"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."