"It's best if I do."
Juliana said nothing further, and he left her immediately. She took a sip of her neglected wine. Apparently she was not to have disagreeable arguments or unsettling opinions, or to ask provoking questions. Clearly His Grace of Redmayne didn't like that in a woman. In which case he'd picked the wrong woman for his schemes: she wasn’t going to curb her own nature just to fit the duke's image of a suitable mistress.
Lord of hell! She was a mistress. A duke's mistress! The realization hit her for the first time. Abruptly she sat on the bed, aware of every inch of her sensitized skin, the vague soreness between her legs, the utterly pleasurable sense of having been used, filled, fulfilled. Did whores enjoy their work? Did they retire every morning filled with this wonderful, languid bodily joy? Somehow Juliana didn't think so. Did wives feel it? She knew with absolute certainty that the wife of John Ridge wouldn't have. If John hadn't died in the midst of his huffing and puffing, she would be his wedded, bedded wife, condemned never to know the glories that she'd just shared with the Duke of Redmayne.
So what did it all mean? That she should accept with a glad heart the hand fate had dealt her? Count her blessings and embrace the duke with cries of joy?
Oh, no! That was not the way it was going to be. She'd find a way to enjoy the benefits of this liaison while giving the duke a serious run for his money.
Juliana reached for the bellpull to summon Bella, her mind seething with energy, quite at odds with her body's languor.
Chapter 10
Lawyer Copplethwaite was a small, round man whose waistcoat strained over an ample belly. He had a worried air and his wig was askew, revealing a polished bald pate that he scratched nervously.
"Mistress Ridge." He bowed as Juliana entered Mistress Dennison's parlor in response to a summons the following morning. His eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere but directly at her. In fact, he seemed thoroughly ill at ease. He appeared such an unlikely frequenter of a whorehouse that Juliana assumed his discomfort arose from his present surroundings.
She curtsied demurely to the lawyer, then to Elizabeth, who was seated on a sofa beneath the open window, a sheaf of papers in her lap.
"Good morning, migtiomie." The duke, clad in a suit of dark-red silk edged with silver lace, moved away from the mantel and came over to her. Juliana hadn't been sure how she would greet him after the previous evening. They hadn't parted bad friends, but neither had they parted intimate lovers. Now she covertly examined his expression and saw both a glint of humor in his eyes, and very clear pleasure as he smiled at her.
On a mischievous impulse she curtsied low with an exaggerated air of humility. Tarquin took her hand and kissed it as he raised her. "I may be a duke, my dear, but I don't warrant the depth you would accord a royal prince," he instructed gravely. "Delighted though I am to see such a sweetly submissive salutation." The amusement in his eyes deepened, and she couldn't help a responding grin. She was going to have to get up very early in the morning to best the Duke of Redmayne in these little games.
"I trust you slept well," he said, drawing her farther into the room.
"I never have difficulty sleeping." she said meekly.
He merely raised an eyebrow and drew a chair forward. "Pray sit down. Mr. Copplethwaite is going to read that part of the contracts that concerns you."
The lawyer cleared his throat diffidently. "If I may, madam."
"Yes. of course." Elizabeth handed him the sheaf of papers. There was a moment's silence, disturbed only by the rustling of paper as the lawyer selected the relevant documents. Then he cleared his throat again and began to read.
There were a series of clauses, all very simple, all very much as had been explained to Juliana already. She listened attentively, and most particularly to the clause that concerned her possible failure to conceive within the lifetime of the present Viscount Edgecombe. The lawyer blushed a little as he read this and scratched his head so vigorously, his wig slipped sideways and was in danger of sliding right off its shiny surface.
Juliana tried to keep her own expression impassive as she listened. If she failed to conceive in the viscount's lifetime she would receive a reasonably generous pension on her husband's death. If she did give the duke the child he wanted, then she would receive a large stipend, and she and the child would be housed under the duke's roof until the child's majority. His Grace of Redmayne would be the child's sole guardian and the sole arbiter of his existence. His mother would have all the natural rights of motherhood and would be consulted on decisions concerning the child, but the duke's decision would always be final.
It was perfectly normal, of course. In law children belonged to their fathers, not to their mothers. Nevertheless, Juliana didn't like this cold laying out of her own lack of rights over the life of this putative infant.
"And if the child is female?"
"The same," the duke said. "There is no male entail on the estate. The title will go to Lucien's cousin, Godfrey, but there is nothing to prevent a daughter from inheriting the fortune and the property."
"And, of course, it's the property that concerns you?"
"Precisely."
Juliana nibbled her bottom lip, then turned to the lawyer. "Is that all, sir?"
"All that concerns you, Mistress Ridge."
"You can't tell me how much Mistress Dennison sold me for?" she inquired with an air of wide-eyed innocence. "I should dearly like to know how much I was worth."
The lawyer choked, loosened his collar, choked again. Elizabeth said reprovingly, "There's no need to embarrass Mr. Copplethwaite, Juliana."
"I should think he's accustomed to such questions by now," Juliana replied. "He must have drawn up enough such contracts in his time."
"Three thousand guineas." the duke said casually. "Quite a handsome sum. I think you 'll agree." His eyes flickered across her face and then very deliberately over her body.
Juliana curtsied again. "I'm deeply flattered, my lord duke. I trust you won't be disappointed in your investment."
Tarquin smiled. "I think that most unlikely, mignonne."
"I don't imagine George is offering such a sum," Juliana mused. "It seems I must be more valuable to you, sir. than to my stepson. And, of course, I go only to the highest bidder."
His eyes flashed a warning. "Put up your sword, Juliana. I'm a more experienced fencer than you."
"If you'd care to sign the papers, Mistress Ridge . . . ?" The lawyer's tactful question broke the awkward moment.
"Whether I care to or not seems irrelevant, sir," Juliana stated acidly, getting to her feet. "Only His Grace's wishes are relevant here."
"Now, now, Juliana, there's no need for impertinence." Elizabeth rose in a swirl of pale silk and billowed across to the secretaire. "Come to the desk. Mr. Copplethwaite, would you bring the documents over here? Thank you. Now, the quill is nice and sharp." She handed Juliana a pen. "There is blue and black ink in the double standish. Whichever you prefer."
Mistress Dennison was clearly anxious to have the business over and done with, signed, sealed, and delivered. She hovered over Juliana, who very deliberately read through every clause before affixing her signature at the bottom of each page. What was she signing away? Her life? Her future? She was committing herself to a destiny laid down for her by these strangers into whose midst she'd dropped like manna from heaven.
A candle stood ready-lit to provide the wax for the seal. Lawyer Copplethwaite punctiliously dripped wax onto the bottom of the page, then impressed his own seal ring to witness her signature. "There, ma'am. I believe that's as right and tight as a document could be." Fussily, he aligned the edges of the sheets, an anxious frown beetling his brow. "If you're satisfied. Your Grace."