“You are a cake, Willa.”
“I am your best friend. And you are a rebellious daughter of a duke who refuses to honor tradition and find a suitable husband, even though your father has threatened to cut you off if banns aren’t read by the end of the year.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “Papa is doing what my grandfather demanded, taking a stand against his shameful, bluestocking daughter.”
“Your reputation was intact yesterday. Has something happened?”
Julia let out a girlish giggle. “If Papa does cast me out, surely I have a place here.”
“You know you do.” Willa escorted her to the back of the store and opened a door that led to the comfortable suite of rooms she shared with her mother. “Mama will be back soon.”
Julia sat down on a velvet-covered, wingback chair, awaiting the tea she’d been promised. “I envy you, Willa.”
Her friend had disappeared around the corner, into the small kitchen. “Do not,” she advised. “For life here is vastly different than it was in our townhouse in Mayfair or our country estate, which I miss.”
Willa’s dear father, the earl, had died two years ago, leaving her mother little money for their support, and a half-brother who hardly acknowledged he had a sister, much less a responsibility to help her.
“I am sorry, Willa.”
“Think nothing of it.” She returned with a tray containing a lovely tea service and a plate of delectable pastries and lemon cake. “Now, about your new acquaintance, the duke. He must possess one redeeming quality. For I have never heard you carry on about any man before.”
Julia sipped her tea, then set the cup and saucer aside. She could think of several qualities that made him desirable—but nothing redeeming. Only characteristics that, if he truly was part of the bon ton, would attract innumerable debutantes and their scheming mamas. Such as broad shoulders, a fine pair of blue eyes, curly, black hair—though too long to be considered fashionable—perhaps even a pleasant smile… Wait! A devilish grin only confirmed her first impression of the man. He was a rogue.
And a complete stranger. She gazed at her friend. “He is no duke.”
“But what if he is?”
Julia leaned back in her chair and sighed, remembering the card he had given her. An invitation to a musicale of some sort for tomorrow evening. She reached for her reticule on the side table next to her chair, opened it, and withdrew the elegantly printed card. “Here.” She offered it to Willa.
She read it carefully, then looked up at Julia. “A coveted invitation to Matily Hall.”
“Hardly coveted, I think.”
“Julia, the countess’s soirees are the rage of London. Though I do not expect you to acknowledge such a thing.”
Should she take that as an insult, though she was sure it was unintentional? “I am not that out of fashion, Willa. I simply choose not to attend such events.”
“Yes.” Willa nodded. “And Mama would tell you there is a time and place for such thoughts.”
“And I am ever thankful for your mother’s help in raising charitable donations for the less fortunate.”
The dowager countess had been a staunch supporter of Julia’s causes before her husband died. Now she helped collect funds through the sales made in her bookshop.
Willa eyed the invitation again. “This is a real invitation, Julia. I think you should attend the musicale and find out if the duke is who he claims to be.”
It would take little effort to choose a proper gown for the occasion, as she had a wardrobe full of silks and velvets, headdresses, ribbons, and slippers just waiting to be worn. And her lady’s maid would finally get the chance to arrange her hair in a fashionable style instead of the simple chignon Julia preferred.
Her father, the duke, would be beyond pleased that she had agreed to go out in Society.
“You are stubborn, Lady Julia,” her friend observed mildly.
“Detached is a better description.”
“I wholly disagree, for this man has planted a seed inside your mind, hardly leaving you disinterested.”
She felt herself start to blush. Perhaps he had planted a seed—one that fell upon parched earth and would never flourish. Though the supposed Duke of Pridegate, Alonzo, a strange name for an Englishman, did have the mannerisms of a man of privilege. Or perhaps the skills of a nefarious criminal.
Regardless, he was no friend. He simply sought to shock her, to provoke her interest in the fame he so openly spoke of—arrogant creature. Arrogant, handsome beast, she added reluctantly.
“Are you well, Julia?”
She looked up from her lap, forced out of her most private thoughts. “I am. And I agree with your logic. I shall attend the musicale tomorrow evening, but only if you accompany me.”
“What?”
“The invitation is addressed to anyone and their guest. You will be my guest.”
Willa stood. “It would be my pleasure, but I do not have a gown to wear.”
Julia laughed and shook her head. “You will not get out of this that easily. You must come home with me tonight. My maid will happily alter whatever gown of mine you choose.”
Though the two were similar in height, Willa had a slighter build. Where Julia had full breasts and hips, her friend had a delicate form.
“Well?” Julia prodded.
“Yes, of course I’ll go!”
Chapter Three
Bloody impertinent woman… he’d been perfectly content shopping and enjoying the rare, cloudless day when all of a sudden, he was chased down like a common criminal by a gaggle of uncontrollable women. Then, seeking sanctuary, instead of finding a peaceful place to catch his breath, he ended up in the company of a bluestocking—a beautiful one who chose to masquerade as a commoner, though he could see through her poorly planned guise with his eyes closed!
Alonzo ended up at White’s with a glass of whiskey. He took a seat at his favorite table. Every man who walked by acknowledged his presence but steered clear of joining him. Until his friend, Damien Rochester, the Duke of Wrath, dared to approach with a glass of wine in his hand.
“A bit early in the day to drink, even for you, old chap,” Damien said.
Alonzo gestured for him to sit.
“Has London’s most famous songbird finally lost his voice?”
“Shut up, Damien,” he said, setting his glass down hard. “The reason for my untimely indulgence is due to a rare sort of creature I encountered today. A creature who could vex me—hell, any man—every day if allowed.”
Damien rolled his eyes, crossed his legs, and took another drink. “Do tell.”
There was something wonderful about being a duke, and whenever Alonzo was fortunate enough to spend time with his closest friends, Damien and Graham, the Earl of Ganes, he felt at ease, especially after being gone as long as he had been.
“The kind of creature you marry and reproduce with, or the type you sate your animal lusts with?”
He considered his friend of twenty years. They had attended Eaton together and discovered and experienced innumerable pleasures as young bucks making their marks on Town.
“Perhaps both,” he answered, rotating his empty glass over and over again.
“Such a vessel does not exist,” Damien assured him.
“I have always disagreed with you on that point, Damien.”
“And what benefits has that disagreement brought you?”
“Unlike you,” Alonzo said, “I can afford to bide my time in choosing a wife.”
“But a wife you shall have.”
Their gazes met. “Eventually,” Alonzo admitted. “Every duke needs an heir.”
“Every duke requires a mistress or two.” Damien signaled for another round of drinks. “At the moment, I believe you have neither.”
“It is pointless to discuss it further.” Alonzo had spent two years on the Continent with a different woman in his bed every month. If he chose to take a much-needed respite in order to find the perfect mistress, somethin
g he had planned before his return home, his friend should support his decision. “I will not settle for just any woman in my bed now that I plan on staying in England.”
Damien’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief.
“Yes,” he said. “It is time to accept my responsibility and start acting as a duke should.”
His friend drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “And just how is a duke supposed to act, Farrington?” He leaned back, a grin on his face.
Alonzo pulled out his watch and pretended to care about the time. Just when he thought things were getting better, his friend had to remind him of why he had chosen to live a hedonistic lifestyle away from his homeland, away from the probing, judgmental eyes of the ton—away from his family that too often made endless demands of him. Instead of providing sound, moral direction as any normal friend would, Damien served as his immoral compass.
He flicked at an imaginary speck of dust on his coat. “A man needs something to hold on to.”
“Aye…a pert pair of breasts will do for me.”
Lord Presley walked by just in time to overhear Damien’s lewd remark and lifted his glass in salute.
Damien chuckled. “It seems I am not the only one who thinks so.”
“Tell me,” Alonzo said, “do you not grow tired of waking up in a strange bed every morning?”
“The bed is of no concern to me, but the stranger next to me surely is.”
“You have not reached that point, then.”
“What troubles you? Are you not at the height of your popularity? Wealthy beyond imagining? In good health? Blessed with the voice of an angel in God’s own heavenly host?”
Alonzo snorted, then stared at his friend’s hand on the table. His fingers were long and elegant, had never felt the pain of labor. A gifted pianist, Damien had reached fame in much the same way he had. He started playing the piano at private gatherings to seduce women. But once the ton realized they had their own virtuoso among them, the duke found himself playing for Prinny at the palace, then at galas hosted by foreign dignitaries and nobles. Fortune and notoriety naturally followed.
As it had for Alonzo. And though he would not trade it for anything, sometimes, when he found himself drifting helplessly in the past, remembering his mother and father, wishing life had given his family a better fate, he longed for more—for something sacred.
The waiter returned with their drinks and set them on the table, then cleared away the empty glasses.
“A bit melancholy before your concerto tomorrow?” Damien asked. “The countess has spared no expense to host this extravagant event, you know.”
“I am well aware of her attempt to latch onto us to benefit herself, if that’s what you mean.”
His friend shrugged. “As should be expected, my friend.”
He cleared his throat after draining the content of his glass in one, greedy swallow. “Finest whiskey I’ve ever tasted. Damn happy the Scots have a real use.”
Damien’s face twisted in mock offense. “Do not let the Earl of Ganes hear you speak in such a way.”
“Is he here?” Alonzo looked about.
“Just came in.” Damien waved at the entryway across the palatial room.
Graham Stoker might be half Scot by birth, but he was as much a bloody Englishman as any noble sitting in White’s. His father had married the daughter of a Scottish earl, and though their friend spent summers in the Highlands, he had been raised in London. His way of thinking always provided a fresh perspective.
Graham settled in one of the empty leather chairs at their table. “Did someone die?” he asked, looking between them.
“Alonzo is about to swear off women,” Damien said with a smile.
Graham looked at him aghast. “Christ! Do you need a five-week treatment of mercury?”
“I am fine,” Alonzo said soberly.
“Tis good to know, friend.” Ganes slapped him on the shoulder. “If not an ailment from the fair Venus, then what would have you thinking about taking vows of self-denial?”
Alonzo shifted in his seat, more than ready to take his leave.
“He smells of April and May,” Damien offered.
“I prefer Syphilis,” Graham said.
Alonzo glared at him. “I fail to see the humor in that remark, Ganes.”
“All right. I apologize for my insensitivity. Though you did not deny Damien’s claim of love.”
“I am most certainly not in love.”
“But he met a woman,” Damien said.
“Does this Bird of Paradise have a name?” Graham asked.
“Christ.” Alonzo suddenly felt like getting very drunk. “She is no woman of easy virtue, I assure you.” Though she appeared to traipse about Town unescorted. “Her name is Julia Castle.”
Graham spluttered his whiskey all over the table. “Did you say Julia Castle?”
Alonzo did not appreciate the way his friend said her name with such familiarity. “Indeed, I did.”
Damien laughed and shook his head. “When is the last time you scanned the books here?”
What did the betting books at White’s have to do with Miss Castle? “I haven’t.”
“I was afraid you would say that.” Graham stood. “Better come with me, old chap.”
Chapter Four
“Blue,” Julia insisted as she held up the perfect gown for her friend.
“Green,” Willa disagreed.
Julia rolled her eyes. “How long has it been since you graced a London ballroom?”
“As long as it has been for you, though for different reasons entirely.”
How she appreciated her friend’s wit, for she often found other women lacking in humor and sensibility. “Does the style or color really matter? We are both willingly throwing ourselves into the lion’s den.”
“If I am to offer myself up to the sharks, should I not be wearing something I adore?”
“Fine.” Julia bobbed her head like a spoiled debutante. “Green.”
“Oh.” Willa took a frustrated breath. “I’ll wear the blue for you.”
They both laughed and sat on the four-poster, mahogany bed that swallowed the expanse of Julia’s chamber.
“Father will be pleased we are going together, but will scold me for leading you astray by not having a proper chaperone.”
“I have never failed to make His Grace purr like an old tomcat.”
“Well, he does have a soft spot for you and your mother.”
“Do you ever wish…” Willa started.
“What?” Her friend looked suddenly stricken by a sad thought.
“It’s nothing.”
“Please, we have always shared our feelings.”
Willa looked away, wiping an unwanted tear off her cheek. “Do you ever wish things turned out differently for us? Your mother? My father?”
There wasn’t a day that passed where Julia didn’t mourn the loss of her mother. “Of course.” She reached for Willa’s hand. “But I know on authority, our parents would want us to be happy.”
Willa nodded. “Yes, your mama would wish us happy, but Papa would wish us grand adventures.”
Julia could not withhold her smile. “The earl was wonderfully unorthodox, wasn’t he?”
“To the chagrin of my brother for certain.”
Julia jumped up from the bed and puffed her cheeks out and started to wobble about awkwardly, the way they used to make fun of Thomas when they were younger. “Thomas the Turtle,” she said. “He always moved so deliberately slow, thinking it made him seem important.”
“You are forgetting something.” Willa suddenly stood and walked with an exaggerated gait. “He always wore his shoes two-sizes too big so he looked larger than he actually was.”
Julia covered her mouth. “Oh, no.”
“You’re as red as an apple, Julia! Why?”
“I’d rather not say.”
Willa planted her hand on her hip. “How can you keep something funny from me? Am I not your dearest friend?”
Willa considered it. “Up to three, and if I cannot guess, then you do not have to share your secret.”
“I accept your terms.”
“All right, what is my first clue?”
“I was spending the week at your house while Mother and Father went to our country estate.”
Willa tapped her chin. “You were fifteen, I remember.”
“Yes.”
“But so much happened that week!”
“We snuck into Thomas’s chamber…”
“And thought he was out. Instead… no, I cannot think it, much less say it aloud.”
Merriment showed in Julia’s face as she leaned over and whispered in Willa’s ear.
“Julia!”
“Well, did he not try to shove a pair of stockings down the front of his trousers?”
Willa nodded.
“Then it is safe to say, he wanted to make himself look bigger than he actually was.”
Willa burst into laughter. “You are a frightening creature of contradictions. But ever delightful, Lady Julia.” She gave a practiced bow.
Julia held her hand out, expecting her friend to continue playing the role of an elegant man.
Willa did just that, kissing her knuckles. “Are you preparing for meeting the duke?”
Julia snapped her hand back and frowned. “I am sure there will be many eligible bachelors at the countess’s party. Why does it have to be for him alone?”
“Why not if you are already acquainted? At least… what’s his name?”
“Farrington.”
“At least he’s pleasant to look at,” Willa finished.
*
“Lady Julia Castle?” Alonzo repeated her name aloud.
“A shapely blonde with wide, brown eyes, deep intelligence that would repel most men, and an air of superiority that rivals any queen’s?”
Damien had described her perfectly. Regretfully so, for apparently the lady had a collection of silent admirers that would rather cast bets about when the she would accept a lover or better yet, a marriage suit.
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