Juliana

by Lauren Royal

  Harnessing the vast Stafford fortune, James had opened a facility in London where those who were too poor to afford doctors could get smallpox vaccinations, an endeavor dear to his heart. At last, he saw true happiness peeking over the horizon. Life was looking good again.

  Then Anne died in childbirth, and their baby, born too early, died along with her.

  No physician, himself included, had been able to make a shred of difference. And James was certain he’d never be truly happy again.

  A year later, he’d regained some measure of his old contentment. But his mother was pressuring him to take a new wife, and, while the idea pained him, he knew it was an earl’s duty to sire heirs. Though he couldn’t love another girl, he might as well at least consider making his mother happy. So he’d allowed her to drag him to this ball, and, by the same token, he would allow Cainewood to introduce him to his sister.

  “Yes, I’d be delighted to meet Lady Juliana.”

  Cainewood wasted no time marching him across the ballroom and introducing him to both of his sisters. It had been so long since any girl made an impression on James that he was surprised to find his gaze locked on Juliana’s as he bowed over her hand. Her eyes were so full of life. He felt drawn to her energy.

  And that felt incredibly wrong.

  But Cainewood’s sister was a pretty thing, and he couldn’t seem to wrench his gaze from those eyes. Green eyes. No, blue. He couldn’t decide. They seemed to change as he watched.

  “Will you honor me with a dance?”

  He wasn’t sure whether he’d asked out of impulse or obligation, but he was glad when she responded with, “It would be my pleasure.”

  She let him lead her out onto the floor. He hadn’t danced since Anne died. He felt a wave of panic—what if he didn’t remember how? But there was a waltz playing, and Juliana fairly melted into his arms.

  He remembered.

  “What color are your eyes?” he asked.

  She gave a merry, tinkling laugh, a laugh that matched her eyes. “Hazel. Why?”

  “I couldn’t tell. They looked green at first, but now they look blue.”

  “Well, they’re hazel,” Juliana repeated, wishing he would stop staring into them. It seemed almost as though he saw right through them into her head, as though he could guess exactly what she was thinking and feeling. And that was unnerving, no matter that she had nothing to hide.

  She glanced away, her gaze landing on her older sister. Alexandra had come to town for the season while her new husband claimed his seat in the House of Lords. How happy they looked dancing together, Alexandra’s dark eyes locked on Tristan’s steady gray ones. Their road to wedded bliss had been a rocky one, but they’d been fated to be together from the first—as Juliana had known, of course.

  Where was her great love? Was fate taking a protracted holiday?

  Still feeling Lord Stafford’s gaze on her, she met his stare dead on, daring him to look away. He didn’t. His eyes were a warm brown, reminding her of chocolate. She loved chocolate. But she had to look up to see those eyes. Way up.

  She could get a crick in her neck dancing with such a gentleman.

  “I haven’t seen you at any other balls,” she observed. “You must take your duty to Parliament seriously.”

  The corners of those warm eyes crinkled when he smiled. “That and my profession.”

  “Your profession?”

  “I’m a physician.”

  “I thought you were an earl,” she said.

  One of his dark brows went up. “Can I not be both?”

  “Of course you can,” she said quickly, although she’d never heard of an earl-physician. “What do you do, exactly? Have you many patients?”

  “Some, although I’m not taking on any new ones. Most of my time is spent at my facility, the New Hope Institute.”

  “New Hope,” she mused. “I’ve heard of that. Something to do with smallpox?”

  “I provide vaccinations, yes. Mostly to London’s poor.”

  “That sounds like very important work,” she allowed. He was a most unusual young man. And an excellent dancer. Having noticed a slight limp as he’d initially approached her, she wouldn’t have thought he’d move so nimbly.

  Still, much as she loved dancing, finding a gentleman who excelled at it wasn’t her priority. After all, it wasn’t as though she had a shortage of dance partners—she danced her feet off at every ball, with or without Griffin flinging every eligible bachelor her way. She had no problem meeting young men; the problem was finding one she considered husband material. And Lord Stafford was definitely not what she had in mind.

  When the music came to an end, he led her by the hand off the dance floor. “It was a pleasure, Lady Juliana.”

  His voice was warm like his eyes, low and smooth, reminding her again of rich chocolate. “Thank you,” she said.

  The musicians struck up a country dance, and as he was still holding her hand, she half expected him to lead her straight back to the dance floor. Instead, he raised her fingers and, rather than kiss the air above her hand, he actually pressed his lips to her glove.

  Scandalous! Equal parts appalled and amused, she hardly knew how to arrange her face. What an unusual young man.

  She could have sworn she felt the kiss—a tingly sensation—through the white silk.

  “Thank you,” she repeated more faintly.

  “Thank you,” he echoed with a vague smile.

  She couldn’t help wondering if he was dazed or just bored.

  No sooner had he turned to leave than Griffin descended. “Well?”

  She watched Lord Stafford walk away. The cut of his tailcoat emphasized broad shoulders. Dark, tousled waves grazed his velvet collar. Many fashionable men achieved a similar look with pomade and curl papers, but his coiffure looked genuinely tousled. Like he was too busy to bother with it.

  “His hair is too dark,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “You know I prefer golden-haired gentlemen. And he’s entirely too tall—I felt like a child dancing with him.”

  Griffin looked down on her, both literally and figuratively. “Face it, Juliana—you’re short.”

  As though she hadn’t noticed. “He works,” she said. “He has a profession.”

  “And you find this unacceptable?”

  “He wouldn’t have any time for me.” She wanted a grand love, like Alexandra and Tristan’s; she wanted a husband who loved her to distraction. She wanted special outings and thoughtful surprises and long, lingering, endless hours together. And faith, this fellow couldn’t even find a few minutes to comb his hair. “I’m sorry, but he just won’t do.”

  The fact that Lord Stafford’s work was important made him admirable, but no more suitable—and the fact that she may have enjoyed his chocolate eyes and his impertinent kiss had no bearing whatsoever. Even if she could fall for a too-tall, too-dark earl-physician, their attachment could only end in tears.

  Griffin released a long-suffering sigh. “I shall keep looking.”

  “You do that,” she said, patting his arm and silently wishing him luck. The spice cakes had clearly been a waste. Poor Griffin. “In the meantime, I must speak with Alexandra.”

  She scanned the ballroom and finally found her married sister talking to Aunt Frances.

  “Who was that you were dancing with?” Alexandra asked as she approached.

  “Lord Stafford.”

  “He’s very handsome.”

  “His hair is too dark. Can you come to the Berkeley Square house this Wednesday afternoon?”

  “I expect so. Why?”

  “I need help making clothes for the Foundling Hospital babies.”

  “Your newest project, I take it?” Alexandra’s brown eyes gleamed with mischief. “What have you got yourself into this time?”

  If only she knew. “Corinna wanted to see the Hospital’s art gallery, but oh, the poor foundlings were heartbreaking. And their mothers.” Just thinking back on the balloting, J
uliana wanted to cry. “I must do something to help them.”

  “Of course you must,” Aunt Frances said. “With you, it’s always something.”

  That much was true; Juliana wouldn’t deny it. “And what does that make me?” she wondered. “Impulsive? Interfering? Overwrought, overdramatic, overbearing?” She stopped there, knowing she was all of those and more.

  Which was why she wanted to hug Alexandra when she said, “No, that makes you compassionate, giving, hopeful. Good-hearted and unselfish and sensitive. And lovable—that’s what it makes you most.”

  Juliana did hug her sister. Her perfect, responsible, married sister, who always managed to summon the right words to fix everything.

  But a small part of her couldn’t help wondering…if she was so lovable, why couldn’t she find someone to love?

  FOUR

  “THIS PINK IS pretty,” Emily said Monday at Grafton House, a draper’s shop in New Bond Street.

  “It is,” Juliana agreed, watching a snooty woman give the girl and her ever-present snake a wide berth. “But silk isn’t sturdy enough for babies. And pink won’t do.” She fingered a length of thick white wool. “The Governors want white, so all the clothes will suit both girls and boys.”

  Emily cocked her golden head. “Won’t the babies be overly warm in frocks made of that?”

  “I’m considering this for the blankets. We’ll buy linsey for the frocks.”

  “I’ll look for linsey, then,” Emily said and walked away.

  Juliana nodded absently, deciding the wool would do fine. She was about to ask the price when she heard a little shriek and a familiar voice. “Gracious me, Miss Neville! Are you still carrying that varmint everywhere?”

  Juliana turned, surprised to see another Berkeley Square neighbor, Lady Amanda Wolverston.

  Young Emily looked more affronted than surprised. “Herman isn’t a varmint,” she protested, returning to slip her hand into Juliana’s. “He’s a pet.”

  “Not a very proper one,” Lady Amanda said.

  Although she agreed, Juliana squeezed Emily’s hand. Amanda could sometimes be a bit too proper. But she and Amanda had grown up as neighbors and played together as children, so Juliana considered her a good friend.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come to town,” she told her with a smile. “I’ve invited my sisters to a little sewing party on Wednesday afternoon, to make some clothing for the Foundling Hospital babies. I do hope you’ll join us.”

  Amanda didn’t answer. Juliana’s tall blond friend was slouching—a habitual posture for her. But she seemed to be slouching even more than normal, and she looked unusually pale.

  Blinking, Juliana peered up at Amanda’s wan face. “Where have you been hiding all season?”

  “In the countryside. My father is still excavating the Roman ruins he found on the estate.” Amanda gestured toward a chair in a corner of the shop, where her aunt sat primly. “Aunt Mabel came with me, which was very kind. She didn’t want to come to town this year at all.”

  A slight, pinch-faced woman in an ill-fitting gown, the poor lady was as pink-cheeked as Amanda was pale. She seemed to be wheezing slightly. “I know she suffers from asthma,” Juliana said sympathetically, absently musing that Amanda must have inherited her aunt’s fashion sense—or rather, lack thereof. “And the London air has never agreed with her. However did you persuade her to come?”

  “Father persuaded her. Or rather, he ordered her.” Amanda took a deep breath. “Because…” Her gaze slid to Emily and back, wordlessly telling Juliana she had something to confide.

  Dying to hear the news, Juliana squeezed the little girl’s hand again. “Could you do me an important favor, sweetheart, and see if you can find that linsey?”

  “All right,” Emily said, happily wandering off.

  “Well?” Juliana asked when Emily was out of earshot.

  Amanda’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Father has arranged my marriage. He sent me and Aunt Mabel to put together a trousseau, which is why I’m here at Grafton Hou—”

  “He’s arranged your marriage?” Juliana interrupted. “To whom?”

  Amanda closed her blue-gray eyes for a moment and released a slow, dramatic breath before she reopened them. “Lord Malmsey.”

  “Lord Malmsey?”

  Juliana was vaguely acquainted with the man, who was skinny and meek and shorter than her friend. But what stuck in her mind was an image of his forehead. His large, age-lined forehead, prominent and proud and still gaining ground over his poor, defenseless hairline.

  “Why, he must be forty, at least!”

  “Forty-two,” Amanda corrected. Well more than twice her age. She was a year older than Juliana, which made her all of eighteen. “I met with him last evening—not that either of us had much to say to each other. We’re to be married four weeks from Saturday, in a private ceremony by special license.”

  The same day as the next Foundling Hospital intake, when Juliana had to have all the baby clothes ready. Amanda looked to be in the dismals, which was no wonder. “Can you refuse to wed him?”

  She shook her head. “Father has made it clear that if I fail to go through with this wedding, he’ll disinherit me—which would leave me slim chances of ever wedding at all.”

  A denial was on the tip of Juliana’s tongue, but she wasn’t one to lie—not outright, anyway. In three seasons, no one else had offered for Amanda, and without her substantial inheritance, it was unlikely any gentleman ever would.

  “I’m miserable,” Amanda added unnecessarily.

  One thing Juliana was sure of: Griffin would never expect her to wed other than where her heart led her. For that, she was grateful. “Have you told your father how you feel?”

  “Countless times. But nothing I can say will make him breach a contract. His honor is more important to him than my happiness.”

  Juliana had always thought Lord Wolverston rather cold, but this was downright cruel. “There’s no honor in putting his reputation before his own daughter. He should want to see you in love.”

  “He believes that when it comes to marriage, there are more important matters to consider.”

  Juliana couldn’t disagree more. Her parents had wed for practical reasons, and Mama had suffered for it the rest of her days. Eighteen was much too young to resign oneself to such a future. Perhaps any age was too young. Look at dear Aunt Frances, soldiering bravely on into her forties.

  Amanda slouched even more. “He’s pleased beyond belief to have an offer for my hand at all, let alone one from a baron. I suppose I am lucky that Lord Malmsey is willing to marry me.”

  “Amanda!”

  “Gentlemen never look at girls like me, Juliana.”

  Amanda was a bit plain, but Juliana rather thought that was because her mother had died giving birth to her. Much like little Emily, she’d grown up without anyone to offer guidance. Her Aunt Mabel was certainly no help. Amanda wore shapeless clothes in all the wrong colors, her brows were too heavy, her blond hair was pulled back into a frightfully tight braided bun, and she never met anyone’s eyes—not even Juliana’s now. Her blue-gray gaze was focused in the vicinity of her unsightly footwear.

  In short, Amanda was a project just waiting to be tackled.

  “Who else knows about your engagement?” Juliana asked.

  “We arrived only yesterday. You’re the first one I’ve told.”

  “Excellent.” The secret should be safe with Lord Malmsey as well. Although he was a fixture at society gatherings, Juliana couldn’t remember ever hearing more than half a dozen words leave his mouth. “Don’t tell anyone else. We shall save you from this dismal fate.”

  The older girl glanced up. “How? Do you truly believe it possible?”

  “Without a doubt.” Juliana had never been one to disregard a friend in need. Or a stranger in need, come to that. “Let me think on the matter.”

  “Look here, Lady Juliana!” Emily returned, brandishing an armful of white fabric with Herman coiled on
top.

  “That’s perfect, sweetheart.” Juliana hoped the clerk wouldn’t faint when she asked for a length to be cut. Or maybe she hoped the clerk would faint, because that might convince Emily, once and for all, that carrying a snake around was a bad idea. She looked back to Amanda. “You’ll come to the sewing party Wednesday, won’t you? One o’clock. By the time you arrive, I’m certain to have a solution.”

  FIVE

  “WHERE IS Amanda?” Juliana said Wednesday afternoon in the drawing room.

  Rain pattered outside the windows. “You’ve asked that more times than Emily’s pricked herself,” Alexandra observed as she patiently knotted a thread.

  Her sister could afford to be patient, Juliana thought, stitching a tiny frock with more speed than care. Alexandra wasn’t the one who’d promised to deliver twenty dozen articles of baby clothing in one short month. “Amanda said she’d be here.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Emily pointed out, rearranging the snake on her shoulders. Alas, the clerk at Grafton House hadn’t fainted. She’d only glared, which had upset the girl, making her cling to Herman all the more. “You invited her, but she never actually said she would come.”

  “Perhaps not in so many words. But she’ll come.” Amanda had to come. Juliana had devised a plan. An excellent plan, which she couldn’t wait to explain—

  “Ouch!” Emily hollered, sticking her pricked finger in her mouth. She really wasn’t very good with a needle. “This blanket is turning out dreadful.”

  Juliana leaned over to inspect the girl’s handiwork. “It isn’t that bad.” The hem was rather uneven, but it wasn’t dreadful. Luckily, infants couldn’t criticize. “The blanket will keep a baby warm no matter what it looks like.”

  “But I want it to look good.”