The Rake's Redemption Read online

  “A light spring green in silk for afternoon wear. A must!”

  Fascinated, Juliana stood and watched Madame Bretin hold up swatches of materials in various colors against her skin, discarding some and exclaiming over others. She had to admit the couturiere’s sense of color was outstanding. When Madame unfurled a bolt of French turquoise silk to drape about Juliana’s body, she knew she had found exactly what she had envisioned for Charlotte’s come-out ball.

  Sophia settled into her chair, satisfied at last that her goal to establish Juliana in the ton, and find the right man for her, was well on the way to being achieved. No man, duke or earl, would be able to resist Juliana when she appeared in all this finery.

  Silks so fine they could be pulled through a wedding ring, rich brocades, soft velvets, muslins, voiles, and heavy satins piled up at her feet.

  “We are fortunate that dreadful war is over. These are the finest fabrics in all of Europe,” Madame Bretin insisted.

  Morning dresses, walking costumes, riding habits, and ball gowns were decided upon. Juliana was slightly overwhelmed by the volume of costumes Sophia felt was necessary. By the time they had chosen ribbons, jets and beads for adornment, and examined the laces for trims, she had already lost count of her purchases and her head was spinning.

  Finally, Juliana objected that one more evening gown of blue velvet trimmed with a wide satin collar was unnecessary, but Madame Bretin clucked and brushed her protests aside. Then she buttoned Juliana back into her old brown merino, which suddenly seemed very drab. With a determined look on her face, Madame Bretin turned to Sophia.

  “If you will but change places with your niece, we shall begin with you now, Mrs. Thatcher.”

  Sophia rose leisurely, carefully removing the pins from her hat and placed it in Madame’s outstretched hands before stepping in front of the mirrors. She studied herself briefly and smiled, the dimple hovering beside her mouth. “Yes, madame, I believe it is time to start on me.”

  Exactly ten days later Madame Bretin’s messengers delivered box upon box to Wentworth House. Claire, a trusted finisher, accompanied the order to make any last minute adjustments. Sophia and Juliana had Smithers bring two standing mirrors to the small reception room on the third floor and spent a delightful afternoon rediscovering their many purchases. They exclaimed with pleasure again and again after trying on all their new finery.

  Claire was needed only for a loose button because Madame had achieved her reputation by precision work. Each confection was almost a work of art, fitted perfectly to the figure and crafted with exquisitely set, fine stitches. The pièce de résistance, though, was Juliana’s turquoise silk ball gown. A delicate shade that complimented her eyes, deepening them to azure; it was a color that would stand out against the pastels and whites of the debutantes at Charlotte Grenville’s come out. Juliana swept a deep curtsy and peeped up into the mirror to find her aunt watching in delight.

  “This gown should find you a widower or two, my love.”

  “Why Aunt,” she began in reproving tones, only to catch sight of her breasts straining against the low décolletage of the gown. In a more sober tone she continued, “This gown will attract every rake in London. Claire, we must raise the bodice.”

  “Oh, no! Madame Bretin would have my head!” Claire was adamant. “No! No! Do not touch it! The gown is most becoming as it is. Why all the great ladies cut their gowns like this. Some even more daringly.”

  “Leave be, Juliana, dear. We wouldn’t want to cost Claire her position. You’ll just have to be careful not to curtsy quite so deeply.” Sophia waved her hand dismissively and Claire left quickly, relieved that Madame’s creation would remain untouched.

  On the night of Charlotte Grenville’s ball, Smithers ushered Monsieur Henri out of Juliana’s boudoir, but before he closed the doors he permitted himself the very faintest of smiles. “If I may so, ma’am, both you and Mrs. Thatcher are in quite good looks this evening.”

  “Thank you,” Juliana said softly, watching his reflection in her mirror. Sophia came and stood behind her, surveying the Frenchman’s work. He had cut Juliana’s thick, silky curls so that they were a riot of ringlets framing her heart-shaped face and causing her green eyes to look enormous. Twining turquoise ribbons in and out through the curls, Monsieur Henri had arranged her shorter hair into an elegant coiffure.

  Now when she looked into the glass she did not see the Juliana Grenville who had left Wentworth Park such a short time ago, but the creation of London’s finest modiste and hairdresser. This new Juliana had even been so bold, she had darkened her eyelashes. She found she rather liked the exotic creature staring back at her. Smiling, she caught her aunt’s gaze.

  Juliana had never seen Sophia look so beautiful. Monsieur Henri had trimmed her hair to shoulder length and then pulled it up into a cornet of curls with a few wisps falling softly about her face. To this he had added a gray ostrich plume that exactly matched her eyes and the ball gown of heavy satin that Madame Bretin had designed.

  “Well, my dear, do you think we shall do?” questioned Sophia.

  Juliana turned, the gown swirling provocatively around her legs, and circled her aunt. She noticed how her satin gown shimmered to life in the candlelight and how the color made Sophia’s remarkable eyes seem to glitter. If she had changed since leaving Wentworth Park, then so had her aunt. There was a gaiety about Sophia now that softened the strong bones of her face and, with the new gowns, her fuller figure was shown to best advantage. She was a mature woman at the height of her beauty, and from the gleam in her eye Juliana suddenly realized she was planning to enjoy herself to the fullest.

  “You look lovely!” she exclaimed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it is you who finds a husband.”

  Sophia laughed, grabbing Juliana’s hand. “Then let us be off to see what this evening holds for us.”

  In the carriage, Juliana’s mind was so occupied with her plan to humble the marquis that she barely noticed the crush of carriages lining the street in both directions in front of the Grenville town house. Her own elegant landau, with two postilions, a driver, and a groom moved slowly forward until at last they were positioned directly in front of the door. Only then would Sophia permit them to alight.

  She had only a fleeting impression of the Grenville mansion: black marble pillars, a chessboard-patterned floor, and everywhere glittering crystal chandeliers, and colorful arrangements of fresh flowers, as Sophia bustled her into a side room to deposit her cloak. The ton, like Juliana and Sophia, had visited their hairdressers, modistes, milliners, and sent their jewels for cleaning, all in preparation for this, one of the first balls of the Season. Now dozens of fashionably dressed guests talked and moved about the house—it was a mad crush, the highest accolade for a ton party.

  Ascending the staircase to the reception line was a slow task, and Juliana had plenty of time to take in the glamour around her. Much to her disgust she did not spy the marquis. But she was charmed by the number of people who remembered her aunt and greeted her warmly. When they finally reached the reception line, she was surprised to see Lady Grenville’s fixed smile change abruptly into a mask of frosty disapproval.

  “Sophia, I can’t imagine how you would allow…”

  Charlotte stepped forward, so discreetly, that no one, not even her mother, realized how she effectively squelched Lady Grenville’s outburst.

  “Juliana, you look beautiful! You’ll put everyone in the shade tonight.”

  A pleasant warmth crept through her, for in all truth she was still uncertain of the bodice. “You look especially lovely tonight also,” Juliana returned, lightly squeezing her friend’s hand. “Your gown is exquisite.”

  The empire line of the simple white satin set off Charlotte’s tall, willowy figure to advantage and quite took her out of comparison to the usual debutante frills.

  Charlotte shrugged goo
d-naturedly. “Well enough. But we all pale beside you.”

  “Charlotte! You mustn’t turn Juliana’s head with such outrageous flattery,” Lady Grenville twittered, fanning herself briskly with a large fan of magenta feathers, which exactly matched her satin gown.

  “I never flatter, Mama. It is only the truth, as you very well know,” her daughter replied calmly before turning back to place a kiss on Sophia’s cheek. “I was hoping George would be with you tonight.”

  “Sorry, dear.” Sophia patted her arm. “There still seems to be a problem with that field of wheat. But he promises to arrive within a few days.”

  “He did quite right to stay at home,” Charlotte nodded. “The wheat is much more important than my ball.”

  After a brief smile at Lady Grenville, who still, for some reason, positively glowered at her, Juliana moved away, trailed by Sophia.

  “I think Charlotte truly believes the crops are more important than her ball,” Sophia murmured in disbelief.

  “Of course she believes it. Charlotte never says anything she doesn’t mean,” Juliana replied absently, scanning the ballroom once again. Drat the man! Where was he? She had gone to all this trouble to dazzle him and he didn’t even have the good grace to be here to witness her arrival!

  Who is the chit looking for so earnestly? Dominic stood in a sheltered alcove from where he had been following their progress up the stairs. He felt a pang of some strong emotion which, if he didn’t know better, he might think was jealousy. Juliana looked ravishing, but what was Sophia thinking about to let her wear such a dress? He stepped forward, pulled toward her by the attraction that always seemed to flare up whenever he saw her. But then he stopped, remembering who she was. No point in continuing, she could never be his. Although, the fascination he felt for her couldn’t be denied.

  Whatever had she done to her hair? Was it still as sweet-scented as it had been tumbling over his arm as he carried her to the Blue Boar Inn? She was quite simply the most beautiful woman in the room. But she was more than just a lovely woman outwardly displaying her charms. He knew from Will’s stories and his own dreams of her that her beauty came from within—her spirit, the warmth of her soul, the truth in her eyes reflected a beauty that no other woman at the ball could ever hope to attain. And although the town bronze became her, he remembered her even more beautiful than this—sitting in the Forbes’s garden lost in the spell of gypsy music…

  A sturdy elbow nudged him sharply in the side and Dominic stiffened.

  “My boy, who is that ravishing redhead who has just entered? Never seen her before.” Lord Rodney raised a large quizzing glass that hideously magnified one watery blue eye.

  Dominic couldn’t help but smile at his uncle’s entranced expression. Rod was one of the few beings left on earth for whom Dominic felt affection. “Her name is Juliana Grenville. She’s the widow of Sir Timothy Grenville’s son, Will.”

  “Remember Sir Timothy. Quite a pleasant place in Berkshire I recall.”

  “Yes. The Willows. Belongs to Sir Alfred and Lady Grenville now.”

  “Damn pushy woman Lady Grenville. Can’t imagine what your grandmother’s thinking of, throwing the family’s support into her chit’s come out.”

  “Afraid I do,” Dominic muttered, but his uncle wasn’t paying any attention. He was raising his quizzing glass again, peering openmouthed at Sophia.

  “The woman next to the redhead. Who is she?”

  “Sophia Thatcher. Juliana’s aunt.”

  “Thatcher … Thatcher … don’t ring a bell. But Sophia … Sophia. I can’t quite place her. I … I don’t believe it! Sophia Vane! My god, it’s Sophia Vane!” he sputtered.

  Totally oblivious to the damage done to Dominic’s exquisitely fitted coat, Rodney gripped his arm, propelling him across the ballroom floor. “Come, my boy, must pay my respects.” An almost boyish grin flitted across Rodney’s ruddy face. “Never told anyone this, Dominic, but Sophia Vane nearly caught me twenty years ago.”

  Juliana, waiting for the first set to begin, was standing by an open French window hoping to catch any breeze that might stir into the already stuffy ballroom. She glanced around and saw Dominic, accompanied by an immensely overweight gentleman, walking toward her. Materializing out of nowhere, Sophia appeared at her side.

  Conscious of Dominic’s eyes on her, she again wished she had not allowed Madame Bretin to cut the bodice of this gown so deep. Madame had insisted it must be done to expose to best advantage her jewelry. But since Juliana wore only diamond earrings, long falls of small flawless stones that her father had presented to her upon her marriage to Will, all the dress exposed was herself. She had ignored her normal modesty because her need to best the marquis was stronger, and she felt sure this dress would attract his attention. Now with him in front of her, all her resolution fled before the first real smile he had given her since the Blue Boar Inn.

  The portly gentleman, however, didn’t spare her a glance. He had eyes only for Sophia.

  Sophia extended her hand and her delightful smile brought the dimple hovering beside her mouth. “Rodney, how good to see you again.”

  Lord Rodney raised her gloved fingers to his lips, and then kept them imprisoned between his palms. “Sophia, you haven’t changed. You’re still as beautiful as you were twenty years ago … more so!”

  Chuckling, Aunt Sophia raised her eyes to Juliana. “Rodney, I’d like you to meet my niece, Juliana Grenville.”

  He glanced briefly at her. “Charmed,” he murmured vaguely before turning back to her aunt. “Why don’t you go dance with Juliana, Dominic, so Sophia and I can have a nice, long chat.”

  “Heard that, you old dog!” interrupted Freddie’s voice. “This is my dance with Juliana.”

  Shaking his head, a slow sensual smile moved across Dominic’s marvelous face. “You heard my uncle, Freddie.” Taking Juliana’s hand he placed it in the bend of his arm.

  “It’s robbery, Dominic!” Freddie good-naturedly called after them.

  Her heart was pounding in her throat, but she managed to return over her shoulder as Dominic led her away, “The next two dances are yours, Freddie!”

  The musicians hidden away in the gallery above them began at that moment the first strains of the first set—a waltz. Dominic drew her into his arms, holding her lightly. For an instant the intimacy of their embrace sent a tingling sensation through her and she stiffened. But she remembered her plan to best the marquis and decided she would treat him like George or Freddie or any other young man. Of course, he was not any other young man, he was Dominic, and he had kissed her in the garden. Pleasant but vague fantasies danced in her head as she forced herself to relax. They swept and swirled around the room, Juliana’s feet barely touching the ground so expert was Dominic’s lead.

  Dominic was conscious of her slender, softly rounded body within his embrace and the sweet-smelling masses of auburn curls tickling his chin. There had been that in her eyes when she had first glanced up and seen him and it struck a cord within him just as it had in the garden of the Blue Boar.

  Long ago there had been a young man inside Dominic who could have responded to Juliana and the feelings she evoked. There had still been a ghost of that young man in him when he had met Will Grenville on the Peninsula.

  They had been of an age, he and Will. Their paths had crossed many times, for Dominic’s spying activities for Wellington had kept him coming and going to camps the length and breadth of that battle-scarred piece of earth. Often at night he would sit over camp fires staring into the flames seeking answers to the questions that had driven him away from all he held dear. It was then that he had come to know Will, when men had talked of home. Dominic listened to tales of sweethearts, mothers, sisters, and wives. But Will Grenville had spun the most appealing of stories about his country estate and the child he had made his bride in the few weeks befor
e he left for war. Will’s stories of the young wife with the spirit of a lion and the heart of a lamb had in some small way touched the hard core that was becoming Dominic’s soul. It was then that he had forged an image of her that he had tucked away, safe and clean, in his subconscious.

  The years of corruption since those nights had been long, and the task of slowly destroying that part of himself that still cared about all that he had once held dear was nearly complete. The more unsavory his reputation became, the more every woman he wanted became his for the asking. And the one memory of his mother and his half brother that had scarred his soul burned brighter than ever.

  But now he had met Juliana and come to know her. And to desire her in a way totally different than he had ever experienced. At the Blue Boar he had wanted nothing more than to cup her beautiful face in his hands and lower his mouth upon her softly yielding lips. And he realized he wanted that still. Of course, that would never happen again, now that he realized who she was. Perhaps, that was what had drawn him to her, he speculated. He had known, somehow, that here at last was the woman he always wanted. She had pushed all the horrible memories, the promises he’d made to stop the taint within himself far away. Vibrant and alive, she was more than the memory of the young girl who had embodied all he had once wished for himself; she was everything any man could hope for.

  The shock he’d experienced realizing Juliana was Will Grenville’s bride—the very woman he had dreamed of—had jolted him to reality. He had withdrawn back behind the walls he had so carefully erected around himself long ago. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about what might have been. It was too late for such folly. He must not forget that Juliana could never be for him; one night, long ago, had robbed him of the future. The man he had become did not deserve any happiness. Any chances to forget the taint. It was his legacy. His and Jules.

  Dominic’s arms tightened almost painfully about her and Juliana looked up, nearly crying aloud at what she saw on his face. How could a notorious rake like the Marquis of Aubrey look so sad and lonely?