Juliana stared at the duke, speechless, as he took a leisurely pinch of snuff, dropped the box into his pocket again, and slapped Lucien hard on the back. "Come, Edgecombe. We'll put a glass of cognac down your gullet, and you'll be right as a trivet."
Lucien straightened, burying his streaming face in his handkerchief. "Odd's blood!" he rasped when he could catch his breath. "Thought I was never goin' to breathe again." He wiped his nose and mouth and thrust the handkerchief back into his pocket. Then he surveyed his wife with a distinct leer. "Sorry about that, m'dear. Not a particularly good first impression for a man to make on his bride, what?"
"No." Juliana said faintly. "Must we continue to stand on the street in this fashion?" She flicked at her bridal white with an expression of deep disgust. Of all the travesties, to be dressed up like this for such a diabolical mockery.
"My carriage is here." Tarquin took her arm, directing her across the street to where stood a light town chaise with the Redmayne arms emblazoned on the panels. "Quentin, do you accompany us back to Albermarle Street?"
His brother hesitated, still angry. But when Juliana looked at him in silent appeal, he gave a curt nod and crossed the street.
"You won't mind if I don't join you?" Lucien popped his head through the open carriage window. "Think I need to quench m'thirst without delay. Can't risk another fit. There's a tavern on the corner." He gestured with his hat.
"By all means," Tarquin said amiably.
"But I'll be there for the bridal feast . . . count on me for that." Laughing, Lucien went off, heading purposefully for the Lamb and Flag on the corner.
"Bridal feast?" Juliana glared at the two men sitting opposite her. "When will this mockery end, my lord duke?"
"Lucien's idea of a jest," Tarquin said. "I had planned no such thing. What I had planned was a visit to the play, followed by supper in the rotunda at Ranelagh. If that would please you, Juliana. D'you care to accompany us, Quentin?"
"If Juliana would permit me to join you," his brother said still coldly. "But maybe she would prefer to retire to her own quarters and weep."
"Oh, I don't believe Juliana is given to such melodrama," Tarquin responded. He was hoping his bracing words would keep her from losing courage. He knew instinctively that if she broke down now, it would be much more difficult for her later.
"And how would you know, sir?" Juliana was hunched into the corner, her baleful eyes never leaving the duke's face.
"An educated guess," he said. "Now, don't fall into a fit of the sullens, child. I'm suggesting an evening of pleasure. You'll not see Lucien-indeed, it's possible you won't see him until you have to make your society debut. Oh. I sent notices of the marriage to the Morning Post and the Times, so you can expect to receive bride visits within the week. I imagine."
"Without my husband's support, I suppose?"
"Oh, it's hardly Lucien's kind of thing. But Quentin and I will be there to lend our own support. Won't we, dear brother?"
"Of course." Quentin realized that whether he wished it or not, he was now deeply entangled in his brother's scheme. Juliana had embroiled him much more effectively than Tarquin. Juliana, who could be no match for Tarquin … no match for Lucien . . . would need all the friendship and protection he could provide. Her eyes were shadowed as they gazed out of the window, her mouth taut, her hands tightly knotted in her lap.
She was so young. So vulnerable. So innocent. Poor child. She could never have dreamed she'd find herself caught up in this twisted scheme of the Duke of Redmayne's. Tarquin had always preferred a devious route to his goals, and this was as cunning and artful as any route he'd ever taken. But how inexcusable that he should involve someone as unprotected and as inexperienced as Juliana.
He glanced sideways at the still figure of his brother beside him. Tarquin was leaning back against the squabs, arms folded, eyes half-closed. But Quentin knew they were resting intently on Juliana. Tarquin's mouth was slightly curved as if he found something amusing or pleasing. Startled, Quentin felt a curious softness emanating from his brother. He had always been able to read Tarquin's mood; it was a skill that arose from the years of closeness, from the years when he'd worshiped his half brother and tried to emulate him.
He no longer tried to emulate him … no longer chose to. Quentin had found his own path, and it was not his brother's. But the bond between them was as strong as ever. And now Quentin, to his astonishment, sensed a tenderness in Tarquin-a warmth, as he looked at Juliana, that belied the dispassionate cynicism of his manner.
Quentin returned his gaze to Juliana, so tense and still in her bridal white, the veil thrown back so that her hair blazed in the dimness of the carriage. If Tarquin was stirred by her in some way, then perhaps this would not turn out as badly as Quentin feared.
The chaise slowed and drew up. Juliana came out of her bitter, angry reverie. She looked out of the window and recognized the house on Albermarle Street. The house that was to be her home for the foreseeable future. And if she managed to give the duke the child he desired, then it would be her home for many, many years.
The footman opened the door. Tarquin jumped lightly to the ground, disdaining the footstep, and held out his hand to Juliana. "Welcome to your new home, Lady Edgecombe."
Juliana averted her face as she took his hand and stepped to the ground, Quentin following. Her anger burned hot and deep as the earth's core. How could he have wedded her to that defiled wreck of a man without telling her the truth? To his mind she was no more than an expensive acquisition with no rights to knowledge or opinion. He'd asked for her trust, but how could she ever trust in his word when he would keep such a thing from her?
But she would be revenged. Dear God, she would be revenged a hundredfold. The resolution carried her into the house with head held high, and her dignity didn't desert her even when she caught her heel on the doorstep and had to grab the bowing footman to stop herself from falling to her knees.
Quentin jumped forward to steady her with a hand under her elbow.
"Thank you," she said stiffly, moving away from both Quentin and the footman.
"Juliana has a tendency to topple and spill," Tarquin observed. "In certain circumstances she can produce the effect of a typhoon."
"How gallant of you, my lord duke," she snapped, roughly pulling the veil from her head and tossing it toward a rosewood pier table. It missed, falling to the marble floor in a shimmering cloud.
"Well, let's not brawl in front of the servants," Tarquin said without heat. "Come with me and I'll show you your apartments." Cupping her elbow, he urged her toward the stairs.
Left behind, Quentin picked up the discarded veil, placed it carefully on the table, then made his way to the library and the sherry decanter.
Juliana and the duke reached the head of the horseshoe stairs.
"As I've already mentioned, I thought you might like to use the morning room as your own private parlor," the duke said with a determined cheerfulness, gesturing down the corridor to the door Juliana remembered on the first landing. "You'll be able to receive your own friends there in perfect privacy."
What friends? Juliana closed her lips firmly on the sardonic question. "Your bedchamber and boudoir are at the front of the house, on the second floor." He ushered her up the second flight of stairs to the right of the landing. "You'll need an abigail, and I've engaged a woman from my estate. A widow-her husband was one of my tenant farmers and died a few months ago. She's a good soul. Very respectable. I'm sure you'll deal well together."
He didn't say that he'd decided that Juliana needed a motherly soul to look after her, rather than one of the haughty females usually engaged as abigails to ladies of the fashionable world.