Nicola Cornick - Wayward Widow

‘If I am unmarried at thirty I would be happy to accept your offer,’ Juliana added, in a small voice. ‘Thank you, Martin.’

Martin looked up at last. His eyes were smiling and his fingers closed around hers tightly. Juliana felt a strange warmth in her heart as she looked at him.

‘You are very welcome, Juliana,’ he said.

They sat for a little while holding hands until Juliana started to feel chilled with the breeze off the water and said that she must go home. The next day it rained, and the next. After that, Martin was no longer to be found in the pavilion beneath the willow trees. When Juliana asked, the servants said that Sir Henry Lees’s godson had gone home.

It was almost sixteen years until Juliana Tallant and Martin Davencourt met one another again and, by then, Juliana was well on the way to the fate that her father had predicted for her.

1818

Mrs Emma Wren was commonly held to host the most dashing and daring parties in the ton and invitations were eagerly sought by that raffish group of fast matrons and bachelor rakes whose exploits were loudly denounced by the more staid elements of society.

On a hot night in June, Mrs Wren was holding a very special and select supper party to celebrate the forthcoming nuptials of one of her circle, that shocking womaniser Lord Andrew Brookes. The menu for this event had been hotly debated between Mrs Wren and her cook, who had almost resigned on the spot when appraised of the plans for the dessert. Eventually a compromise was reached when a French chef was hired especially for the occasion and the cook retired to his corner of the kitchen, muttering that no doubt Carème, the Prince Regent’s chef, would have been the best choice, being far more accustomed to this sort of immorality than he was.

The hour was late and the dining-room air was thick with candle smoke and wine fumes when the dessert was brought in. The guests, predominantly gentlemen, were lounging back in their chairs, well fed, pleasantly inebriated and entertained by the ladies of the demi-monde whom Mrs Wren had daringly placed amongst her acquaintance. One of these Cyprians was perched on the bridegroom’s knee, feeding him grapes from the silver dish in the centre of the table and whispering provocatively in his ear. His hand was already inside her bodice, fondling her absent-mindedly as his face flushed a deeper puce from drink and lust.

As the double doors were thrown open and the footmen staggered in, Mrs Wren clapped her hands for silence.

‘Ladies and gentlemen…’ her voice dipped provocatively ‘…pray welcome your dessert, a most special creation to mark this sad occasion…’

There were murmurs and laughter.

‘I am sure that Andrew will not be lost to us,’ Mrs Wren continued sweetly, glancing meaningfully at Brookes, who had an overflowing brandy glass in one hand and the lightskirt in the other. ‘It takes more than marriage to come between a man and his friends…Andrew, this is our gift to you.’

There was a smattering of applause. Mrs Wren drew back and gestured to the footmen to place their huge tray in the centre of the table. They stood back and the liveried butler whipped off the silver lid.

There was a silence. The wave of shock was almost tangible as it rippled around the table. Several of the rakes sat up straighter in their chairs, their mouths hanging open in amazement. Brookes went quite still, the girl sliding unnoticed from his knee.

On the silver tray in the middle of the table Lady Juliana Myfleet reposed in all her nude and provocative glory. Her auburn hair was fastened up in a dazzling diamond tiara. There was a jewelled garter about her right thigh and a thin silver chain about her neck. There was a grape in her navel, curlicues of cream placed strategically about her body, and slivers of grape, strawberry and melon strewn artfully across her nakedness. Her whole body was dusted with icing sugar and shone in the pale candlelight like a statue carved from ice, an untouchable snow maiden. But there was nothing remotely maidenly about the expression in her narrowed green eyes. She held out a silver spoon to Brookes with a little catlike smile.

‘You have first dip, darling…’

Brookes obliged with alacrity, scooping up some fruit and cream with such enthusiasm that his hand shook and he almost spilled it on the floor. The other men pressed close with catcalls and cheers.

Sir Jasper Colling, one of Lady Juliana’s most persistent admirers, pushed to the front. ‘I want to get my spoon into that pudding—’

He was pushed back again by Brookes. ‘You’ll have to wait your turn, old chap. This is my party and my pudding. Damned if I won’t be licking it up in a minute.’

The demi-mondaine looked extremely put out to be upstaged.

Lady Juliana turned her head lazily and her gaze fell on a gentleman she had not seen before at Emma’s soirées. He was tall and fair, and though he was of a slim build he had broad shoulders and a durable air. With his strong, bronzed face and the ruthless line to his jaw, he looked as though he would be a useful ally in any altercation. He was sitting back in his chair as though scorning the eager blades who circled the table, and his gaze was dark and unreadable in the shadowed room.

Juliana felt a curious sense of recognition. She smiled at him, her come-hither smile. ‘Come along, darling. Don’t be shy.’

The gentleman looked up. His eyes were a very dark greeny-blue and they appraised her with complete indifference. ‘I thank you, ma’am, but I have never liked dessert.’

Juliana was not accustomed to being rejected. She gave him back level stare for level stare. He looked close to her own age of twenty-nine, or perhaps a little older. There was a certain world-weary look in his eyes, as though he had seen all this and more many times before. A faint, cynical smile curved his lips as he held Juliana’s gaze.

A strange wave of feeling swept over Juliana. Just for a second she felt very young and very confused, as though the whole tawdry tableau was some dreadful mistake that she had stumbled into by accident. The predatory smiles, the grasping hands…For a moment she almost slid off the salver and ran, shaken by the cool challenge in the man’s eyes. Her smile faltered, yet she could not tear her gaze away from him.

Then he turned away to gesture to a footman to fill his wineglass and the strange feeling passed. Juliana turned one shimmering shoulder and bent a smile on the youngest and most excited of the gentleman there.

‘Simon, my pet, why do you not lick the cream off…just there…?’

Juliana arched her body briefly to the scavenging hands, then stood up, scattering the fruit on the tiled floor, and beckoned to a maid to pass her her wrap. There were groans of disappointment from the men, but already the more enterprising of the Cyprians and the more daring of the ladies were moving in to take up where Juliana had left off, spooning the fruit and cream from the salver and feeding the gentlemen. Juliana, casting a quick look over her shoulder, saw that the evening was already set fair to descend into one of Emma’s famous orgies.

A footman, scarlet to the ears, held the dining room door open for Juliana to exit. She swept through in her bare feet, spilling the last remaining bits of food across the polished tiles of the marble entrance hall. The cream was sticking to her wrap and the icing sugar was starting to itch. She hoped that Emma had remembered to tell the maid to draw a bath for her.

The dining-room door closed behind her and Juliana could hear the roar of conversation swell to a new, excited level as everyone started to pick over her latest, outrageous exploit. A little smile curved her lips. That would give them something to talk about in the clubs! No matter how tasteful the wedding on the morrow, Brookes’s marriage would be remembered for the disgraceful exploits the night before. Once again, society matrons would exclaim over the shocking behaviour of Lady Juliana Myfleet, the Marquis of Tallant’s daughter, who had once been one of their own and had fallen from grace so spectacularly.