A Tale of Two Lovers by Maya Rodale Page B
Authors: Maya Rodale
Tags: Fiction, Historical Romance
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ever-angelic Miss Annabelle Swift offered readers’ advice in her column “Dear Annabelle . ” She also nursed a tender, constant, and unrequited passion for Derek Knightly. Julianna feared Annabelle’s reaction when she saw him today—if he even arrived.
Her Grace, the Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon, formerly Miss Sophie Harlow, used to write about ton weddings in her column “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life.” At the first opportunity she quit writing about weddings (which she had hated) and now she occasionally wrote about ladies’ fashion (which she loved). The column lived on, with other authors.
Today, for the first time in her life, Julianna was dreading their usual chatter because, for once, she would be the subject. Like anyone else, she preferred gossip about someone other than herself.
“Why are we only hearing about this now?” Sophie demanded, waving a copy of The Times in the air. Owens and Grenville looked up from their very serious conversation and scowled. After a year, the men had largely accepted working with women. Every now and then, they did not.
“Shhh,” Julianna urged.
“Oh, they’ve already seen it,” Eliza said.
“We have,” Owens confirmed, with a lascivious grin in her direction. She scowled at him.
“ Everyone has already seen it,” Annabelle said, to Julianna’s dismay. She, too, had read it as soon as the newspaper hit the stands. She had to keep track of her rival, of course.
They were, of course, referring to a particular item from her sworn nemesis, The Man About Town. Eliza read it aloud:
“Just asking: Which irate rake with questionable inclinations (if we are to believe the gossips, which usually we do) was seen following a certain distinguished lady (or so we occasionally assume with no proof)? They left the ballroom quite early. One returned to the party quite late. The other not at all.”
“That’s our Julianna. Always skulking around dark hallways and empty rooms,” Alistair remarked with a grin.
“It’s for my work. I take my writing very seriously,” she explained, as everyone in hearing distance either snorted, rolled their eyes, or generally expressed disbelief at her excuse for being alone with an infamous rake.
“We know that. What we don’t know is what happened once you were alone with Roxbury,” Sophie prodded. “That man is notorious, so I’m sure it must have been something .”
“Something wicked,” Annabelle added in a hushed whisper.
“You don’t believe that rubbish, do you?” Julianna asked dismissively.
“Aye, we believe the gossips,” Alistair said, grinning. Sophie and the others nodded their agreement.
“So . . . Roxbury followed you out of the ballroom. Where did you go?” Eliza asked pointedly.
“The portrait gallery. We chatted about the artwork. I left.”
“ And . . .” Sophie prompted.
It took some wheedling and cajoling and finally out of frustration she confessed: “All right, all right. The wretched rake kissed me.”
“Oooh,” all the girls exclaimed and softly, under his breath Alistair said, “Pity, that.”
“How was it?” Sophie asked.
“What was he like?” Annabelle questioned.
“Do you think he . . . you know?” Eliza wondered.
“Just tell us everything, darling,” Alistair said.
“All I will say is that I am determined to find the Man About Town and silence him once and for all,” Julianna declared. She’d often vowed as such and always kept an eye out for potential suspects.
“And Roxbury?” Annabelle prompted, but Julianna was spared from answering by the arrival of Mr. Knightly.
“Good morning,” Knightly said as he strolled into the room. He was handsome and mysterious. His past was unknown, and his parentage uncertain. She had heard rumors that his father was the Earl of Harrowby but dared not mention it in her column, or at all. His private life—those precious few hours he spent outside of The Weekly offices—were just that:
Her Grace, the Duchess of Hamilton and Brandon, formerly Miss Sophie Harlow, used to write about ton weddings in her column “Miss Harlow’s Marriage in High Life.” At the first opportunity she quit writing about weddings (which she had hated) and now she occasionally wrote about ladies’ fashion (which she loved). The column lived on, with other authors.
Today, for the first time in her life, Julianna was dreading their usual chatter because, for once, she would be the subject. Like anyone else, she preferred gossip about someone other than herself.
“Why are we only hearing about this now?” Sophie demanded, waving a copy of The Times in the air. Owens and Grenville looked up from their very serious conversation and scowled. After a year, the men had largely accepted working with women. Every now and then, they did not.
“Shhh,” Julianna urged.
“Oh, they’ve already seen it,” Eliza said.
“We have,” Owens confirmed, with a lascivious grin in her direction. She scowled at him.
“ Everyone has already seen it,” Annabelle said, to Julianna’s dismay. She, too, had read it as soon as the newspaper hit the stands. She had to keep track of her rival, of course.
They were, of course, referring to a particular item from her sworn nemesis, The Man About Town. Eliza read it aloud:
“Just asking: Which irate rake with questionable inclinations (if we are to believe the gossips, which usually we do) was seen following a certain distinguished lady (or so we occasionally assume with no proof)? They left the ballroom quite early. One returned to the party quite late. The other not at all.”
“That’s our Julianna. Always skulking around dark hallways and empty rooms,” Alistair remarked with a grin.
“It’s for my work. I take my writing very seriously,” she explained, as everyone in hearing distance either snorted, rolled their eyes, or generally expressed disbelief at her excuse for being alone with an infamous rake.
“We know that. What we don’t know is what happened once you were alone with Roxbury,” Sophie prodded. “That man is notorious, so I’m sure it must have been something .”
“Something wicked,” Annabelle added in a hushed whisper.
“You don’t believe that rubbish, do you?” Julianna asked dismissively.
“Aye, we believe the gossips,” Alistair said, grinning. Sophie and the others nodded their agreement.
“So . . . Roxbury followed you out of the ballroom. Where did you go?” Eliza asked pointedly.
“The portrait gallery. We chatted about the artwork. I left.”
“ And . . .” Sophie prompted.
It took some wheedling and cajoling and finally out of frustration she confessed: “All right, all right. The wretched rake kissed me.”
“Oooh,” all the girls exclaimed and softly, under his breath Alistair said, “Pity, that.”
“How was it?” Sophie asked.
“What was he like?” Annabelle questioned.
“Do you think he . . . you know?” Eliza wondered.
“Just tell us everything, darling,” Alistair said.
“All I will say is that I am determined to find the Man About Town and silence him once and for all,” Julianna declared. She’d often vowed as such and always kept an eye out for potential suspects.
“And Roxbury?” Annabelle prompted, but Julianna was spared from answering by the arrival of Mr. Knightly.
“Good morning,” Knightly said as he strolled into the room. He was handsome and mysterious. His past was unknown, and his parentage uncertain. She had heard rumors that his father was the Earl of Harrowby but dared not mention it in her column, or at all. His private life—those precious few hours he spent outside of The Weekly offices—were just that: