My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes

by Courtney Milan, Lauren Royal, Grace Burrowes, Christi Caldwell, Jess Michaels, Erica Ridley, Delilah Marvelle

  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.

  It was Juliana's turn to frown. "You're planning to break that engagement, aren't you? Under the circumstances, I should think you'd be happy to see him showing interest in another woman. It's not your goal to devastate him, is it? Besides, you've spent the last week dancing with other men."

  In fact, two other men were approaching now. As Rachael had said, Amanda looked to be this season's Incomparable—at least until her novelty wore off.

  "Smile, Amanda," Juliana instructed through a fixed smile of her own. "You're not engaged to Lord Stafford yet, so you might need one of these gentlemen."

  Before she turned her new, practiced smile on the 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.

  Having multiple projects was proving to be complicated.

  As Amanda went off to dance with the luckier of the two men, Juliana sensed a presence behind her and turned to see the Duke of Castleton. "Lady Juliana," he said, his tone cultured and reserved as always, "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 he held her at a respectable distance throughout the entirety of the dance, and he didn't touch her anywhere that wasn't strictly necessary.

  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 had enjoyed the affection she'd received from James, and she wished the duke would loosen up a bit and show a little physical affection, too. Even a smidgen would be encouraging.

  Luckily, she'd transferred the handkerchief-wrapped macaroons into the pretty yellow reticule that matched her dress. As they came 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 of the ton 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 discomfited, he selected an especially small one and surreptitiously 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 suspected 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 hand them to her again.

  Men 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.

  Chapter Twenty

  The weather was always a popular topic of conversation, but it seemed even more so this unusually cold year. In fact, James reflected as he stood in a circle of men at Lady Partridge's ball, it seemed that lately people talked of little else.

  "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." James found himself half amused by these absurd theories, but his other half was rather disturbed to think the country was being run by the crackpots expounding them. "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."

  Lord Hawkridge nodded. "Stafford is right."

  James gave the man a subtle nod in return, glad to have another non-crackpot in the discussion. He knew Hawkridge from his Oxford days, although not terribly well—the man had been a much closer friend of Griffin's. A newcomer to Parliament and a fellow Whig, Hawkridge had impressed James so far on the floor. He seemed a true gentleman with a clear head and a keen sense of honor.

  "I agree with Hawkridge and Stafford," Lord Haversham announced. "Sunspots aren't responsible for the cold. The moon is to blame."

  "And how is that?" Hawkridge asked.

  Apparently not scientifically minded, 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 estimation of the fellow—resembled nothing so much as a pink-faced porker. "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."

  James wiped his face. "How the devil can you blame this on the Americans?" Occlestone had been another classmate at Oxford—one James hadn't liked then and liked even less now. A staunch Tory and generally against any progress or reform, Occlestone was doing everything he could to block James's bill to make smallpox vaccinations government-funded and mandatory for infants.

  "North America is suffering even colder weather than ours," Hawkridge pointed out. "Their newspapers have been predicting famine in the coming months due to crop failure."

  "I've seen reports of famine in Switzerland as well," Davenport put in.

  "Famine or not," Occlestone said, plainly disinterested in 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?" Incredulous, James blinked. "I expect Mr. Franklin's feet are decomposed by now. 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 decided that, Hawkridge excepted, the
y all had more hair than sense—even shiny-headed Davenport. Still, it wouldn't do to call them idiots to their faces.

  "Like all of you," he said carefully, "I've given this much thought. And that, coupled with keen observation, has led me to dismiss these predictions of doom. There's been a haze overhead the last months. I believe that haze is temporarily blocking the sun."

  Occlestone crossed his arms. "A haze?"

  "Yes, a haze. Or a fog, if you will, or perhaps it's some sort of dust, since it appears to be dry. Unlike the way the sun easily dissipates a moist fog arising from the water, its warmth seems to have little effect on this haze. Therefore it logically follows that its rays aren't reaching the earth and warming it as usual."

  "And to what do you attribute this haze?" Occlestone demanded.

  "That I couldn't tell you. I'm a physician, not a meteorologist. But I see no reason to jump to the conclusion that the condition will continue indefinitely."

  "Do you expect there's a haze above America as well? I think not." Occlestone's pinkish face was turning rather purple. "I was forced to listen to your damned two-hour speech in Parliament, Stafford, but I don't have to listen to you here." And with that, he walked off, muttering so loudly James suspected he was audible halfway across the ballroom.

  "Good evening, Tristan," James heard a familiar feminine voice say behind him.

  He turned to see Juliana, dressed in such a cheerful bright yellow she seemed to make up for all the missing sunshine. But he didn't like hearing her address Hawkridge by his given name, and he liked even less seeing her smile when the man walked closer, raised her hand, and pressed a kiss to the back of it. "You're looking lovely tonight, Juliana."

  James didn't hear what they said next. He was too busy telling himself he had no business caring who courted Juliana, and she was entitled to have genuine suitors, and at least Hawkridge wasn't a prig and an ass. The next thing he knew, Hawkridge was gone—and Juliana was looking at him with a puzzled expression.

  "Are you all right, James?"

  He blinked. "Of course. Why shouldn't I be?"

  "You just looked…odd."

  He shrugged. "Hawkridge is a fine fellow, isn't he?"

  "Yes. It's a shame he was shunned by society for so long. I'm very glad Alexandra managed to clear his name."

  "Alexandra?"

  "My older sister. His wife."

  "Oh." Whatever scandal had afflicted Hawkridge, it must have happened while James was preoccupied by grief. Feeling an absurd rush of relief, it was all he could do to hold back a grin. Hawkridge wasn't Juliana's suitor—he was her brother-in-law. "I didn't realize he was married to your sister."

  "I forgot you've met only Corinna. I shall have to introduce you to Alexandra." She caught sight of someone and frowned. "That man doesn't like you much, does he?"

  Awestruck once again at her lightning-fast change of subject, James followed her gaze. "Occlestone?" He hadn't realized she'd overheard their conversation. "He doesn't like any of the bills I propose in Parliament. But I don't like him much, either, so we're even."

  "Two hours," she said, looking impressed. "How was your speech received? Other than by Lord Occlestone, I mean."

  He sighed. "I don't think the House of Lords is prepared to expend more money fighting smallpox. They awarded two grants to fund Edward Jenner's research—in 1802 and again in 1806—and they consider that enough. In addition, there are those who feel that making immunization obligatory would be a problem in itself. A matter of civil liberty. They believe imposing vaccinations isn't acceptable in a country with a tradition of freedom."

  "They have a point," she said thoughtfully.

  He nodded. "When it comes to weighing personal freedom against the greater good, I admit to some ambivalence." Very little in this world was black and white. "But I do wish there was more support for public funding of the effort to eradicate the disease."

  "Has your bill come to a vote?"

  "Not yet, but I fear I know the outcome already." His two-hour speech had been followed by four hours of debate—mostly not in his favor. "I shall try again next year. Perhaps for funding alone, given the resistance to making vaccination compulsory."

  "You're a reasonable man, James."

  He shrugged. "Merely pragmatic. No matter how strongly I feel about conquering smallpox, I'm coming to believe there's nothing I can say that will override others' desire to protect individual rights. And I'm not even sure their position isn't legitimate."

  "But will money alone help? You're already paying for other people's vaccinations."

  "Only here in London. My income, after all, though not insubstantial, is limited. But government funds would go toward more than doctors and supplies—they would also pay for education. If everyone learned the importance of immunization and therefore decided to have their children vaccinated, the end result would be the same as if it were required." Thinking this was quite a serious discussion for a young lady at a social event, he smiled and changed the subject. "Are you enjoying Lady Partridge's ball?"

  "Of course. I didn't see you arrive."

  "That's because you were dancing with Castleton." The ass had looked as stuffy as ever, even with Juliana in his arms, which had cheered James tremendously. "Can I convince you to dance with me instead?"

  "You're here to dance with Lady Amanda," she reminded him. "Did you eat the macaroons before you came?"

  "Absolutely. I assure you, I shall have enough stamina to dance with you both."

  "Very well," she said with a laugh. "We can talk about your strategy as we dance."

  James didn't want to talk about strategy. But he did want to get his hands on Juliana, with the intention of making more progress toward eventually kissing her, so he mumbled something that sounded like consent and drew her toward the dance floor.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “So," Juliana said to James as they waltzed, "have you decided how you're going to ask Lady Amanda's permission to court her?"

  He pulled her closer. "I thought I'd start with 'May I have this dance?' and take it from there."

  "That doesn't sound particularly gallant."

  "I think it will work," he said dismissively. "After all, I bought her several gifts." He pulled her closer still, until their bodies were nearly touching, which had the odd effect of making her tingle. "Have I sent her all of the gifts yet, or just some?"

  "Only the fan and the gloves so far," she said, feeling breathless as his hand smoothed slowly down her back. "And the flowers, of course. You'll send the rest next week."

  "You'll see to that, I presume," he said dryly as he slid his hand back up. "Sending the gifts is a very gallant gesture, isn't it?"

  "That's why I suggested them."

  "Well, then," he said, skimming his fingers down again and making her pulse race a little faster, "shouldn't that be enough? They do say that actions speak louder than words."

  His actions were speaking volumes. He shouldn't be rubbing her back in the middle of a crowded dance floor, but she expected the macaroons were to blame for such forward behavior—and she had to admit it felt very nice. If he did the same to Amanda, that, coupled with the gifts, could very well be enough to make her want to marry him.

  As the waltz came to an end, she was pleased to notice her older sister conversing with Amanda. "There's Alexandra now," she said, maneuvering so that James would lead her off the dance floor in their direction. "Let me introduce you."

  James told Alexandra he'd been delighted to learn Lord Hawkridge had wed—in fact, he seemed more happy about that than was warranted—and Alexandra was glad to meet the man who'd been discussed so avidly at Juliana's sewing parties, although she didn't say so, of course.

  After the introductions were complete, it was a simple matter to suggest that James and Amanda dance. Unfortunately, the musicians struck up a country tune, not a waltz, but the two of them headed off, looking very good together. They were both tall, and James's dark handsomeness contrasted with Amanda
's pale beauty. Anyone would agree they made a perfect couple.

  Juliana turned and spotted James's mother gazing happily toward her son, clearly pleased to see him with the lovely Amanda. Lady Stafford looked different tonight—or younger, maybe—wearing a fashionable dress of deep rose with almond trim. Juliana recalled seeing something similar in the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée. Remembering that James wanted his mother to dance, she looked around for an eligible gentleman and found one nearby.

  "Lord Cavanaugh," she said, smiling when he shifted to face her. A dapper widower in his mid-fifties with a patrician nose and silver hair, he was ideal for Lady Stafford. "Are you enjoying the evening?"

  He grinned down at her, looking surprised to have a lady so much younger engage him in conversation. "Very much, Lady Juliana. And you?"

  "Very much as well." She started edging toward James's mother. "Have you been dancing much tonight?"

  "Not yet," he said, interpreting her question as an invitation, just as she'd intended. "But I'd be honored to—"

  "Excellent," she said, walking him right up to Lady Stafford. "Good evening, Lady Stafford."

  James's mother turned, the smile still on her face. "Good evening, Lady Juliana."

  "Your dress is beautiful. Is it new?"

  Her warm brown eyes, so like her son's, sparkled much more than Amanda's. She reached to touch Juliana's arm. "Why, thank you, and yes, it is."

  "I believe you know Lord Cavanaugh?" Juliana smiled in the man's direction. "He would love to dance with you. I hope you enjoy yourselves," she added and sailed off.

  Corinna stepped into her path. "Very smooth, Juliana."

  Since she was so happy with the way everything was going, she ignored her sister's sarcastic tone. "Thank you."

  "Has it ever occurred to you that some people might not appreciate your meddling?"

  "I'm not meddling. I'm helping." She gestured toward the dance floor, where Lady Stafford was performing a quadrille with Lord Cavanaugh. "They're both smiling."