Saving Juliette

by Gayle Eden

  He sighed to keep from cursing. “May we not find some of that trust you had for me before I departed?”

  “Why?”

  He stared at her again.

  She stopped her mount this time, hazel eyes looking beyond when he reined in too and regarded her.

  Juliette murmured, “The duchess plans on marrying me off. She already has a list of potentials and has informed me about each. What—is the point?”

  “Perhaps I can persuade her otherwise. You should, very well could, have several seasons, perhaps time to develop some…affection, for a young man of suitable income and birth.”

  When she did not respond, he dismounted. “Let’s walk.”

  She dismounted and they did walk side by side.

  Birdsong, and the wonder of the forest, and the hard-packed path dappled with occasional sun, should have provided an easy enough atmosphere for Wolford to begin a more intimate conversation. However, Juliette’s responses from the first put him off course, and he had to think about how to go on.

  In a bit, he said, “What I was going to say before, is that you are a young woman, and have matured in my absence. Naturally, you are…curious about…things. And whilst I understand the feelings that come with maturity, I’m sure you know the risks, and the precarious line that a young woman must tread.”

  Pausing to secure his horse’s reins, he suggested she do the same and afterwards led her, by way of going first into a clearing. Shady, with mossy covered tree trunks and stumps, it was cool and dappled. He sat himself on a stone and watched her half set on a massive felled tree, her arms crossed, eyes on him—by turns going over him in a way that he found a bit disconcerting—considering he was twenty and eight, and she a mere sixteen.

  He reached in his boot for a case and shortly extracted and lit a cheroot.

  Juliette said clear enough. “Your father, his Grace, had this talk with me. I am not stupid. I know why Peter was sent to the Cunningham’s to work.”

  His own brown eyes probed hers, slightly narrowed through the smoke. “Then you must know that was the catalyst that provoked my mother to draw up a list of suitable matches. Otherwise, you would have however many seasons you desire to find a husband. But you mustn’t bring scandal on yourself, or them.”

  “I wouldn’t have. No one would know anything if Meg had not tattled. And I was not reckless.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.” He tried not to rise to the challenge in her tone since he was trying to establish a trust with her. “You cost a young trainer his post.”

  “No. Meg did.” Juliette stared at him. “And she did it, because she liked him herself.”

  “The point is, he was hired here and you are the ward of the duke. A Baron’s daughter…”

  “I did not fornicate with him.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you did.” Monty strove to keep his tone mild with difficulty. “You aren’t stupid. You know why—all—the reasons why, it was forbidden.”

  Her eyes went over him, then back to his face. “Yes, of course, my Lord.”

  He grunted. “I’m trying to be your friend, Juliette. Perhaps a brother. If we come to a satisfactory conclusion in this discussion, I can assure the duke and duchess that you do not need a marriage as yet. You can conduct yourself properly.”

  “You aren’t my brother, nor ever shall be. Nonetheless, I shall conduct myself properly.”

  He held her gaze, trying to discern what she meant by that. No doubt, she could. She did so to the point of not socializing with anyone. Yes. He did not doubt that. However, Monty was far from clear as to how Juliette’s mind worked. He could hardly credit how thrown he was—him, a seasoned man of the world, trying to talk to Juliette, a mere sixteen year old...

  He cleared his throat. “So, the incident was a one-time thing, curiosity, and a lesson learned?”

  “Certainly, I learned—something from it.”

  For a moment, he was stupefied.

  Somewhere mentally shaking himself, Wolford managed, “Are you being cheeky?”

  “Yes.”

  He set his teeth. “For the sake of any affection or gratitude you hold my parents; I would ask you to think of them before you take risks.”

  Pain flashed in her face.

  He saw he clear enough. “I don’t profess to understand you, Juliette, though I can guess where your resentments and pain comes from—”

  Teeth set herself, she cut him off, “I would never do anything to shame or hurt the duke or duchess. Nor was that in my mind. I told you, Meg tattled something that no one would have known. And you—know nothing of me.”

  There were tears in her eyes, but he on a course, so Wolford uttered, “That you do not see the risk in it, gives me no leave but to assume as my parents have, that you—”

  Her arms unfolded and she interrupted again. “Very well, I might as well be married off now as later. That is what I was trained for. What the expectation is.”

  “Perhaps so. But my father would not push it, nor would mother, if you—”

  “What!” She was clearly distressed now. Her whole face showed it. “Oh, what does it matter? What does any of it matter? Something private and harmful to no one— Perhaps Peter was kind was me. He did not think me fat, or nothing more than a stupid cow female. What was that to anyone, but me?”

  Before the Marquis could respond, she drew in a breath and sucked up the tears threatening.

  She walked a bit away, drawing in breaths. “It doesn’t matter. If they match me to one of the duchess’s choices, I must obey. Even If they do not, I have no malice, no intent, to deliberately bring scandal upon anyone.”

  Not sure why he felt he had been harsh, when actually, given the way society thought, and her feelings about the (incident)—he had been quite mild. Wolford crushed the cheroot and walked to her. Standing beside her, he eyed her hair, watching the wind tease it, and her profile, the flush still there, but some control gathered.

  “You are not fat, Juliette. You have a lovely form.”

  She swallowed. “And that doesn’t matter either. Or won’t to a husband who wants heirs.” She shrugged. “I’m to be presented this season, and compared to the fashionable ladies, the debs, who are pale and thin and beautiful. I can tolerate that. I don’t care if I am admired for my looks or not.”

  Somewhere in the back of his mind he filled in, I just want to be loved. However, choosing not to go in that direction, Monty raised his hand and touched her cheek. “I shall talk with father. With mother too. But if you join society, and you will, you should find something to enjoy, dancing, making friends, something all young ladies love about society.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Why do you do that? You may call me Wolford, or Monty.”

  She glanced at him when he dropped his hand. Her eyes were greener in the grotto. “You aren’t my friend. You cannot be. Not only are you a Marquis, you will be a duke one day. You’re famous, too.”

  “I can very much be your friend.” He shook his head.

  “I see no point in it.”

  His laugh was surprise. “Are you really that angry that I went away?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze roamed his face, but her voice carried no venom. “No.”

  He laughed softly. “All right.”

  “What I mean is, I understand all the mature reasons you did. You have done something to be proud of. So no, that does not anger me. I was angry you made me trust you, and then you left me. Childish. But I was afraid. I was hurt.”

  “I’m sorry.” Wolford understood and made his reply gentle, “I’m sorry for that.”

  After a moment he went on, “You must not believe what others say about you, Juliette. You are an intelligent young woman. You have a magnificent figure. You must not think yourself abandoned. The people, who have left you, did not want to go for that reason.”

  “My father did, long before he died. He tried, but he couldn’t love me.”

  “Nonsense.”

  She s
hrugged. “A child feels these things. That’s why…when you were kind, you held me and you…I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I really have grown past that.”

  He chanced, “Is that what the encounter with Peter was about. Affection and attention?”

  She went back to where she had stood before, and he turned to regard her as she leaned there, but did not follow.

  “I liked Peter. He was nice to me.”

  The Marquis sighed and walked over. Pulling her into a hug, he said gruffly, “If I promise to be here for you, to be a friend to you, Juliette, will you also honor the word I shall give his Grace and my mother as to your behavior?” He felt her stiffen and rushed, “I am not saying you courted scandal or took deliberate risk. But you trusted me once.”

  It took a while, and though he would not consider himself a demonstrative man, Monty held until he felt her nod and sensed a subtle relaxing of her body.

  Stepping back, he let her go and eyed her one more time before they went to their horses. “We have a bargain?”

  “Yes. My Lord”

  Monty held those hazel eyes; seeing now how she could shut off and shut down to mask her emotions.

  She husked, “You won’t be my friend, though. You will not save me from anything. You may buy me some time, but there’s no saving me, Wolford.”

  Monty let her mount up and leave him there, because he needed the solitude to try to piece together what in bloody hell her demon really was.

  * * * *

  Over the next season, Juliette kept her word, though Montgomery Laughlin, Marquis of Wolford came to almost regret making her give it.

  The young woman who stepped foot in London that season became an imitation of the well-bred deb. She was respectful, kind, assuredly well loved by his parents. Her figure garnered her male attention, and her hair, whisperings. Not ignorant of the cattiness in those circles, he knew she suffered in comparison to others. Society was in itself one of the most vicious and cruel cliques—thus Monty did not fool himself for long that she was not a target of theirs.

  Juliette hid her intellect, her wit, and though he danced with her at balls, sat with her suppers, the opera, and conversed, she did not become even partly animated until they were at one of the estates. In some ways, her life mirrored his own, since he was one man there, another in private.

  Everyone in society wore two faces, to some extent.

  The Marquis could have been vexed with his parents, for they could not be happier with the ward that grew into womanhood—solicitous to the duchess, attentive to the duke. They were so pleased with her conduct in London that in the country they indulged her trouser wearing and ramblings. It seemed like such a small thing to tolerate, in comparison to the pride they took in her overall.

  Juliette did not grow into a beauty, but Wolford certainly thought her handsome. The names and mockery came though, and he knew Juliette was not deaf to them. She handled them, he assumed, by shutting down.

  It got to the point, in the second season, that Wolford almost felt like he had killed what was left of her spirit. He was torn between shaking her most times, wishing she would stand up for herself—and hugging her the rest.

  Jahi, who lived in Wolford’s townhouse and worked with him, still found somewhat a life of his own, though eventually brought into the circle around Wolford that included many of his old chums. He never lost his attraction or fascination with Juliette. Although constrained by his foreign birth and lack of titles, he managed to develop a relationship and friendship with Juliette too. Alone, he and Wolford often discussed the enigma of Juliette. The deal she made—and kept, with the Marquis. However, to Wolford’s old chums, Deme and a few others, Lady Juliette was the sort of ward that Lady Mary would raise, and few thoughts were given to her. Considering that, Deme’s family was as wild and as eccentric as ever—that was no surprise. But it bothered Monty, observing that those who paid court or attention to Juliette, were either dull as dirt, old as dirt, or dumb as such. Moreover, she never disdained them, and wore that polite smile for all of them.

  Monty stood across the ballroom many times, wishing she would suddenly tell them all to bugger off.

  Coming to look forward to each and every departure from London, after those seasons, Monty then had to start all over again, at the estates, trying to establish a more relaxed atmosphere and bond with Juliette.

  In time, his father, an observant man, had said to him, “You take your responsibility for Juliette far too seriously. She has come round famously and yet you appear to feel you have to be some sort of guard for her.”

  “She’s not happy. She’s no more enjoying the season than I do.’ Monty had scowled. “You have to be blind not to see that she is an easy target for every one of those bitches with claws.”

  “She’s grown a thicker skin.”

  “No. She’s simply learned to hide her reactions better.”

  Thaddeus had studied him closely. “It’s all in your imagination, Monty. To anyone who is observing her, Juliette acts the way any well bread Lady should.”

  A muscle ticked in Monty’s cheek. “That’s well and good in a ballroom, Your Grace, but have you ever heard her laugh? Seen her cry?”

  His father’s brow rose, but he said nothing.

  Not knowing why it was chafing him so badly, the Marques excused himself from his father’s presence, wondering himself why it disturbed him so. She would soon attract a husband, who desired a biddable wife. Wasn’t that the goal?

  Bloody, bloody hell. Monty could not stand the thoughts of Juliette attracting any man as she was.

  As if to prove him right, the evening that the Duke and Duchess of Crawford hosted a grand ball in honor of Juliette’s nineteenth birthday, Monty had been watching her closely since she had entered the crowded ballroom.

  She looked attractive with her red blond hair swept up and held in a gold band, wearing a ball gown of lush silk and velvet, in ivory and gold, sleeveless, low heart shaped bodice, and long skirt. An amber necklace he had presented her with earlier graced her throat, and she wore long white silk gloves and leather pumps. Still, given the last set of seasons and her self-imposed social isolation, save for faux smiles and automated dancing, he watched her go through the obligatory dances with royals and dignified friends of his father—nothing much had changed, save that some grew more envious of her position close to Lady Mary, and a few mocked her lack of success—mostly those reigning belles who had a hundred devoted followers.

  Half way through the night, he watched Jahi dance with her and could read the frown on his friend’s brow despite his attempts to smile and be charming. Jahi had given her a beautiful shawl for her birthday, after gaining the duke and duchess’s approval.

  Finally, Monty danced with her, and in one of the turns murmured, “Happy Birthday, Juliette.”

  She had met his eyes, hers more gold due to the color of the gown, and uttered a polite thanks.

  Toasts, champagne, a beautiful cake, and later still, Monty was caught in a conversation about one of his artifacts on display at the museum and lost sight of her.

  It was near dawn before he left the ballroom and went through the main floors of his father’s house, in search of her.

  “She’s in the kitchens, my Lord.”

  Monty eyed the passing woman. “Ms. Henny?”

  “Yes.” The woman smiled. “I am still about, although long past my uses.”

  He smiled back, wondering if the sadness in her eyes was because she knew Juliette as well as he was beginning to.

  Monty excused himself and went down a long hall, heading toward the back bricked kitchens. He entered to find it bustling and did not see her until he spied the hem of her gown, past the main area and beyond an archway.

  He nodded to servants and made his way there, finding himself in an area where it was a bit dark, having stairs that ran up to the main floors, and ones a few feet beyond, to the cellars. She was out of the way, and half way up the stairs.

  Treading those
stairs, ducking his head at the lowness of the ceiling, Monty sat down beside her.

  He eyed the plate of tarts she munched on. “Care to share?”

  She nodded and handed the plate over, so it sat on his lap; silent tears were running down her face.

  He extracted his hanky first and cupped her chin, raising her face whilst she was still chewing and wiped her nose and cheeks. Holding her gaze awhile, he saw the crystal drops still forming in them despite the poor lighting.

  He had never forgotten the child’s tears, nor the young sixteen year olds; this grown woman’s affected him no less. He husked softly, “Did your tears not distress me so, Juliette, I would almost be happy to see them, instead of this shell you walk around in most of the time.”

  She swallowed her bite of tart, saying miserably, “I am merely keeping my end of the bargain, my lord. Everyone who matters is vastly more pleased with that shell than they ever were me.”

  “Oh, Juliette…” Wolford did not know he would, but he lowered his head and softly kissed her. It was only seconds long, but enough so that he caught himself doing it and he drew back.

  Her lashes had closed and now opened slowly, the glow in her eyes nearly making him groan.

  “I see he found you first.”

  Hand dropping, Monty turned to see Jahi coming up the stairs. His friend had discarded jacket and neck cloth. He sat himself on her other side, leaving little room on the narrow stairs.

  Jahi murmured to Juliette who had turned to regard him. “Shall I not bestow a birthday kiss also?” He proceeded to cup her cheek and turn her head toward him, kissing her much more passionately than Monty had.

  When it was over—having lasted too long in Monty’s opinion, he saw Juliette lick her lips, and watched his friend’s dark eyes glow and that smile flash.

  “Tart?” Monty offered dryly, shoving the plate to Jahi.

  Jahi licked his lips. “I enjoyed the flavor of Juliette’s more.”

  Oblivious to their by-play, Wolford’s snarling smile, and Jahi’s wide one, Juliette stood and then walked to the bottom of the stairs. She turned to look at them, each in turn—and each for a long time. Then her voice rasped, “Congratulate me. I am going to be married… to Sir Garris Hillman. He is mid-forties, stable, sober, rich—and has—a nice summer home... in Kent.” She turned and ran out of the kitchen.