The Wayward Widow
“I
see that you do not approve of our little entertainments,
Mr Davencourt,” she said. “Perhaps you should
try Almacks, or the debutante balls in future. I hear
that they even serve lemonade there. That might be more
to your taste if this is too stimulating for you.”
“Perhaps
I shall take your advice,” Martin Davencourt said
slowly. He was watching her thoughtfully and now he
gestured towards the closed door of the dining room.
“I am surprised to see you leave so prematurely,
Lady Juliana. The party is only just starting, and after
your performance earlier I would have thought that you
had plenty to contribute to the rest of the evening.”
Juliana
laughed. No matter how dull Martin Davencourt’s
tastes, his wit was still sharp. She was enjoying
crossing swords with such a man.
“I
apologise for confounding your expectations, Mr
Davencourt,” she said. “Emma’s
entertainments are not to my taste tonight.”
She narrowed her gaze on him thoughtfully. “Though
if you were inclined to join me I might be persuaded to
change my mind.”
Martin
Davencourt gave her a smile – and a look from those
sleepy dark blue eyes that made her feel hot and very
bothered. He spoke gently.
“Are
you always this persistent, Lady Juliana? I would
have thought that one refusal would be enough for you.”
Juliana
raised a haughty brow. “I am not accustomed to
rejection.”
“Ah.
Well, it happens to us all at some point.”
Martin Davencourt gave her a rueful smile. “Accept
it.”
Juliana
felt a hot rush of annoyance, mainly with herself for
inviting a rebuff a second time. It had been her
pride that had spoken – she had wanted Martin
Davencourt to regret his previous indifference towards
her. She had wanted him to want her, and then she could
have played her usual game, leading him on a little but
not too much, his admiration balm to her soul. She had
played the game so often, first encouraging a suitor and
then dropping him before his attentions became too
pressing. She was an expert at the art. Except that
Martin Davencourt did not want to play her games...
Juliana
ran her fingers over the wooden edge of the doorframe and
looked at him thoughtfully from under her lashes. He gave
her back look for look, direct and clear. Juliana
thought she could distinguish a flicker of cool amusement
in that blue gaze.
“I
had heard that you were a man of experience, Mr
Davencourt,” she said coldly, “yet you
behave more like an Evangelical. You are sadly out of
place in this house.”
She saw
him frown and felt a skip of excitement, like a naughty
child provoking the adults. She imagined that it
might be exciting to provoke Martin Davencourt and to see
how deep that calm self-control actually went. Or perhaps
not. There was something about him that suggested
it might actually be rather dangerous to push him too far.
He
smiled at her gently. “I realise that I am in the
wrong place,” he said, “but perhaps you are too.
Take my advice, Lady Juliana, and cut loose of all this.
Everyone has to grow up sometime. Even a lady
rakehell, such as you profess to be.”
Juliana
laughed. “Is that what you think me? That I am
a rake?”
“The
role is not necessarily confined to the male of the
species. Is it not the reputation that you cultivate?”
Juliana
shrugged. “Reputations may be exaggerated.”
Martin
Davencourt inclined his head. “True. They may
also be encouraged.”
A crash
from upstairs made both of them jump. Emma Wren’s
voice rose to a crescendo. The door to the servants’
quarters thudded open and a couple of frightened-looking
maids scurried up the stairs.
“Time
to leave,” Juliana said. “I fear that Emma is
cross with me tonight. A refusal to join in the game so
often offends, does it not?” She smiled. “But I
do not need to tell you that, do I, Mr Davencourt?
You strike me as a man quite happy to cause offence by
refusing to conform.”
“I
play by my own rules,” Martin Davencourt said.
“One cannot allow someone else to dictate the game.”
He threw her an appraising glance. “In that sense I
do believe we are two of a kind, Lady Juliana.”
Juliana
laughed. “If that is so then I think it must be the
only thing we have in common, sir.”
Martin
Davencourt tilted his head enquiringly. “Are you
sure of that?”
Juliana
raised her brows. “How could it be otherwise?
You are staid and orthodox and ever so slightly shocked
at the company you find yourself in-”
Martin
laughed. “You have divined a great deal about me in
a short acquaintance.”
Juliana
shrugged. “I can read a man at thirty paces.”
“I
see. And yourself? You were about to make some
observation about your own character, I infer.”
“Oh,
well I am unorthodox and rebellious and-”
“Wild?”
There was an ironic inflection in Martin Davencourt’s
voice, as if such qualities were scarcely admirable.
Juliana shrugged carelessly.
“We
are chalk and cheese, Mr Davencourt. No, on second
thoughts, not. Cheese can be quite delicious. Wine and
water? You remind me of flat champagne. So much potential
wasted.”
Later,
Later Juliana lay in her huge canopied bed and watched
the play of shadows across the wall. Martin Davencourt...
She was not sure why she had wanted him. She did not even
like him. He was everything that she usually dismissed in
a man. Perhaps that was why she had decided to try to
attract him. She had wanted to see if he was really as
sternly honourable as he seemed. She had wanted to see if
she could corrupt virtue.
Juliana rolled over onto her stomach and propped
herself up on her elbows. She hoped that that was the
reason. God forbid that she should suddenly and
inexplicably be attracted to an honest man. That would
ruin her bad reputation once and for all...
