"Yer 'air, miss." Bella flourished the hairbrush. "I'll brush it fer you."
Juliana sat down on the ottoman, her head drooping beneath Bella's strong, rhythmic strokes. Her hair crackled, springing out from beneath the brush with a life of its own. It seemed to fill the room with color. She watched in the mirror as the candle's glow caught each vibrant strand.
"Will I thread the ribbon through it?" Bella laid down the brush and took up an ivory silk ribbon. Juliana nodded. She hadn't the will to make small, pointless gestures of independence tonight. They could prepare her for the duke's bed however they thought best. She had enough to do with mental preparation.
She watched as Bella fastened the ribbon around her forehead so that her hair was caught and held at the top but poured out in a river of fire beneath, framing her face and cascading onto the white cambric of her robe. "I look like some virgin shepherdess," she murmured. For some reason the thought set her eyes alight with the excitement that was blooming in her belly.
"All innocent like," Bella agreed. "I expect that's what ‘Is Grace fancies this evening."
"Do the gentlemen always make their preferences known beforehand?"
"Not always." Bella began to tidy up the dresser. "Sometimes the ladies 'ave to change all of a sudden like, if a gentleman 'as a change of fancy. I 'elps them, then. Me an' Minnie." She gathered up the basin, ewer, and washcloth. "I'll get rid of these, miss. Then I'll bring in the refreshments."
Juliana went to the window after the maid had bustled out. Dusk was falling, and the riotous sounds from the Piazza came clear on the still and sultry air. There was music, a fife and drums, rising above the general cacophony. In the street below a blind harpist sat on a box, plucking his strings mournfully in competition with a shoeblack who was hailing potential customers in a shrill singsong.
She was watching for the Duke of Redmayne. But even as she watched, she wondered if perhaps he was already in the house. The door knocker had been sounding for the last hour, and the customary evening buzz was in the air. Hurried footsteps, giggles, rushed whispers, came from outside her door as the girls returned to their chambers for some minor repair. She hadn't yet heard a male voice, but presumably they were still drinking tea and conversing in the drawing room as if this mansion on Russell Street was a conventional, fashionable household.
" 'Ere we arc, then." Bella staggered in under the weight of a laden tray. She was followed by a flunky bearing a tray with bottles and glasses. He set the tray on a low table before the empty grate and studiously avoided looking at Juliana in her robe of seduction. Presumably that was a rule of the house, she thought. He turned and left, again without acknowledgment, and Bella began to lay out covered dishes on the table.
"Now, 'Is Grace is partial to the claret," she instructed. "It's the right year, Mr. Garston says, so we won't 'ave to worry about that. Now, there's lemonade for you. The girls don't usually drink when they 'ave a gentleman. But there's a wine glass if the duke wants ye to join 'im." She examined the table, tapping her finger against her teeth. "Now, there's lobster patties, an' a little salad of sparrow-grass. 'Is Grace is right partial to sparrowgrass, dressed with a little oil an' vinegar."
Juliana was not particularly fond of asparagus, and lobster brought her out in spots, but of course her own wishes were of no importance. There was also a bowl of strawberries and a basket of sweetmeats that in other circumstances might have enticed her; however, she was feeling too sick with nerves to contemplate eating anything.
"Now, is that everything?" Bella counted on her fingers as she inspected the room in minute detail. "There's fresh 'of water in the jug on the washstand. Should I turn down the bed. or will ye do it, miss? It's 'ard to know what'd be best. Some gentlemen likes to feel that they're bein' seduced and don't want to come into the room and see it all ready, like. But others don't care to waste time."
"Leave it as it is," Juliana said, knowing that she could not sit and wait for the duke beside a turned-down bed.
"Right y'are then." Bella took one last look at Juliana, made a final adjustment to a ruffle at the sleeve of the white robe, then dropped a little curtsy. "If ye needs anythin', miss, jest pull the bell. I'll knock 'afore I comes in."
"Thank you, Bella." Juliana managed a smile.
"A'course I'll come to ye as soon as 'Is Grace leaves." The girl stood with her hand on the door. "Ye'll be wantin' a salt bath then, I daresay, bein' a maid an' all. An' I expect ye'll be glad of a mug of ‘ot milk an' rum." With a quick smile she whisked herself out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Juliana stood in the middle of the chamber, arms crossed convulsively over her breasts. A salt bath! So matter-of-fact. How many virgins had Bella prepared for the loss of their maidenheads? And then it occurred to her that losing one's virginity in this knowledgeable, comforting, female-centered house was infinitely preferable to being bedded to Sir John Ridge, carried to the bridal chamber amid a chorus of obscene jokes from drunken male wedding guests who had abandoned her to her fate at the chamber door. She'd known very little about what was in store for her. Lady Forsett had not thought fit to prepare her husband's ward for her wedding night. She knew a little more now, but not much.
The door opened as she stood there. Her hands fell to her sides, sweat trickling down her rib cage. The Duke of Redmayne quietly closed the door behind him. He turned to Juliana. His gray gaze held hers for a minute in the charged silence, then drifted slowly down her body
Chapter 9
“Good," Tarquin said, taking her hands. "I'm glad to see you’re not using paint or rouge. I forgot to tell Mistress Dennison that I don't care for it… or at least," he added, "not on you." He stepped away from her, still holding her hands, and scrutinized her appearance again.
"You're very specific about your preferences, my lord duke." Juliana's voice was low and flat as she tried to hide the rush of heat that suffused her skin at his narrow-eyed inspection.
"No more than most men," he said carelessly. "My preferences change from time to rime, as I'm sure you'll discover."
"I trust I'll learn my duties quickly enough to please you, my lord duke." She dropped her eyes, knowing that they were blazing with impotent fury.
Tarquin caught her chin between finger and thumb and obliged her to lift her face. He chuckled. "You look ready to consign me to the fires of hell, mignonne."
"Unfortunately, I have no pitchfork," he snapped, unable to resist.
"Did I offend you? I beg your pardon," he said with such an abrupt change of tone and manner that Juliana was completely thrown off balance. And before she could recover herself, he had kissed her. A delicate, featherlike brush of his lips on hers that brought goose bumps pricking on her skin.
"I can be a little imperious on occasion," Tarquin said gravely, caressing her cheek with a fingertip. "It's a consequence of my upbringing, I'm afraid. But I give you leave to take me to task at the right moment."
"And when would that be?"
"Times such as this. When we're private and engaged in…" He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "In intimate conversation." He continued to stroke her cheek, and insensibly she began to relax, the lines of her face softening, her mouth parting, her eyes losing their fierceness.
When he felt the change in her, Tarquin released her chin with a smile. He left her in the middle of the room and went to pour himself a glass of wine. "Do you care for claret, Juliana?"
"Yes, please." Maybe the members of the Dennisons' seraglio were supposed to eschew alcohol during their working hours, but Juliana felt the need of Dutch courage. She took the glass he handed her and gulped down the contents.