Juliet did not try to hurry him. “I should have thought you would arrive late, having spent your afternoon and evening watching the debates at the House of Commons.”
“You know me well,” he said, the words ringing with truth beneath his breast. During these past two Seasons, they had attended the same gatherings, shared countless conversations, exchanged ideas, and even engaged in a handful of good-natured debates. “Though I had no appetite for argument today.”
She gazed up at him, her eyes glinting with mockery. “Come now, Max, you always have an appetite for argument. I’ve had ample proof in the numerous times that my family has dined with . . . ”—her words drifted off, taking that glint with them—“yours.”
He tried to remain sturdy for her, his forearm tightening as if to infuse his strength into the delicate hand resting there. Yet it did nothing to prevent the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes. For one who prided herself on remaining composed, he knew that revealing her inner anguish to the other guests would be the last thing she would want to do.
Without thought, he steered her quickly through an open doorway off the hall—the library, as it turned out. The room was empty and dark, aside from the light filtering in through the partially open door. They would only have a minute to be alone, but it might be long enough to allow her to recover.
He produced his handkerchief and gently touched it to her lower lid. “I do believe an errant turban feather has made its way into your eyes. Horrible nuisances. They make my eyes water too.”
She offered a small laugh, slipping the handkerchief from his fingers and blotting away the evidence. “How gallant of you to ignore my foolishness and what a hen-wit I’ve become.”
“You are neither fool nor fowl but simply human.”
“Hush,” she said, swatting the center of his gray waistcoat with the folded linen. “Practically everyone here believes I’m nothing more than a hollow shell. You must keep my secret.”
“Then it is our secret.” He took the handkerchief from her. Propriety demanded that he release her at the same time or at least step apart from her. Instead, he did what seemed more appropriate and curled his hand over hers. And the moment he did, he knew this was the right decision. Her small, soft hand fit perfectly within his, as if her bones had been chiseled from his own. “They don’t even deserve to know the truth of your nature.”
Curiosity, and perhaps even surprise, lifted her brows, her head tilting slightly to one side. “What truth is that?”
“That you are clever, and your wit is subtle but sharp. Nothing escapes your notice,” he said, stroking his thumb along the seam of her glove. “And you possess more grace and poise than any other woman in all of England.”
As he continued his declaration, her gaze drifted from his eyes to his mouth, as if to see the words he spoke for better understanding. But her focus stirred him. The heat of his body rose ten degrees at least. The air between them—what little there was of it—warmed and turned fragrant. A sweet and earthy scent of rose and sandalwood, made of her perfume and his shaving soap, filled his nostrils. Their combined fragrance merged with the leather-bound books and the faint tangy citrus of the furniture polish, creating a unique and thoroughly potent aphrodisiac.
For the second time, he told himself that he should put distance between them. And if she would have given the barest hint of discomfort, he would have done so. Instead, his feet ignored this command and shifted closer to stand on either side of her slippers, the soft folds of her skirts tucked between his thighs.
Still holding her hand, the length of her forearm now rested at an angle between them. Her white gloves puckered slightly at her wrist, and he worried his thumb into the crease, thinking about how this kid leather was the only thing between his touch and her bare flesh.
His gaze shifted to where the sleeve of his coat brushed the outer swell of her breast. All he saw was another barrier. And in that instant, he hated his tailor for having sewn this coat. Hated society’s strictures that forced him to don clothes at all.
A somewhat confused-sounding puff of air escaped her lips. “Anyone else would have remarked on what they saw of me on the outside.”
“And they are all fools.”
By the fresh clarity in her gaze, he knew she was seeing him. When a fond smile curved her lips and she lifted her face, he knew she saw more too.
He was not like everyone else. He was not merely Bram’s insignificant half brother. He was not his messenger either. In fact, Max was . . .
Kissing her. His mouth descended to her soft, dewy lips with a sudden impetuousness that left him reeling. He wasn’t even aware of moving. Yet somehow he released her hand so that he could frame her face—a tender gesture that did not match the quick escalation of need within him.
Her mewl of surprise stopped him, however. He drew back marginally, breathing hard and heavy after only a moment, and prepared an apology in his mind. “Forgive me. I—”
But before he could finish, she made that throaty sound again, gripped the lapels of his coat, and pressed her lips to his.
Juliet. His blood cheered her name. His mouth slanted over hers, urging her lips apart. At first, her tongue shyly waited behind her teeth, tentatively bumping against his, only offering the barest hint of sherry flavor that lingered there. Then a tremor quaked through her. He felt it when she arched into him—breasts, stomach, and hips all tantalizingly close. And in that moment, Max hated white satin as much as he hated wool.
But honestly, ridding her of this dress after a first kiss should have been the last thing on his mind. The first thing should have been the fact that they were both at a dinner party. Her parents were the hosts. They would not serve dinner without them and likely would have noticed their absences immediately.
Unfortunately, none of those thoughts occurred to him until he heard a man cough and clear his throat. Juliet must have heard it too because she broke away from their kiss with a gasp, her gloved fingertips covering her lips as if to hide the evidence.
But it was too late.
Lord Granworth, an impossibly wealthy, elderly statesman, stood in the doorway. Over his shoulder were three other guests—apparent late arrivals, who were all being escorted by a wide-eyed maid who kept looking from Juliet to Max as if they were Adam and Eve caught naked in the garden of Eden.
If given another few minutes perhaps . . .
No. Max refused to think of that now. He needed to keep his head about him.
With this one ungoverned act, he’d just ruined Juliet. Tainted her virtue in the eyes of society. And there was only one way to make amends—they would have to marry.
For a short duration, they would be pariahs. However, in time they would be welcomed back into society. Since he was a man without means, he would learn a trade to find an income, the same way that his friend Jack Marlowe had. Then Max and Juliet would find a modest house and begin a family. He could see it all, their lives laid out perfectly before them.
Max took a breath, certain of his course. All in all, it was almost a blessing that Lord Granworth had stumbled upon them when he did.
The baron sent his party and the maid on ahead and discreetly stepped back into the hall, while still providing his chaperonage, albeit after the transgression.
Standing in front of Juliet, Max took her hand and bowed over it. “I will set matters aright. I promise. We will marry.” Saying the words aloud caused a surge of elation within him. He was breathless with it. “With your father’s permission, we will ride to Gretna Green in the morning.”
Juliet turned pale. “My father—no. I cannot do that to you.”
A smile touched his lips as he shook his head. Did she believe he was merely being gallant again? Surely even she knew the gravity of their situation.
“This was a mistake. I’m sorry, Max.” And before he could stop her, she ran from the room.
Max moved to follow, but with Granworth there, and Juliet rushing toward the stairs, which likely led to the fa
mily chambers, he stopped.
By the time he turned around, he saw Mr. White striding toward him, a glower knitting his brow. Obviously, he’d heard—and likely every other guest had as well.
Max straightened his shoulders. “With your permission, Mr. White, I request an audience.”
“It would be better if you left. Immediately.” White’s glower turned harder, revealing his anger and immeasurable disappointment. Then, lifting a shaking hand, he raked it through his hair. It was the only time Max had ever seen him without his composure intact. In fact, White’s entire being seemed to vibrate with impotent rage.
Max felt as contrite as possible. “Yes, sir. I understand, however—”
“You may return in the morning when I have a cooler head.”
Hearing the edge of desperation in White’s voice, Max stowed his request. After all, it would do him no good if his future father-in-law loathed him. “Of course. My apologies, sir.”
With a bow, Max turned on his heel and left the party. By tomorrow, he would have a plan to offer. The interim hours would also allow Juliet to ease into an understanding of the situation. They would marry and, most important, Max would make her happy. No matter what.
It wasn’t until the following morning that Max learned of Juliet’s elopement.
“The family has gone to Lord Granworth’s estate in Somerset, sir,” their butler said at the door.
Max refused to believe it.
He shouldered his way inside, prepared to demand an audience with White. Max wasn’t going to leave here without Juliet. He had a carriage waiting, a satchel packed, and just enough money for them to stay a few weeks at an inn until the gossip died down. Damn it all, he even had a sapphire ring in his pocket!
But as he took in the scene around him—the maids and footmen bustling about, draping linens over the furniture, lowering the main chandelier to cover it as well—he realized it was true.
And Juliet was gone.
“Sir, if I may,” the butler said, extending his hand, a missive pinched between this thumb and forefinger. “This was supposed to go out with the post, but since you are here . . . ”
His name and address were looped elegantly on the small square of parchment. Numbly, he took the letter and opened it.
Max,
I apologize, both for what I am doing and for what I did last evening. I cannot begin to explain my own actions and profound regret at their results. I hardly know myself any longer.
The clarity I’d hoped to find this morning is still absent, and so I made the choice that better suits all parties involved.
Yours affect
Warmest regards,
J
Max stared down at the letter and then slowly crumpled it in his fist. He’d been wrong about Juliet. If she could believe a word she’d written, then she never truly saw him. Worse, she left without giving him a chance to prove her wrong, discounting him like all the others had.
And he would never forgive her for it.
CHAPTER ONE
May 1825
The Season Standard—the Daily Chronicle of Consequence
This humble paper fears a messenger’s fate as we report the latest news from our illustrious committee. Once more, as one month wanes and another waxes, we are left in want. This Season’s Original has yet to be named!
Hold fast, dear readers! For we have received the news that we shall have our Original at month’s end. Even more scintillating, we have learned that there remain only two candidates on the list. Two!
We are all eagerness!
Yet even our anticipation must pale in comparison to that of our Marquess of Th— and, resident goddess, Lady G—, who, by all accounts, have wagered on the outcome. Scandalous! Though we are not certain what the stakes could be, we do know that our contest promises to be quite the show!
“ ‘Quite the show,’ indeed,” Juliet Granworth grumbled to herself.
Lowering onto one of two silver-striped chairs, she cast a withering glance down at the newspaper that taunted her.
It was bad enough that Cousin Zinnia’s butler saw fit to leave the Standard on the foyer table so that it had been the first thing she’d read in the morning. But this evening, another copy sat on the low oval table in Marjorie Harwick’s blue parlor.
Juliet couldn’t escape it. Therefore, arranging her emerald green skirts, she did her best to ignore it.
“Botheration. Who left this dreadful paper on the table?” Marjorie asked, bustling into the room. Immediately, she picked up the scandal sheet, pinching it at the corner like a rat by the tail, and scuttled it from the room.
In the meantime, Cousin Zinnia—Lady Cosgrove—progressed in slow, refined movements toward the blue damask settee. Seemingly, she took little notice of Marjorie’s activity. Her finely lined countenance remained lovely and serene, her focus solely on the art of pedestrianism.
“There now. Much better,” Marjorie said as she returned an instant later, flitting past Zinnia—the proverbial tortoise and the hare. The two friends couldn’t have been more different from each other.
For Marjorie, it was common to see tendrils of gray escaping the loose, dark coiffure, and typically, an easy smile lifted her rounded cheeks. Zinnia Cosgrove, on the other hand, never left her chamber with a flaxen or silver hair out of place. Her posture was faultless, her smiles hard won but worth the effort.
At seven and twenty, Juliet was more than twenty years younger than they were, but even so, she found a comfortable companionship with them. She would like to think that her own demeanor was a perfect blend of these two.
The truth was, however, that Juliet was more reserved than approachable. In fact, from what she’d been told, most of the women in her family were the same—elegant, outwardly aloof, and renowned for their beauty. But Juliet often wondered if they all shared something else—an overwhelming desire to go mad.
Some days Juliet wanted to fling open the nearest window sash and scream.
And it was all Max’s fault.
“Good evening, Saunders.” A familiar baritone called from the foyer and drifted in through the open parlor door. Max.
Drat it all! He was a veritable devil. Only she didn’t have to speak his name but simply think it for him to appear. She should have known better than to allow her thoughts to roam without a leash to tug them back to heel.
“I did not realize Lord Thayne would be attending dinner this evening,” Zinnia said, her spine rigid as she perched on the edge of her cushion and darted a quick, concerned glance toward Juliet.
Marjorie looked to the open door, her brows knitted. “I did not realize it either. He said that he was attending—”
“Lord Fernwold’s,” Max supplied as he strode into the room, his dark blue coat parting to reveal a gray waistcoat and fitted blue trousers. He paused long enough to bow his dark head in greeting—at least to his mother and Zinnia. To Juliet, he offered no more than perfunctory scrutiny before heading to the sideboard, where a collection of crystal decanters waited. “The guests were turned away at the door. His lordship’s mother is suffering a fever.”
Juliet felt the flesh of her eyelids pucker slightly, her lashes drawing together. It was as close as she could come to glaring at him while still leaving her countenance unmoved. The last thing she wanted was for him, or anyone, to know how much his slight bothered her.
Marjorie tutted. “Again? Agnes seemed quite hale this afternoon in the park. Suspiciously, this has happened thrice before on the evenings of her daughter-in-law’s parties. I tell you, Max, I would never do such a thing to your bride.”
Max turned and ambled toward them, the stems of three sherry glasses in one large hand and a whiskey in the other. He stopped at the settee first, offering one to his mother and another to Zinnia. “Nor would you need to, for I would never marry a woman who would tolerate the manipulation.” Then he moved around the table and extended a glass to Juliet, lowering his voice as he made one final comment. “Nor one whose slippe
rs trod only the easiest path.”
She scoffed. If marriage to Lord Granworth had been easy, then she would hate to know the alternative.
“I would not care for sherry this evening,” Juliet said. And in retaliation against Max’s rudeness, she reached out and curled her fingers around his whiskey.
Their fingers collided before she slipped the glass free. If she hadn’t taken him off guard, he might have held fast. As it was, he opened his hand instantly as if scalded by her touch. But she knew that wasn’t true because the heat of his skin nearly blistered her. The shock of it left the underside of her fingers prickly and somewhat raw.
To soothe it, she swirled the cool, golden liquor in the glass. Then, before lifting it to her lips, she met his gaze. His irises were a mixture of earthy brown and cloud gray. Years ago, those eyes were friendly and welcoming but now had turned cold, like puddles reflecting a winter sky. And because it pleased her to think of his eyes as mud puddles, that was what she thought of when she took a sip. Unfortunately, she didn’t particularly care for whiskey and fought to hide a shudder as the sour liquid coated her tongue.
Max mocked her with a salute of his dainty goblet and tossed back the sherry in one swallow. Then the corner of his mouth flicked up in a smirk.
She knew that mouth intimately—the firm warm pressure of those lips, the exciting scrape of his teeth, the mesmeric skill of his tongue . . .
Unbidden warmth simmered beneath her skin as she recalled the kiss that had ruined her life. And for five years, she’d paid a dire price for one single transgression—a regretful and demeaning marriage, the sudden deaths of her parents, and the loss of everyone she held dear.
By comparison, returning to London to reclaim her life as a respected widow should have been simple. And it would have been if Max hadn’t interfered.
She’d been set on purchasing the townhouse where she had once lived with her parents on this very street, willing to pay any amount to the current owners in order to do so. To her, it was the ideal place to begin anew. Then, as luck would have it, that very house had been up for sale after having been abandoned. It was as if the Fates were guiding her home. Or at least it had felt that way until Max had bought the property out from under her nose.
When a Marquess Loves a Woman Page 2