None had said anything about her intelligence, her spirit, or her humour—the things which truly made her her . No, they had commented on her looks, something which she had no part in making, and commented on them as though they were what made her whole. Julia knew she was lucky to be beautiful, but beauty could also be a curse, when people were content to think that was all you were.
"—the most fascinating woman I have ever seen," Montague continued, happily, "I watched as you talked with Lord Pariseau—who, I feel you should know, wet his bed in Eton for the whole of his first year—and you looked so composed and polite, but then when I looked harder, I saw that you were not there at all. Lady Julia had left the room, and I wanted to follow you to whatever distant land it was to which you had travelled."
"I—what?" Julia frowned; what was he babbling about? Montague did not heed her question, instead he barrelled on.
"You were somewhere else, altogether, in a different land. Then, you moved through the room, and you were serene, and you were pretending not to watch me—though I knew it pretence—and you looked so straight-laced; the perfect society miss. Then, I stumbled through the curtains to find you here, looking into the distance—though, I really think you were looking into the past—and telling the wall that you wanted to live—not so straight-laced, after all. My interest is piqued."
Julia, who had never had anyone watch her so closely, had to admit than when Lord Montague described her movements she did sound fascinating. Mysterious even. He made her sound like a body of water, so still that no one would guess the endless depths beneath the surface.
For a moment, Julia wanted to float away, to allow herself to become the lady that Montague had thought she was. But the moment was short, and the practical side of Julia elbowed its way into her consciousness.
"That is quite the pretty tale, my lord," she replied, steadying herself against his gaze, "But it is merely a tale. If my eyes wandered while talking to Lord Pariseau, it is merely because I find talk of horseflesh dull. If I looked serene, it is because I am serene and content to move within such genteel circles. If I stole away from the crowd for a moment, it was only because I wanted respite—"
"And to talk to the wall," Montague finished, narrowing his gaze into a frown. "Tell me, what was it that you were thinking when I arrived?"
"I was thinking that you should not be here," Julia blustered, irritation now filling her every nerve. Why did he insist on burdening her with his presence? Her heart was skittering, and her stomach was churning in a most alarming manner, and her breath—her cursed breath—was fast disappearing.
"No," Montague shook his head, a soft smile upon his lips, "You only thought that after I arrived—and it's true, and I will leave you in peace momentarily—but before? What were you thinking before? When you said that you wanted to live? I want to know."
Julia opened her mouth to reply but found that no words came. She longed to scold him and tell him he was far too forward, but in equal measures, she found she wanted to tell him everything—all of her secret hopes and wishes.
Perhaps he was a mind reader, for his eyes softened—almost affectionately—and he dropped his head bashfully.
"I am too rash," he decided, as he lifted his gaze to hers, a boyish smile upon his face, "I have proposed marriage and asked you to reveal your inner soul, without so much as a formal introduction."
"I am glad you have seen sense, my lord," Julia conceded, exhaling with relief whilst she ignored the slight stab of disappointment deep within, "We should return to the ballroom, before our absence is noted."
"Yes," Montague nodded, "And should I approach your father straight away, or wait a few minutes so as not to arouse suspicion?"
"I—what?"
Julia, who had been brushing down her skirts in preparation for making her re-entrance into the ballroom looked up in dismay.
"Perhaps it would be best if I waited," Montague mused aloud.
"Yes," Julia agreed, as panic propelled her away from the wall and toward the curtains, "I suggest, that before you approach my father, my lord, that you wait for eternity. And once you get there, wait five minutes more—that ought to do the trick."
Thoroughly shaken, Julia made to push past Lord Montague, but before she could, he reached out for her hand.
"Tell me that you do not feel what I feel," he whispered huskily, as he gazed down into her eyes and pulled her slightly toward him, "And I will leave you alone."
"I do not feel whatever it is that you claim to feel, my lord," Julia responded, though her mouth was dry and the shake in her voice was telling.
"Say it like you mean it," he countered, though he gave a begrudging smile to acknowledge that he was, perhaps, being a tad conceited. A smile which Julia found painfully endearing.
"I do not feel what you feel, my lord," Julia replied, finally manging to steady both herself and her voice.
Despite the thunder which roared in her ears, and the crescendo of her heart, she composed herself so that she was once again the cool Lady Julia the ton knew so well.
"I will thank you to release my hand," she added primly, with a pointed nod to his hand, which was still clasping hers firmly.
At her request, Lord Montague instantly let go, though he held her gaze with his chocolate eyes.
"I don't believe you," he finally said, by way of reply, "I think that you very much feel what I feel, Lady Julia—and that it scares you."
"Are you always this impertinent?" Julia bristled, her patience—which had been stretched thin—finally breaking.
"The general rule of thumb is that if the day ends in a "y", you can usually find me being impertinent," Montague offered, with a mischievous smile.
"Oh," Julia growled, so vexed that her legendary composure fled in the face of such irritating behaviour. "You think you are so clever, my lord. You think that every lady is simply dying to throw herself into your arms—but not this lady. You are rude, you are arrogant, and when I leave, I shall not think of you again."
"I doubt that," Montague gave a smirk, "I think that you shall think of me quite often—though perhaps not in the way that I might like. Though, as the Bard says; Love me or hate me, both are in my favour. Either way, you are taking me with you when you leave, my lady; I will be either in your heart, or in your mind ."
"You will be in a coffin six feet under if you continue to annoy me, my lord," Julia harrumphed in return.
She had not once, in all her life, threatened anyone with violence, but she had the sneaking suspicion that Lord Montague was the type of man who could make a woman do things she had never done before.
A delicious pang of desire filled Julia's belly, and she quickly realised that she must make her escape before she did something rash—and her brain was so addled by the marquess, that she was not certain if that something would be murder or kissing.
Though both were equally horrifying prospects.
"Good evening, my lord." Julia said, in equal measures firm and prim.
"Parting is such sweet sorrow," Montague quipped, "That I shall say good night 'till it be morrow."
"There will be no tomorrow," Julia hissed, as she peered out through the curtains to make certain that no one was watching. "And I rather think, my lord, that you're messing up your lines. You have taken the female lead now, it seems."
"I'm very versatile," Montague grinned, "It's one of my many attributes; versatile, single, wealthy, heir to a ducal seat—"
"Not to mention fit for Bedlam," Julia finished—though she could not help herself, and she smiled.
"I can go to my grave easy now, in the knowledge that I have made you smile."
"Then I wish you safe travels on your journey cross the Styx, my lord—be sure to pay the ferryman."
"I would rather a kiss upon my mouth from you for his dues, than a gold coin."
"I am afraid that all you will earn from me with that kind of talk is a fat lip," Julia snorted, affronted by his rakery, "Adieu, my lord."
Before he c
ould speak again, Julia fled, her feet carrying her across the room on a heady mix of excitement and nerves.
Thankfully, the country-set was only now coming to an end, and no one had appeared to notice her absence. Even her mother, who worried and fretted when Julia was out of sight, was transfixed by the sight of the two wallflowers dancing with a pair of dukes.
"Oh, there you are, dear," Lady Cavendish said with a smile, "Look, even your two little friends have decided to try and find themselves husbands—though they're both punching a little above their weight tonight. Ah—love is in the air, don't you think?"
"It is," Julia agreed absently, as she wondered at the strange feeling of excitement which coursed through her veins.
She had said that she wanted to live and, judging by the pounding of her heart, Julia guessed that her wish had been answered.
Chapter Two
Robert William Montague, current holder of the title Marquess of Thornbrook and heir to the Ducal Seat of Staffordshire, was being ignored.
His two oldest friends—the Duke of Penrith and the Duke of Orsino—were both lost to the world. The two men sat at their customary table by the bow -window in White's staring blankly into space whilst they nursed their nightcaps, and ignored Robert's attempts at making conversation.
"I must say, Almack's turned out to be far more entertaining than I had imagined," Rob ventured, only to be met by distracted silence.
"And you have made progress on your mission to ensnare Miss Drew," he continued, with a nod to Penrith, "Though, she did not seem that taken with you, if truth be told."
Penrith stirred at the mention of Miss Drew, the young lady he was supposed to court so that his cousin might have a chance with her younger sister.
"Young ladies oft play at being disinterested in order to arouse a man's attention," Penrith bristled, his pride evidently stung by Robert's remark.
"Well, Miss Drew played the part very well," Rob offered with a wicked smile, which earned him a most ducal glare from his friend.
"Perhaps you have spent too long amongst the females of the demimonde, Montague," Penrith sniffed, "And you have forgotten how things are done in more civilised circles."
"Ah," Rob was quick with a smile, "So in civilised circles it is commonplace for the lady to run away from the man pursuing her?"
"She hardly ran, Montague," Orsino interjected, having finally joined the conversation, "I would say it was more of a trot than a canter."
Orsino shot Rob an amused smile, and both men waited patiently for their friend to react to their ribbing.
Three, two, one, Rob counted in his head.
"Well, if this is where the night is headed," Penrith said, placing his empty glass down upon the table, "Then I think it's time for me to cry off. Some of us are dukes and have business to attend to in the morning."
"A low blow," Rob cried, struggling to suppress a smile.
"I can go lower," Penrith warned, "Don't tempt me, Montague."
With that, Penrith swept from the room, exuding wounded-ducal pride with his every step.
"He's unused to encountering a woman who is not impressed by his title," Orsino observed, as he sipped on his drink, "Pay no heed to his testiness—his whole world view has been challenged. And by a bluestocking, no less."
"If I ever paid heed to how testy you both are, then I don't think our friendship would have lasted two decades," Montague replied cheerfully. He was not in any way perturbed by Penrith's huffy exit, for he had known how his friend would react to such unmerciful teasing.
Penrith was the best of men, but at times he could take himself—and his title—a little too seriously.
"How lucky we are that you are so forgiving," Orsino replied dryly, before changing the subject, "Tell me, do you think your father will leave you alone, now that you have finally graced Almack's with your presence? Or will he expect it to be a recurring event?"
Rob sighed at the mention of his father; with all the excitement of his tête-à-tête with Lady Julia, he had forgotten his true purpose for attending Almack's—to convince his father that he was looking for a bride.
Rob briefly imagined telling the Duke of Staffordshire that he had finally found the woman he wished to marry, and that she just happened to be a Cavendish. The shock would probably kill him—though, not before he had a chance to kill Robert first.
"I do not know," Robert allowed himself a moue of distaste, "In all likelihood he will view my attendance as capitulation, and double down on his campaign to have me wed."
"He just wants to ensure that the line is secure," Orsino observed, ever tactful.
"Yes," Rob rolled his eyes, "The line is all he cares for. Not my happiness, or the happiness of the woman I shall marry."
"Perhaps he does not want you to suffer the way he has?" Orsino ventured, slightly hesitant at having brought up the sore subject of Robert's mother.
The Duchess of Staffordshire had died when Robert was but a boy; he had a few memories of her, which he treasured as though they were gold. Her blonde hair tickling his face when she hugged him, her scent of rosewater, her blue eyes which sparkled with love.
Confusingly, his memories of his mother were also inextricably intertwined with memories of his father—which were equally as bittersweet.
Fond words, delivered gruffly. Bellowing laughter as he horse-played. A swift kiss on the forehead before bed. Rob recalled these things as though they were a dream—and perhaps they had been—for his father had not shown anyone an iota of love since the day his wife died.
"Perhaps I should write him a letter of thanks, if that is the case," Rob grumbled irritably, "Dear father, thank you for being so tortured by my mother's death that you have decided that I should never know love in order to spare me a similar pain."
Rob picked up his glass of brandy, threw the remnants back, and plonked the glass back down on the table irritably.
"Should I call for another?" he asked, but Orsino shook his head.
"I have business in Whitehall in the morning," he said, as he pushed back his chair and stood up, "I will need a clear head. Goodnight, Montague, try not to worry too much about Staffordshire. I'm sure deep down he does care."
"Deep, deep, deep down," Robert muttered, as Orsino took his leave.
Robert waved for the footman to fetch him another decanter of brandy, and as he waited, he allowed his mind to drift back to earlier that evening. He had not expected to find anything except stale cake and bitter lemonade at Almack's, and he had most definitely not expected to find Lady Julia.
He had watched her all night. He had observed that she was also watching him. And when the crowds had been distracted by the sight of his two friends dancing—a rare event, for the two dukes never attended Almack's—the opportunity to be alone with Lady Julia had arisen.
Rob had oft been accused of acting without thinking—along with talking without thinking—and even now, he had to admit, that following Lady Julia into the quiet alcove had been a risky venture.
Not for his reputation, which was long gone, but for hers.
Still, fate had compelled him to follow her, if only so he could steal a glance, and what he had found had enthralled him—Lady Julia, with a lost look in her eyes, which echoed the gnawing feeling in his own heart.
For the past few years, Robert had felt somewhat out of sorts; like a dandelion clock holding on to its stem, aware that just one gust of wind could pull him apart and send him floating away in a million tiny pieces. Oh, he socialised with as much exuberance and enthusiasm as ever, but sometimes he felt as though the Marquess of Thornbrook was simply a character played by the Marquess of Thornbrook and not the real Robert at all.
The return of Orsino from the army, and the reuniting of the Upstarts had helped somewhat to ease this feeling. Robert had reined in the worst of his excesses; the drinking, the carousing, and the giving away of his heart to any woman who walked by—but still, something was missing.
And then, he had sighted La
dy Julia, staring into the past with distant eyes which mirrored his own feelings of loss. Her blonde hair had caught the candle-light, her rosewater scent had filled the air, and Robert realised that he had given his heart away for the final time.
Unfortunately, the lady in question had not seemed entirely enamoured with the idea of accepting Robert's heart—but he was certain he could persuade her.
"That's an awful lot of brandy for just one man," a voice called, interrupting Robert's reverie.
"I am an awful lot of man," Rob called back, flexing his bicep and offering a grin to his cousin Benjamin .
"More mass than muscle, I'm afraid," Ben replied, quick as ever, with a scandalised glance at Rob's midsection.
Rob sat up straight and pulled his stomach in; he was not fat! Why, just the other day, one of the gossip columns had commented that there was no better man to wear clothes than the Marquess of Thornbrook.
"At ease," Ben grinned, observing Rob's reaction, "I was merely jesting with you. Your stomach is as small as your vanity is large."
"Nothing wrong with a man who likes to keep himself in shape," Rob grumbled, though he was good natured, "What brings you to White's?"
"Michaels and I attended a ball at Lord Peterborough's," Ben winced at the memory, "We absconded once we realised there was no fun to be had. Then, we decided to make our way to Pickering Place, but the walk was long, and we were in need of refreshments for the remainder of the journey."
"You are both lost causes, if you cannot make it less than one hundred steps without stopping for brandy."
"Judge not, lest ye be judged," Ben winked; he knew all of Montague's secrets, "Ah, here is Michaels now."
Robert turned and spotted Michaels, weaving his way across the room on unsteady feet. After Oxford, when Orsino had left to join the army and Penrith had been busy with his ducal duties, Robert had fallen into a trio with his cousin and Lord Michaels.
They had been hellions of the highest order; gambling in Pickering Place, attending boxing matches in the Seven Dials, and drinking from dusk 'till dawn with the Prince Regent in Carlton House. While Michaels, and to a lesser extent Benjamin, were still hellions of sorts, Robert had taken a step back from the endless carousing.
The Rake and Lady Julia (Wilful Wallflowers Book 3) Page 3