“I can, and I will.” He looked to Castleton. “When next I see you at White’s—this evening or another time—we shall pretend this interview never occurred,” he said and turned to leave.
“No, we shall not.” Castleton strode around the table and stood blocking the man’s way to the door. “I wish to wed your daughter, and she wishes to wed me. If you’ve a valid reason to object, I want to hear it.”
Wolverston hesitated a moment while his expression shifted to something resembling stone. “You don’t want to hear it,” he finally said mildly.
“I demand to hear it,” the duke insisted through gritted teeth.
James had to give Castleton credit. In contrast to Wolverston’s expressionless expression, the ass had never looked less reserved in his life. In fact, he looked formidable—and rather like he was preparing to strangle the older man.
Until he heard the next words from Wolverston’s mouth.
“Very well, then.” Calm, emotionless words. “I once had a liaison with your mother. Thirty-three years ago, to be precise. I fear you may be my son.”
Juliana’s basket dropped from her hand to the floor while the man pushed past Castleton as though the duke were about as substantial as a piece of paper.
“I expect you’ll find that to be a valid reason for me to object to your marrying my daughter,” Wolverston added as he went out the door.
For the next few moments, silence reigned.
“He didn’t eat my wafers,” Juliana finally whispered. “They were supposed to make him reasonable.”
“They wouldn’t have made a difference.” James wrapped an arm around her shoulders—an arm that felt heavy as lead.
He glanced from her stunned face to the others. Castleton no longer looked formidable; instead, he looked as though he might crumple like that piece of paper. Lady Amanda had crumpled. In the shocked silence that had followed her father’s confession, she’d folded back onto her chair and lowered her head to her lap.
“Gracious me,” she breathed now, the words muffled in her skirts. “I cannot marry my brother.”
“He said I might be his son,” Castleton pointed out. But his voice sounded defeated.
“You and Amanda’s father are both blond and blue-eyed,” Juliana observed wanly.
There was no need for her to point out that Lady Amanda had blue-gray eyes and blond hair as well. Or that everyone had always known his natural father hadn’t been the Duke of Castleton. The expression on his face made it clear he was all too aware of those facts.
He shifted uneasily. “Hair and eye color are hardly proof of paternity,” he mumbled, sounding less sure of himself by the moment.
But it was more than coloring. Now that the possibility had been raised, James realized Castleton looked much more like Wolverston than the man’s daughter did. It was something in the line of the jaw, something in the tilt of the head, something in the length of the nose. Something about the stiff carriage and the lack of stature.
Something twisted in James’s gut.
“The thought of you two marrying now…” Swallowing hard, Juliana put a hand to her middle. “It makes me feel slightly ill.”
“It makes me feel very ill,” Lady Amanda muttered into her lap. She slowly lifted her head, looking very ill indeed. Avoiding Castleton’s eyes, she gazed unfocused at James. “We shall have to marry—”
“There’s still Lord Malmsey,” Juliana cut in.
She was grasping at straws, and broken ones at that. His gut now sinking as well as twisted, James moved to face her and took both her hands. “Lady Amanda can no longer wed Lord Malmsey, my love. She’s been publicly disgraced. Under the circumstances, Lord Malmsey is perfectly within his rights to terminate the engagement, and furthermore, he wishes to wed Lady Frances. You wouldn’t want to see him ripped from your aunt’s side, would you?”
She shook her head, tears glazing her suddenly green eyes. “No,” she whispered.
He gathered her close, knowing it would be for the last time. Much as he hated tears, he wanted to cry with her. He would cry with her if he could.
But he felt dead inside. Sinking and twisted and dead.
There was no way out. He had to marry Lady Amanda.
He had to marry Lady Amanda.
He had to marry Lady Amanda.
No matter how many times he repeated the fact to himself, it seemed impossible to believe.
Impossible to accept.
But he had to.
Slowly he released Juliana, thinking it was the hardest thing he’d ever done…
…but not as hard as it would be to say “I will” to someone else.
“I’m going home,” he said. “I’ll be back Saturday at noon.”
Chapter Fifty-One
CHOCOLATE CREAM
Take a Quart of Cream, a Pint of white Wine, and a little Juice of Lemon; sweeten it very well, lay in a sprig of Rosemary, grate some Chocolate, and mix all together; stir them over the Fire till it is thick, and pour it into your cups.
Chill your cups in ice before serving. A delicious cure for melancholy.
—Belinda, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1792
“WHY ARE YOU so sad, Lady Juliana?”
“I’m not sad, Emily.” Sad was much too mild a word to describe how Juliana felt the next day. “You’re doing very well. Keep mixing.”
The little girl looked up from the cast-iron stove in the Chase family’s basement kitchen. “You look sad.” Stirring with one hand, she stroked the snake draped over her shoulders with the other. “Herman, don’t you think Lady Juliana looks sad?”
Juliana half expected the reptile to answer, considering nothing else in her life was going as expected. A talking snake would be less of a surprise than Lord Wolverston’s revelation last night.
And James’s reaction to it.
He’d left. He’d held her for a moment, but then he’d left. He’d apparently come to the conclusion that he had to marry Amanda, and accepted it, and just…left.
By all appearances, he had no intention of discussing this tragedy. He’d said he’d be back on Saturday. He’d made up his mind, and he wasn’t planning to see her again until he was a married man.
If then.
She sighed and began grating chocolate into the triple batch of cream and sugar that Emily was stirring in the pot. “I haven’t seen you in quite a few days, Emily.”
“A new family moved in across the square. Lord and Lady Lambourne. And they have three children. Three girl children.”
Another surprise. Juliana usually knew everything that went on in Mayfair. Evidently she’d been a tad preoccupied of late. “What are the girls’ names, then?”
“Jane, Susan, and Kate. Susan is just my age.”
“That must be lovely for you.” She kept grating. “And what do the Lambourne girls think of Herman?”
“Oh, they find him bang up to the mark,” Emily said enthusiastically.
Usually Juliana would have smiled at the girl’s use of the newest slang. But she was too dejected. Not to mention this news didn’t bode well for the success of her project to rid Emily of the horrid creature.
Emily stirred faster. “You’re putting an awful lot of chocolate in, aren’t you?”
“One can never have too much chocolate,” Juliana said.
So what if she’d added twice as much as usual? She needed chocolate. Her mother had always said it was supposed to cure melancholy, and she’d never been more melancholy in her life.
How was she supposed to go on when the man she loved was marrying another woman? When four people’s lives had been ruined? When it was all her fault?
Emily had stopped stirring. “You’re crying,” she said. “You are sad.”
“I guess I am.” Setting down the chocolate and the grater, she forced a smile. “I think we’re finished here.”
“What’s wrong, Lady Juliana?”
What wasn’t wrong? She couldn’t marry the man she loved. She’d doomed him to
a dreadful future with a woman reserved beyond belief, a future full of chess and antiquities and very little else. She was exhausted and overwhelmed—she hadn’t slept last night at all—and somehow, some way—God only knew how, and apparently He wasn’t telling—she had to produce sixty-two items of baby clothes in the next four days even though she’d made less than three times that many in the last month and a half.
“What’s wrong?” She could barely push the words through her tight throat. “Everything, it seems.”
“Is it about Lord Stafford?”
She blinked. “What makes you think that?”
The girl rolled her big gray eyes. “It’s obvious you like him. I’ve known that for ages. And he likes you.”
How ironic that the truth had been obvious to an eight-year-old but not to herself. Then again, Emily always had been rather precocious for a girl her tender age. “Well, he doesn’t seem to want to see me right now.”
“Then you must go see him. You have to talk to him. You cannot just stand here and mope. You have to do something, Lady Juliana.”
Dear heavens, Emily was right. Juliana had never before just stood by and let things happen without trying to influence the outcome, and she couldn’t imagine what had made her do so now. Melancholy, she supposed. But she couldn’t allow melancholy to rule her.
Thank goodness she was making chocolate cream.
“Oh, you dear, dear child.” She dashed the tears off her cheeks and wrapped Emily in a hug. “I’m supposed to be helping you, but you’re helping me instead.”
“Are you going to go see Lord Stafford now?”
“Not right now. I sent notes asking all the ladies to come sew today even though I’ve never held any parties on a Tuesday before. They’ll be here in less than an hour, and I cannot get to the Institute and back in that short time.” Dear heavens, James would be at Parliament by the time her sewing session was finished. “I shall have to go see him tomorrow. You’ll stay for the sewing party, won’t you?”
“Is there any more cutting to be done?”
“No. The cutting is all finished.”
“Then I’m going to play with Jane, Susan, and Kate.” When Juliana opened her mouth to protest, Emily held up one of her small hands—the one that wasn’t stroking her snake. “You don’t really want me to sew, do you? I’m sure to end up bleeding.”
No, Juliana didn’t want Emily to bleed. The mere thought of that made her feel sick. And the last thing she needed now was to spew a stomachful of chocolate over a stack of her hard-won baby clothes.
“Go ahead and play with the Lambourne girls. You have my blessing.”
“Can I eat some chocolate cream before I leave?”
“I need to put it on ice first to make it cold. I’ll bring you some tomorrow.”
Emily helped her transfer the sweet pudding into three dozen cups before she departed to visit her friends across the square. After that, Juliana had just enough time to steal upstairs to her bedroom and wash her blotchy face before her guests arrived. She brushed on a little powder and went down to seat herself in the drawing room. As she picked up her sewing and Corinna kept painting without comment, she congratulated herself on how calm and composed she must seem.
Rachael was still ill, and now Claire and Elizabeth were, too. As were Lady Stafford and Lady Balmforth. Lady Avonleigh was feeling better, though, and she arrived first.
“Oh, my dear,” she cried, “I’m so sorry.” And she rushed across the room to enfold Juliana in her arms.
Juliana rose from the sofa and let herself be comforted by James’s aunt. Except the embrace wasn’t comforting. The harder Lady Avonleigh hugged her, the harder she had to fight to keep the tears from falling again.
“I wanted you to marry my nephew,” Lady A murmured, tears in her voice, too. “I wanted you to be my niece.”
“I wanted you to be my aunt. I wanted Lady Stafford to be my mother.” It seemed forever since she’d had a mother, and Juliana knew no one warmer or more motherly than Lady Stafford. She shuddered in Lady A’s arms, inhaling camphor and gardenias. “There has to be something we can do.”
“Our James doesn’t believe there’s anything to be done. But if anyone can think of something, it’s you, my dear.” Lady Avonleigh pulled back and wiped the moisture from Juliana’s cheeks with gentle fingers. “You keep thinking, and I will, too.”
“Thank you,” Juliana said wanly.
She was about to say something more, but then Aunt Frances came downstairs, and Alexandra arrived, and Corinna reluctantly abandoned her painting and came over to join them all and sew. And the talk turned to Frances’s pending marriage and Alexandra’s burgeoning belly. Not that Alexandra’s belly was actually protruding yet, but she kept rubbing the dratted thing as though she could feel the baby inside, which made Juliana insanely jealous.
Yes, jealous.
James had been wrong when he’d said she was jealous before—when she’d first learned of Alexandra’s pregnancy—but she was jealous now, because God only knew when she’d have a child of her own…the way things were going, probably never. And now Aunt Frances was talking about having a child. In her mid-forties! While Juliana doubted that would actually happen, she had to admit it was a possibility, since Frances still complained about her monthlies on a regular basis. She wondered if she’d have a child before forty. Probably not. But all the talk around her was happy talk, so she gritted her teeth and forced another smile and kept sewing, because they all had been kind enough to help her make baby clothes, and there was nothing more she wanted than for everyone to be happy.
But the smile wasn’t just forced, it was downright rigid.
She rang for chocolate cream, but eating it didn’t seem to help. The conversation flowed around her. Lady Avonleigh got up and wandered over to Corinna’s easel, admiring her latest painting. “Very impressive, my dear.”
“Thank you,” Corinna said.
Alexandra smiled as she plied her needle. “Did you know Corinna plans to submit a painting to the Royal Academy next year?”
“Several,” Corinna corrected. “I’m hoping one will be accepted for the Summer Exhibition.”
“Really?” Lady A mused. “I did tell you my younger daughter was artistic, yes? Though it seemed unlikely, she always hoped to see one of her paintings in the Summer Exhibition, too. But her real dream was to be elected to the Royal Academy.”
“That’s my dream as well,” Corinna said. “I know it won’t be a simple matter, but I’m willing to work hard for the honor.”
The older woman measured her for a moment, then returned to sit beside her. “I want to help you,” she announced. “My daughter never attained her dream—I want to see you attain yours.”
Aunt Frances knotted and snipped off a thread. “How can you help her?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll think of a way.” Lady A picked up the little cap she was making and smiled at Juliana. “You’re good at coming up with ideas. If you wouldn’t mind helping, maybe together we can see that your sister becomes the next female member of the Academy.”
That would be wonderful for Corinna. And of course Juliana wouldn’t mind helping. She needed another project. It would be a lengthy project—it would likely take years—but keeping busy would make it easier to bear her and James’s despair.
Well, not really. But she’d find a solution for their despair soon. She would talk to James tomorrow.
Damnation—make that dear heavens—she was not going to cry.
Chapter Fifty-Two
THERE WERE different ways of dealing with the blows life randomly chucked at some people. James’s method—perfected during the years he mourned his brother, father, wife, and newborn child—was to bury himself in work.
Since Sunday he’d been operating in a blur—a dark, painful, all too familiar haze. The miasma had lifted momentarily on Monday, when it had seemed Juliana’s plan might succeed. But since learning the truth of Castleton’s birth, the dark had closed i
n again.
James couldn’t say that what he faced now was worse than coping with death. Of course it wasn’t worse. But it didn’t seem better, either. Like loving Juliana compared to loving Anne, it was different.
Death was final. One mourned, one grieved, one eventually moved on. But what he faced now…it wasn’t final—it was forever. It was a life sentence. It seemed so arbitrary, so accidental, so damned unfair.
And so bloody damned inescapable.
And so he’d worked. Because it seemed there was nothing else he could do.
He knew what he couldn’t do. He couldn’t abandon a fine young lady to a life of utter disgrace. He couldn’t condemn himself to a future devoid of all honor. He couldn’t make sense of anything in his irrational, haphazard world.
But he could work.
He could work at the Institute to save the world from smallpox. He could work in Parliament to better his country. He could work on his estate to improve the lives of those who depended on him.
He couldn’t help himself, and he couldn’t help Juliana. But there were other people he could help. Right here, right now, his work was the only thing that seemed to make sense.
One thing James knew—probably the only thing he knew for sure—was how to bury himself in his work to the exclusion of everything else. To the exclusion of everything painful. And so on Tuesday he’d risen at dawn and spent the entire day at the Institute. And the entire evening in Parliament. And then he’d gone back to the Institute and stayed there until the wee hours, finding things to do, until he could go home and fall into bed and get up and start all over again.
Today he’d risen at dawn and returned to the Institute, even though he had two physicians scheduled and wasn’t really needed. There was no Parliament tonight, so he’d stay here until the wee hours, finding things to do, until he could go home and fall into bed and get up and start all over again.
He’d do the same tomorrow and Friday. Saturday would be a little different—there would be an interlude in the middle for his wedding. But then he’d come back here to the Institute and repeat the pattern again.
It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels Page 154
