A Tale of Two Lovers by Maya Rodale Page A

He wanted to leave Lady Somerset—this know-it-all, tightly wound, gossiping widow—ravished and thoroughly debauched. Roxbury wanted her to know, intimately, just the kind of man she was dealing with. This kiss was meant to demonstrate—exquisitely, and undeniably—his power over her.
    But in the remnants of his brain left to coherent thought, Roxbury wondered about all the years they had attended the same parties, conversed with the same people, and danced the same waltzes but never with each other. He thought of all those evenings when a kiss with Lady Julianna might have been a sweet one, and not one of vengeance. That was a flicker of feeling, and it had no place in an angry kiss like this. He did not want to feel a shred of affection for this woman who had so thoroughly destroyed his world with just a few words.
    Lady Somerset was surrendering to him, he could feel it. But he was, too.
    That, naturally, was the moment that he abruptly broke the kiss and none too gently stepped back from her, as if she were too dangerous to touch.
    Julianna stumbled back against the stupid potted fern, holding on for dear life as she tried to catch her breath, and looking at Roxbury for answers. She saw that the moonlight made his cheeks seem higher. His eyes were black and his mouth was curved in a smile of triumph.
    Aye, this was not just any rake, she thought, but a practiced and heartless one. She had quite nearly been thoroughly seduced—and she had no doubt that he would have done it just to teach her a lesson. Just to show his mastery over her. Just because he could.
    “An apology and a retraction in the next issue,” he demanded. His voice was raw.
    It only took a second for her to understand and to plot her revenge.
    “Very well, Roxbury,” she said, smiling with pleasure at what she would write. He thought he’d won her over with one hot, illicit kiss. He quite nearly had—and that was intolerable, and dangerous, and simply not to be borne.
    Roxbury thought he had a power over her—that, like any other woman, she’d trade in her dignity and do his bidding for a drop of his affections. He was mistaken.

Chapter 8
Poverty or Matrimony? Twenty-six days remain for Lord Roxbury
     
    The Offices of The London Weekly
    53 Fleet Street, London
     
    A few days later Julianna’s pulse still had yet to subside! She attributed it to frustration at her inability to decide if she had enjoyed the kiss or despised it. It was clear that he didn’t like her, which was fine, because she did not hold him in great esteem, either. But how could a kiss between two people who didn’t care for each other be so . . . potent, intoxicating, and downright pleasurable?
    She knew, too, that it was a kiss fueled with anger and frustration (she had felt her knees weaken—along with her resolve) and she understood all of Roxbury’s women a little more now. In the end, after extensive thought, Julianna could only conclude that she hated that she enjoyed it.
    It had been an age since her last kiss, and an eternity since last she was held in a man’s embrace. She had not longed for them until she got a taste of what she was missing. Damned Roxbury!
    But that was not to be thought of, or discussed—especially not now, just before a meeting of The London Weekly staff.
    All the writers and editors of The Weekly gathered once a week to pitch stories to Mr. Knightly, the publisher and editor. The Writing Girls routinely arrived early, claimed their corner of the table and gossiped shamelessly until the meeting began.
    Though their backgrounds and temperaments varied, their unusual status of women who wrote bonded them together and genuine friendships had formed.
    Miss Eliza Fielding, a dark-haired beauty, wrote anonymous columns about prominent social issues of the day—like the efficacy of Wright’s Tonic for the Cure of Unsuitable Affections (Sophie confirmed it did not work) or a description of the Penny Weddings of the lower classes.
    The