Indeed, Montague's face fell somewhat at hearing her wish, but within a second, he wore a smile again.
"With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls. For stony limits cannot hold love out," he quoted, with a wink. "Your wish is my command, my lady. I shall teach you to fly in a sennight, and should I fail, I will leave you off to marry whatever dull, wealthy lord your parents deem worthy."
"Thank you," Julia bowed her head graciously.
A small part of her was thrilled that he had accepted her challenge so readily. Her mind excitedly tried to guess just how Lord Montague might make flying possible. But then a noise from outside brought Julia back down from her lofty heights, and she recalled that she had set him an impossible task, so that he might fail, and not succeed.
"You must leave," she said firmly.
"Indeed, I have work to do," Montague agreed, his brow creased in thought, "I bid you good-day, my lady. Our paths will cross soon."
"I will see you when you have discovered a way to fly," Julia agreed, allowing herself to feel a little relief that she would not again have to suffer the strange pangs of longing she experienced in his presence.
"Oh, no," the marquess grinned, "We agreed that if I cannot make you fly in a sennight, then I will leave you alone. Until then, I intend that our paths will cross quite often. Good-day, my lady."
Montague reached out, took Julia's hand, and kissed it lightly.
As she had not yet put on her gloves, his lips touched her skin and she shivered. He too seemed rather affected by it, though it was a more chaste act than their embrace upon the balcony.
"You will wear my ring upon this hand," he said, his eyes burning with the same desire that Julia felt in the pit of her stomach, "I swear it."
With that, Montague let go of her hand, turned on the heel of his Hessian boot, and marched back out the door he had come through.
Though Julia was sensible, practical, and did not believe in love, she had to admit that Lord Montague had the look of a man who might indeed make her wish come true.
That evening, after dinner, Julia retired to the parlour room with her mother. It was unusual for them to stay in for an evening during the season, but Lady Cavendish had cried off attending a musicale in Lady Engleby's, citing fatigue.
"We shall spend the evening trimming our bonnets, dear," she suggested, far more bright eyed than a woman claiming tiredness ought to be.
Julia, who was glad of the respite from the endless whirl of social calls, readily agreed.
The parlour room of Cavendish House looked out onto the square, and while Lady Cavendish and Maria bustled about, searching for needles and thread, Julia stood by the window, surreptitiously surveying Staffordshire House.
The house was in darkness, save for a few lights which shone from the topmost windows—the servant's quarters—and Julia assumed that Lord Montague was out and about. His reputation was such that even she—who before Wednesday night in Almack's had never met him—knew of Lord Montague's sociability, for want of a better word.
The gossip columns were often filled of tales of his escapades in Carlton House, the curricle races in Hyde Park, the ladies of the demimonde he was rumoured to be linked to. If one had never met Lord Montague, it would be easy to believe that he was a rakehell of the worst kind, but Julia now suspected his reputation was all smoke and no fire.
There was a vulnerability to the marquess that touched at Julia's soul. He had placed his trust in her hands as easily as a child. He was lost; it was clear to see when one looked in his deep brown eyes—but was Julia the lady who could help rescue him?
She gave a small laugh at the idea that she, the girl who once believed she might dissolve into mist in Almack's, might help anyone who was lost. Though, she had to admit, there was some poetry in the idea of two broken souls making a whole together.
"What are you giggling at?" Lady Cavendish queried, coming to stand beside her daughter by the window.
"There was a—" Julia glanced outside, and thankfully spotted a familiar feline reclining on the footpath below, "—a cat. He was playing a moment ago, it was terribly sweet."
"He's rather a mangy thing," Lady Cavendish responded, wrinkling her nose at the sight of Bagpipes, Violet's beloved pet, who often roamed the square. "Perhaps I should call for a footman to shoo him away."
"Oh, no," Julia protested, "He will go away of his own accord. Oh, I say, is that Staffordshire?"
A dark town coach had drawn up outside Staffordshire House, pulled by four Belgian Blacks. It was so sombre a vehicle, that Julia believed that if the horses had been wearing ostrich plume head-dresses she might have mistaken it for a hearse.
"Lud."
Lady Cavendish rarely used epithets, leaving Julia to assume that her guess was correct. Lord Montague's father was in town; as rare an event as Prinny paying his tailor's bill on-time.
"Your father will be all a tither for the foreseeable," Lady Cavendish continued, as she rolled her eyes in annoyance.
Still, she did not move away from the window, and stayed peering out across the square with Julia.
"I wonder what has brought him to town?" Julia asked.
"He's trying to marry off that son of his," Lady Cavendish answered absently, "It's all the ton have talked of since his appearance at Almack's. Staffordshire, it is rumoured, is at his wit's end with his son's bachelor status and wild ways."
"Is that so?"
Alarmingly, Julia felt a mild stab of terror at the idea that Lord Montague might imminently find himself married off. Oh, she knew she could not ever marry him, but the idea of him marrying someone else was wholly unpleasant.
"Yes—though I am of the opinion that Staffordshire himself is responsible for Lord Montague's feral nature," Lady Cavendish sniffed, "He farmed that boy out to Eton when he was but four years old, and left the raising of him to the schoolmasters."
"Four?" Julia bit her lip; it was a terribly young age to be sent so far from home.
"Yes," her mama replied with a frown, "Just a week after his mother died, Lord Montague was packed up and sent off to board. It was said that the duke was so stricken by grief that he could not even bear to look at the child. Now, see what Staffordshire's indulgent grief has sown; an unloved son gone to seed."
"I hardly think Lord Montague has gone to seed, Mama ," Julia objected; the marquess might enjoy drinking and gambling, but what gentleman of the ton could claim any different?
"And I hardly think he is worthy of further discussion," Lady Cavendish countered, steering Julia away from the windows, "Now, come and help me pick the trimmings for my bonnet."
Julia duly complied, though her mind could not concentrate on what ribbon best suited her mama, for it kept wandering away to Lord Montague. She could not help but picture him as a child, bereaved of his mother and sent away from home with no one to offer comfort. Was it any wonder that he had offered his heart to her so readily, when it had been without a home for so long?
"So, we agree on the blue?" Lady Cavendish's voice interrupted Julia's thoughts.
"Mmm," Julia agreed absently, though she hastily snapped back to attention as she realised that her mother was scrutinising her with shrewd eyes.
"La! You are miles away, dear," her mama said, though she was smiling as she spoke, "From your distracted state, am I to assume that your father has let you in on our little secret?"
"No, he did not. What secret?"
"Hush, I know he cannot keep anything to himself," Lady Cavendish sighed, despite Julia's protests of innocence actually being true, "Though I was rather hoping that it would be a surprise when Lord Pariseau arrived tomorrow—I wanted to see the expression on your face when he arrived through the door."
Julia, who could well picture her expression had she not been forewarned of the earl's arrival, gave a strangled sound, which she quickly converted into a cough.
"Shall I have Maria fetch you a nostrum?" Lady Cavendish asked with concern.
"No," Julia replied, as she calm
ed herself, "My breath simply caught in my throat with the...excitement of it, that is all."
Lady Cavendish appeared satisfied with her answer; happy to believe that Julia was choking with happiness, rather than fear. Though, that her mother thought her choking was appropriate, as long as the end result was a husband, left Julia feeling rather dull.
"Everything is coming together," Lady Cavendish said happily, "Just you wait and see, by the end of the season you will be a married woman, with a home of your own, and I shall be the happiest woman alive."
"Yes, Mama," Julia agreed obediently, thinking that should her mother's wishes come to fruition, she would then be the unhappiest woman alive. The only small ray of light, breaking through the dark clouds of Julia's future, was the thought of Lord Montague.
The practical side of Julia told her to push all thoughts of Montague from her mind, but stubbornly she resisted.
What harm was there to dream, she thought; especially when Lord Montague was the stuff that dreams were made of.
Chapter Four
Robert's morning ablutions took every bit as long as those of Beau Brummel, though unlike the famed dandy, Robert did not have a cohort of hangers-on watch him dress.
No, the reason for Robert's lengthy morning rituals, was that his valet, Balthazar, read the papers to him while he bathed. Balthazar likely thought it a grand affectation on Robert's part, or that the marquess thought himself too top-lofty to read himself, but the truth was rather different.
Printed word was something of a mystery to Robert. Letters seemed to jump around upon the page, running into each other, or disappearing altogether. He could read the same word a dozen times, yet each time it would appear as new to him.
In Eton, he had been beaten mercilessly by the schoolmasters for his stupidity, then beaten again by his father when he returned home with letters denouncing him as a dunce.
But Robert knew he was not a simpleton.
If he concentrated and gave himself time, he could eventually wade his way through a text, but during his schooldays time had not exactly been in surplus—so after a spell, Robert had learned to improvise. Or bribe, if one was being a pedant.
He cajoled other classmates to write his essays, affected a squint to excuse his poor reading, and learned quite quickly that if one was charming, one could talk oneself out of almost anything. And should anyone question him, or think that they might tease him, Montague had the greatest remedy—two friends who would defend him to the end.
At Oxford, the tuft-hunters had gladly obliged Montague by writing out the essays he dictated to them, and given his rank, his tutors had been at pains to accommodate him, often reading aloud works at his request. In university, Robert had discovered a love for poetry, literature, and plays, and he would have gladly read every book in the Bodleian had he been able. As his final exam had loomed, Robert had been filled with anxiety that he would finally be found out for the oddity he was. Thankfully, however, having tried to assuage his anxiety with mead, he had broken his wrist by vaulting a billiards table, meaning a transcriber had been required, and Robert had achieved a first.
Though he had affected disinterest, his result had been a secret triumph; he had overcome the adversity of his eyes—for he was certain what he suffered was some ocular affliction—and had finally proved himself as capable as his peers.
Not that his father had thought much of his achievement.
"A first?" Staffordshire had grunted, when Robert had ridden down to Kent to share the news, "Are you expecting a pat on the head for that, dear boy? Any man with money might buy himself an education —I'm certain they awarded you that in expectation that you might bestow on them some of your funds, once you come into the title. Ah-you are still a fool if you believe you actually earned that."
Staffordshire had descended into raucous laughter, whilst Robert had felt himself deflate before him.
"You think yourself an intellect," the duke had continued, snorting a little with laughter, "But no intelligent man would send missives like yours—with a 'b' for a 'p' and a 'd' for a 'q'. You are a fool Robert; that you always have been, and that you always shall be."
"If you say it," Robert had shrugged, "So be it. I shall show myself out, Father ."
And so, Robert had set forth for London, with his father's paternal words ringing in his ears. He had spent the best part of a decade seeking to prove Staffordshire right; he had relished in cultivating the persona of the Marquess of Thornbrook, rakehell extraordinaire, until he realised, too late, how difficult it was to shrug off the yoke he had created.
"This columnist has it on good authority, that a certain Lord P and a certain Lady J, are expected to make a spectacular union."
Balthazar's voice broke through Rob's reminiscing, his words startling Rob so much that he dropped his bar of Pear's Transparent Soap into the tub.
Balthazar tried not to wince as he watched Robert fish about for the expensive bar—soap was considered a luxury item and was heavily taxed—before he continued on at Rob's impatient bidding.
"In fact," Balthazar read, as Robert feigned interest in lathering his toes, "This columnist has it on good authority that Lord P is expected to call on the lucky lady this very day."
"Who on earth is Lord P?" Robert grumbled, as he wracked his brains to try and think which peer the paper was alluding to. He knew very well that "Lady J" referred to Julia, but for the life of him he could not think of who hid behind the moniker of Lord P.
"Let's see," Balthazar said, as he carefully folded the paper—which would be passed around the servants by descending rank—and put it safely aside, "There is Lord Postlewaithe, Lord Powers, Lord Pennelegion—no, he is Orsino now—Lord Pomfrey, Lord Pairiseau—"
"Pariseau."
Rob hissed, as Balthazar began to pour a jug of warm water over his head, to rinse away the suds, as an image of the earl he had seen conversing with Julia danced in his mind. "It is he; I know it. A blackguard of the highest order!"
"I did not know you were acquainted with the earl," Balthazar frowned.
"I am not," Robert admitted, as he rose to a stand, slopping bathwater all over the tiled floor, "He was a few years ahead of me at Eton—but he is a blackguard, I know it."
"As you wish," Balthazar murmured, as he discreetly covered Rob's nakedness with a warm towel.
The valet then set about shaving Rob, cutting his hair, and finally dressing him in a white shirt, worn under a waistcoat of burgundy silk.
"You are done," Balthazar pronounced, once he had finished tying Robert's cravat, "And your father is expecting you in his library at noon."
"What?" Robert cast his gentleman's gentleman an aggrieved glance, "Why did you not tell me before?"
"Because then you would have then dawdled 'till dinnertime," the valet was the very opposite of contrite, "And if insulted, His Grace might finally followed through on his threat to disown you, and then I would be out of a job."
"Turncoat," Robert muttered, though he had some respect for the valet's sense of self-preservation.
"My lord, I am not cut out for a life of poverty," Balthazar shrugged, "And if I am not cut out for it, then you are surely even less so. Do you know how much a bar of that soap you have left to turn to mush in the bath costs?"
"No," Robert admitted.
"Then take my advice," the valet huffed, "And make haste to meet your father."
Robert made a great show of grumbling and rolling his eyes, but he did not dawdle. Balthazar was right, in that Staffordshire would find great insult in his son being late for an audience with him. And when insulted, the duke was liable to throw insults of his own about.
Robert briefly visited the breakfast room for a cup of coffee and to gather his wits together, before making for the library, where he found his father pouring over ledgers.
"Good morning, father," Robert said evenly, "I was not aware you were coming to town."
Staffordshire did not reply, his eyes keenly focused on the accoun
ts and ledgers Robert kept for the estates. While Staffordshire retained control of the accounts of the main ducal seat, he had handed over the reins of the other estates to Robert—some twenty thousand acres, one thousand tenants, and forty dependents.
"You are handling things well," the duke grumbled, having finished combing Robert's work for any mistakes, "You must have hired a good man of business."
"The best," Rob ignored the veiled implication that someone else might be responsible for his good work and sauntered into the library.
Two leather Chesterfields faced each other by the fireplace and anyone else would have bid him sit, but not his father. No, Staffordshire remained seated at his desk—which had been Robert's desk, yesterday—and Rob decided that if he must remain standing, he would do so by the window.
"I read that you attended Almack's," Staffordshire grumbled, as he began to close the ledger books and tidy away the papers, "You can't imagine my surprise."
"I fail to understand how you are surprised," Rob rolled his eyes discreetly, "When you wrote a letter threatening me with disembowelment, disfigurement, and disownment, if I did not put some effort into finding a wife. Thank you for the list of potential candidates you also enclosed, Father, it was very helpful."
"Was it?" Staffordshire was cheered.
"Indeed."
The list had served as a very thorough guide for which ladies Robert needed to avoid like the plague, though there was no need for his father to know that. Rob's mind wandered elsewhere, as the duke began to prattle on about which families' young chit had made their debut this season and how suitable they might be for the title of Duchess of Staffordshire.
Rob resisted yawning, and instead he focused his attention on Cavendish House across the square. A carriage was parked nearby, but it was not so grand—and its driver not so young or well-outfitted—that it might belong to the earl.
Robert was so focused on Cavendish House, that he failed to realise his father had noted his distraction.
"Spying on thine enemies, eh?" Staffordshire boomed, having come to a stand beside him.
The Rake and Lady Julia (Wilful Wallflowers Book 3) Page 5