He had wanted to take life more seriously—take himself more seriously. But, alas, when one has played the fool for so long, it is hard for anyone to see them as anything else.
"Saint Montague of St James' Square," Michaels called in greeting, "Can we tempt you with a night of revelry, after such a long absence? Word is that Crockford has hired a bevy of new girls for our ocular pleasure."
"Just ocular?"
"Well," Michaels grinned, "I didn't want to say, but they might tend to carnal pleasures too, if your coin is the right colour. What do you think? A couple of drinks, coupled with a couple of light-skirts?"
"I think I am far too long in the tooth for such pursuits," Montague said firmly.
"You have but a year on me," Michaels objected.
"But what a difference a year makes, old friend," Montague grinned, "When you are nearly one and thirty, you will understand that the choice you offer me is between pleasure now and pain later. I have no desire to spend all of tomorrow morning casting up my accounts into a chamber pot."
"You would if you saw Crockford's beauties," Michaels objected, but he knew when he was beat.
The three men made quick work of polishing off the remainder of Montague's brandy, before then heading off.
"Are you certain we can't tempt you?" Michaels called, as they reached the corner of St James' St and King St.
"Quite certain," Montague replied, and with a cheerful wave, he turned to make his way toward home.
It was not normally recommended to walk alone at night in London, but King Street was well lit, and the hour was not so late that it was deserted. Carriages, bearing their passengers to this party or that, trundled past, and Montague felt quite content to amble slowly home.
Montague's mind began to wander back to Lady Julia, and he found that his feet, almost of their own volition, turned the wrong way when he entered St James' Square.
Staffordshire House was to the left of the square, whilst Cavendish House was to the right. When the Earl of St Alban's first laid out the square for development, some two hundred years before, the houses of Montague and Cavendish were amongst the first families to acquire plots. The Earl had possessed the good sense not to place the two families side by side, and had instead placed them on opposite sides of the square, where they might glare at each other from across the gardens.
Montague had never paid much heed to Cavendish House, though his father, when he was in town, could oft be found scowling across at it from the window of his library.
The house was grand; a stucco fronted, three storey home, with a sweep of steps up to the front door, and perfectly proportioned windows which looked out onto the square. All was dark within the house, which indicated that its occupants were long in bed, apart from one room, just above the front door.
Light streamed from the French doors which led to a small balcony and, as Montague paused and strained to listen, he could hear the sound of female voices.
Was it Lady Julia?
Montague crept up the front steps of the house, keeping to the shadows, hoping that his elevated position might help him hear better.
"La! Maria, I shall undress later. I wish to sit by the window and read for a spell."
"Read? Or daydream?"
"Perhaps both."
It was Lady Julia! Rob grinned in triumph, though his smile faltered, for what good was it that she was up there and he was down here?
An idea struck Rob, so ludicrous, that he momentarily wondered if it was the brandy that was inspiring him. But then the scent of rosewater drifted to him on the night air, and Rob decided that it was not alcohol which had inspired him, but romance.
Two pillars flanked the doorway, supporting the balcony above. There was little for Robert to hold onto, but he surmised that if he was to climb whilst whooshing himself up using his feet against the wall, then he might just make it.
So that is what he did.
It took but a minute or two for Robert to reach the balustrades of the balcony, and another minute for him to haul himself—most ungracefully over them. Triumph filled him, as he pulled himself to his feet, and he crept toward the open French doors, where he could see Lady Julia was seated, with her nose in a book.
"Soft," he called quietly, "What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and—ouch!"
Robert staggered backwards as something very hard and very heavy made contact with his brow. The offending object fell to the ground and through starry vision, Rob saw that it was leather bound copy of Glenarvon.
"Come any closer and I will push you over the railings, so help me, I will."
The object of Rob's affections stood in the doorway, framed by candlelight and brandishing a fire-poker. Despite the fact that she was threatening to kill him, Robert could not help but take a moment to appreciate how alluring Lady Julia was. Her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders, her feet bare beneath the hem of her skirt, and her chin was tilted proudly as she defended herself—a real life Valkyrie.
"It is I, Lord Montague," Robert whispered, holding his hands up in a sign of peace.
"Knowing who you are does not make me less inclined to push you over the railings," Lady Julia whispered crossly, "What on earth are you doing, my lord?"
"I was being romantic," Rob replied, frowning a little. This was not going quite as he had planned.
"Romantic?" Lady Julia gave a hoot of laughter, "Tell me, what is romantic about stealing into a lady's bedchamber like a thief in the night?"
"I was not stealing anywhere," Rob defended himself, "I approached you whilst quoting Shakespeare. There are plenty of ladies who would find that romantic."
"Then I suggest you climb up their balconies," Lady Julia was droll.
She took a step backward, and Rob sensed the moment slipping away.
"Wait," he whispered, darting forward to prevent her from closing the door on him, "I beg, just a moment of your time."
"I have given you enough time," she said, though she hesitated, and Rob decided that since she had given him an inch, he might as well try for a mile.
"Earlier," he whispered, as he moved slowly toward her, "I heard you say that you wanted to live. Is this not living? Having a suitor climb up to your window to kiss you goodnight?"
"Perhaps in some silly girls' dreams it is, but I am not a silly girl, my lord. I am a lady, a sensible, practical—"
Rob knew that it was not polite to interrupt a lady, but when the lady in question seemed determined to talk herself out of falling in love with him, he decided that sometimes an interruption was necessary.
So, he leaned forward and kissed Lady Julia upon her rosebud mouth.
It was a chaste kiss, but still wonderful, and she must have enjoyed it too for she did not whack him with her fire-poker, as he had half expected.
"You kiss by the book, my lord," she said faintly, as Robert pulled away.
"Only with you," Robert muttered stupidly in reply, for he was quite dazed from the experience of kissing Lady Julia. Never, in all his years, had he felt such heady desire. And never had his desire been coupled with this strange feeling of soft longing, of protectiveness, of wanting and loss, all rolled into one.
It was so dizzying, that Rob momentarily wondered if she had hit him with the fire-poker after all.
From inside, the sound of knocking came upon Lady Julia's bedchamber door, accompanied by the muffled sound of a female voice complaining.
"Maria," Julia said, jumping with fright, "She will want to help me undress for the night."
Maria and I have much in common, Rob thought to himself with a smile. Though his smile faltered as Julia pulled away from him.
"I must see you again," he whispered urgently, as she made for the door.
Lady Julia hesitated, though she did not turn back to look at him when she spoke.
"I am afraid that is not possible, my lord," she said, shoulders rigid, "Not given our families' history—though I thank you for the kiss."
Wi
th that, she slipped through the French doors, shutting them with a firm click, and pulling the drapes so that she was concealed from view.
"Not possible?" Robert muttered to the now closed door, "We'll see about that."
For anything seemed possible now that he had tasted Lady Julia's lips, anything at all. Even climbing back down from the balcony posed no challenge, for he felt as though he were floating on a cloud.
Lady Julia was wrong, Robert decided, as he stole across St James' Square, love between a Cavendish and a Montague was perfectly possible—she just needed to be persuaded, that was all.
Chapter Three
A sensible lady would have screamed for help when Lord Montague climbed up to her balcony. A practical lady would never have allowed the dissolute rake to kiss her with tender lips. And, had that sensible, practical lady slipped, and allowed him to do that very thing, she most certainly would have pushed all thoughts of Lord Montague from her mind the instant that she closed the door on him.
Unfortunately, Julia was beginning to think that she was neither as sensible nor as practical as she had assumed herself to be.
The following morning, Lord Montague occupied a rather large part of her mind as she went about her business. At breakfast, she was so distracted that she dropped jam laden bread on her lap and had to change. Whilst making calls, her mind was so far away that afterwards she could not properly remember a word that Charlotte and Violet had said to her—though she did recall that Penrith had invited Charlotte to go riding in the park.
Even now, as she stood in the dressing room of the ton's modiste d'excellence Madame Lloris, her mind could not focus on anything, except Lord Montague.
His eyes. His smile. His lips.
Most particularly his lips, if Julia was honest. She had never been kissed before. Though Julia's part in the kiss had not been so passive that one could truly say she had "been kissed". She had kissed back—most enthusiastically.
A blush crept over her cheeks as she recalled the way that she had responded to the marquess. She had not shoved him away from her, nor thwacked him with her fire poker. She had melted against him. She had pressed herself against his chest.
She had kissed him. She was equally as dissolute as London's most infamous rake—and, worse, she did not regret it, for it had been the single most exhilarating moment of her life.
"Lud, what have you done?" Julia whispered to herself, forgetting where she was. A dozen seamstresses all sprang to attention at her moan of dismay, and Julia was forced to spend the next five minutes assuring them that everything was alright.
"I was just thinking of something," she assured them, as they fluttered about her.
"A man, perhaps?" Madame Lloris questioned, and as Julia blushed further, the modiste gave a throaty laugh.
"Ah, l'amour," the Frenchwoman said, her dark eyes twinkling in Julia's direction.
"What's that?" Lady Cavendish twittered, from her chair on the far side of the room. She had been reading a book, but the modiste's laughter had attracted her attention.
"We think your daughter is in love," Madame Lloris explained, "We are teasing her for her blushes."
"Oh," Lady Cavendish beamed across at Julia, "Well, she did meet a rather handsome fellow at Almack's yesterday evening."
For a moment, Julia felt as though the whole world had tilted upon its axis—did her mama know of Lord Montague?
"Lord Pariseau is quite the catch," Lady Cavendish continued, setting aside her book to stand up and inspect the modiste's work, "Not that I wish to name names, of course."
"Oh, of course," Madame Lloris whispered in an assuring tone, though Julia was certain that by evening all of London would know of it. And she was equally as certain that her mama had intended it that way.
"Perhaps you will soon be making Julia a wedding gown, instead of a day gown," Lady Cavendish continued, further fanning the flames of gossip.
Julia gritted her teeth, as she resisted the urge to growl with frustration.
Mama is right to encourage a match with Lord Pariseau, a sensible voice in Julia's mind whispered; he is an earl, he is wealthy, he is tolerably handsome.
He was also so insipid that Julia could not recall a word he had said to her the night before, though she supposed that was no bad thing.
"Oh, you look beautiful," Lady Cavendish said, as she inspected the modiste's work, interrupting Julia's thoughts, "Don't you think, Madame?"
"I think Lady Julia would look beautiful in anything," the Frenchwoman answered, before she recalled that she was firstly a businesswoman, "Though, of course, my gowns show her beauty to its best advantage."
"When I was a girl, I loved to dress my dolls in all kinds of outfits," Julia's mama gave a wistful sigh, "And now I have a real-life doll of my own."
Was it Julia's imagination, or did Madame Lloris cast her a rather pitying glance at her mother's words? Perhaps she felt a pang of sympathy for Julia's lack of liberty—a doll to be played with, dressed up and married off.
"I think we are done for the day, my lady," Madame Lloris said turning her eyes away from Julia and toward Lady Cavendish—the holder of the purse strings, "We will add the bouillonné of lace and have it sent to you this evening."
"Splendid," Lady Cavendish smiled, "I shall step next door to Mr. Bobbitol's whilst Julia is dressing. I need some trimmings for a bonnet."
Lady Cavendish swept from the room, and Madame Lloris and the other seamstresses followed suit, leaving Julia with one mousy-featured girl who would help her dress.
Julia felt rather flat as she changed from the as-yet-unfinished dress into the gown she had worn that morning. Her previous thoughts of Lord Montague had left her feeling light as a feather, but the abrupt reminder of Lord Pariseau had brought her crashing back to earth with a thud.
She had to marry this season; to waste any more time pining over Lord Montague would be a fool's errand.
"There you are, my lady," the young girl said, as she finished buttoning up the last of Julia's buttons, "All done."
"Thank you," Julia replied, "I shall go and wait for Mama in the carriage."
"Oh, no," the girl replied quickly, shocking Julia a little, for it was not her place to tell a lady what she could and could not do, "Wait here, just a moment, my lady."
The girl disappeared from the room, but not out the door that they had come in, but another door which led to a stock-room of some sort. Julia could see rolls of fabric propped up against the wall and assumed the girl had gone to fetch her a piece of cloth for consideration for another dress. An audacious ruse to have her order another gown, she thought huffily.
But it was not the girl who returned, it was someone else entirely.
"What on earth?" Julia hissed, swivelling her head nervously to make sure they were alone, "How did you get in here?"
"Love makes anything possible," Lord Montague replied, without even the decency to look in any way contrite. In fact, his expression was one of delight.
"Love?" Julia echoed disbelievingly.
"And a bag of coins, for bribing," the marquess admitted sheepishly, "But mostly love."
"You are fit for Bedlam," Julia replied, "Not to mention, most indecent. You cannot accost a woman in a dressing room."
"Betsey assured me that you would be fully dressed when I arrived," Montague replied, rocking backwards and forwards on the heels of his boots, "This is not some salacious assignation, my lady, but an epic quest for love. Young Betsey was quite willing to assist me, given that her own heart aches for a groom who shows no interest."
"If both you and Betsey are suffering from bouts of unrequited love, my lord," Julia snipped, "Perhaps you might join together and leave me in peace."
"Betsey is but a child," Montague shrugged, "And her heart belongs to someone else, as mine belongs to you."
Despite herself, Julia felt a pang of longing at his words. Lord Montague was something of an open book, wearing his heart upon his sleeve. For a woman like Julia, who neve
r displayed emotion, she found his openness endearing—not to mention, a little alarming. He was making himself vulnerable to her; setting himself up for pain. Julia had never felt any sort of protectiveness toward a man before, but now she was overwhelmed by it. She wished to save Lord Montague from heartache, though unfortunately, that meant saving him from her.
"I did not ask you to gift me your heart, my lord," Julia said quietly, "And I beg you to please take it back. My parents wish me to marry this season, and marry well. I am sad to say that they would not consider you a suitable husband."
"Would you?"
"Would I what?"
"You said that your parents would not think me a good husband, but would you?"
"It does not matter what I think," Julia protested, before continuing, when she saw the look on Montague's face, "I will marry a man of their choosing, because I know that they will have put great effort into selecting him. They want to see me wed to a man who can care for me and keep me in the lifestyle to which I am accustomed."
"And what of love?"
"Love is but a fairytale," Julia said firmly, unable to meet his dark brown eyes.
She was practical. She was sensible. She did not believe in love.
Oh, but how she wanted to.
Lord Montague's handsome face was a picture of concern, as though he believed Julia was suffering from terrible malady. She had expected him to be annoyed, or even angry, but she had not expected to see pity in his eyes.
"Love is everything," Montague said firmly, after a pause, "And it makes anything possible. Tell me, my lady, what have you always wished for? If I make it so, will you then believe in love?"
He was, Julia realised, a hopeless romantic; like Byron, but less syphilitic. Montague would not give up his pursuit of her, she realised, unless she made it impossible for him. Unless she proved to him that love was not the panacea for all life's ills.
"I have always wanted to fly," Julia answered, allowing herself a mischievous smile—that ought to slow the marquess down.
The Rake and Lady Julia (Wilful Wallflowers Book 3) Page 4