The difference between Maria and the marchioness, however, was that she looked at Julia without any expectation. Maria did not care a fig if Julia married a prince or a pauper—so long as she was happy, and Maria was not put out of a job.
"He fills out a coat very nicely," Maria said absently, as she began to dress Julia's hair, "There's a lot to be said for a strong pair of shoulders."
"Was it just his shoulders you liked?" Julia teased, though her cheeks were rosy. She had also noted that Lord Montague's shoulder to hip ratio was verging on the divine.
"No," Maria laid down her brush and leaned forward to look Julia in the eye, "It was the way you looked at him."
"How did I look at him?" Julia wondered, momentarily nervous that the previous night had seen her drooling, or cross eyed, in the face of Montague's handsomeness.
"The light of love was in your eyes," Maria answered, with a shrug, "While all the light goes out of you, when you look at Pariseau."
She would explain no further, but Julia did not press—as long as she had not been slobbering like a dog over a bone, little else mattered.
She hummed a little, as she made her way downstairs to the parlour, where her copy of Evelina sat, unread, upon the coffee table.
There was but an hour until the meeting of the wallflowers, an hour in which she might finish a chapter, so she might have something to discuss—
Oh!
Julia spotted that her mother had left the morning newspaper folded open on the gossip pages. Wondering if there was any mention of Lord Montague's rather strange guests at The Theatre Royal, Julia began to read, but there was no mention of the marquess—instead, all the columns detailed the Duke of Penrith's trip to Drury Lane, accompanied by a certain Miss Charlotte Drew.
"Oh, there you are, dear," Lady Cavendish cried, as she bustled into the room. She spotted what Julia was reading and gave a disappointed sigh.
"It's terrible, is it not?" Lady Cavendish groused, "So many pages dedicated to that Miss Drew, and only one line written about you."
"Well, Penrith is a duke, Mama," Julia replied lightly, "We cannot expect to upstage a man who is one step off royalty."
"He's not a royal duke, dear," Lady Cavendish sniffed, with great distaste, "It's unseemly how many pages are dedicated to him and that nabob's daughter. And is your Miss Havisham being courted by Orsino?"
Was she? Julia had spent so much time wrapped up in thoughts of Lord Montague that she had not kept abreast of her friends' love lives. Though in her defence, as a trio, the wallflowers had done their best to eschew love for the past two seasons. In usual circumstances, there would not be anything even vaguely romantic to try keep abreast of.
Lady Cavendish pointed to a smaller column, which detailed that the Duke of Orsino had taken a trip to Haymarket, for the showing of Twelfth Night, accompanied by his sister, Lady Havisham, and Lady Havisham's companion.
Only the most eagle eyed might have made the connection, but when it came to gossip and marriageable dukes, there was no one more tenacious than her mama.
"I cannot believe that your two little friends might make better marriages than you," Lady Cavendish grumbled, "When you are the prettiest of them all."
"Well, there are three Upstarts, Mama," Julia countered, "Perhaps if I marry Lord Montague, you might be happy then."
As a rule, Julia never snapped at her mother, but her capriciousness was grating. Why had she forced Lord Pariseau upon her, if she was only going to grumble that he was not a duke? Why was she subjecting Julia to a marriage she did not want?
What on earth would make her happy?
Julia longed to rage, and the questions were on the tip of her tongue, and she might have shouted, had the butler not knocked to announce the arrival of Thomas.
Her cousin strode into the parlour as though he owned it, which he would one day when he inherited. Lady Cavendish leapt to her feet, all smiles and laughter at the sight of her prodigal nephew.
"Thomas, you have been neglecting us of late," the marchioness scolded, though she spoke with affection rather than ire.
Julia bristled with irritation; it had been ever thus. Thomas was allowed to do as he pleased whilst he marched under the banner of "boys will be boys", whilst Julia had to leap through hoops to please her parents.
"And what has happened to your face?" Lady Cavendish tutted.
Thomas wore a shiner upon his eye, which was turning a mottled purple and lent him a rakish air.
Indeed, Thomas seemed proud as he touched hand to brow, his handsome face creased into a smile.
"A gift from a Montague," he said with a grumble, as he threw himself down upon the chaise longue.
"Lord Montague did this?" Julia gasped, "Were you entangled in a brawl?"
"Not exactly," Thomas cleared his throat, "A bout of fisticuffs at Gentleman Jackson's, and it was not Lord Montague, but his cousin. Still, I delivered a few prime blows myself, and the chap was knocked out cold."
Thomas beamed proudly, as he subtly flexed his muscles beneath the sleeves of his merino-wool coat. He oozed so much male pride, that Julia was worried Maria might slip in it, as she returned with a tray of tea and cakes.
Stifling a sigh, Julia sat down to chat with her cousin, but Thomas was fixated on talking about his bout of fisticuffs with the Honourable Mr. Benjamin Montague.
"All show, with little substance," Thomas continued, unaware that neither Julia nor her mama were in anyway interested in talk of pugilism, "Like every other Montague who has ever walked this earth. If I saw Lord Montague now, I would fell him with a blow so strong that he might be knocked into next week."
Julia bit her lip; Thomas had been absent for so long that she had forgotten how deep his hatred of the Montagues ran. Over his shoulder, she could see Maria frowning with worry. The lady's maid had also nursed Thomas as a boy, and she was particularly fond of him, given that he had lost his mother in childbirth, and his father shortly after.
"Peace, cousin," Julia urged, inflecting her words with a light laugh to hide her discomfort, "No talk of fighting, not when there are French Fancies to be had."
Julia proffered the plate of cakes toward Thomas, who took one with a surly nod of thanks.
"Peace," he grumbled, as he took a bite of his cake, "I hate the word, as I hate all Montagues."
Lud. Julia winced; there really was no tearing him away from his favourite subject.
"Well," Lady Cavendish said brightly, "If you want to discuss how much you hate the Montagues, your Uncle is in his library and he'd only be too happy to join in. Staffordshire is trying to outbid him on some Hogarth painting, and he is fit to burst!"
Maria gave a little moan at this news, which she hastily converted to a cough at Julia's quelling glare.
"And I had best be off," Julia said brightly, "I have a meeting arranged with Charlotte and Violet."
"The wilting wallflowers," Thomas said with a sneer, "Though I hear you are soon to depart from their ranks. Lord Pariseau is a bang up cove; I shall be happy to welcome him into the family."
Julia smiled brightly in reply, trying to quell the anxiety in her breast. She left the room, uttering a hasty goodbye, with Maria hot on her heels.
"Don't say anything," Julia whispered, as the footmen assisted them into the carriage.
Maria nodded in agreement, but as soon as the carriage door was shut, she was off.
"I think you'd best give up on Lord Montague," Maria said with a sigh, as the carriage took off for Jermyn St, "He is a dishcloth in comparison to Pariseau."
"Just this morning you were waxing lyrical about his sturdy shoulders," Julia objected, as anxiety roiled in her stomach. She did not wish to hear her own doubts about Montague voiced by Maria, for it would only confirm them as true.
"Your cousin does not like him, and as well as being a true and honest gentleman, Thomas is your kin," Maria said firmly, "You cannot cast aside your family for the sake of rake who fills out a pair of breeches nicely."
"You said he fil
led out his coat nicely," Julia was mutinous, hurt by Maria's sudden volte-face.
"That too," the lady's maid snipped, "But neither shoulders nor thighs are enough to sacrifice your family for."
Julia was silent; she had allowed herself to be swept away on a dream. The dream of a handsome marquess and a life filled with laughter and fun. But she was practical, sensible, Lady Julia Cavendish, and she should have known better than to dare to dream.
Casting aside her sadness, Julia entered Havisham House, determined to have some fun with her friends. There was much teasing of Charlotte, who did not seem to understand her own infatuation with Penrith—undoubtedly because she could not believe herself in love with a Tory. Then, when it transpired that no one had read Evelina, they took in Violet's latest work of art. Following that, Violet and Julia presumed that they might resume teasing Charlotte, but the flame haired girl took her leave, unable to admit to even herself that she was in love with an Upstart.
Once alone, Julia pressed Violet on her trip to the theatre with her own Upstart, but Violet could not be drawn to speak of him. It was only down to subterfuge on Julia's part that she managed to glean that the duke had spent the evening holding Violet's hand.
"Why on earth did you keep Orsino's courtship a secret?" Julia pressed, but Violet would not say.
"It's not a courtship," Violet bristled, unusually short tempered. "His Grace invited me to the theatre, I attended; end of story. There is no happily ever after in store for the duke and me, Julia—you can take my word on that."
It was not like Violet to snap or lose her temper, and Julia was momentarily taken aback by her outburst. However, when she peered closely at her friend, she saw that her eyes were ringed with dark circles, and some of the light had gone from her eyes.
"What is it, Vi?" Julia asked, leaning forward to place a gloved hand upon Violet's own, "You have been out of sorts for weeks. It is not like you at all to be so jumpy and irritable. Is something troubling you? If there is, I beg you, please tell me."
For a moment, it seemed as though Violet might confide in her, but a knock on the door broke the spell of confidence betwixt them, and Maria poked her head around the door.
"Begging your pardon, m'lady ," Maria called, "But we'd best be away if we are to be on time to meet your mama."
"Lud," Julia uttered an epithet, "I had forgotten about the dress fitting. Mama will have an apoplectic fit if I am late."
"Er, why exactly do you need a special dress made so late into the season?" Violet queried, her face now showing her own suspicion.
"For a masquerade," Julia gave a light laugh, "Have no fear; if I become engaged, I will let you know."
In fact, if Julia became engaged, she was certain Lady Cavendish would find a way to let the whole world know. Perhaps she would pay The Times to print it on their front page? It wasn't beyond the realms of possibility.
"Do you feel an engagement is an imminent possibility?" Violet pressed, her worried eyes searching Julia's face.
Gemini! Now that Julia knew what it felt like to be pressed on a subject she had no wish to discuss, she rather regretted her own inquisition of Violet.
"Lord Pariseau is perfectly affable," Julia shrugged, hoping to end the conversation, but Violet still looked stricken. "And don't you look at me like that, Violet! I am not an artist; I have not a romantic bone in my body. Marriage, to me, is a practical arrangement—one which will ensure my future comfort and happiness. If you and Charlotte had your way, you'd have me married off to Lord Montague so we could all have an Upstart of our own."
"I don't recall anyone mentioning Lord Montague, Julia?" Violet replied, her eyes now dancing with mischief.
La! What a slip of the tongue. Lord Montague had wriggled his way into her brain yet again and was refusing to budge.
"Well, it would be the sort of ridiculous thing the two of you would dream up," Julia blustered, as she picked up her reticule and pristine copy of Evelina . "Good day Violet, thank you for the tea."
With that, Julia swept from the room, attempting to hold her head high, despite her lies.
Chapter Eight
Something was afoot with Penrith and Orsino, Rob thought suspiciously, as he eyed his two friends from across the ballroom.
Earlier, when Robert had queried what plans the two had for the night, they had both informed him that they intended to make an early night of it. Yet, here they both were, dressed to impress in their suit jackets, mingling with the other guests at Lord and Lady Jacob's ball. As the good Lady Jacob appeared to have invited half of London—and half of London had shown up—Rob wondered if the two had yet sighted each other.
He did not think they had, for while both were stalking the periphery of the ballroom, and both appeared to be looking for something, neither seemed to be looking for the other.
From the tense set of both men's jaws, and the intent gleam in their eyes, Rob knew just what it was that they were seeking: a lady.
Dark horses, Robert thought with amusement, as he watched Orsino glower menacingly at a mama who looked as though she were about to engage him in conversation. Well, perhaps just one dark horse.
It had been clear as day since their sojourn at Almack's that Penrith had fallen swollen-head over polished-boot for Miss Charlotte Drew. From the endless ways he had managed to drop her name into conversation, to the vehemence with which he denied that he had done that very thing, it was obvious to even the most removed observer that Penrith had been hit by Cupid's arrow.
And it was tremendous fun for Robert, to watch his stuffy friend become unravelled by a blue-stocking, and a rather spirited one at that. Each and every time that Robert had sighted Miss Drew, she had been laughing, or joking, or doing something not quite within propriety's bounds. No wonder Penrith was so in denial about his feelings—to love a bas-bleu went against his very Tory sensibilities and was no doubt causing him great anguish.
As for Orsino, Rob cast his mind back over the preceding days and recalled that his friend had attempted to weasel from him—in a roundabout way—the way in which one might ingratiate oneself with a lady who was not interested. Robert had thought nothing of it, believing Orsino was finally about to press Lady Olivia, his late brother's betrothed, for her hand in marriage.
But Lady Olivia was on one side of the room, Rob noted, whilst Orsino remained resolutely on the other side.
How peculiar.
His friend's oddities were soon forgotten, when Rob finally caught sight of Lady Julia, wearing a pained look upon her face as she entertained Lord Horace. As Lord Horace had been nicknamed Lord Halitosis in Eton, Robert did not feel too much disquiet in seeing another man attempt to woo the love of his life, yet he pondered just how he might rescue Lady Julia from his clutches.
Lord and Lady Cavendish were stationed nearby, and were Rob to march up and try spirit Julia away, the marquess would call him out.
Though, perhaps that was the solution, Robert thought idly; announce his love for Julia publicly and be done with it. On second thought, however, he decided that he should probably consult Julia before making such a rash move.
Thankfully, the cavalry arrived, in the shape of Miss Charlotte Drew and Miss Violet Havisham. The two ladies extracted Julia from Horace's greasy clutches, with far more finesse than Robert might have managed, and led her away toward the refreshment table.
It was time for Robert to make his move, but before he had taken a step, he was bested by the other Upstarts; Penrith was making his way across the room toward the trio, whilst Orsino had also taken off. In the interim, the lovely Miss Drew appeared to have gotten the buttons of her glove stuck in her mane of red hair, and as Robert pushed his way through the crowds, he watched in amusement as Julia attempted to free her friend. The struggle between button and hair ended in a vicious wrench, which no doubt had left a bald-spot, and once freed, Rob saw Miss Drew attempt to introduce her friends to the two dukes.
But one had disappeared.
As Rob neared
, he heard Charlotte mutter something about Miss Havisham having stepped away, and no sooner had she said it than Orsino was gone again.
Which solved the mystery of just who it was that his friend was chasing.
Robert took a moment to appreciate just how serendipitous it was that the three Upstarts had fallen for three wallflowers, but in that moment, Lady Julia had taken flight, for when he arrived, he found just Penrith and Miss Drew.
"She went that way," Penrith said dryly, pointing Robert in the direction his prey had flown.
Apparently, the Upstarts had not fallen for three wallflowers, Robert though t ruefully, as he chased after Lady Julia, but three hares instead.
He saw a flash of a blonde head, before it disappeared through the French doors, and without thinking of propriety, Rob hurried after.
Outside, he found himself upon a veranda, which was filled with couples taking in the warm spring night. Robert went left, mercifully the only turn he could take, and paced the length of the walkway, wondering if it would be too much for him to call out Julia's name. Was she hiding behind a bush? He peered out into the dark gardens and tried to picture the elegant Lady Julia crouching beneath an ivy's thorns, and decided against it.
Where had she gotten to, he wondered, as he turned on the heel of his dancing slipper. As he made his pirouette, he caught sight of another set of glass doors, slightly ajar as though they had been closed in a hurry.
Ah-ha! This was where she was hiding.
Had Rob more foresight, he might have wondered just why Lady Julia was hiding from him this night, when the previous night she had sought him out. Excitement, however, had dulled his reasoning, and he slipped through the open door, anticipating a romantic union.
"Oh," Julia looked up from the fire, which she had been staring intently at, "It's you."
"Were you expecting someone else?" Rob asked, half in jest, half anxious that perhaps she had arranged an assignation with Lord Horace.
"I wasn't expecting anyone," Lady Julia was cool, "I wished to be alone."
"Alone with me?" Rob ventured, rather hopefully.
The Rake and Lady Julia (Wilful Wallflowers Book 3) Page 10