Why did he have to hinder her fresh start?
Of course, she knew the answer. She’d wounded his ego years ago, and her return only served as a reminder. He didn’t want her living four doors down from his mother—or likely within forty miles of him.
But that decision wasn’t his to make, or anyone else’s. After the deaths of her parents, she’d asked Lord Granworth to purchase their townhouse for her, but the tyrant had refused, just as he had with any request she made.
And now, Juliet wasn’t about to be cowed or manipulated by another man. Not for as long as she lived.
“And speaking of marriage,” Marjorie interjected, her tone a touch gayer than usual, “Wolford’s wedding to Miss Pimm was quite beautiful, even for a last-minute affair. Wouldn’t you agree, Zinnia?”
“With the pear trees in bloom just beyond the chapel, I daresay I’ve never attended a prettier ceremony.” Zinnia looked to Juliet, as if in commiseration. “A grove of lilacs would also make a fine setting. They’ll be in full bloom by week’s end.”
Juliet’s thoughts were in a muddle at the moment—all thanks to Max—and she was trying to guess how they’d landed on the topic of the Earl of Wolford’s recent marriage to Adeline Pimm.
Though perhaps, she reasoned, they were merely speaking of weddings in general because of an upcoming event. “I don’t recall receiving an invitation to a wedding ball or breakfast this week. Have I forgotten one?”
“Perhaps Lady Granworth requires a meadow of forget-me-nots to aid her memory,” Max quipped as he took the chair beside hers, when there were two others open that were a more comfortable distance away. This time, he lifted his own glass of whiskey in a salute but only after a pointed glance down to the one still untouched, for the most part, in her grasp. Then he directed his attention to the others. “Though, to be honest, I do not recall who is to be married this week either.”
“No one that I know of,” Marjorie answered with a careless wave of her hand. “I simply remarked on your friend’s wedding. And since you are in search of a bride, perhaps you would give thought to asking Wolford for the use of his chapel.”
Max shifted in his chair, no longer looking quite so smug. “Right. Well, since I have not yet begun to court any debutante, the pear trees will have lost their petals by the time I have decided on one.”
“But you’ll want to decide soon,” Marjorie said, setting her glass on the table. “We are surely past mid-Season.”
Unable to resist a chance to needle Max, Juliet chimed in. “Never fear. You have weeks before the peonies bloom. Though you should be warned of the insects—those blossoms are crawling with ants. Hardly the most romantic of flowers.” She shook her head slowly and tsked. “It is a pity, really, that in your haste to be married, you will likely have peonies at your wedding.”
“That would be unfortunate,” Zinnia said with a sage nod. They had both read Charlotte de la Tour’s La Language des Fleurs, and peonies represented shame.
In truth, they would have been the perfect flowers for Juliet’s own wedding.
Max glared at her, his dark brows lowered, the flesh between them furrowing into three distinct vertical lines. “I am more concerned with finding the most suitable bride for me than with the frivolity of the foliage in bloom.”
From their sordid history, Juliet knew his statement was meant to be a jab at her. The blasted man loved to argue. Regrettably, he had a knack for knowing the pressure points to incite her ire. “I feel sorry for the poor dear already. She will likely be married in winter, with nothing but dead twigs sticking up from the ground on her path to the church.”
“But no,” Marjorie said quickly. “Max wants to be married by summer before settling into his estate in Lancashire.”
This news surprised Juliet. She knew that his search for a bride had intensified since he’d recently inherited a marquessate, but she didn’t know that he planned to leave London.
Quite an interesting development, to be sure. “Then you will have no need for a house in town.”
Which posed an opportunity for her to finally buy hers back from him.
“You are mistaken. I will have every need for a house in town when I am here.” Max stood and turned slightly to loom over her. “You had your chance . . . ”
Max paused on a breath, the gray mixture in his irises turning steely. In that instant, Juliet thought he was speaking of his forced-by-circumstance wedding proposal five years ago. And she might have even noticed a sharp twinge of regret beneath her breast too . . . until he continued.
“But you lost the wager.”
Then, before she knew what he was about, he slid his middle finger into her glass and slipped it from her grasp.
She clenched her now-empty fist, fighting to hold on to her composure. “I did not lose—neither of us won. There is a difference. You knew that I had intended to purchase that house, but you used your influence to swindle it from me.”
Taking a step back, Max made a point of draining her glass in front of her. “The banker holding the deed liked my price better.”
As a wealthy widow, Juliet could have had the deed to the house in her possession if the old curmudgeon, Mr. Woldsley, hadn’t detested discussing business with a woman. He’d pushed aside her offer for weeks, likely waiting for the first man to come along and outbid her. In fact, he probably would have sold to any male who underbid her as well.
“It still was ungentlemanly of you, Maxwell,” Marjorie chided and offered a sympathetic headshake to Juliet.
“Which is why I gave her fair chance of winning the wager.” He lifted the two empty glasses in a helpless gesture. “But now our wager has concluded, and there is nothing to be done. I have already hired laborers to improve the structure. They work several days of the week, earning a wage to feed their families. My conscience would not permit me to sell it.”
Oooh! Max goaded her terribly. But the only witnesses attesting to this fact were the fingernails cutting into the soft flesh of her palm. He was the reason she’d entered into that foolish wager in the first place.
He’d claimed that anyone could be named the Season’s Original. All the while, he knew how much that title had once meant to her. Not because she’d wanted to be the most sought-after and admired member of the ton but to have her choice of any husband she desired. And he knew very well that, years ago, she’d wanted to marry his brother.
Juliet couldn’t help but wonder how different her life might have been if she had.
So, two months ago, when her dear cousin Lilah had volunteered to be transformed into the Original, Juliet had wagered against Max without thinking of the repercussions of failure. All she’d wanted was to give Lilah the chance to make the choice that was right for her. The choice that Juliet had not made for herself.
Fortunately for Lilah, it worked.
Yet Juliet still needed to forge her own path. And it mattered that her new beginning start in the place where she had once believed anything was possible. Therefore, it had to be that house.
“The Original has not been decided, so the wager is not exactly over,” she reasoned. “Even today’s edition of the Standard agrees.” Though apparently, the editor failed to realize that their initial bargain was over, with neither Juliet nor Max the victor.
His brows lifted dubiously. “But we know that our choices will not be named.”
As it happened, both of the people they had chosen in their wager were now married, which left them ineligible to be named.
“True,” she hemmed. “However, there is something we both desire—I want my house, and you want me to leave London.”
“Correct.”
Finding it more amenable to address a problem when her blood flowed unhindered from head to toe and back up again, she stood and moved toward the back of the silver-striped chair before continuing. “Then I propose another wager.”
Max set the glasses down on the table and folded his arms across his chest. A familiar tension coursed throug
h him, the superfine wool pulling taut over his biceps and shoulder blades. He knew better than to enter into any bargain with Juliet. Yet if he didn’t know any better, he might think that he’d purposely goaded her for this exact purpose.
And if that were true, then he must be going mad. “A new wager, when the last one is not cold in its grave? I humored you once but no more.”
“ ‘Humored’ me?” She offered him a cool, practiced smile that she had mastered during the past five years. “The previous wager was all your doing, if you’ll recall.”
Nothing in her lovely countenance gave away that he’d struck a nerve. No unbecoming red blotches marred her flawless complexion. Her tone remained melodious. Her bearing, ever-poised. And yet, there was a flash of something in her eyes that reminded him of the woman he used to know. Irritation? Anger? Passion?
He couldn’t be certain. All he knew was that he loathed the part of him that stirred because of it.
“The first challenge was more about satisfying a curiosity. I’d wondered if this was merely a game for you or if you truly desired that house for a more personal reason.” He waited a beat for her to fill in the blanks. When she didn’t, he shrugged and continued. “Though it couldn’t mean too much to you if you were willing to leave London altogether.”
“Is not the first step of a new journey the most fearsome, yet promising the greatest reward?” Mother asked, offering a nugget of wisdom in Juliet’s favor.
Max knew that Juliet was not one to take such risks. She preferred the ground beneath her feet to remain perfectly paved and without a single rut to set her off balance—like marriage to a man with no fortune would have done.
“I had every intention of winning.” Juliet lifted her hand from the back of the chair, pointing one manicured fingernail toward the ceiling. “And moreover, your stipulation was that I could not buy a house in London, not that I had to leave.”
He caught his gaze straying for an instant—nothing more than an unbidden skim down the elegant column of her throat, a cursory sweep over the ripe swells rising above the gold embroidered edge of her green bodice—to the petal-soft hand that had so recently brushed his. But there, he noticed tiny, red, crescent-shaped impressions from her fingernails pressing into her palm. Perhaps she wasn’t as cool and composed as she wanted to appear.
Yet the instant he registered her words, his chin jerked up. She had just admitted to twisting their bargain to suit her own desires. “You were not even planning to honor the wager.”
“Au contraire, to the very letter,” she said with a quick tsk of reproach. “However, you never said that I was to be banished from London altogether. Do try to be more specific next time.”
He clenched his teeth. “Then I would draw up a contract, so that there would be no misunderstanding.”
“And I would be amenable to that. An unbreakable bargain, to which we both must adhere.”
That something flared in her sapphire eyes once more, causing his breath to stall in his throat and cutting off his immediate reply.
His mother spoke before he could. “Then what is your proposal, dear?”
Juliet arched a brow at Max, as if to gauge his willingness to listen. He offered a nod in response.
“The Standard claims that the contest is down to two candidates,” she began. “As there are two of us, the matter is simple. I shall write down a name, as will you. Keeping our guesses secret, we hand them to an outside party and witness”—Juliet gestured to his mother and Lady Cosgrove—“who then take those names and place them into a box, locking it tightly for safekeeping until the Standard posts the results . . . whenever that may be.”
“Undoubtedly there will be an Original by the end of this month,” Mother said with a certainty that he would question later. “My concern, however, is for you, Juliet. I fear what will happen should you not . . . win.”
“Leaving London would be a heavy price, indeed,” Lady Cosgrove added with a dignified shake of her head.
Juliet batted a defiant glance in his direction. “I am too determined to give up, no matter what obstacle stands in my way.”
Max chuckled, for he was equally determined to see her live anywhere else. He would never give in. Letting her live in the house where she’d once spurned him, only to eventually see her take another husband, was the last thing Max would concede.
“What should you do if both of you choose the same candidate who is then named the Original?” Lady Cosgrove asked.
Juliet tapped her finger against her chin. The gesture drew his attention to the purse of her lips and the plumpness of the bottom one. He remembered the silken texture of that flesh, the flavor . . . how it felt between his teeth. Damn.
It was pure folly to allow his thoughts to venture to that one moment. It had been years ago, after all. Surely, he would have forgotten about it entirely if Juliet had stayed in Bath. But with her return, the past had come flooding back, threatening to drown him in that single memory.
He was willing to do anything to put miles between them once more.
“In that event, it would be a draw,” Juliet said in response. “Since both of us cannot win, then neither of us would. I would remain a thorn in Max’s side, and he, the bane of my very existence.”
Unable to help it, he grinned at her flippant quip. “But when I win, you will find another part of England in which to live.”
“Oh yes, I hear that Lancashire has some fine properties,” Juliet answered immediately, almost as if she’d given thought to following him to his country estate and making his life a living hell.
Max’s arms flexed, and he was about to warn her that he would not take kindly to such an action, when she suddenly laughed.
“What a temper you have, Max,” she said, proof that her observational skills had not diminished. A prim smile curled the corners of her mouth. “You needn’t worry that I will scamper about the country looking to needle you. Once this has concluded, we will go our very separate ways and be all the happier for it.”
“Hmm . . . ” Mother murmured, standing. “But what if neither of you wins? This could go on for years.”
“Absolutely not,” Max argued. He couldn’t survive it. “Once this is over, it will be finished for good.”
“It would be another draw,” Juliet said, ignoring him and answering Mother’s question. “Therefore, Max will want to choose his candidate with great care to have a chance at all.”
He fixed her with a hard stare. “One month, Lady Granworth—that is all. And I will list that in the contract.”
Her hesitation lasted only for a minute before she surrendered a nod.
“Good,” he said. “With such a reward, I will only accept victory.”
In fact, with the name he had in mind, there was no way he could lose.
CHAPTER TWO
Bright sunlight shone down over the manicured park at Lord and Lady Minchon’s estate. Rows of boxwood lined the long, grassy avenue, with ivy and moss-shrouded statues at every forty paces. The manicured garden was in the design of a patte d’oie, splitting off into three directions to form a giant goosefoot upon the lawn. One lane hosted a Grecian folly. Another, a shaded, tree-lined arcade. And the last was a mystery because the large fountain at the intersection blocked Juliet’s view.
Taking the advice of a nearby alabaster nymph with grayish green ivy draped over her brow, Juliet lowered the pink netting from her wide straw bonnet.
Several of the young debutantes in attendance carried lace parasols. As soon as the footmen brought trays of miniature pastel cakes and tea around, however, they would learn their error. One cannot enjoy a garden party without the use of both hands.
Experience came with age, she supposed, and both had their advantages. For instance, when she was younger, it would have bothered her to arrive at a party unaccompanied. Having a friend or even her parents on her arm had helped her to endure the not-so-subtle whispers about her appearance. Because of her features and coloring, the ton had labele
d her the goddess during her first weeks in society. And by the time she’d reached her third year, she’d become the hollow goddess, with many believing her to be shallow and unfeeling. Even her late husband had possessed that idea about her.
Few took the time to know her. For if they did, they would know that an empty shell would have crumbled during the terrible years of her marriage. Oh, but there were so many times she’d wished to be hollow. That way, the demeaning statements, the threats, and the degradation would have slipped right through her. Instead, they’d settled inside her, firmly latched like insect larvae feeding on the underside of leaves. The more Lord Granworth’s words had filled her, the emptier she’d felt.
“Attending the picnic alone, I see,” Max said from just over her shoulder, adding a cluck of his tongue.
She started, her heart and lungs lurching free of those dark musings. Of course, outwardly, she revealed nothing. Concealing her reactions had become an art she practiced. Her parents had taught her that a lady never revealed her true feelings. That was bad form. But what had begun as a lesson in good manners had quickly turned into an act of rebellion shortly after her debut. She had vowed never to let society know that their lack of true friendship and scornful monikers ever affected her.
Stopping on the lawn beside her, Max touched the brim of his tan willow-weave top hat with his gloved fingers. The pale shades of his camel coat and buckskin breeches accentuated his dark features, making his complexion swarthy and exotic compared with the pale, ruddy-cheeked gentlemen in attendance. Though, handsome or not, at least none of those gentlemen were smirking at her.
“And your companion is in your pocket, I suppose?” She glanced down at his green waistcoat toward the folded horizontal slits cut into the cashmere. A stray gold thread at the corner of his pocket wanted her attention, practically begging for her to pinch it off with her fingers, but doing so suggested an intimacy that not even her husband would have permitted when he was alive.
When a Marquess Loves a Woman Page 3