take kindly to mockery. 'Very well.' He held up his hands in a placating gesture. 'I ask your pardon for being so flippant. Sit down again, and we'll begin anew.'

Juliana stopped. A hectic flush mantled her usually creamy cheeks, and her bosom rose and fell in a violent rhythm as she struggled to control herself. 'You are the son of a gutter bitch,' she said with low-voiced savagery.

Tarquin raised his eyebrows. Enough was enough. He said nothing until her flush had died and her erratic breathing had slowed; then he asked coolly, 'Have you finished roundly abusing me?'

'There's no abuse I can inflict on you, my lord duke, to equal that which you would inflict upon me,' she said bitterly.

'I have no intention of abusing you. Sit down before the room disintegrates in your cyclone and take a glass of claret.'

The deliberately bored tone was deflating. Juliana sat down and accepted the glass of wine he brought her. The outburst had drained her. leaving her hovering on the brink of hopelessness. 'Why won't you find someone else?' she asked wearily.

Tarquin sat down opposite her. 'Because, my dear, you are a perfect choice.' He began to tick off on his fingers. 'You have the necessary breeding to appear as Lucien's wife without causing raised eyebrows. And you have both the breeding and certain qualities that I believe will make you a good mother to my child. And, finally, you need what I am offering in exchange. Safety, a good position, financial security. And most of all, Juliana, independence.'

'Independence?' She raised a disbelieving eyebrow. 'And how does that square with being a brood mare?'

Tarquin stood up and went to refill his glass. The girl was not a simpleton, but he was beginning to wonder whether, unusual or no, she was worth the time and the trouble he was expending. There were other women, as she so rightly pointed out. Women who'd jump at what he was offering. He turned back and examined her in silence, reflectively sipping his claret.

She was sitting back again, her eyes closed, her hair living fire around her pale face. The deep cleft between her breasts drew his eye. There was something intriguing as well as unusual about her. Her defiant resistance was such a novel challenge, he found it irresistible He wanted to know what made her so unexpected, so out of the common way. What soil had she grown in? Maybe he was being a fool, but his blood sang with the conviction that Miss Juliana was definitely worth the time and the trouble to persuade.

He put his glass down and came over to her. Bending, he took her hands and drew her to her feet. 'Let me show you something.'

Juliana opened her mouth in protest and then gasped as his mouth closed over hers. His hands were in her hair, holding her head steady, and his lips were firm and pliant on hers. His tongue ran over her mouth, darting into the corners in a warm, playful caress that for a moment took her breath away. She was enclosed in a red darkness, all her senses focused on her mouth, on the taste and feel of his. Her lips parted at the delicate pressure, and his tongue slid inside, moving sinuously, exploring her mouth, fdling her mouth with sweetness, sending hot surges of confused longing from her head to her toes.

Slowly he drew hack and smiled down into her startled face, his fingers still curled in her hair. 'That was what I wanted to show you.'

'You… you ravished me!'

Tarquin threw his head back and laughed. 'Not so, mignonne. I made you a promise.' He moved one hand to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her reddened mouth.

Juliana stared up at him, and he read the confusion, the dismay, and the excitement in her eyes.

'I promised you that what happens between us will bring you only pleasure. Nothing will happen to you, Juliana, that you don't wholeheartedly agree to.'

'Then let me go,' she begged, recognizing with quiet desperation that if she was compelled to remain, then Tarquin, Duke of Redmayne, would defeat her. She had yielded to his kiss. She hadn't fought him. Sweet heaven, she'd opened her mouth for his tongue without a moment's hesitation.

'No, you must remain in this house-that I insist upon.'

Slowly Juliana crossed the room and picked up her discarded shoes. Sitting down, she slipped her feet into them. She knew he would see it as a symbolic gesture of acceptance, but at the moment she was too dispirited for further fighting.

She rose as slowly and walked to the door. 'I beg leave to bid you good night, my lord duke.' She curtsied formally, her voice low and expressionless.

'You have leave,' he responded with a smile. 'We will begin anew tomorrow.'

Chapter 6

You want me to take a wife!' Lucien threw back his head on a shout of derisive laughter that disintegrated into a violent fit of coughing. Tarquin waited impassively as his cousin fought for sobbing breaths, his chest rattling, a sheen of perspiration gathering on his pale, sallow complexion.

'By God. Tarquin, I do believe you've finally lost your wits!' Lucien managed at last, falling back into his chair. He was clearly exhausted, but he still grinned, a gleam of malevolent interest in the dark, burning sockets of his eyes.

'I doubt that,' the duke said calmly. He filled a glass with cognac and handed it to his cousin.

Lucien drained it in one gulp and sighed. 'That's better. Eases the tightness.' He patted his chest and extended his glass. 'Another, dear fellow, if you please.'

Tarquin glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was ten in the morning. Then he shrugged and refilled the viscount's glass. 'Are you able to listen to me now:''

'Oh, by all means… by all means.' Lucien assured him, still grinning. 'Why else would I obey your summons so promptly? Amuse me, dear boy. I'm in sore need of entertainment.'

Tarquin sat down and regarded his cousin in silence for a minute. His expression was dispassionate, showing no sign of the deep disgust he felt for this wreck of a young man who had willfully cast away every advantage of birth, breeding, and fortune, pursuing a course of self-destruction and depravity that considered no indulgence or activity too vile.

Sometimes Tarquin wondered why Lucien had turned out as he had. Sometimes he wondered if he, as the boy's guardian, bore any responsibility. He'd tried to be an elder brother to Lucien, to provide an understanding and steadying influence in his life, but Lucien had always evaded him in some way. He'd always been dislikable, defeating even Quentin's determination to see the good in him.

'Your passion for little boys has become something of a family liability,' he observed, withdrawing a Sevres snuffbox from his pocket. 'That rather nasty business with the Dalton boy seems to have become common knowledge.'

Lucien had ceased to look amused. His expression was sullen and wary. 'It was all hushed up quite satisfactorily.'

Tarquin shook his head. 'Apparently not.' He took a pinch of snuff and replaced the box before continuing. 'If you wish to continue with your present lifestyle in London, you need to protect yourself from further whispers. A charge against you would inevitably mean your exile… unless, of course, you were prepared to hang for your preferences.'

Lucien glowered. 'You're making mountains out of molehills, cousin.'

'Am I?' The duke raised an eyebrow. 'Read this.' He drew a broadsheet out of his waistcoat pocket and tossed it across. 'That story on the front has been providing entertaining gossip in every coffeehouse in town. Remarkable likeness, I think. The artist has a fine eye for caricature.'

Lucien read the story, his scowl deepening. The artist's caricature of himself was as lewd and suggestive as the scurrilous description of an incident in the Lady Chapel involving a nobleman and an altar boy at St. Paul's Cathedral.

'Who wrote this?' He hurled the sheet to the floor. 'I'll have his ears pinned to the pillory.'

'Certainly. If you want everyone to know who you are,' the duke observed, bending to pick up the sheet. He shook his head, marveling, 'It really is a remarkably good likeness. A stroke of genius.'

Lucien tore savagely at his thumbnail with his teeth. 'A plague on him! Just let me find out who he is, and I'll run him through.'

'Not, I trust, in the back,' Tarquin said, his voice mild but his eyes snapping contempt.

Lucien flushed a dark, mottled crimson. 'That never happened.'

'Of course not,' Tarquin said in silken tones. 'Never let it be said that an Edgecombe would put his sword into a man's back.'

Lucien sprang to his feet. 'Accuse me of that again, Redmayne, and I'll meet you at Barnes Common.'

'No, I don't think so,' Tarquin responded, his lip curling. 'I've no intention of committing murder.'

'You think you could-'

'Yes!' the duke interrupted, his voice now sharp and penetrating. 'Yes, I would kill you, Lucien, with swords or pistols, and you know it. Now, stop sparring with me and sit down.'

Lucien flung himself into the chair again and spat a piece of thumbnail onto the carpet.

'I lost interest long ago in trying to persuade you to choose another way of life,' Tarquin said. 'You are a vicious reprobate and a pederast, but I'll not have you bringing public dishonor on the family name. Which is what will happen if the parent of some other altar boy decides to bring charges against you. Take a wife and be discreet. The rumors and the scandals will die immediately.' He tapped the broadsheet with a finger.

Lucien's eyes narrowed. 'You're not foolin' me, Redmayne. You wouldn't give a damn if they hanged me, except for the blot on the family escutcheon.' He smiled, looking very pleased with himself as if he'd just successfully performed a complex intellectual exercise.