by Lauren Royal
“Most certainly,” he said dryly. “My father and grandfather were both obsessed with the things.”
“Really? Lady Amanda is, too.” What an amazing coincidence. “Do you find Roman antiquities fascinating?”
“I wouldn’t put it so strongly,” he said, drawing her closer against his side. “Mildly interesting, perhaps.”
Perfect. Amanda had said she wanted a husband who was interested in Roman antiquities. Her friend was going to love coming here with him—as long as he didn’t eat so many macaroons first. “Shall we go see Napoleon’s carriage now?” she suggested, sidestepping away.
He sidestepped with her. “Absolutely, if that’s what you wish.”
As they headed to the next room, he kept his arm firmly around her. Doing her best to ignore that, she opened the guidebook and read from it. “The Emperor’s carriage was captured at Waterloo and later purchased from the Prince Regent for twenty-five hundred pounds,” she reported. “And it’s bulletproof.”
“A wise precaution on Napoleon’s part.” He halted in the archway. “Good gracious, would you look at all those people?” The carriage was completely surrounded. “Perhaps it would be better to return another time.”
She wouldn’t be returning with him—his next visit here would be with Amanda. They would admire Roman antiquities together.
“I want to see the carriage now,” she said, envisioning his arm around Amanda’s waist instead of hers and wondering why that picture didn’t look right to her. Probably because Amanda wouldn’t approve, she decided as she broke away from him and he followed her to the front of the crowd.
“Pardon me,” he kept saying in a tone that sounded half exasperated, half apologetic. “Excuse me. Pardon.” Short as she was, she was very good at burrowing her way through a pack of people, but apparently he wasn’t.
Up close, the vehicle was beautiful, painted a rich dark blue and ornamented in gold. She looked up and back at James, who had come to a stop behind her. “Even the wheels are gold,” she said.
James examined it over her head. “It’s such a crush in here,” he complained.
“The newspaper reported that ten thousand a day are visiting just to see this carriage.”
“There seem to be twenty thousand today.” He bumped into her from behind, then placed his hands on her waist to steady her. “My apologies,” he murmured by her ear. “These people have no manners.”
Although nobody seemed to be jostling, she let him keep his hands there. Just in case. “There’s a blanket inside, embroidered with the initials NB. Do you expect Napoleon actually slept in here?”
“He’d have been smart to, considering it’s bulletproof.” He wrapped his arms further around her. “There’s a desk inside, too.”
It was built in below the front window, with many compartments for maps and telescopes. “Very clever,” she murmured, leaning back into him so no one would nudge her. He felt warm. His spicy scent swamped her again, making her curiously dizzy. She felt very cozy and safe.
“Do you think Lady Amanda would like this?” he whispered.
“The clever desk?”
“No, me. Holding her like this.”
“Oh, yes,” she breathed, followed by a horrified, “No!”
What had she been thinking? She could feel his quizzing glass against her spine, which she was certain Amanda would find quite uncomfortable. “Lady Amanda wouldn’t like this at all,” she said, twisting out of his embrace. “You’re right. It’s entirely too crowded here today.” She pushed through the throng and began retracing their steps back to her aunt. “I believe we should fetch my aunt and leave. You cannot be late to Parliament if you’re giving a speech tonight.”
Aunt Frances was still sitting where they’d left her, gazing happily at nothing in particular.
“Come along, Auntie,” Juliana said.
It took a few minutes for the coachman to bring James’s carriage around—a few minutes during which she marveled that her macaroons had had such an astounding effect. No sooner had they climbed into the carriage than she burrowed into the basket to count how many macaroons were left.
“What are you doing?” James asked.
“I forgot to keep some for myself.” She pulled a handkerchief out of her reticule. “I’m sure Aunt Frances will want some.”
“I don’t need any macaroons.” Her aunt patted her newly golden-brown hair. “A lady should keep a trim figure.”
Frances had never had a care for her figure before. “Corinna will want some, then,” Juliana said, piling them onto her handkerchief. She couldn’t leave all the macaroons for James. She needed some for the duke, and besides, the mere thought of James eating nine macaroons made her cringe. Nine! If three had made him this amorous, nine would be an utter catastrophe.
James took the basket and peeked inside. “One? You cannot leave me just one.”
Maybe he was right. She did want him to act warmly toward Amanda tomorrow night—just not as warmly as in the museum. “Two, then.” She put one back in the basket and folded the handkerchief around the remaining seven. “But don’t eat them until right before the ball tomorrow,” she instructed as she slipped the bundle into her reticule. “You’re going to need extra energy, so you mustn’t forget.”
TWENTY-THREE
“I CANNOT SEE,” Aunt Frances complained. “I should never have let you talk me into taking off my spectacles.”
“But you look beautiful, Auntie.” Juliana patted her on the arm. “Just wait until Lord Malmsey gazes into your big blue eyes. You won’t be sorry then.”
Which was Juliana’s main motive for making the suggestion. But she wasn’t sorry that, without the spectacles, Aunt Frances couldn’t see four feet beyond the end of her nose. Juliana could usually count on her chaperone’s inattentiveness, but tonight she was taking no chances.
She spotted Lord Malmsey on the far end of the room. “There he is.”
“Where?” Her aunt glanced around wildly. “I cannot see him.”
“Right there, Auntie. Leaning on the mantel.” Since it was quite cold for June, Lady Partridge had ordered the fireplaces lit on both ends of her impressive ballroom. “Come along. I’ll take you to him.”
Aunt Frances drew a deep breath and smoothed her soft peach dress down her sides, eyeing her tasteful, lower-than-usual décolletage. “Do I look all right?”
“You look perfect,” Juliana assured her, taking her arm as they started across the room. It was true. Aunt Frances looked much younger in a fashionable dress with her hair dyed and styled, and Juliana’s skillful hand with the cosmetics had completed her transformation. She seemed to be trembling, but there was nothing Juliana could do to help that.
Standing in the glow of the fire, Lord Malmsey also looked nervous. More nervous than usual, that was. Which was no wonder, considering he was not only falling in love for the first time in his life, but doing so while betrothed to another lady—and while Juliana knew that would soon cease to be a problem, he didn’t.
It was unfortunate a gentleman couldn’t call off a wedding, because that would solve everything. He’d be free to marry Aunt Frances, and Amanda’s father would have no grounds to disinherit her, leaving her free to find another suitor without so much pressure. But it just wasn’t done. Although a lady could back out of an engagement—assuming she was willing to be labeled a jilt—a gentleman had no honorable way to withdraw an offer of marriage.
As Lord Malmsey noticed them approaching, a tentative smile spread on his face. While it didn’t quite transform him—the regrettable forehead remained, after all—he did seem more handsome than Juliana remembered. Perhaps it was his stylish suit, which was obviously brand-new, or perhaps it was because what was left of his hair had been neatly trimmed. Or perhaps it was a glow that came from knowing a lady cared for him.
Love could change a person.
When they reached him, his anxious gaze met her aunt’s. “Good evening, Lady Frances,” he said shyly.
> A youthful blush blossomed on Aunt Frances’s cheeks. “Good evening, Lord Malmsey.”
“Please,” he said, gazing into her big blue eyes, “call me Theodore.”
Aunt Frances stopped shaking, and her lips curved in a timid smile. “Call me Frances, then, please.”
Lord Malmsey held out his arm. “Would you honor me with a dance…Frances?”
“My goodness, I’d love nothing more,” she gushed, which sounded nothing like the formal words of acceptance Juliana had practiced with her. But it sounded better, more genuine, and made Lord Malmsey grin in response. Shooting her niece a disbelieving—and nearsighted—glance, Aunt Frances took his arm and sailed off with him.
Juliana sighed happily as she watched them drift toward the dance floor. A job well done.
“Did the macaroons work? Are my eyes sparkling?”
She turned to find Amanda standing beside her, wearing the dress Juliana had chosen for her because its gray-blue hue matched her eyes. Of course, those eyes weren’t noticeably sparkling, but Amanda didn’t have to know that.
“You look lovely,” Juliana said instead. Amanda did look lovely, actually, whether her eyes sparkled or not. Juliana’s hard work with her had certainly paid off. “Are you carrying your new fan?”
Amanda held it up. “And I’m wearing the gloves, like you told me to.”
“Excellent. Have you seen James—I mean, Lord Stafford—yet?”
“No. I don’t think he’s arrived.” Amanda’s not-sparkling eyes looked apprehensive. “His gifts are wonderful, but what if I still don’t like him particularly?”
“You will.” How could anyone not like James? He was warm, intelligent, kind, and caring, and even though he didn’t have time to go out much in society, Amanda shouldn’t care a fig about that. It wasn’t as though she was a social butterfly herself.
If anything, Juliana was more concerned about James liking Amanda, mostly because he seemed much more affectionate than Amanda. But soon he would discover they had interests in common—chess and antiquities—and hopefully the macaroons would work to make Amanda warmer than usual. Or at least more receptive to his warmth.
Amanda frowned toward the dance floor. “Is Lord Malmsey waltzing with your aunt?”
“Yes. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“He’s engaged to me,” she said.
Juliana narrowed her eyes. “You’re planning to break that engagement, are you not? Really, you should be relieved to see him happy with another lady. Or is it your goal to devastate the poor man?”
Juliana wasn’t finished scolding, but over her friend’s shoulder she could see two young men approaching—as Rachael had said, Amanda looked to be this season’s Incomparable. At least until her novelty wore off.
“Smile at the gentlemen, Amanda,” Juliana instructed through a fixed smile of her own. “You’re not engaged to Lord Stafford yet.”
Before she turned her well-rehearsed smile on her potential suitors, Amanda at least had the grace to look chagrined. Which was a good thing, because given her earlier attitude, Juliana had been tempted to call the whole plan off. Except then Lord Malmsey would have to marry Amanda, which would hardly be fair to either him or Aunt Frances.
It was all becoming quite complicated.
As Amanda went off to dance with the luckier of the two young men, Juliana sensed a presence behind her and turned to see the Duke of Castleton. “Lady Juliana,” he said, his tone reserved as ever, “may I beg the honor of your company for a dance?”
“By all means, your grace.” She loved calling him your grace and thinking that someday—maybe someday soon—other people would say that to her. She took the duke’s arm and headed toward the dance floor. “A waltz,” she said happily, shooting him a smile. “Now you’ll have an excuse to touch me.”
She’d uttered the words in a flirtatious manner. But although she was an accomplished flirt, the duke didn’t seem to take her hint. “You’re looking beautiful tonight, my dear,” he said, and then proceeded to hold her at a respectable distance. Throughout the entirety of the dance, he didn’t touch her anywhere that wasn’t absolutely necessary.
But none of that meant he wasn’t enamored. He’d sent her flowers, after all. And he’d called her my dear. But all the same, Juliana wished for a more physical sign of his affection. Recent experience had shown her it was an essential component of courtship—physical closeness helped to breed emotional closeness. Which explained why she seemed to feel more comfortable and intimate with James than she did with her own future husband!
Luckily, she’d transferred the handkerchief-wrapped macaroons into the pretty yellow reticule that matched her dress. As the duke led her off the dance floor, she slid the beaded purse off her wrist and opened it.
“Thank you for the waltz, my dear,” the duke said very formally.
“It was my pleasure.” She pulled out the bundle and handed it to him. “I baked macaroons for you.”
He looked startled. “In the kitchen?” he asked, as though there were somewhere else—someplace more acceptable—a proper lady might bake.
“Yes, in the kitchen. Chase ladies are known for making all sorts of sweets.” Since he wasn’t moving to do so, she unwrapped the macaroons for him. “Won’t you try one?”
Looking pained, he selected an especially small one and slipped it into his mouth, then chewed and swallowed thoroughly before stating his opinion. “They’re absolutely delicious,” he said. “I can see why the Chase ladies are known for their sweets.” He held forth the handkerchief with the rest of them.
She didn’t take it. “I’m so glad they meet with your approval. I hope you’ll enjoy all of them.” Seven macaroons might seem a bit much, considering three had made James overly affectionate, but she feared it could take at least that many to ease a manner as reserved as the duke’s. “Thank you for the dance,” she added with a very proper curtsy. Then she took her leave, before he could try to return the sweets again.
Gentlemen didn’t carry reticules—and the duke was entirely too fastidious to put a bundle of macaroons in his pocket.
He’d have no choice but to eat them.
TWENTY-FOUR
IT SEEMED lately people talked of nothing but the unusually cold weather, James reflected as he stood in a circle of gentlemen at Lady Partridge’s ball.
“The sunspots are responsible for the cold,” Lord Cravenhurst was saying. “Clearly there is something amiss with the universe.”
Lord Davenport inclined his head sagely. “Nine groups of sunspots have been counted, plus several single ones scattered from the eastern to the western side of the sun. I fear they portend the end of the world. The sun is cooling off.”
“I think not.” Lord Hawkridge cut into the circle. ”Sunspots are hardly new. Galileo noted them more than two hundred years ago. If you’ll but examine the temperature records, you’ll find Britain has seen both uncommonly cold and uncommonly warm summers since then, and such periods have nothing to do with sunspots.”
James nodded. “Hawkridge makes a convincing argument.” He didn’t know Hawkridge terribly well, though he recalled the fellow as a particular friend of Cainewood’s at Oxford. But James was glad to hear a voice of reason join the discussion. Listening to these old crackpots for too long could melt one’s brain.
“I agree with Hawkridge and Stafford,” Lord Haversham announced. “Sunspots aren’t responsible for the cold. The moon is to blame.”
James groaned inwardly. ”And how is that?”
Apparently not one for technical details, Haversham shrugged. “It’s common knowledge that the cycles of the moon affect everything.”
“Nonsense.” Everyone turned to Lord Occlestone, a man who sadly—or fittingly, depending on one’s point of view—resembled nothing so much as a pink-faced pig. “It’s not the moon or sunspots,” he declared loudly, spewing sputum on everyone else in the process. “It’s the fault of those upstart Americans.”
Hawkridge wiped his face.
“How on earth can you blame this on the Americans?”
Occlestone had been another classmate at Oxford, though he’d started several years ahead of James and the others—a fact which always brought a smile to James’s face, though he knew it was unkind to gloat. Occlestone was doing everything he could to block James’s vaccination bill.
“North America is suffering even colder weather than ours,” Hawkridge pointed out. “Their newspapers are predicting famine in the coming months due to crop failure.”
“I’ve seen reports of famine in Switzerland as well,” Lord Cavanaugh put in.
“Famine or not,” Occlestone said, plainly indifferent to something so unlikely to affect him personally, “we can lay the blame at the feet of an American. Benjamin Franklin, to be precise.”
“At the feet of Benjamin Franklin?” James blinked. “I expect Mr. Franklin’s feet are decomposed by now, since he’s been dead more than twenty-five years.”
The others laughed, but Occlestone’s porcine eyes narrowed. “Dead or not, he invented the lightning rod, didn’t he? I’ll have you know that the interior of the earth is hot due to electrical fluids circulating about beneath the surface. That heat is usually discharged into the air around us, but because of Franklin’s lightning rods—which are now being installed all over not only his country but ours as well—the earth’s process of releasing heat into the atmosphere has been interrupted.”
“That’s not how I’ve heard it explained,” Cravenhurst said. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Since lightning is heat, the lightning rods have taken the heat from the air. Hence we shall never again see summer.”
Davenport rubbed his balding pate. “Either way, Franklin would be responsible. But I still blame the sunspots.”
James sighed. How could it be that these were the minds deciding the future of their country?
Hawkridge noticed the sigh. “You have a better explanation to offer, Stafford?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.