by Lauren Royal
She looked to her sisters, who were standing there openmouthed, and back to him. “But, James—”
“Please. I need to talk to Lady Juliana.”
As Lady Stafford and her sisters reluctantly departed, leaving James and Juliana alone, he turned to her.
She felt like she hadn’t breathed in the last five minutes.
And like she might never breathe again.
She thought she should cry, but she felt numb. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what she could say. All the words seemed to have been sucked right out of her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. It was all she could manage.
James only nodded.
She’d never seen him look so pale, so stricken. Not even when he’d been deathly afraid of Emily’s snake. The very sight of him in that state made anger rise in her, which finally loosened her tongue.
“Lord Occlestone should be shot.”
“Others followed us in here as well,” he said wearily. “Lady Amanda’s father would have found out one way or another. Occlestone is a lout, but he isn’t to blame for this.”
“I know. I’m to blame. But I’ll fix it.”
She had to fix it.
James’s lips quirked to form something that might have been a sad smile. “You cannot fix everything, Juliana. But the fact that you never stop trying…well…it’s one of the many things that made me fall in love with you.”
There was no way she could live with herself if he had to marry Amanda. “I can fix this, and I will,” she reiterated. “I have to.” And then she froze. “One of the many things that made you…what?” She held her breath again, but for an entirely different reason, and then her gaze dropped to his hand. And her breath whooshed out of her. “You brought roses.”
He glanced down, as though he’d forgotten he was holding them. “They’re a bit worse for the wear.”
They did look a tad bedraggled. “But they’re red roses.”
“There aren’t many of them. I couldn’t easily carry more than a dozen. Not two dozen like we ordered for Lady Amanda, and compared to what Lord Malmsey sent to your aunt—”
“They’re red roses.” He wasn’t handing them to her. “Are they for me?”
Abruptly, he held them out. “Who else could they possibly be for? For what other girl would I dethorn red roses? I must’ve nicked myself twenty times.”
“You said you would never fall in love again.” She grabbed the flowers and held them tight to her chest, the paper crinkling, their sweet scent wafting to her nose. “Oh, James. I love you, too, you know.”
She launched herself into his arms, and he held her close, the bouquet crushed between them. And then the tears that wouldn’t fall finally did, because really, it was just too much.
And too late.
He’d brought her red roses. She’d been hoping he loved her, hoping for it harder than she’d ever hoped for anything before. But now that she knew he did, her meddling had ruined everything.
She was going to fix it, but for now she couldn’t stop weeping.
“Hush,” he murmured while her tears wet his waistcoat. And, “hush,” while they soaked through to his shirt. And finally, “Do you know what I hate even more than snakes?”
She shook her head, rubbing her nose in the damp warmth.
He put a finger under her chin and lifted it, until her eyes were forced to meet his. “A girl’s tears,” he said. “I swear, love, they make me feel more helpless than anything.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she was. Sorry for crying, and sorry that made him unhappy. But mostly sorry James loved her and she loved him and everything was ruined.
“Hush,” he said one last time, and then he lowered his head and kissed her, a small soft kiss. And another one. And yet another, but it wasn’t soft, it was crushing instead.
Juliana stopped crying, partly because she didn’t want to upset him anymore, but mostly because kissing him felt so right. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and leaned into him, and threaded her fingers into his dark, tangled hair. Everything was wrong, but James—tangles and all—was heartbreakingly right.
She was in love.
She’d never been so happy and so sad all at once.
“I’ll fix this,” she said when they finally broke apart. “We have five days before Saturday.”
He smoothed her hair back from her face. “Five short days.”
“Five and a half,” she whispered, inhaling his scent, starch and spice mixed with roses. She held him tighter, wishing she didn’t have to let go.
But she did have to. At least for now.
“Five and a half,” she repeated.
It would have to be enough.
FORTY-SEVEN
THE NEXT DAY, Juliana paced around the drawing room while she waited for her guests to arrive for her one o’clock sewing party.
“I cannot concentrate.” Seated at her easel, Corinna dabbed a bit of gray on the underside of a cloud. “I know you’re going to make me sew all afternoon, so for now, will you please sit down?”
Juliana sat and stabbed her needle in and out of a little white nightshirt. For about a minute. Then she rose and began moving again, the nightshirt dangling from her clenched fingers. “There must be some way to fix this. It’s disastrous for everyone involved.”
“Aunt Frances doesn’t think it’s a disaster,” Corinna pointed out.
That much was true. Although their aunt had been shocked to learn Lord Malmsey was engaged, he’d managed to talk his way back into her good graces before Juliana even had a chance to help. In fact, last evening she’d returned to the tent in Lady Hartley’s garden to find him proposing on bended knee—a proposal Aunt Frances had joyfully accepted.
But the fact that the two of them were thrilled hardly mitigated the disaster that had befallen everyone else.
She and James were devastated. The duke was devastated. No doubt Amanda was devastated, too, although Juliana hadn’t seen her since last night. Lord Wolverston had taken his daughter straight home—proclaiming loudly, according to several eyewitnesses, that she wouldn’t be seen again in public before her wedding. Juliana had received an apologetic note from Amanda this morning, explaining that she wouldn’t be able to attend any more of her sewing parties and her Aunt Mabel wouldn’t be there, either.
Apparently having been less than impressed with his sister’s chaperoning—or rather, her lack thereof—Lord Wolverston had given poor Mabel such a lecture that she’d gone straight to bed with the asthma and expected to remain there for the week.
Out in the foyer, the knocker banged on the door. A few moments later, Adamson came into the drawing room with two letters for Juliana.
“Thank you,” she said, breaking the seal on the first one and scanning the short message. “Drat!”
“What is it?” Corinna asked.
“Rachael cannot come today. She has a cold.” She opened the second letter, her eyes widening as she read the words. “Double drat!”
“What now?”
“James’s aunts are ill, too. And his mother. How in heaven’s name am I going to make twenty-five items of baby clothes today with only you and Alexandra, Claire and Elizabeth, and Aunt Frances?”
Working feverishly in every free moment, Juliana had managed to complete seven garments on her own between her last sewing party and today, but she still needed to collect seventy-six pieces of baby clothes during just three more parties. That was more than twenty-five per party, and today she would have six fewer sewers contributing.
“In the scheme of things,” Corinna said, “I should think those baby clothes are the least of your troubles.”
“You’re right.” Ordering herself to stay composed and keep things in perspective, Juliana plopped down on the sofa and resumed sewing. Her gaze went to the bedraggled red roses sitting in a vase on the mantel. They looked nearly as droopy as she felt. “James’s forced betrothal to Amanda is much more distressing.”
&
nbsp; “Perhaps Lord Wolverston has calmed down by now,” Corinna suggested. “Maybe if Amanda explains that it was all a misunderstanding, he’ll reconsider.”
“I don’t think so. For all his bluster, he was clearly delighted to see her catch an earl instead of a lowly baron.” Juliana’s needle dropped from her fingers. “That’s it!”
“What’s it?” Corinna tilted her head, perusing her work in progress.
“If the Duke of Castleton offers to marry Amanda instead of James—”
“Her father would refuse, wouldn’t he?” She dabbed at the cloud some more. “Isn’t that why you plotted her compromise in the first place?”
“But everything’s different now. Lord Wolverston wouldn’t be breaking his word or breaching a contract. At this point, he only wants to see his ruined daughter wed and off his hands, and after all, if an earl is better than a baron, surely a duke is better still.” It was so obvious, Juliana wanted to kick herself for not realizing right away. All this worry could have been avoided. “Why on earth would he refuse?”
Corinna shrugged and dipped her brush. “Your logic seems sound, but Amanda seems to think her father is unreasonable.”
“I’ll bake some wafers, then, just in case.” According to the wafer recipe in the family cookbook, they were reputed to have a handy calming effect. “But I cannot imagine why he would refuse.”
“Well, then, I’m certain he won’t. You always know best, after all.”
Since Juliana obviously didn’t always know best—as proven by last night’s disaster—she found her sister’s sarcasm needling. But she was sure Lord Wolverston wouldn’t refuse. The man would have to be an idiot to reject a duke as a son-in-law.
Five minutes later, Juliana was on Amanda’s doorstep, explaining her new plan. “Why on earth would your father refuse?” she concluded.
“I cannot imagine.” Amanda’s eyes had been dull with despair, but now they shone with hope. “I wish he were home so we could ask him right now.”
“The duke must be with us, in any case. Your father is a stickler, after all, so the duke will need to formally request your hand. And Lord Stafford should be in attendance as well, to confirm he agrees with the proposed solution. When will your father be home?”
“I’m not privy to his schedule. But he usually insists on dining at precisely six o’clock.”
“Perfect. I’ll send a footman with notes to summon Lord Stafford and the duke, and we’ll all be here at half past six.”
“He won’t take callers in the middle of dinner.”
“Do you know for certain he’ll stay home afterwards?”
Amanda shook her head.
“Then inform your butler beforehand that we’re expected. That way he won’t go to your father to ask his permission.” Juliana started down the steps, then turned. “Oh, bother. I’m sure Lord Stafford is at the Institute, but I have no idea where to send a note that will reach the duke.”
“He’ll be at his club,” Amanda said, “playing cards.”
“Which club?”
“White’s, of course.”
“Of course,” Juliana echoed, vaguely surprised she hadn’t known the answer herself. After all, she’d been planning to marry the duke up until a few days ago.
It seemed she’d never really known him at all.
“Are you sure you’re not upset that David loves me?” Amanda asked suddenly. “I know you wanted to be the duchess.”
“Of course I’m not upset. The two of you belong together.” Juliana truly believed that, although she did wonder if Amanda wouldn’t eventually come to resent her husband’s distant, chilly nature. “Um…if I told you I’m the girl James loves, would you be upset about that?”
“Gracious me,” Amanda said, “you can have him. The fellow’s colder than a Gunter’s ice.”
FORTY-EIGHT
WAFERS
Rub Butter into Flour with some small amount of Salt. To this put Cream and Honey and roll out until very thin. Cut into small rounds and put them in your oven and eat them hot or cold.
A very simple treat, these have a calming effect. My grandmother used to serve them to my grandfather to make him reasonable.
—Anne, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1764
EVEN WITH A flurry of activity, Juliana’s afternoon had passed excruciatingly slowly. Despite the heroic efforts of her five guests, her sewing party had added only eight items to her stockpile, well short of the twenty-five she’d been hoping for. But she hadn’t been able to prolong the gathering past her usual four o’clock stopping time, knowing the gentlemen would be arriving at quarter past six.
She’d shooed everyone out of the house and hurried to the kitchen to make the wafers. When they came out of the oven, she donned her most virtuous dress—a white one—and applied just enough cosmetics to look fresh and innocent. Then she paced around the drawing room until Corinna grew irritated enough to set down her paintbrush and summon their maid to accompany her for a walk.
Juliana hadn’t meant to drive her sister away from the house. But all the same, she couldn’t help feeling pleased that she’d be able to explain her plan to James and the duke without enduring Corinna’s usual sarcastic asides.
James arrived first. She hurried him into the drawing room, giving him the details as they went.
“Then Lady Amanda can marry the duke,” she concluded, “which will leave you free to—” She clamped her mouth shut. While James had proclaimed his love, he hadn’t made an offer of marriage. “Why on earth would Lady Amanda’s father refuse?” she added instead.
“I don’t know.” He glanced toward the open door, then shrugged and drew her into his arms. “But I pray he won’t, because Lady Amanda isn’t the girl I hope to wed.”
She laid her head against his chest, savoring his warmth, knowing she was the girl he hoped to wed. But still wishing he’d said it aloud.
All the same, she was sure she’d get her proposal soon enough. “Lord Wolverston won’t refuse,” she said firmly. “He’d be an idiot to reject a duke as a son-in-law.”
“My confident Juliana.” James tilted her chin up, and she found herself melting into his intense chocolate gaze. Something fluttered in her middle as he placed a lingering kiss on her lips, skimming his hands down her sides to find hers, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tight. There was something different about their kisses now that they’d admitted to loving each other, something possessive and meaningful.
Something she knew she’d never feel with anyone else.
“Ahem.” They broke apart to find the duke standing in the doorway. “Your note said you have a plan?”
Though she blushed wildly, she kept one of James’s hands laced with hers. “Yes,” she said and quickly explained, finishing with “Why on earth would Lady Amanda’s father refuse you for a son-in-law?”
“He shouldn’t,” the duke said stiffly, his reproachful gaze on their clasped hands. “He’d have to be dumber than a box of hair to do that.”
FORTY-NINE
JULIANA AND Castleton were both sure Lord Wolverston wasn’t stupid enough to reject a duke. And James had silently agreed with them—until they arrived in the man’s dining room and he greeted them with all the warmth of an icicle.
“I don’t recall issuing dinner invitations.”
Lady Amanda set down her fork. “They’re not here for dinner, Father.”
“Excellent. Then I’m certain they’ll have the good manners to leave.”
“No, they won’t.” In all the weeks James had spent in Lady Amanda’s company, he’d never seen her look so resolute. “The Duke of Castleton has something to ask you, Father.”
“I don’t choose to listen.” Wolverston leisurely drained his wineglass before setting it down. “Hastings, see these people to the door,” he said and began to rise.
“No!” Amanda jumped from her chair and pushed him back down. “You will sit here and listen.”
He gazed at his suddenly assertive daughter a
s though she’d grown a second head. “Since when—”
“Lord Wolverston,” Juliana interrupted, holding forth her basket. “If you’re finished with your dinner, would you care for a sweet? I baked wafers this afternoon.”
He stared at her as though she had three heads. “Ladies shouldn’t stoop to the level of kitchen maids.”
An awkward silence filled the room. Even stuffy Castleton seemed to object to Wolverston’s stuffiness. James hoped the turd wasn’t reconsidering whether to accept this man as his father-in-law.
James sure would be.
But the duke stepped forward. “My lord,” he said formally, ”I assure you that my wife—my duchess—will never step foot in a kitchen. I would like to request the honor of your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“My daughter is marrying Stafford,” Wolverston replied stiffly. “This Saturday.” He rose again. “Now I expect you all to leave before I have to see that you’re thrown out.”
“Father!” Tears sprang to Lady Amanda’s blue-gray eyes. “The Duke of Castleton is proposing marriage. A duke, Father! Surely you cannot refuse him!”
“I can, and I will.” He looked to Castleton. “When next I see you at White’s—this evening or another time—we shall pretend this interview never occurred,” he said and turned to leave.
“No, we shall not.” Castleton strode around the table and stood blocking the man’s way to the door. “I wish to wed your daughter, and she wishes to wed me. If you’ve a valid reason to object, I want to hear it.”
”You don’t want to hear it.” Wolverston’s expression had shifted to something resembling stone. Only less expressive.
“I demand to hear it,” the duke insisted through gritted teeth, his hands clenching and unclenching reflexively.
James was impressed—the turd looked downright impassioned!—and also concerned that this new, impassioned duke might actually try to strangle their host.
But Wolverston didn’t seem a bit concerned. ”Very well, then, Castleton,” he said, his words as calm and emotionless as his stony face. ”I once had a liaison with your mother. Twenty-nine years ago, to be precise. I think it likely you’re my son.”