Season for Temptation

by Theresa Romain

  Julia flung herself onto the bed and wiggled her feet thoughtfully, sighing as she considered her answer. She didn’t know whether Louisa wanted lies or the truth.

  She settled for ambiguity. “I don’t exactly know. It definitely wasn’t like a cozy Christmas Eve at home. But I don’t think there’s anything you could have done differently to make it go better. Does that help?”

  Louisa blew out a breath between thinned lips. “Maybe a bit. But the fact remains, they don’t really want me to marry him, do they?”

  “As long as he wants to marry you, what does it matter?” Julia replied.

  She knew that was dodging the question, but she didn’t really want to talk about this. She felt uncomfortable, even a bit envious. Which was ridiculous, she knew, since her season would begin soon and she would have her chance to find the same happiness Louisa had.

  Except Louisa didn’t seem happy right now; she still seemed worried. “I suppose it was kind of them to have me join their game, but then they excluded you, which again seemed impolite to me. Not very hospitable. Do you agree?”

  “Yes, and Lady Matheson was very rude to me at dinner, too,” Julia said. “I could hardly believe she called me common.”

  Just the thought of it made the desperate annoyance wash over her again. Although . . . then James had come to her defense. And then he had told her his future plans and family secrets. Had he told them to Louisa? Or had Julia somehow earned a special confidence?

  The thought cheered her, although the memory of James’s bleak eyes was as painful as a wound.

  “So, doesn’t that seem like a problem to you? If they aren’t willing to accept my family as well as me?” Louisa pressed.

  Julia struggled to focus on her sister’s worried words. “It won’t bother me a bit, as long as it doesn’t matter to you,” she replied honestly. “I probably won’t meet up with them often. Though I did like James’s little nieces. I meant what I said about inviting them to Stonemeadows.”

  Louisa was insistent. “But we should all have good relationships, shouldn’t we? Do you think James should marry without the support of his family?”

  Now it was Julia’s turn to blow out a breath impatiently. She knew she should be giving Louisa her full attention, but she just wanted to stop thinking about the whole situation. “Louisa, he can do whatever he chooses to. He is a grown man who’s already come into his title and estate. He’s what, almost thirty years old?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Fine, twenty-seven. Anyway, he’s self-sufficient. And if he wants to be engaged, which he does, his mother had better get used to the fact. She may be too top-lofty to notice anyone below her own rank, but it would be the devil of a scandal if she tried to break things up.”

  A scandal. Julia could almost laugh, if it wasn’t so sad. It was precisely that, a family scandal, that James was trying to suppress through his marriage. Now that he was engaged, his mother ought to be more judicious about suggesting other young women for him to run off with.

  Louisa acknowledged these pragmatic words with a miserable half smile. “That may be true, but what kind of life would it be for his wife if she couldn’t get along with his mother?”

  “Why are you speaking in hypotheticals?” Julia demanded. “You’re the woman in question; you’re going to be his wife. And then you’ll be a viscountess, too, as well as the mother of his heirs.” She thought for a moment. “Actually, if she’s too much of an evil cow to you, you could simply refuse to have any children but girls.”

  She almost smiled at the mental image of the dowager viscountess being presented with a squalling baby granddaughter.

  But the idea of James, the father of another woman’s child—that thought was enough to wipe any smile from her face.

  “Evil cow,” Louisa repeated, much struck. “She was a bit, wasn’t she?”

  “More than a bit,” Julia agreed. “She’s lucky our aunt wasn’t in an attacking mood tonight. I wasn’t either, really, but I wished they’d been more friendly.”

  Louisa stared forward and nodded. “Yes, definitely that. A woman like that can put a lot of pressure on someone.”

  Julia looked at her curiously, but Louisa seemed to be in a reverie.

  “Well, I don’t mean to bother you,” she said, standing abruptly. “I just wasn’t sure what to make of the situation.”

  She still looked uncertain, and Julia felt ashamed of her own reluctance to talk. If she had sensed unfriendliness in the air that evening, how much more so must Louisa feel it?

  “I’m sorry,” she said at once, reaching for her sister’s hands. “Stay, talk as long as you need to.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Louisa assured her, managing a more sanguine expression. “I just have a lot to think about, I guess.” She squeezed Julia’s hands. “Happy Christmas.”

  Julia responded in kind, and relaxed back onto her bed. It hadn’t really been much of a happy Christmas Eve, but there was still tomorrow to come, and pieces of the evening had been pleasant nonetheless. Eating a large, delicious dinner. Playing with two young, shrieking children. And, of course, seeing James. Feeling the warmth of his trust in her.

  It took awhile, but she eventually drifted off into a troubled sleep, dreaming of her sister’s betrothed husband.

  She was awoken the next morning by a gentle scratch on her forehead. Her eyes snapped open, expecting in the fog of half-sleep to see a man with green eyes peering down at her.

  Instead, Louisa grinned at her and waggled a sprig of mistletoe across her face again. “Happy Christmas, Julia. Put on your wrapper and come see what our aunt has done.”

  Julia yawned and shuffled after her sister, struggling toward wakefulness, away from the lingering threads of disturbing dreams. “Was it necessary for you to swat me awake with a plant?”

  “You’re lucky it was I,” Louisa replied. “It’s mistletoe, you know. Our aunt wanted to send a footman in to embrace you awake, but I convinced her that would be vulgar.”

  Julia choked. And then, when she entered her aunt’s morning room, she choked again. The sharp scent of evergreen slapped her fully awake in an instant.

  “Did a pine forest anger our aunt?” she murmured to Louisa. The entire morning room was carpeted with evergreen branches; the ornate chandelier was twined with mistletoe and holly. Pine garland swooped around the delicately plastered walls and snaked around the legs of the chairs and sofa.

  Julia crunched slowly across the room, wishing she’d donned her slippers. “Happy Christmas, Aunt Estella. What—”

  “It’s Christmas morning, is what.” Lady Irving, festive in a men’s red brocade banyan and a bright apricot turban, rose from her perch on the morning room’s sofa. “I know you girls like to have your holiday folderols about you, so I’ve done my best. As you can’t go tramping about a forest in the heart of London, I’ve had the forest brought to you.”

  As Louisa thanked their aunt with the pretty manners that always made Lady Irving demur with gruff pleasure, Julia sank onto the bed of pine and laced her fingers through the fragrant branches. Their waxy texture was fresh and pleasant, needling her into an awareness of the difference between last night and this morning.

  Her aunt had turned her house into a holiday bower to please her nieces, knowing they would miss Christmas in the country. James’s poor nieces would have no such warm greeting this morning from Lady Matheson.

  Aunt Estella interrupted Julia’s thoughts by shaking a string of nuts in her face. “The queen covers a pine tree with candles,” she said. “Rubbishy idea, if you ask me. One of these years, she’ll burn down half the City with a scheme like that. Still, I thought you girls would like her idea of almond garlands. Eat.”

  Julia was always willing to obey such an order. She took the nuts and nutcracker her aunt handed her and began to tease the almonds free from their string, handing every other one—well, every third one—to Louisa.

  Lady Irving rearranged herself on the sofa near her niec
es. “Perhaps we ought to have invited your young rooster over, Louisa,” she mused. “Think he’d like to meet you under the mistletoe, my girl?”

  Louisa scrabbled for the end of the almond garland, her cheeks reddening. “I’ll see him a little later. His mother invited me for Christmas dinner, you know.”

  So James would not come here. Julia tugged her wrapper more closely around her suddenly chilly form. “Atonement, I hope?”

  “Or she wants to dangle the promise of a better bride in front of James again,” Louisa said in a resigned voice.

  Lady Irving raised her eyebrows. “You paint such an attractive picture, I’m tempted to stow away in your reticule and take part in the evening.”

  “Louisa, I’m sure you’ll have a grand time at Matheson House,” Julia added. “We’ll be having plum pudding here, which I’ve been told is dreadfully common.”

  Not even this mild joke lifted the discouraged expression from Louisa’s face, and her sister’s dilemma clanged through Julia like a caroler’s bell. Not yet a wife, Louisa must balance her own family’s needs with those of her future husband’s. This included trying to make peace with a woman who had no desire to make peace with her.

  “If you have to go, I understand,” Julia said stoutly. “James will love to see you on Christmas. And I’ll save you a slice of pudding as big as the smile you can make right . . . now.”

  Such nonsense teased a small smile from Louisa.

  “That’s not big enough for two bites,” Julia scoffed. “Give us a big false one.”

  Laughing, Louisa opened her mouth in a huge yawn, and Julia poked an almond into it before she could close it, sputtering.

  “Much better,” Lady Irving agreed. “Now that we’re falling all over each other, we’ve a proper celebration under way. Breathe your fill of evergreen, girls, and then we’ll get ready for church.”

  They obliged, then pounded back upstairs to dress for Christmas morning services.

  All the trappings of the holiday surrounded them, and for that, Julia was deeply grateful to her aunt. But she was divided all the same. Though her body stood in Grosvenor Square, her heart went out to the girls caught in the chill of Matheson House, and to the hopes and plans of their uncle.

  Especially to their uncle.

  Chapter 13

  In Which Serious Damage Is Done to the Contents of Pocketbooks

  Christmas night passed quietly. Boxing Day was spent at home, too, since Lady Irving had an aversion to, in her words, tipping the entire City of London. But the following day, Julia and Louisa were to venture out upon the City at last.

  That morning, Lady Irving breakfasted on a tray in her room and didn’t emerge downstairs until the highly fashionable hour of eleven o’clock. By that time, Louisa and Julia had both woken up, dressed, eaten breakfast (with Julia seizing the welcome opportunity of her aunt’s absence to eat an enormous and definitely unladylike amount of food), collected their wraps and reticules for the planned outing to Bond Street, and kicked their heels for almost an hour waiting for her.

  Unusually for them, they waited in near silence. Louisa didn’t seem upset, but she wasn’t much inclined for conversation. Despite herself, Julia felt horribly curious about how the previous evening had gone, but she took her cue from Louisa’s quiet, thoughtful expression and decided not to press her.

  “Country hours,” Lady Irving sniffed when she saw them ready and waiting. “Don’t let it get about that you were up before eleven.”

  She summoned Simone, and then her carriage, which drew an inquiry from Louisa.

  “Can’t we walk, Aunt? We’ve hardly gotten any exercise since we arrived.”

  “Packages,” Lady Irving barked. “I like fresh air as much as the next person, but if you think I’m going to stumble through the snow with my arms full of packages, you’re a candidate for Bedlam.”

  She thought for a moment, then corrected herself. “Actually, I suppose it’d be Simone carrying everything. How would you feel about that, my girl?” She elbowed the maid jocularly in the ribs.

  “I would much prefer to take the carriage,” Simone said calmly.

  With what her aunt deemed vulgar curiosity, Julia pressed her nose to the carriage window and studied the London streets as they rolled by. The latest dusting of snow had already been ground into the macadam by the constant churning of carriage wheels, but shop roofs were as delicately frosted as queen cakes. Shop windows had been denuded by parents and lovers hunting Christmas gifts, but greenery and garland swung invitingly across doorways. It was still the season for joy and remembrance, after all.

  The sweetness of the sight, the sharp joy of the novelty, banished some of the chill Lady Matheson had imparted to the season.

  Too soon, the carriage pulled up at the discreet, elegant shop of Madame Oiseau, modiste. Unlike so many of London’s “French” dressmakers, who were actually Englishwomen with put-on accents, Simone assured them that Madame was vraiment française.

  “She is simply the best,” the maid explained. “I assure you, you will be transformed.” She bit her lip in an oh-so-French gesture of uncertainty, and added, “If she will see you, of course.”

  Julia was skeptical of madame’s skill at first; the shop was small, and she saw not a stitch of clothing or fabric on display. It was scrupulously clean and looked to have been recently plastered and painted, so at least it was cheerful. But what was all the fuss about? She and Louisa and Lady Irving seated themselves and waited while Simone eagerly darted back into the private portion of the establishment.

  Several minutes passed, and Julia’s hesitation grew. Surely they were wasting their time; they had better go. When she began to ask her aunt a dubious question, Lady Irving quickly shushed her, staring raptly at the small woman who suddenly came forth from the back of the shop, followed by a beaming Simone.

  A flurried interchange in French followed between the lady’s maid and the dressmaker, a thin woman in late middle age who was simply and elegantly dressed in a dark blue silk gown with slashed sleeves. They both looked Julia over as they spoke—Simone in a rushed, excited voice accompanied with flamboyant hand gestures, and Madame Oiseau in a more subdued fashion punctuated with many nods and shakes of her head.

  Julia’s French wasn’t fluent enough to follow their conversation, but they were unmistakably speaking about her. She straightened in her seat and tried to look nonchalant, but her stomach was twisting with apprehension and she couldn’t keep from fidgeting. She had no idea what was being discussed, but she could tell from her aunt’s reactions that this would be momentous. Lady Irving seemed to be hanging on their every word, nodding eagerly whenever madame did, and leaning back in disappointment whenever she shook her head.

  Finally, Simone’s gesticulations ceased, and she turned to face her employer, her usually unperturbed countenance beaming with pride. “She says she will accept to dress the blond mademoiselle,” she informed her observers, her accent thickened from a frantic conversation in her native tongue.

  “Excellent!” Lady Irving crowed, hopping to her feet. “Nice work, my girl.” She clapped Simone soundly on the back, which fazed the lady’s maid not a bit, but drew a startled stare from Madame Oiseau. “Sylvia Alleyneham, with all her money, couldn’t get Oiseau to take on her girls. Earl’s daughters,” she trilled with gleeful triumph. “You should consider this an honor.”

  “Indeed,” Louisa breathed in the ear of the nownonplussed Julia. “She wouldn’t dress me last year; our aunt certainly tried to persuade her.”

  Surprised, Julia darted her sister a quick look, but the elder girl’s face was smooth and untroubled.

  Several excruciating hours followed, hours of pinning, measuring, cutting and piecing of fabric, and frequent conversations in hurried, emphatic French between Madame Oiseau and Simone, on whose opinion the dressmaker seemed to place no small reliance. The older woman was clearly a modiste of formidable talent, but the lady’s maid also came into her own in this environment, wi
th an unerring eye for measurement and flawless taste in choice of fabric and color. It must be a great sorrow, Julia realized, for her to work for a woman with such violent taste in clothing as Lady Irving.

  Lady Irving, for her part, looked as excited to watch the fitting as Julia would have been to be faced by a platter full of cream pastries, especially after she had been standing for several hours. Julia thought wistfully of her long-ago breakfast as she stood surrounded by billows of fabric. She should have eaten an extra piece of toast, or perhaps even stowed one in her reticule.

  After long discussion, her ladyship finally settled on three ready-made frocks that had been hastily altered to fit Julia—and even so, they still fit better than anything she had ever owned. They also placed an order for a half dozen day dresses in assorted pale colors, a few evening gowns suitable for going out to small events, plus a stunning ball gown in ivory silk.

  Lady Irving decided to defer the order of a court dress for the time being.

  “Silly garments,” she huffed. “But I suppose we’ll have to have one made eventually so we can present the girl properly to the queen.”

  “Not in white,” Madame Oiseau had declared boldly, refusing to allow any of Julia’s gowns to be made in this traditional color. “She should never wear white. Les blondes, they are so light, they need some color in the gown.”

  “How much will all of this cost?” Julia wondered quietly to her aunt.

  “It’s vulgar to ask,” Lady Irving informed her. “And besides, if you have to ask, you probably don’t want to know the answer.”

  She chucked Julia under the chin as they prepared to leave at last. “It’s all right, my girl. I’ll help you out with this one. Consider it a Christmas present. Your parents have simply no idea what it costs for a young lady to look her best.”

  At Julia’s answering protest, Lady Irving countered, “Very well, then, it’s an investment. An investment in you, to make sure you take this year.”