"I don't expect he usually does," Rachael said, looking amused. "He seemed a bit foxed, which isn't usual for him, either. In any case"—she smiled at Amanda—"Lord Stafford does enjoy chess."
Juliana jumped on that positive attribute. "See, there's more to him than appearance and status."
"He's also a physician," Claire reminded her.
"That, too. Which means he's intelligent and he cares for people."
"He limps," Amanda pointed out.
"Only slightly. And does it signify?"
"Indeed, it shouldn't." Corinna looked up from her easel. "He sounds like a paragon. Why don't you marry him, Juliana?"
"Don't be a goose. I have a duke courting me."
How quickly her dismal prospects had changed. Was it only yesterday she'd despaired of finding a husband? Not only had the duke danced with her twice at Lady Hammersmithe's ball—making brows rise and tongues wag—but toward the end of the evening he'd very kindly asked if he might pay her a call tomorrow afternoon.
She'd accepted, of course. She wasn't an idiot. There wasn't a man in London more perfect than the duke. Maybe she wasn't in love yet, but she was certain she would be soon.
"By the end of the season, I may be the Duchess of Castleton."
Amanda's mouth dropped open. "You'd marry the Duke of Castleton?"
"Wouldn't you?"
"No!" She looked horrified at the mere idea. "Everyone knows he's a by-blow."
Everyone but Juliana, evidently. During all those seasons she'd missed while in mourning, it seemed she'd also missed some fascinating gossip. "What do you mean?"
"It's an open secret," Rachael explained. "The previous duke was away for a year, looking after his interests on the Continent, when his wife conceived a child here in London. To this day, no one knows who sired the child. It really doesn't signify, though, since the last duke arrived home before the current duke was born and acknowledged him as his son."
"It signifies to me," Amanda disagreed. "Marriage to a known by-blow would taint my family."
"How?" Juliana asked. "He's a duke, for heaven's sake. His parentage hasn't affected his standing in society. He's accepted in the best circles."
"I'd never be certain of my children's true heritage. For all we know, the duke could have been fathered by a footman!"
"I cannot see why that makes a difference," Rachael said, "considering the last duke claimed him for a son."
"I'd never trust him to be true to me."
"Why would he be unfaithful?" Juliana wondered. "I imagine the last thing he'd want would be to subject his own children to the shame he's had to live with."
Amanda raised one of her newly plucked brows. "You know what they say: like father, like son."
"They also say the sins of the father shouldn't be visited on the child." Juliana felt sorry the man had been forced to grow up under this cloud. "The circumstances weren't any fault of his. He was a victim, not to blame. You're being entirely too judgmental."
But facts were facts, and the fact was that straitlaced Amanda would never consent to marry the duke. Of course, that didn't matter, since Juliana wanted him for herself. Amanda belonged with Lord Stafford.
Juliana handed her the second Shrewsbury cake, hoping it would help convince her that James was the right man for her. That was why she'd risen at dawn this morning to bake them, after all—they were supposed to help convince people. "Did you meet a man you liked better than Lord Stafford?"
"No," Amanda said. "But there are many more men to meet."
"Not this season. They seem to be staying home." Juliana smeared jam on a cake for herself. "I wonder if it's because of all the cold and wet."
"Now you're being a goose." Corinna swirled her brush in green paint. "I'm having a marvelous time this season—there are plenty of eligible men."
Of course she was having a marvelous time. It was her first season, and Griffin wasn't pressuring her to marry. Not yet, anyway. Juliana was supposed to wed first. "Don't tell me you've fallen in love."
"I'm not in any hurry." Corinna dabbed at her canvas, creating a grassy field out of nothing.
Juliana would never figure out how she did that. Feeling edgy, she rose and wandered closer to scrutinize the bucolic scene. A man and a woman walked hand in hand over rolling hills. Corinna never used to paint people—only landscapes and still lifes. But this past year she'd been adding people to her paintings more and more often.
And not just any people. Lovers. Maybe she was falling in love. "Are you sure?" Juliana asked.
"I don't have time to fall in love right now." Corinna added a dab of white to the green paint on her palette. "My art is more important. Next year, I plan to submit to the Royal Academy."
Juliana nearly choked on her cake. "No women have been elected to the Royal Academy for years."
"Forty-eight years, to be exact. Not since 1768." Corinna mixed the colors together, creating a lighter shade of green. "But I'm not expecting to be elected immediately. My first step is to submit several paintings for next year's Summer Exhibition, in the hopes that one will be selected."
It was a preposterous plan, but apparently the Shrewsbury cakes were somewhat effective, because Juliana was half convinced it might work. However, the cakes didn't seem to be affecting Amanda's view of James, and Juliana wasn't about to see her own project fail.
Although she knew she should resume sewing, she stepped to the window and gazed out at the unceasing rain. The trouble was, unless the Shrewsbury cakes worked magic, there was only so much she could do herself. James would have to do the rest.
Obviously his good looks weren't enough to do the trick. Maybe she should coach him in the ways of wooing. He was, after all, a man consumed by his avocation—with all the time he spent doctoring, perhaps he hadn't had the opportunity to acquire the sort of aristocratic polish necessary to win a lady like Amanda.
Of course, getting him to agree to such training could prove a delicate matter, since, in her experience, the male of the species was often reluctant to admit to any deficiency. But she would bring along some of the Shrewsbury cakes and hope they'd help convince him.
She turned from the window, returning to her chair and the third of thirty frocks. New Hope Institute was closed on Sundays, but she'd pay James a visit tomorrow.
Chapter Twelve
“What do you think of this dress, dear?" Sitting across from James at the breakfast table Monday morning, Cornelia held up her copy of La Belle Assemblée, open to one of the hand-colored fashion plates. "Shall I order something like it for the next ball?"
"It's lovely, Mother." Given that his mother hadn't shown any interest in clothes since his father died, James knew he should be pleased to see her enjoying life again. But instead he was rather annoyed that his plot to convince her to stop pressuring him had failed so miserably.
"I had a wonderful time dancing," she said for at least the dozenth time since the ball.
The only respite he'd received from her happiness was the few hours she'd spent overnight with her sisters. She'd enjoyed that, too, to hear her tell of it. Aurelia and Bedelia's peach-ridden town house was near Oxford Street with all its shops. A perfect distance from his own mansion in St. James's Place—close enough for an easy visit but far enough that he didn't see his aunts every time he stepped out the door.
He folded the Morning Chronicle and set it carefully by his plate. "I have an idea, Mother."
"Hmm?" She flipped a page of her magazine.
"Why don't you move back in with your sisters? You could help them redecorate and get rid of some of that peach. I'm sure you'd enjoy that more than living here with me."
Cornelia hadn't always lived with him. When he'd returned to England following his years in the army and at medical school in Edinburgh, he'd established his own household. After his father's death, when James inherited Stafford House and the country estate that went along with his title, his mother had moved in with her widowed sisters, wishing not to intrude on h
is life with his wife. But then Anne died two years ago, and Cornelia came running back home to "help" him.
And here she'd stayed. For too long. He loved her dearly, but a man was entitled to some privacy and autonomy. He'd truly appreciated her "help" while he'd needed it, but he'd long since recovered some semblance of a life, even if he didn't feel ready to fall in love and remarry.
"Don't be foolish, James. Should my sisters ever decide to redecorate, I can help them from here. Who would run this household if I abandoned you? Stafford House is one of the largest homes in London."
One thing he wasn't lacking was money. "I have a staff. And I can hire more people should I need to."
"That's not the same as having family oversee matters." She flipped another page, tilting her head to peruse the dress pictured. "I won't even think about moving out until you have a wife."
Yet another reason to marry. But he'd want to fall in love first, and that wasn't going to happen.
"Very well, then," he said. It was senseless to pursue this any longer. That would only cause hard feelings, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt his mother. "I must be off." He pushed back from the table and rose. "I wish you a pleasant day."
She looked up. "I trust you haven't forgotten that Bedelia is expecting you this morning?"
Damnation. He had. His mind had been on other things. Especially a hazel-eyed sprite he had no business thinking about.
Most annoying.
"I haven't time, I'm afraid." He shrugged into the tailcoat a footman held out. "Only one doctor volunteered today, so I must fill the other spot," he said, buttoning the coat. "I'm expected at the Institute by ten."
"The people can wait a little longer for their vaccinations. Bedelia has been suffering with chest pains."
"Bedelia is fine, Mother."
"I'm sure you're right." She paused for a sip of her tea. "But what if she isn't?"
* * *
"This doesn't look like a nice neighborhood," Aunt Frances said with a worried frown.
"It's perfectly safe, I assure you." Reaching over the basket of Shrewsbury cakes on her lap, Juliana pulled the carriage's curtains closed.
"Herman doesn't like the dark," Emily said, reopening them.
"Herman should have stayed home," Juliana told her. Aunt Frances was peering out the window again, looking even more nervous, so she dug into her reticule for something to distract her. "Here, Auntie. I forgot to give you this letter. It arrived in the morning mail."
Emily stroked Herman's olive green scales, for all the world like he was a real pet. "I never get letters."
"I never get letters, either." Eyes wide behind her spectacles, Aunt Frances broke the seal and held the paper up to the light. As she scanned the single page, she sucked in a breath. "Goodness gracious!"
Juliana stifled a smile. "What does it say, Auntie?"
Frances's cheeks were suddenly so rosy, she looked like she'd eaten an entire bowl of trifle. "It's a poem."
"A poem? Does it rhyme?"
Frances nodded violently.
"Who is it from?"
"I'm not at all certain. He didn't sign his name."
"How do you know it's a he, then?" Emily asked. "It might be from a girl."
The older woman raised a hand to pat her modestly covered bosom. "He signed it"—her voice dropped conspiratorially—"Your Secret Admirer."
"Oh, Aunt Frances! That's so romantic!" Juliana sneaked a glance out the window, wondering how much longer she could distract her. "Whoever he is, he must have been at Lady Hammersmithe's ball Saturday night and seen you in that beautiful brown dress."
Frances looked doubtful. "I've worn that dress dozens of times."
"Well, then, we must order you new ones, don't you think? Before next Saturday's ball."
Though she hadn't bought a new dress all season—or, for that matter, all decade—Frances nodded. "I suppose we must."
Juliana toyed with the handle of her basket, finding it harder and harder not to grin. To her vast relief, the carriage drew to a stop before a small, neat building with a sign that said new hope institute.
The neighborhood hadn't improved, but her aunt no longer seemed to care. When a footman lowered the steps, Frances all but floated down to the street. Carrying the basket, Juliana climbed out after her, and Emily and Herman followed.
The door to the Institute opened, and a woman came out and down the steps, holding two children by the hand. The three of them were clothed rather poorly, but Aunt Frances didn't seem to notice. "What color dresses shall we order?" she asked Juliana.
"Pastels will look best with your golden-brown hair."
On the Institute's steps, Emily turned and frowned. "Her hair isn't brown."
Juliana smiled. "It will be after I summon Madame Bellefleur to dye it."
They all went inside. The reception area was noisy but looked very new and clean, especially compared to the people waiting there on the chairs. "A snake!" a boy exclaimed, and several children ran over to cluster around Emily and Herman.
A young woman with an air of authority walked out from behind a counter. She was dressed a little better than the patients, which wasn't saying much. "Twenty-three!" she called.
A mother stood up with a baby and followed her through a door into the back.
When the young woman returned to the counter and began adding some rather scary-looking supplies to the jumble already on the shelves, Juliana went over to her. She handed Juliana a worn square of paper with a big black 36 written on it. "You're number thirty-six," she said very slowly and clearly, as though Juliana couldn't read it for herself. "Please be seated. I'll call you when it's your turn."
Juliana put the paper in her basket. "I wish to have a word with Lord Stafford, if I may."
"Lord Stafford?" The woman blinked. "Oh, you mean Dr. Trevor. He isn't here, milady."
Drat! Juliana hadn't even considered the possibility. "Do you know when he's expected?"
"I'm sorry, milady, but I don't. Only one doctor volunteered for today, so he should be here to vaccinate the other half of the patients. But his note said only that he'd be delayed—"
Just then the door opened, and in walked James, his coat and cravat draped over one arm. Even though he was scandalously undressed, Juliana couldn't have been more delighted. "Lord Stafford!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad to see you!"
He looked shocked—and maybe pleased. "I'm glad to see you, too."
She hadn't meant it like that. "I thought you'd be here, but you weren't."
"I was examining my Aunt Bedelia. She's been suffering with imaginary chest pains."
"The poor, sweet lady." She paused, just realizing what he'd said. "Imaginary?"
"Aunt Bedelia is the healthiest woman I know. Except possibly Aunt Aurelia." Unfastening the top button of his shirt, he cleared his throat. "What can I do for you this fine afternoon?"
Frances suddenly turned to her. "I was wondering that myself. Why are we here, Juliana?"
The woman could be oblivious at times, but Juliana had found she could use that to her advantage. "Aunt Frances, have you met Lord Stafford?"
James offered Frances a bow. "Good afternoon, Lady Frances."
"Good afternoon, my lord." She looked at him sharply. "Did I see you at Lady Hammersmithe's ball?"
"I had the pleasure of attending, yes."
Frances's gaze grew more focused. At first Juliana assumed she was staring at the little V of exposed skin where James's shirt was unbuttoned, which Juliana found rather fascinating herself. Other than her brothers'—and they hardly counted—she'd never seen any part of a man's chest. Of course, her dress left much more of her own chest bare, but that was different. She had to force her eyes away from that intriguing bit of golden skin.
But then she realized Frances wasn't specifically looking at that little V, and, in fact, her blue eyes had turned speculative behind their lenses. Dear heavens, her aunt must be wondering if James was her secret admirer! How oblivious could the w
oman get? She'd have to write another love letter from Lord Malmsey and sign his name to it this time—before Aunt Frances set her hopes on someone much younger and better-looking.
A little gasp from James interrupted her thoughts. "Is that a snake in my reception room?"
Across the room, the children were still gathered around Herman, enthralled, while Emily, in her glory, proudly lectured them on his care and allowed them turns to touch.
Juliana smiled. "That's Viscount Neville's daughter, Miss Emily, and—"
"Get it out of here."
"No need to worry." The light in here was odd; James was looking rather pale. "It's perfectly harmless, Lord Stafford."
"James," he corrected distractedly. "And I want it out. It's frightening the children."
It was doing no such thing, but Juliana wasn't about to argue. She had much more important matters to discuss with him. "Aunt Frances, would you please take Emily and Herman outside?"
Frances was still gazing speculatively at James. "It's dreadfully cold out there," she said without taking her eyes off him.
"You can wait inside the carriage. I won't be long, I promise."
"The neighborhood—"
"The coachman and three footmen are there for your protection." Juliana took her aunt's arm and began easing her toward Emily. "You'll be safe. I'll be out in five minutes."
Her gaze no longer focused on James, Frances consulted the little watch pinned to her dress. "You'd better not take any more time. The Duke of Castleton is calling at half past two."
Following a short negotiation, Juliana finally shut the door behind Aunt Frances, Emily, Herman, and several children who refused to stay inside when there was a snake outside to admire. "Now, if I could have just a few moments of your time, Lord Stafford—"
"James," he interrupted.
"James." She looked around. "Is there someplace private we could speak?"
Chapter Thirteen
Wondering what Juliana wanted of him, James led her to an empty treatment room. He also wondered why the thought of Castleton calling on her was so annoying. It must be because Castleton was so very wrong for her. The duke was a prig; she was much too lively for such a stuffy fellow.
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 18