Juliana took it. "A little while" seemed promising. Vaguely, she wondered how long his own robe had been hanging in her armoire. Equally vaguely, she wondered how he'd known it would be there. She took the glass of wine he handed her.
She shook her head when he offered lobster and asparagus but nibbled on a candied fruit, sipping her wine, watching him eat.
"I suppose we should make haste with the marriage ceremony," she said after a minute or two. "If I've conceived, it might be awkward to explain a premature infant."
Tarquin looked up from his supper with a quick frown. "There's no need to discuss that tonight. Juliana."
"But since it's the object of the exercise…" She didn't know why she was bringing it up now. It had immediately cast a pall over her rosy glow. But she couldn't seem to stop herself. "I beg your pardon, my lord duke." She sketched a curtsy. "It was very clumsy of me to bring it up. I daresay it's because I'm inexperienced in the art of pleasing men. When I've become more accustomed to life in a bawdy house, I'm certain I won't offend again."
The duke stared at her for a moment; then he chuckled. "What a provoking child you are," he said. "Have another sweetmeat." He passed her the basket.
Juliana hesitated; then, with a tiny shrug, she took a sugared almond and sat down on the chaise longue.
Tarquin's brief nod indicated approval, and he returned to his lobster. "As it happens, I believe we should proceed with the marriage ceremony with all speed," he observed, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. "In my waistcoat pocket you'll find something that might interest you."
Juliana went to the chair where his clothes still lay. She felt in the pocket of his waistcoat and drew out a piece of folded parchment. "What is it?"
"Take a look." He leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine, regarding her closely as she unfolded the paper.
"Oh? It's me!"
"That was the conclusion I came to."
Juliana stared at the poster. There was an ardst's likeness of her… somewhat crude but accurate enough. The physical description, however, was minute and unmistakable, right down to the freckles on her nose. She glanced up at the mirror, comparing herself with the likeness and the description. Her hair and eyes were the giveaway.
"Where did you find this?"
"They're posted all over town." He selected an asparagus spear with his fingers and lifted it to his mouth.
Juliana read the description of her crime. Wanted for the murder of her husband: Juliana Ridge of the village of Ashford in Hampshire. Substantial reward offered for any information, however small. Contact Sir George Ridge at the Gardener's Arms in Cheapside.
"I wonder how much he's offering," she mused, initially more intrigued than alarmed by this evidence of George's pursuit.
The duke shook his head. "Whatever it is, you're not safe outside this house until you're beyond the reach of that country bumpkin. So once the contracts have been drawn up with Copplethwaite, I'll procure a special license. It should all be over by the end of the week."
"I see. And what will I think of your cousin?" Juliana still stood by the chair, still holding the poster.
"You'll undoubtedly dislike him heartily." He refilled his wineglass. "But you need have nothing to do with him in private. You will both lodge in my house in separate quarters. Lucien will leave you strictly alone."
"And once I've conceived, I imagine that will apply to you too, my lord duke?"
"That will depend on you," he snapped. He tossed his napkin to the table and stood up, not sure why her question disturbed him; it was, after all, a perfectly fair question. "It seems not impossible that I might set you up as my mistress after Lucien's death. It would be easy enough to arrange discreetly. My cousin's widow with a child in my wardship would have a natural claim upon my attention and protection."
"I see. A duke's established mistress. I'll be the envy of every courtesan in town, my lord."
"I'll bandy words with you no longer.'" He strode to his clothes on the chair.
"But can't you understand!" Juliana cried passionately. "Can't you try to understand what I feel?"
Tarquin paused in his dressing and turned to look at her flushed face framed in the flaming halo of her hair, the jade eyes expressing an almost desperate frustration. "I suppose I can," he said eventually. "If you can try to trust in me. I mean you no harm. Quite the opposite."
He dressed swiftly in the silence his words produced, then came over to her and kissed her. He kissed the corners of her mouth, the tip of her nose, and her brow. "There were a few moments this evening when you didn't wish to consign me to Lucifer's fires, weren't there?"
Juliana nodded. "Don't go," she said, suddenly sure of one thing she wanted.
"It's best if I do."
Juliana said nothing further, and he left her immediately. She took a sip of her neglected wine. Apparently she was not to have disagreeable arguments or unsettling opinions, or to ask provoking questions. Clearly His Grace of Redmayne didn't like that in a woman. In which case he'd picked the wrong woman for his schemes: she wasn’t going to curb her own nature just to fit the duke's image of a suitable mistress.
Lord of hell! She was a mistress. A duke's mistress! The realization hit her for the first time. Abruptly she sat on the bed, aware of every inch of her sensitized skin, the vague soreness between her legs, the utterly pleasurable sense of having been used, filled, fulfilled. Did whores enjoy their work? Did they retire every morning filled with this wonderful, languid bodily joy? Somehow Juliana didn't think so. Did wives feel it? She knew with absolute certainty that the wife of John Ridge wouldn't have. If John hadn't died in the midst of his huffing and puffing, she would be his wedded, bedded wife, condemned never to know the glories that she'd just shared with the Duke of Redmayne.
So what did it all mean? That she should accept with a glad heart the hand fate had dealt her? Count her blessings and embrace the duke with cries of joy?
Oh, no! That was not the way it was going to be. She'd find a way to enjoy the benefits of this liaison while giving the duke a serious run for his money.
Juliana reached for the bellpull to summon Bella, her mind seething with energy, quite at odds with her body's languor.
Chapter 10
Lawyer Copplethwaite was a small, round man whose waistcoat strained over an ample belly. He had a worried air and his wig was askew, revealing a polished bald pate that he scratched nervously.
"Mistress Ridge." He bowed as Juliana entered Mistress Dennison's parlor in response to a summons the following morning. His eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere but directly at her. In fact, he seemed thoroughly ill at ease. He appeared such an unlikely frequenter of a whorehouse that Juliana assumed his discomfort arose from his present surroundings.
She curtsied demurely to the lawyer, then to Elizabeth, who was seated on a sofa beneath the open window, a sheaf of papers in her lap.
"Good morning, migtiomie." The duke, clad in a suit of dark-red silk edged with silver lace, moved away from the mantel and came over to her. Juliana hadn't been sure how she would greet him after the previous evening. They hadn't parted bad friends, but neither had they parted intimate lovers. Now she covertly examined his expression and saw both a glint of humor in his eyes, and very clear pleasure as he smiled at her.
On a mischievous impulse she curtsied low with an exaggerated air of humility. Tarquin took her hand and kissed it as he raised her. "I may be a duke, my dear, but I don't warrant the depth you would accord a royal prince," he instructed gravely. "Delighted though I am to see such a sweetly submissive salutation." The amusement in his eyes deepened, and she couldn't help a responding grin. She was going to have to get up very early in the morning to best the Duke of Redmayne in these little games.