With a little nod of satisfaction George strolled toward the Black Lion. Having experienced the pleasures of London, he was determined that he would spend some weeks of every year in town-in the winter, of course, when the land needed less attention.
Juliana would make him a more than satisfactory consort. She'd grown up in a gentleman's establishment, educated in all the areas necessary for a lady. She knew how to behave in the best society . . . better than he, himself, George was obliged to admit. George was his father's son. The son of a blunt, poorly educated landowner, who was more interested in his crops and his woods, his sport, his dinner and the bottle, than in books or music, or polite conversation. But Juliana was a lady.
But where in the name of Lucifer was she? George's self-satisfaction and pleasure in the day suddenly evaporated. It was all very well making these happy plans, but they were castles in the air without the flesh-and-blood girl to make them real. He had to have her as his wife. He wanted her in his bed. He wanted to see the superiority and contempt chased from her eyes as she acknowledged him as her husband and master.
Juliana, with her eyes that could be as cold and green as the deepest ocean; Juliana, with her full mouth that could curl into a derisive smile that shriveled a man; Juliana, with that swirling forest fire of hair and the long limbs, and the full, proudly upstanding breasts.
He would have that Juliana, obedient and docile in his house and in his bed. Or he would see her burn at the stake.
George turned into the Black Lion and ordered a bottle of burgundy. He would find her, if he had to pay a hundred guineas to do so.
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Juliana was in a very different frame of mind, Quentin thought as the three of them sat at dinner. On the two previous occasions he'd been in her company, she'd been clearly distressed, and this morning, bitterly angry into the bargain. But now her eyes were luminescent jewels, her pale skin had a glow that seemed to come from within. She was bright and bubbly, with ready laughter and a quick wit that showed an informed mind. She threw impish challenges at Tarquin, and occasionally a darting glance that always made the duke smile.
Quentin was neither a prude nor a stranger to women, despite his calling. It didn't take a genius to deduce that Lady Edgecombe had been enjoying some bedsport that afternoon. His brother's indulgent amusement and the unmistakable caress of his eyes when they rested on Juliana clearly indicated that however much at odds they might be in some things, the Duke of Redmayne and his cousin's bride were clearly well matched in the bedchamber.
Quentin supposed he should be disapproving. But he was not a hypocrite. He'd lent his countenance to Tarquin's abominable scheme-reluctantly, it was true, but he was still a part of it. If Juliana took pleasure in the duke's lovemaking, then it could be said that she was not really being coerced in this aspect, at least, of the arrangement.
Juliana wasn't sure whether her feeling of heady enjoyment in this dinner was a residue of the afternoon or had to do with the novel position in which she found herself. The only woman at the table, she was the focus of attention. At Forsett Towers, she'd been relegated to a cramped corner of the table, enjoined to be silent unless spoken to, and had thus endured interminable dinners, passing some of the most tedious hours of her life. At this table, whenever she opened her mouth to speak, both the duke and his brother paid her close and flattering attention.
'What is the play we're to see?' She reached for her wineglass. A footman moved swiftly to catch the cascade of cutlery set in motion by her floating sleeve.
'Garrick as Macbeth,' Tarquin replied with a twitch of amusement as she glared in mortification at the errant ruffles.
'There'll be a farce, too, no doubt,' Quentin said. 'And since Garrick appointed Thomas Arne as the musical director, one can be sure of lively entertainment during the musical interludes.'
'I've never been to the play.' Juliana held her sleeve clear of the table as she reached for a basket of pastries. 'At home the mummers would come at Christmas, and occasionally during the fair, but there was never a real play.'
'I trust you'll enjoy the experience.' Tarquin was surprised at how enchanting he found her enthusiastic chatter and ready laughter. This was a Juliana he'd only fleetingly glimpsed hitherto. She also had a healthy appetite. Either no one had told her it was considered ladylike to modify one's enthusiasm for the table in public, or she had simply ignored the stricture. Probably the latter, he thought with an inner smile. Her conversation was both amusing and intelligent. Her guardians had clearly not neglected her education, however much they might have endeavored to stifle her personality.
'Have I a smut on my nose, my lord duke?' Juliana inquired, brushing her nose with a fingertip.
'I don't see one.'
'You seemed to be looking at me with particular intensity,' she said. 'I made sure something was amiss with my appearance.'
'Not that I can see.' He pushed back his chair. 'If you've finished, my dear, I suggest we adjourn to the drawing room for tea.'
'Oh, yes.' Juliana flushed and jumped to her feet, sending her chair skidding across the polished floor. 'I should have thought, I beg your pardon. I'll leave you to your port.'
'No need,' Tarquin said, steadying the chair so she could move easily around it. 'Quentin and I are not overly fond of sitting long at the table. Isn't that so, brother?'
'Absolutely,' Quentin agreed. 'I see no reason why Juliana should sit in solitary state in the drawing room while we sozzle ourselves on port.'
'Lucien, of course, would have a different view,' Tarquin observed.
Juliana glanced quickly over her shoulder at him, but his expression was as dispassionate as his tone. What difference to the atmosphere would her husband's presence make? A significant one, she reckoned.
But she didn't allow such thoughts to interfere with her pleasure in the evening. She had fallen into this situation, and she might as well enjoy its benefits.
They drove to Covent Garden in the duke's town chaise, Juliana gazing out of the window, intrigued as London moved onto its nightly revels. It was the first time she'd been out in the evening since she had stepped off the coach at the Bell, and when they turned into Covent Garden, she saw it had a very different aspect from the daytime scene. The costermongers and barrow boys had gone, the produce stalls packed up for the day. The center of the Garden was now thronged with ladies accompanied by footmen, soliciting custom, and boys darting through the crowd crying the delights to be enjoyed in the specialized brothels masquerading as coffeehouses and chocolate shops.
Beneath the columns of the Piazza strolled fashionable people, quizzing the scene as they made their way to the Theatre Royal, whose doors stood open. It was now just before six o'clock, and the crowd at the doors was a seething mass of humanity, fighting and squabbling as they pushed their way inside to find a last-minute seat.
Juliana looked askance at the melee and wondered how she was to get through there with her wide hoop. She was bound to tear something in the process. 'Doesn't the play begin at six?'
'It does.' Tarquin handed her down to the cobbles before the theater.
'But if we have no seats-'
'We do, my dear,' Quentin reassured with a smile. 'Tarquin's footman arrived at the doors at four o'clock in plenty of time to secure us a box.'
So that was how the privileged managed such things. Juliana raised an eyebrow and decided she liked being one of their number. She had the duke and Lord Quentin on either side of her as they approached the massed doorway. How it happened she couldn't tell, but a path materialized through the crowd and she was suddenly inside the theater, her gown in one piece, not even a ruffle torn, both shoes still on her feet, and her hoop behaving itself impeccably. She had a vague impression that her two escorts had touched a shoulder here and there, uttered a few words in low voices, edged an impeding body to one side. However it had been done, they were inside.
The orchestra was playing but could barely be heard above the buzz and chatter as people strolled between the seats, pausing to chat to friends or calling across heads to attract attention in other parts of the pit. Above the racket the cries of the orange sellers were pitched shrill and imperative.
'This way.' Juliana was deftly ushered to a box overlooking the stage, where a footman in Redmayne livery stood bowing as they entered. Tarquin didn't release Juliana's elbow until she was seated at the front of the box. 'Now, if you don't try to explore, you'll be safe and sound,' he said, sitting beside her.
'I shan't go short of entertainment.' Juliana leaned over the edge of the box. 'If the play is half as absorbing as the crowd, I shall be very well satisfied. Why do they have those iron spikes along the stage?'
'To stop the audience jumping onto the stage.' Tarquin smiled at her rapt expression. 'You see the rather burly men behind? They're an added deterrent.'
Juliana laughed. 'I am so glad I came to London.' Then she flushed, a shadow dimming the vibrancy of her expression. 'Or I would be in different circumstances.'
Quentin touched her shoulder in brief sympathy. Tarquin chose to ignore the comment. There was a moment of awkward silence; then the orchestra produced an imperative drumroll. The curtain went up, and David Garrick strode onto the stage to deliver the prologue to the evening's entertainment.
Juliana listened, entranced, as the play began. The audience continued to buzz and hum, carrying on their own gossipy conversations throughout, but Juliana was unaware of anything but the stage. It didn't occur to her as in the least strange that Macbeth should be played in contemporary costume, with Garrick in the title role dressed in the full regalia of a Hanoverian officer.
At the first interval she sat back with a little sigh of contentment. 'How magical. It's quite different hearing the words from reading them, even aloud.'
'I'm glad it pleases you, mignonne.' Tarquin stood up. 'If you'll excuse me for a minute, there's someone I must visit.' He strolled off, and Juliana returned her attention to the crowd. An argument seemed to be turning nasty in the front row, and a man was threatening to draw his sword. Someone bellowed in jocular fashion and threw a handful of orange peel over the two opponents. There was laughter, and the moment of tension seemed to have dissipated.
Juliana glanced across the pit to the boxes opposite. She saw the duke directly opposite, standing behind the chair of a woman dressed in dark gray, almost black, with a white fichu at the neck and her hair tucked severely under a white cap. She was looking up at Tarquin as he spoke to her.
'Who's the duke talking to?'
Quentin didn't look up from his own perusal of the crowd. 'Lady Lydia Melton, I imagine. His betrothed.' There was something false in his studied, casual tone, but Juliana was too astonished by this intelligence to give it any thought.
'His betrothed?' She couldn't have kept the dismay from her voice even if she'd tried. 'He's to be married?'
'Did he not tell you?' Still, Quentin neither looked at her nor at the object of the discussion.
'No… it seems there's a great deal he didn't tell me.' All her pleasure in the evening vanished, and the bitter resentment of the morning returned.
'I daresay he thought his betrothal was irrelevant to you… to everyone,' he added softly.
'Yes, irrelevant,' she said acidly. 'Why should it matter to me?'
'Well, it won't be happening for quite a while,' Quentin told her, his voice flat. 'The marriage was to have taken place two months ago, but Lydia's grandfather died and the entire family have put on black gloves. They'll be in mourning for the full two years.'
'Then why's she at the play?' Juliana demanded tartly. 'It seems hardly consistent with deep mourning.'
'It is Macbeth,' Quentin pointed out. 'They'll leave before the farce.'
'Seems very hypocritical to me.' Juliana squinted across the playhouse, trying to get a better look at Lady Lydia Melton. It was difficult to form an impression in the flickering light of the flambeaux that lit the stage and the pit. 'How old is she?'
'Twenty-eight.'
'She's on the shelf,' Juliana stated.
'I should refrain from passing judgment when you don't know the facts,' Quentin said sharply. 'Lydia and Tarquin have been betrothed from the cradle, but the death of Tarquin's mother three years ago postponed the marriage. And now Lydia's grandfather's demise has created another put-off.'
'Oh. I didn't mean to sound catty.' Juliana gave him a chastened smile. 'I'm just taken aback.'
Quentin's expression softened. 'Yes, I can imagine you might be.'
Juliana stared hard across the separating space and suddenly noticed that the lady was looking directly at her. It was clear that Juliana herself was under discussion when Tarquin raised a hand in a gesture of acknowledgment and Lady Lydia bowed from the waist. Juliana responded in like manner. 'I wonder what they're saying about me.'
