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.
‘This way, my lady.’ The maid was gesturing her towards the curved staircase. She was very young and she looked plain. Juliana reflected that Emma always chose plain maids, being unable to stand any competition. The girl ushered Juliana through a doorway on the landing and into the room that Juliana had used earlier when she changed out of her clothes. Another door led into a smaller room, where another maid was pouring steaming water into the bathtub. She looked up as Juliana came in and her perspiring face flushed a deeper red. She emptied her jug of water, dropped Juliana a flustered curtsy and fled, as though just being in the same room as the ton’s most wicked widow might put her in danger.
Juliana turned her bewitching smile on the first girl, slipped off her wrap, bent to remove the garter from her leg and stepped into the water.
‘Thank you. You may leave me now.’
The maid gave her a tight-lipped smile in return and took the soiled robe in her hand. She too dropped a curtsy, disapproving and not over-awed, and left the room. Juliana laughed.
The icing sugar was turning sticky in the water and Juliana reached for the long, wooden-handled brush to give her skin a good scrub. She preferred to do it for herself. The thought of some ham-fisted maid attacking her tender flesh made her wince. The remains of the cream were floating on the top of the water like some unpleasant scum and there was a sliver of apple swirling around in the brew. Juliana grimaced. The after-effects of her outrageous behaviour were proving a deal less pleasant than the trick itself. At this rate she would require a second bath to wash away the residue of the first.
She lay back and closed her eyes, recapturing the moment when the footmen had whipped the lid off the silver salver and exposed her in all her glory. To cause such an uproar had been such fun. The women had looked furious and the men had looked like little boys in a sweetshop. Juliana smiled with satisfaction. It was so very pleasant to be able to arouse such emotions. Admiration, desire…and contempt.
She sat up abruptly, remembering the expression on the face of the fair-haired stranger.
‘I thank you, ma’am, but I have never liked dessert.’
Infernal impudence! How dared he be so disdainful? It had only been a joke. And what was such a puritan doing at one of Emma’s debauched suppers anyway? Perhaps he had been looking for a church meeting and had taken the wrong turning.
For a moment Juliana remembered the look in the man’s blue eyes and felt disturbed all over again. She had been so certain that she knew him, with a bone deep recognition that she had never felt before. Yet it seemed that she was wrong.
She stood up, slopping water over the side of the bath on to the floor, and reached for the towel. The diamond tiara snagged on the material as she drew it about her shoulders and with a quick impatient movement Juliana pulled it from her hair and cast it on the dressing table. Suddenly she was anxious to be gone. She padded across the bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the carpet. Her clothes were all laid out on the bed. She need only ring the bell to summon the disapproving little maid to help her dress, but she did not want to wait. She had left Hattie, her own maid, at home in Portman Square. Hattie invariably disapproved too, to the point where Juliana’s friends enquired why she did not find herself a new maid rather than tolerate Hattie’s censure. Juliana never answered. The truth was that she rather liked having a strict maid. It made up in part for the mother she could not remember.
On impulse Juliana started to dress herself, getting into a tangle as she tried to fasten her silk stockings to her garters, casting her stays aside and slipping into her chemise. The evening dress she had chosen was deceptively simple, a wrap of aquamarine gauze. Even so, she found it surprisingly difficult to fasten it without help. The diaphanous material was intended to cling and drape seductively and it was almost transparent. Juliana frowned at her reflection. The dress was gaping inelegantly like that of a blowsy, drunken trollop and looked not so much seductive as ridiculous. Clearly there was more to this business of dressing oneself than met the eye. She would not try it again. She could not bear to look unkempt.
She sat down at the dressing table and studied her reflection. She had not the first idea of what to do with her hair, which, now that the tiara was removed, tumbled down her back in auburn profusion. To have her hair loose about her face softened the breathtaking angles of her cheekbones and made her look younger. The sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose only added to the youthful impression. Those freckles had withstood years of forceful scrubbing and all her attempts at removal with Dr Jinks’s Lemon Ointment. Juliana leaned closer. There was a hint of vulnerability in her eyes that she did not wish to acknowledge. It made her feel strange, just as she had when the unknown man had looked at her.
The door opened and Emma Wren rustled in. Juliana could immediately tell that Emma was a little the worse for drink. Her colour was high, the rouge on her cheeks smeared, and her hairpiece slightly askew.
‘Juliana, my dear!’ Emma was high with excitement. ‘You were utterly magnificent! Why, the gentlemen can talk of little else! They are all waiting for you, my dear. Are you ready to go down?’
Juliana turned back to the mirror. She was aware of making excuses. ‘Not quite. I need some help with my gown and my hair.’
Emma tutted. ‘You should have called my maid. Dessie will fix it in a trice. Although…’ she stood back and considered Juliana’s appearance ‘…you do look quite charmingly rumpled and wanton like that, my dear. I am sure the gentlemen will appreciate it. Tumbled curls are quite the thing, you know, and make you look so young and innocent.’ She gave a peal of laughter. ‘You will quite sweep them away!’
Not for the first time, Juliana reflected that Emma was wasted as the wife of a junior government minister and would have been most successful as the madam of a bawdy house. There was, in fact, very little difference between Mrs Wren’s elegantly appointed town house and a Covent Garden bordello. Or a rookery in a less salubrious part of Town, for that matter. Juliana turned her shoulder. She might connive at some of Emma’s more outrageous games for her own amusement, but she had no intention of playing to someone else’s rules. The trick played on Brookes had alleviated her boredom for at least an hour, but now she did not propose to go downstairs and act the harlot.
‘Sir Jasper Colling is asking for you,’ Emma said meaningfully, putting her painted face close to Juliana’s, so that Juliana could smell the stale wine on her breath. ‘And Simon Armitage. He is a sweet