Julian Ovenden Bridgerton Novels & Stories

The moment I stepped out of the box, I heard a familiar voice. "Sera?" I turned. Julian was standing in the corridor, dressed to the nines, with a blonde on his arm. Tiffany Vanderbilt. She was even prettier in person. Pearl earrings, an emerald necklace. She looked like a perfect Barbie doll. "What a coincidence." That arrogant smile spread across Julian's face again. "You're here for the opera, too?" "Yes." "Sera, you shouldn't have," he whispered, a flicker of excitement in his eyes. "Following me? It's a little desperate. A bad look for you."

Her eyes swept the room, searching for the one silhouette she would know even in total darkness. "He’s not here yet," Ophelia murmured, scanning the crowd. "But he is," a voice rumbled from behind them. Selene turned to see Julian Vane. He looked striking in a charcoal tuxedo, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand. He smiled, and this time, the sharp blue of his eyes seemed to dance with a dangerous secret. "You came," Julian said, offering his arm to Selene. "I was beginning to think the 'consultant' had lost her nerve."

I hardened instantly, while Denaro was not happy at all with my body’s reaction. “My beloved Maxxwell,” she said and blew on my ears. “My body longed for you,” she whispered. “And you are the only one who could satisfy the longing in my soul. If you could do something about it perhaps?” Nothing happened yet between us. She always did the first move, but I would be the one who would stop her the moment Zenith’s face resurfaced in my mind. I looked away, pressing my lips in a thin line. “This is not how a noblewoman should act, Lady Juliana. If your Father knows about this, he will be disappointed with you.”

Just her skin and the memory of Julian. Julian was standing in the middle of a group of powerful men. He looked like a king. His black tuxedo was perfect, and his hair was slicked back. To everyone else, he was the brilliant Mr. Sterling. But Lila knew the truth. She knew the way he growled when he came. She knew the weight of him. Julian caught her eye from across the room. He didn't smile. He just looked at her, his eyes dark and hungry. He raised his glass to her, a tiny movement that made Lila’s knees feel like water.

To her surprise, the room had already been restored. There wasn't a single sign that a fight had taken place there the night before. Even the damaged window had been completely repaired. “I'm taking my shirt off.” Julian raised a hand and casually began unfastening the buttons of his shirt. His movements were slow. His long fingers were elegant and well-defined. For a moment, Rue found herself staring. As expected of Vivian Vanderbilt's son. He had inherited excellent bone structure. “Mmh...” A low grunt escaped Julian's throat. His voice was deep and unexpectedly captivating.

“It’s nice to see you again.” It was her. Juliana Conti. But... different. Her skin was tanned, a deep bronze that highlighted the striking green of her eyes, a shade I remembered all too well. Juliana, the woman who was supposed to marry Giovanni. Juliana, who had run off with her first love, Edmond Moreau, on the very day of her wedding. Juliana, the one Giovanni’s men had chased, the one presumed dead in a fiery crash.

Her accomplishments were lauded, her beauty celebrated, her every whim catered to. I, meanwhile, was just the afterthought, the footnote in the Moreau family saga. The one who'd arrived just as their luck ran out. My gaze drifted towards the man standing beside Clara, the reason for all this orchestrated madness: Julian Davenport. He was everything I expected and more. Tall, impeccably dressed, with a face that could launch a thousand ships – or, in this case, save a failing business. His dark hair was styled with casual precision, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. There was an air of contained power about him, a sense that he was always in control, always observing.

It turns me on as much as it makes me furious. I am Julian, forty-one, married to Vivienne for five years. She is thirty-eight, petite, but with curves that refuse to quit. Her thirty-six C bréasts and wide hips make men stop in their tracks, and her thick red hair brushes her shoulders in a way that is impossible to ignore. Two children later, and her pússy is still tight and welcoming. She is the kind of woman who makes men forget to breathe. We have a four-year-old son and a two-year-old daughter, but none of that diminishes her. She is utterly irresistible. I am five-eleven, brown hair, fit, and decent-looking enough.

I held my peace, saying nothing. Vittoria rolled her eyes and murmured, “Is she here for a picnic or to walk the red carpet?” I replied indifferently, “There’s no difference to her. She lives for the attention of the men.” As Juliana took a seat, her neckline dipped, giving more than a peep show. Several young made men cleared their throats in embarrassment. Juliana kept a smile on her face. “What are you looking at? It’s a new dress, perfect for the hot weather.”

And there, across the marble floor, fenced in by her family, stands Corinne DeVries. She's younger than I thought. Dark hair. Pale skin. January gray eyes, the identical shade as Julian's, as Elena's. She's laughing at something her fiancé murmurs, her hand resting on his arm. She doesn't know. She has no comprehension that her entire existence is balanced on the edge of a blade. Julian halts. His grip crushes mine. "There she is," he whispers. "My sister." "Are you ready?" "No. But I'm advancing anyway."