"What are they doing?" Juliana couldn’t help asking the question.
"The children are for hire… some of them for sale," her companion told her nonchalantly. "The bawds are picking the ones that might appeal to their customers' particular fancies."
Juliana gripped her hands tightly in her lap and stared straight ahead.
"If they're hired, they'll get a decent meal and earn a few shillings," the duke continued in the same tone. "Of course, most of their earnings will go to whoever put them up for hire in the first place."
"How interesting, my lord duke." Juliana found her voice as she finally understood the point to this little tour of London's underbelly. Unless she was much mistaken, the Duke of Redmayne was showing her what life was like for the unprotected.
Tarquin turned the phaeton onto the Strand. He maintained a flow of informative chat as he drove her through St. James's Park and along Piccadilly, and Juliana was soon seduced by the other sights of London: the lavish shop fronts, the town carriages, the horsemen, the sedan chairs. Ladies carrying small dogs promenaded along the wide street, greeting acquaintances with shrill little cries of delight, exchanging curtsies and kisses. They were followed by powdered footmen in elaborate liveries and, in most cases, small liveried pages loaded with bandboxes and parcels.
Juliana began to relax. The streets in this part of London were cleaner, the cesspit stench not so powerful, the buildings tall and gracious, with glass windows glinting in the sunlight, shining brass door knockers, white honed steps. This was the London she'd imagined from the sheltered Hampshire countryside. Impressive and wealthy, and full of elegant people.
The duke drew up before a double-fronted mansion on Aibernarle Street. The front door opened immediately, and the groom he'd sent home at Covent Garden came running down the steps. The duke descended and readied up a hand to Juliana.
"You will wish for some refreshment," he said pleasantly.
Juliana remained where she was. "What is this place?"
"My house. Be pleased to alight." The touch of flint she'd heard before laced the pleasant tones. Juliana glanced up the street, then down at the groom, who was staring impassively ahead. What choice did she have?
She gave the duke her hand and stepped out of the carriage. "Good girl," he said with an approving smile, and she wanted to kick him. Instead she twitched her hand out of his and marched up the steps to the open front door, leaving him to follow.
A footman bowed as she swept past him into a marbletiled hall. Juliana forgot her anger and apprehension for a moment as she gazed around, taking in the delicate plaster molding on the high ceiling, the massive chandeliers, the dainty gilt furniture, the graceful sweep of the horseshoe staircase. Forsett Towers, where she'd grown up, was a substantial gentleman's residence, but this house was in a different class altogether.
"Bring refreshment to the morning room," the duke instructed over his shoulder, slipping an arm around Juliana's waist and sweeping her ahead of him toward the stairs. "Tea, lemonade, cakes for the lady. Sherry for myself."
"I imagine your servants are accustomed to your entertaining unchaperoned ladies," Juliana stated frigidly as she was borne up the stairs with such dexterity that her feet merely skimmed the ground.
"I have no idea whether they are or not," the duke responded. "They're paid to do my bidding, that's all that concerns me." He opened a door onto a small parlor, sunny and cheerful with yellow silk wallpaper and an Aubusson carpet. "I have it in mind that this should be your own private parlor. Do you think you would care for it?" A hand in the small of her back propelled her forward even as she wondered if she'd heard him aright
"It's pleasant and quiet, overlooking the garden at the back," he continued, gesturing to the window. "If you wished to change the decor, then, of course, you must do whatever pleases you."
Juliana told herself that this was some dream… some ghastly, twisted nightmare that would all fall apart in a moment like a broken jigsaw puzzle. But he'd turned back to her and was smiling as he took her hands and drew her toward him. Her eyes fixed on his mouth, thin but so beautifully sculpted. There was amusement and understanding in the deep-set gray eyes, and something else-a flicker of desire that set her blood frothing again. And then she was lost in the warmth and scent of his skin as his mouth took hers, without hesitation, with assertion. And she was responding in the same way, without will or thought. His mouth still on hers, he ran a fingertip over the rich swell of her breasts above her decolletage. She moaned against his lips, and when his finger slid into the deep valley between her breasts, her stomach contracted violently with a wild hunger that she couldn't put words to. Instead she pressed herself against him, a deep, primitive triumph flowing through her as she felt his hardness rising against her belly.
A tap at the door broke the charmed circle, and Juliana jumped back with a little cry of alarm. She turned away, blushing, her hand covering her tingling lips, as the footman placed a tray on the sideboard and asked the duke if there was anything else he needed. Tarquin responded as coolly as if nothing untoward had happened in the last minutes. Juliana, vividly remembering the feel of his erection pushing so urgently against her couldn't believe he could sound so matter-of-fact. She was relatively hazy about male anatomy, but surely such a manifestation couldn't be comfortably ignored.
She jumped when his hand touched her shoulder. Spinning round, she saw that the room was now empty. Tarquin laughed at her startled expression. "Mignonne, you are delightful." He caressed her mouth with his forefinger. "I do believe we are going to enjoy ourselves."
"No!" she cried, finding her voice at last. "No. I won't let you do this to me." She flung herself away from him just as the door opened without ceremony.
"The footman said you were in here, Tarquin, I wanted… Oh, I do beg your pardon." Quentin's eyes ran over Juliana in one quick, all-encompassing assessment. "I didn't realize you had company," he said steadily. "Catlett should have told me."
"Allow me to present Miss Juliana Beresford, as she likes to be known." Tarquin took her hand, drawing her forward. "Juliana, this is my half brother, Lord Quentin Courtney. I'm sure you'll be getting to know him quite well."
Juliana was too flustered for a moment to do more than stare at the new arrival. Then she realized that he was bowing to her, and hastily she curtsied. "I give you good day, my lord."
Quentin surveyed her gravely, and she felt her blush deepen. She wondered if her lips were marked by the duke's kiss, if this man could detect something on her, something that would give away the shameless arousal that still pulsed in her belly. Was there an aura? A scent, perhaps? Unable to bear his gaze any longer, she turned away.
"Is it fair to the poor child to bring her here unchaperoned, Tarquin?" Quentin's voice was harshly reproving. "If she was seen on the street, her reputation will be compromised."
A flicker of hope sprang into Juliana's disordered mind. Perhaps in this mad world she had found a champion. "My lord, His Grace does not believe I have a reputation that could be compromised," she said in a low, plaintive voice. Slowly she turned and raised her eyes to the somber-suited man, noting the strong physical Resemblance between the two men. "Are you perhaps a man of the cloth?" she asked, guessing from his dark, modestly cut coat and plain starched stock.
"I am, child." Quentin took a step toward her, but suddenly she flung herself to the floor at his feet, clasping his knees with a sob.