He couldn't concentrate. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that Juliana had been hiding Amanda's engagement from him for all the time since they'd met. He'd thought he knew her.
But then again, he'd thought he knew himself, too. And when it came right down to it, his disappointment in himself was much harder to swallow.
True, Juliana had done wrong. But she was a meddler, and he'd known that all along. Sometimes her scheming worked—with his aunts, for example—and sometimes it didn't.
Everyone made mistakes, and as bad as her actions had been, his own had been no better. He was hardly in a position to judge. They'd both been playing games. His games had hurt Amanda, and Juliana's games had nearly saddled him with an unwanted wife.
But he loved her nonetheless. He loved every scheming, meddling inch of her. Should he be fortunate enough to marry her, he would gladly put up with her antics for the rest of his life.
And he, for one, was finished playing games.
Decision made, he pushed back from the desk, summoned his valet, and went to his newly renovated bedroom to change. The red-and-yellow-striped bedroom he hoped to share with Juliana.
It was time to buy her roses.
ONLY THE CREAM of society held "breakfasts" in the afternoon.
Beneath a tent in Lady Hartley's garden, the breakfast was well underway when James arrived just before three o'clock. As he scanned the several hundred guests seated at round tables, searching for Juliana, Lord Occlestone rose from one nearby.
"You owe some lady an apology, Stafford?"
James glanced down to the flowers he held, a dozen red roses. "Something like that." In his carriage between the florist's shop and Lady Hartley's, he'd unwrapped and nervously dethorned them. Now, rewrapped in the crumpled paper, they didn't look like much.
"I missed you in Parliament all this week. Or rather, I didn't miss you."
"I was there Thursday," James said mildly, still searching the crowd. He had more important things to do than bicker with Occlestone.
"Oh, yes, you were there Thursday. How could I have forgotten your arguments regarding your ridiculous notion that we should return the Elgin Marbles to Greece rather than purchase them for the British Museum?"
"It's a matter of morality," James snapped. "We have no right—"
"Where the devil is my daughter?" another gentleman cut in.
Grateful for the interruption, James turned to him, then blinked at his stern demeanor. "And your daughter is…?"
"Lady Amanda Wolverston," Occlestone answered for him, clapping the man on the shoulder. "Good to see you at long last, Wolverston. What has it been, two years? Three? We Tories have sorely missed your voice of reason."
While Lady Amanda's father muttered something about excavating antiquities on his property, James looked him over. He was rather short, with fair hair and beady, pale blue eyes. His mouth was compressed and turned downward, and deep lines on either side gave the distinct impression such a frown was his habitual expression.
He didn't look the least bit pleasant. Poor Lady Amanda. The thought of Wolverston as a father-in-law would make any man think twice before proposing to the unfortunate girl.
A flash of yellow caught James's eye. Juliana, leaving the tent. "Excuse me," he said quickly and moved to follow her.
He reached the garden just in time to see her enter the house. Wondering what could possibly compel to her to go into a house during a garden party, he crossed the threshold just in time to see her reach the other end of what seemed an impossibly long corridor. From there, best he could tell, she turned and stole into a room.
He hurried after her, composing apologies in his head, desperate words spilling from his brain in a rhythm that matched the cadence of his rushing feet.
Juliana, I shouldn't have judged—
Juliana, please listen—
Juliana, I love you—
Reaching the end of the corridor, he opened what he hoped was the right door and stepped into a library. As he quietly shut the door behind him, his mouth fell open.
It had been the right door. Between two deep red velvet curtains, Juliana stood facing a window, a dark silhouette against the light. Her dress was unbuttoned all down her back, and the bodice had slipped down her arms, revealing a slim column of tempting skin.
"Juliana," he gasped softly.
She turned and stepped forward, her hair glinting the palest blond.
It wasn't Juliana.
"Lord Stafford!" Lady Amanda's cheeks flushed bright red. She swiftly jerked her dress up to cover herself, but not before he glimpsed an oddly shaped birthmark on her left breast. "What are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?" Had he entered the wrong room? What had happened to Juliana? "Fix your clothes, will you?"
"I—I cannot!"
She was clutching her bodice for dear life, unwilling to let go in order to button her dress. Vaguely wondering how she'd managed to unbutton it in the first place, James stalked across the room to fasten it for her.
The door opened and closed again. "What are you doing here?" the Duke of Castleton asked in an exceedingly stuffy manner.
The ass. "Buttoning the lady's dress," James spat, stating the obvious. "What are you doing here?" The paper-wrapped roses tucked under one arm, his fingers awkwardly worked up Lady Amanda's spine as quickly as possible.
But not quickly enough. Before he was anywhere near finishing—before Castleton could even open his mouth to answer James's question—the door flew open once more, and a flood of people poured in.
Led by Lord Occlestone.
"How dare you preach morality to the House of Lords, Stafford."
James's fingers fell from Lady Amanda's buttons, and the roses fell, too. He scooped them up. "This isn't what it looks like."
Occlestone's squarish nose went into the air. He'd never looked more like a pig. "I doubt the lady's father will agree."
"My father is here?" Lady Amanda squealed.
"Lord Wolverston is looking for you. I shall fetch him forthwith."
"Please don't," she said quickly, but he was already gone.
The onlookers turned as one to watch him, then broke out in excited whispers.
"Gracious me," Lady Amanda breathed, slowly turning to face James. "What an unpleasant man."
The woman was a master of understatement. Unpleasant, indeed. James hadn't missed the smirk on the man's face. Occlestone was enjoying this tiny bit of revenge.
And unfortunately, the revenge could turn out to be far more than tiny.
Lady Amanda's gaze darted about the whispering crowd. "What are we going to do?" she asked in a low, panicked tone.
"Nothing. There is nothing we can do." His instincts said to run. But escape was impossible. Alerted by Occlestone, Lady Hartley's guests were arriving in droves, filling the doorway, cramming the room. He could only be grateful his mother and aunts weren't among them. So far, anyway. Perhaps they'd all come down with the sniffles and gone home.
A long velvet curtain swished behind him, and he turned, shocked to see Juliana step from behind it. "What the devil is going on here?" he asked.
Her gaze swept the fascinated bystanders, then settled on him as though they were the only ones there. "I'm so sorry." She did look sorry, not that that did any good. "We'd planned for Lady Amanda to be discovered with the duke."
James swung to Castleton in disbelief. "You were party to this? You willingly—"
"Yes," Castleton interrupted stiffly, but before he could explain anything, more people streamed into the room—Cornelia and her sisters among them, damnation—as Lord Wolverston arrived with a roar.
"Stafford, you will pay for this!"
James's stomach sank. He'd never been formally introduced to Amanda's father—in fact, he'd never even laid eyes on the man until a few minutes earlier. But he wasn't surprised to find that Wolverston knew his name. Occlestone would have supplied him with all the lurid details as the two of them made their
way from the tent to the library.
He should have run.
Although he was no taller than his offspring, Lord Wolverston was commanding in his fury. "You will wed my daughter in place of Lord Malmsey. Next Saturday, as planned."
A buzz filled the room. Gasps of surprise and astonished whispers. It seemed Lady Amanda's betrothal had been a well-kept secret.
"No!" she cried. "This is all a mistake!"
Her father turned to her, his jaw clenched. "A serious mistake indeed, young lady." He swung back to James. "I'll expect you at Wolverston House at noon with a special license."
James's gaze flicked to his horrified mother before he nodded. There was nothing else he could do. Having been witnessed buttoning Lady Amanda's dress at an event attended by half of the ton, he had no choice but to comply or lose all honor.
"What if Baron Malmsey still wants her?" someone shouted over the babble. "Will you deprive him of his betrothed bride?"
"I would never go back on my word." Lord Wolverston craned his neck, searching the crowd. "Malmsey!" he bellowed. "Do you still wish to wed my disgraced daughter?"
Someone pushed Lord Malmsey forward. "I—I—" he sputtered. A meek man to begin with, he seemed to have shrunk into himself. "I—"
"The baron doesn't want her," Wolverston said.
Well, of course he didn't. He wanted Lady Frances.
"She must wed the earl," Wolverston concluded, suddenly sounding less discontented. In fact, if the man were possessed of a more pleasant demeanor, James suspected he'd have looked positively delighted.
"Please, Father!" Lady Amanda begged. "This isn't fair! Father, you must listen! You must reconsider—"
"There will be no reconsidering." Lord Wolverston grabbed her by the arm, making her wince. "We're leaving."
"Please, Father!" she wailed as he dragged her through the crush. "Pleeeease!"
It was a wail James feared he would hear the rest of his life.
Literally.
FORTY-TWO
AS LADY Hartley's guests followed the Wolverstons from the room like rats mesmerized by a piper—except in this case they were riveted by Amanda's dramatic pleadings—Juliana watched Lady Stafford push through them in the other direction.
"James!" she cried, throwing her arms around him.
He held her for a few seconds, but then extricated himself. "Please go, Mother. Take Aunt Aurelia and Aunt Bedelia back to the tent. I'll talk to you in a few minutes."
She looked to her sisters, who were standing there with their mouths open, and back to him. "But, James—"
"Go. Please. I need to talk to Lady Juliana."
As they departed, leaving the two of them alone, he turned to her.
She felt like she hadn't breathed in the last five minutes.
And like she might never breathe again.
She thought she should cry, but she felt numb. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what she could say. All the words seemed to have been sucked right out of her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. It was all she could manage.
James only nodded.
She'd never seen him look so pale, so lifeless. Not even when he'd been deathly afraid of Emily's snake. The very sight of him in that state made anger rise in her, which finally loosened her tongue.
"Lord Occlestone should be shot."
"I may not like the man," he said wearily, "but others followed us in here as well. Lady Amanda's father would have found out one way or another. Occlestone isn't to blame for this."
"I know. I'm to blame. But I'll fix it."
She had to fix it.
James's lips quirked to form something that might have been a sad smile. "You cannot fix everything, Juliana. But the fact that you never stop trying…well…it's one of the many things that made me fall in love with you."
There was no way she could live with herself if he had to marry Amanda. "I can fix this, and I will," she reiterated. "I have to." And then she froze. "One of the many things that made you…what?" She held her breath again, but for an entirely different reason, and then her gaze dropped to his hand. And her breath went out in a rush. "You brought roses."
He glanced down, as though he'd forgotten he was holding them. "They're a bit worse for the wear."
They did look a tad bedraggled. "But they're red roses."
"There aren't many of them. I couldn't easily carry more than a dozen. Not two dozen like we ordered for Lady Amanda, and compared to what Lord Malmsey sent to your aunt—"
"They're red roses." He wasn't handing them to her. "Are they for me?"
Abruptly, he held them out. "Who else could they possibly be for? For what other woman in all of London—nay, in all of the world—would I buy and dethorn red roses? Bloody hell, I must've nicked myself twenty times."
"You said you would never fall in love again." She grabbed the flowers and held them tight to her chest, the paper crinkling, their sweet scent wafting to her nose. "Oh, James, I love you, too."
He held out his arms, and she bolted into them, and he held her close, the bouquet crushed between them. And then the tears that wouldn't fall finally did, because really, it was just too much.
And too late.
He'd brought her red roses. She'd been hoping he loved her, but now that she knew he did, her meddling had ruined everything.
She was going to fix it, but for now she couldn't stop weeping. Couldn't stop sobbing. Couldn't stop.
"Hush," he murmured while her tears wet his waistcoat. And, "hush," while they soaked through to his shirt. And finally, "Do you know what I hate even more than snakes?"
She shook her head, rubbing her nose in the damp warmth.
He put a finger under her chin and lifted it, until her eyes were forced to meet his. "A woman's tears," he said. "I swear to God, sweetheart, they make me feel more helpless than anything."
"I'm sorry," she said, and she was. Sorry for crying, and sorry that made him uncomfortable. But mostly sorry James loved her and she loved him and everything was such a mess.
"Hush," he said one last time, and then he lowered his head and kissed her, a little soft kiss. And another one. And yet another, but it wasn't soft, it was devouring instead.
Juliana stopped crying, because she didn't want to upset James anymore. Or maybe it was because his kisses were such a distraction. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and leaned into him, and threaded her fingers into the dark curls that spilled over his collar. Everything was wrong, but this—this one thing—was heartbreakingly right.
She was in love.
She couldn't remember ever being so happy and so sad all at once.
"I'll fix this," she said when he finally allowed her to draw breath. "We have five days before Saturday."
He smoothed her hair back from her face, her dratted, slippery hair. "Five short days."
"Five and a half," she whispered, inhaling his scent, starch and soap mixed with roses. She wanted to hold that scent inside her. She hugged him tighter, wishing she didn't have to let go.
But she did have to. At least for now.
"Five and a half," she repeated.
It would have to be enough.
FORTY-THREE
THE NEXT DAY, Juliana paced around the drawing room while she waited for her guests to arrive for her one o'clock sewing party.
"I cannot concentrate." Seated at her easel, Corinna dabbed a bit of gray on the underside of a cloud. "I know you're going to make me sew all afternoon, so for now, will you please sit down?"
Juliana sat and stabbed her needle in and out of a little white nightshirt. For about a minute. Then she rose and began moving again, the nightshirt dangling from her clenched fingers. "There must be some way to fix this. It's disastrous for everyone involved."
"Aunt Frances doesn't think it's a disaster," Corinna pointed out.
That much was true. Although Frances had been shocked to learn Lord Malmsey was engaged, he'd managed to talk his way back into her good graces before J
uliana even had a chance to help. In fact, last evening she'd returned to the tent in Lady Hartley's garden to find him proposing on bended knee—a proposal Aunt Frances had joyfully accepted.
But the fact that the two of them were thrilled hardly mitigated the disaster that had come of all her plotting.
She and James were devastated. The duke was devastated. No doubt Amanda was devastated, too, although Juliana hadn't seen her since last night. Lord Wolverston had taken his daughter straight home—proclaiming loudly, according to several eyewitnesses, that she wouldn't be seen again in public before she was a wife. Juliana had received an apologetic note from Amanda this morning, explaining that she wouldn't be able to attend any more of her sewing parties and her Aunt Mabel wouldn't be there, either.
Apparently, Lord Wolverston, having been less than impressed with his sister's chaperoning proficiency—or rather, her lack thereof—had given her such a lecture that she'd gone straight to bed with the asthma and expected to remain there for the week.
Out in the foyer, the knocker banged on the door. A few moments later, Adamson came into the drawing room with two letters for Juliana.
"Thank you," she said, breaking the seal on the first one and scanning the short message. "Drat!"
"What is it?" Corinna asked.
"Rachael cannot come today. She has a cold." She opened the second letter, her eyes widening as she read the words. "Double drat!"
"What now?"
"James's aunts are ill, too. And his mother. How in heaven's name am I going to make twenty-five items of baby clothes today with only you and Alexandra, Claire and Elizabeth, and Aunt Frances?"
Working feverishly in every free moment, Juliana had managed to complete seven garments on her own between her last sewing party and today, but she still needed to collect seventy-six pieces of baby clothes during just three more parties. That was more than twenty-five per party, and today she would have six fewer women contributing.
"In the scheme of things," Corinna said, "I should think those baby clothes are the least of your troubles."
"You're right." Ordering herself to stay composed and keep things in perspective, Juliana plopped down on the sofa and resumed sewing. Her gaze went to the bedraggled red roses sitting in a vase on the mantel. They looked nearly as droopy as she felt. "James's forced betrothal to Amanda is much more distressing."
Tempting Juliana (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 2) Page 27
