Rules of Refinement (The Marriage Maker)

by Tarah Scott

  Honoria smiled gently. “There is no harm in meeting the man.”

  “I’m no fool,” Juliet snapped. She nodded at the open window where her fellow students giggled in the small courtyard below. “They might not know the dangers of a Midnight Ball, but they don’t have a madam for a mother, now, do they?”

  “My dearest child,” Lady Peddington rapped her knuckles sharply on the desk at her side, “lower your voice. We cannot have such words overheard.”

  Juliet huffed another breath, but replied in hushed tones, “I am not staying in Edinburgh, Auntie. I leave early for London.”

  Honoria gave her a shrewd look. “You are no more anxious to return home now than you were yesterday.”

  Juliet’s heart constricted. Her aunt spoke the truth. She felt more at home here than anywhere else she’d ever lived. The year had passed too quickly. Juliet tossed a wistful glance at the bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes of deportment and etiquette. She’d read them all—or tried to. Truth be told, they’d put her to sleep better than any posset ever had.

  She had a plan to avoid the fate awaiting her in her mother’s house. She’d spent the school year fostering relationships with young ladies who would soon head households of their own. They would need a dressmaker. She intended to convince her mother to let her attempt to become a dressmaker before being forced into life as a courtesan.

  Juliet met her aunt’s gaze. “Why meet this gentleman just as I’m leaving, Auntie Honey—Honoria?” After a year, she still slipped. “Have you sold my virginity to the highest bidder?”

  Her mother had attempted just that the year before. She’d auctioned Juliet off to a middle-aged banker, a man with a stomach the size of a bull’s, who smelled like one, too. She’d narrowly avoided the man’s bed by convincing her mother a year at Lady Peddington’s school would allow her to charge twice the amount from better-paying clientele.

  Juliet realized Lady Peddington was talking.

  “…caught Sir Stirling’s eye, Juliet. He specifically requested that you attend tonight’s ball and meet the duke.”

  Juliet frowned. “Sir Stirling James?” She’d seen the man only once, and from a great distance. One of the instructors had pointed him out during a sanctioned holiday outing in Edinburgh as he’d dashed past in a brightly polished carriage. “Where might he have seen me? When? How? I’ve followed the rules, Auntie Honoria. I’ve told no one anything.” How could she? Classmates would faint from shock should they discover she’d been raised in a brothel. A new thought struck and she dropped her voice into an even lower whisper, “He isn’t one of Mother’s patrons, is he?”

  “Heavens, no.” She shook her head vigorously. “Nothing like that.”

  “Then why would he wish to make me a duke’s mistress?” Juliet hissed.

  “I’m not at all certain, child,” Lady Peddington whispered. She nodded at the open window and waited for more giggles to drift through before adding, “Sir Stirling is an old friend—not that kind of old friend,” she quickly added when Juliet opened her mouth to ask that very question. Her aunt gave her a knowing look. “You have behaved yourself here in Edinburgh, but what of London?”

  Juliet winced inwardly. Oh. London. “I’ve been the picture of propriety, Auntie, I swear it,” she lied.

  After all, what did the pesky word ‘propriety’ actually mean? Everyone she’d met held a slightly different opinion on the matter. And really, who was to say that sneaking into London parties uninvited in order to frequent the card tables was truly improper? She’d been careful to wear a Venetian mask to protect her identity. After all, she’d met more than one gambler in the brothel while growing up. They’d taught her a good many card tricks over the years. Why shouldn’t she put such knowledge to use? She’d been quite the mysterious and popular figure in London that summer, and she’d won a tidy sum—almost enough money to open her own dress shop. Almost.

  “What have you done, child?” her aunt pressed.

  “Nothing,” she lied again.

  Honoria’s stare seemed to penetrate clear to her soul. “Did you, by chance, fall in love in London or—”

  Juliet rolled her eyes. “Really, how can you ask? Love is a word thrown about too easily. I’m of no mind to lift my skirts for any man. Ever.”

  Her aunt chuckled as if relieved.

  Juliet lifted a suspicious brow. “I still feel as if I’ve been sold as your prized cow.”

  “Nonsense. Sir Stirling is a matchmaker.”

  “Let him make a match elsewhere.” Juliet tossed her head and turned to go.

  “Juliet, listen to me.”

  Juliet paused, then faced Honoria.

  Her aunt stepped forward. “Your blood runs hot, too hot for just any man. Mind you, I know. You should embrace that passion. Indeed, you’ll blossom under the right man’s touch. If the rumors about Duke Hamilton are true—”

  “No, thank you,” Juliet snapped.

  “Think of it,” her aunt whispered, eyes alight with anticipation. “A duke’s mistress. A man of the duke’s wealth would provide you not only a private house, but a yearly allowance, as well. Even your mother never dreamt that high for you.”

  Alarm coursed through Juliet. “You haven’t told Ma, have you?” the words shot out before she could stop them.

  Too late, Juliet realized her mistake. A calculating gleam entered Lady Peddington’s eye. Juliet’s heart sank. She’d just handed her aunt victory on a silver platter. There was no recovering now. Honoria knew Juliet would do anything to prevent her mother from gaining knowledge of the duke’s interest.

  “Let’s strike a bargain,” Juliet surrendered.

  A smile twitched the older woman’s mouth. “Have I taught you so little this year? A lady never bargains like a fishwife.”

  Juliet tossed her aunt a pleading look. “I’ll do as you ask. I’ll attend this Midnight Ball and dance with this duke. I’ll entertain him, just as you wish—outside of bedding him. But mother can’t know. Please, Auntie Honoria.”

  Lady Peddington primly took her seat. “Sir Stirling specifically requested that you play a game of commerce with the duke, and that you must win.”

  Cards? Juliet blinked. So, Sir Stirling had seen her at the London parties…but how had he recognized her? She’d always worn a mask. Heavens, had he had her followed? Horror washed over her.

  “You should know,” her aunt continued, “the Duke of Hamilton never loses.”

  Juliet took a deep fortifying breath and pushed her worries aside. “Until now,” she replied. She hadn’t lost a game in years—not with the tools she had at her disposal.

  Lady Peddington smiled. “Keep the man happy. It’s only one night. Do that, and your meeting with the duke shall remain our secret.”

  “Bless you.” Juliet heaved a sigh of relief.

  She left the study quickly. Oh, Honey Pedding was a wily one. She had manipulated the conversation in order to get her way. Juliet grimaced. She’d been raised by such women. How had she fallen so neatly into the net?

  At the bottom of the stairs, she paused and peered out the window at the young ladies who still chatted in the courtyard. In the past week, most had found suitors, honorable men offering marriage—not dukes looking for mistresses. As a fresh bout of giggles erupted from the girls, Juliet shook her head. They knew little of men. She’d seen enough men in her mother’s brothel to know them for the creatures they truly were: simple-minded fools focused solely on carnal pleasure.

  The Duke of Hamilton would prove no different. She would play that lust to her advantage. She would wear her finest gown. She’d flirt, lick her lips, heave her breasts, and flash her ankles. Expose a little flesh and she could make the duke’s blood boil. In a blink, she’d have him thinking with his cock. Then, she’d trounce him at cards, take his money and vanish.

  Chapter Two

  A Most Interesting Wager

  “THERE’S NO WOMAN ALIVE who can keep my interest long enough for me to want to marry
her, Stirling.”

  Carrick Hamilton, Duke of Hamilton and Lord of Lennoxlove House, stood on the edge of the lawn, nocked an arrow to his longbow and took aim. The bowstring thrummed, and the arrow buried itself in the center of the target over a hundred yards away.

  Sir Stirling James, Marquess of Roxburgh, who lounged under an ancient oak, let out a low whistle. “Impressive.”

  Carrick set his bow onto a nearby table, beside a collection of daggers, bows, and arrows—anything he could throw at a target. The sun was warm, the sky blue, the wind, nonexistent. All in all, a perfect day for target practice at Crenshaw House. So, why was he struggling with a dark mood? Perhaps, he should cut his Edinburgh visit short and return home. He stretched the kinks from his neck, then raked his dark hair back off his forehead.

  “What were you saying? Ah, yes. Women.” Carrick frowned. “Why are we speaking of women?”

  “I said, you simply haven’t met the right one.” An amused twinkle lit Stirling’s eyes.

  Carrick snorted a laugh. “I’d wager my prize stallion there is no ‘right’ woman for the likes of me.”

  “I’ll take that wager.” Stirling grinned. “I’ll back it with that red roan you’ve been lusting after.”

  Carrick shot his friend a startled look. “You’re not jesting.”

  “Indeed, I am not,” Stirling replied. “I’ve already found her.”

  Carrick lifted a brow. He’d been after Stirling to sell him that red roan for two years. He leaned a hip against the weaponry table and crossed his arms. “Who is she?”

  Stirling left the shade of the tree and joined him. “Marrying her will be rather tricky.”

  Carrick straightened. “Marry? Och, this is a jest, after all.”

  “Believe me, this is one you’ll want to marry,” Stirling assured. “Never have I seen a more perfect match.”

  Carrick grimaced. “Marriage?” He reclaimed his longbow and selected another arrow. “Duty dictates that I someday marry, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon.” He nocked the arrow and aimed.

  Stirling laughed. “What you need is a woman who will bring you to your knees.”

  Carrick’s shot went wild.

  Stirling grinned and clapped him on the back. “I look forward to seeing your stallion in my stables.” He spun on his heel and headed toward the house.

  Carrick frowned. “When shall I meet this harridan?”

  “Tonight,” Stirling called over his shoulder. “At Lady Peddington’s Midnight Ball.”

  A Midnight Ball? Carrick considered. Stirling had saved the most delightful surprise for last. He grinned. Aye, he was in the mood to spend the evening with a woman—especially one who attended midnight balls.

  Chapter Three

  A Game of Cards Like No Other

  THE CLOCK ON THE bedchamber mantle chimed the midnight hour.

  Juliet yanked her gaze from the book she’d been reading onto the clock. The Midnight Ball had begun. She set the book on the settee and rose. A tingle of anxiety climbed her spine. If even one of her friends lingered in the ballroom after the regular ball ended, the illusion she’d worked so hard to create this last year would shatter into a thousand pieces. Word would spread like wildfire and no one would hire the woman in the low-cut blue silk gown and Venetian mask as their dressmaker.

  One way or another, this would be the last time she stood in this room. Juliet turned in a slow circle and inspected at the room, now empty of all signs that she had lived here for a year. Her gaze caught on a sliver of dark blue velvet at the foot of her bed. She crossed the room and scooped up the fabric. A scrap that had fallen to the floor when she’d packed the remnants she’d collected from the sewing they’d done at the school. Most pieces were only large enough to use as samples, but a few very nice pieces would suffice to make gloves or even reticules. Every little bit counted.

  The money she’d saved would pay for just enough fabric and supplies to get started as a dressmaker. She didn’t have a penny for room and board, but one didn’t worry about such small details. Juliet grimaced. All she had to do was talk her mother into letting her live at the brothel until she could afford a modest home of her own. Until then, she had arranged to pay a small portion of her earnings to a shop owner in the fabric district for a place to meet with her clients. But her plans and future depended on her having a safe place to do her sewing.

  Juliet released a sigh. The year really had passed too quickly. She loved her mother, but she wasn’t looking forward to the battle that lay ahead. Her trunk awaited her atop the hired carriage that would take her to the coach headed for London. The day dress she would wear for the carriage ride home lay tucked in the satchel by the door. Once she escaped the duke, she dared not risk even a change of clothes in her room. The transformation from courtesan to dull dressmaker would take place in the carriage ride between Lady Peddington’s and the depot.

  Two girls at the school were already engaged to moderately successful London merchants and had begged Juliet to sew each of them full wardrobes. She would earn slave wages, but the girls would tell everyone that Miss Juliet Thatcher, graduate of Lady Peddington’s School for Young Ladies, had sewn their dresses. Then her mother would have no good arguments to prevent her from becoming a dressmaker instead of a courtesan.

  Juliet crossed to the full-length mirror near the door and inspected her appearance. The blue silk cradled her ample breasts to perfection and accentuated her thin waist. She tilted her head. Per Aunt Honoria’s instructions, she’d darkened her lashes and lined her eyes. The dramatic effect made her blue eyes stand out under the mass of curls she’d swept back from her face and fastened in place with two large tortoiseshell combs—all but one seductive tendril, of course. She let it coil gracefully down the back of her neck like a careless afterthought. Men liked that kind of thing. It made them itch to entwine it around their finger.

  Her gaze caught on her bodice as she started to turn, and she paused. She should lower the bodice another half inch. The dress was scandalous enough as it was—which meant she had nothing to lose. She tugged the bodice down

  She couldn’t help a humorless laugh. She looked like a pale ghost asleep on her feet. That wouldn’t do. A mental image of herself snoring at the card tables made her grimace. If only she had the courage to defy Lady Peddington and her mother. She nibbled on her lip. Not bloody likely. The force of their personalities alone was daunting. But that wasn’t the real reason. In truth, she knew they only sought to give her an easier life than they’d had. She suppressed a sigh and pinched her cheeks to bring out the roses.

  The distant strains of a waltz filtered into the room.

  She could delay no longer.

  Juliet reached for the deck of cards she’d set on the mantle. She’d filched them from the card rooms earlier in the day. She removed the aces along with the face cards and tucked them into a small pouch hanging from a garter on her thigh.

  Next, she picked up the Venetian mask, a dainty white satin oval trimmed with white feathers and gold piping just large enough to cover her nose and brows. She wasn’t attending a masked ball, but she knew how to tease a man. Juliet fluffed the feathers, tied the ribbons behind her head, and twirled in front of the mirror one last time. The gloves had to go. It was Lady Peddington’s Midnight Ball, after all. That meant bare flesh. She stripped off the gloves and draped them over the back of the settee.

  At last, she was ready—as ready as she would ever be.

  “Prepare to be stunned, Duke of Hamilton.” She gave a lofty wave of her hand, gathered her skirts, swept out the door and down the stairs. She paused in the downstairs foyer, outside the ballroom.

  Juliet had witnessed years of scandalously grand entrances at the brothel. A tantalizing amount of skin, a seductive sway of the hips, and a devil-may-care attitude were the main requirements of a successful entrance. With one final downward tug at her bodice, she lifted her head and swooped through the door.

  Few candles burned, leaving
the corners of the ballroom shrouded in intentional darkness. The girls who waltzed were cradled closely in their partners’ arms. She recognized a few of the men from the portraits that hung on the wall of her aunt’s study. The Duke of Hamilton’s ancestral lands lay north of Edinburgh, which is why his portrait didn’t hang on the wall. What had brought him to Edinburgh? Her ill luck, is what. Her gaze drifted to the refreshment table hugging the wall to the right. Bouquets of spring flowers tastefully encircled silver bowls of Aunt Honoria’s special midnight punch.

  No one approached her. There could be only one reason for that: the duke had warned all others off. That he made her wait at the door spoke volumes. He was obviously a man of command, accustomed to getting his way. No doubt, women tripped over their feet and drooled after him. Their mistake. A man of his power lived for the thrill of the chase.

  Well, it was time to see him run.

  With a proud toss of her head, Juliet turned on her heel and quit the room. She’d gone three steps when strong fingers closed around her arm. She suppressed a smile. So easily snared. Juliet paused and, brow arched, slowly faced the man.

  By God, he was handsome. Devastatingly so. He wore his dark chestnut hair longer than current fashion dictated, but it suited him. The fabric of his expensively-tailored, velvet cutaway coat stretched across the defined muscles of his chest. She dropped a slow gaze, mimicking the best of Lady Aphrodite’s girls in a bold inspection of his lean hips and the tight breeches that hugged muscled thighs. Juliet deliberately lingered on his groin before lifting her gaze to the details of his expertly tied cravat, smoothly shaven chin, and the regal curve of his lips. Her pulse quickened. She hadn’t realized how heated the ‘Lady Aphrodite Inspection’ could make the originator. She shook the feeling aside and concentrated on her prey. Small wonder women found him attractive. He was quite the specimen.

  Finally, she lifted her lashes and looked into a pair of piercing gray—and vastly amused—eyes.

  “You must be the ravishing Juliet,” the duke said in a deep baritone. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Carrick Hamilton.”