by Lauren Royal
After hearing of Amanda’s woes, Rachael sighed. But then her smile made Juliana hopeful she was growing a bit cheerier. “Well, you certainly were last night’s Incomparable, Lady Amanda.” Her needle flew in and out of the miniature coat she was making. “Were you enthralled by any particular gentleman?”
“Lord Stafford,” Juliana answered for Amanda. “He’s absolutely perfect.”
“I’m not certain.” Seated on the drawing room sofa between Juliana and Alexandra, Amanda stitched as slowly and clumsily as ever. Juliana doubted she’d ever progress beyond blankets. Perhaps this blanket. “Lord Stafford is handsome,” Amanda admitted.
“He’s gorgeous,” Corinna corrected from where she was painting by the picture window.
“Quite,” Juliana agreed, reaching toward the platter of Shrewsbury cakes. She might not personally prefer James’s dark looks, she thought as she spread raspberry jam on one of the sweets, but she couldn’t argue with her sister’s assessment.
“But I’m not struck by love,” Amanda said, her stitches getting shakier.
Fearing her friend might stab herself and bleed, Juliana pulled the needle from her hand and put the cake into it instead. “It might take a while,” she said gently.
“Not everyone marries for love,” Claire pointed out, her unusual amethyst eyes fixed on her expert handiwork.
Elizabeth reached for a spool of white thread. “Your parents didn’t marry for love, did they, Juliana?”
“No, they didn’t. And that was a big mistake.”
“Don’t listen to Juliana,” Corinna told her cousins. “Her head is full of romantic notions. Our family was perfectly happy.”
“Not Mama. She loved Father desperately, and he never returned her feelings.” As Juliana had grown older and more aware, she’d found Mama’s unrequited love painful to watch.
“Her children made her happy,” Alexandra put in.
“Yes, but that didn’t erase her hurt. All she wanted was for him to notice her, spend time with her, make her part of his life. But he couldn’t be bothered.”
Juliana wouldn’t let that happen to her. Until she found someone she loved madly—someone she knew loved her madly in return—she meant to remain unwed.
“Mama’s life wasn’t that tragic,” Corinna argued. “Besides, Amanda cannot afford to wait to fall deeply in love.”
Juliana shook her head. “Love is always worth waiting for,” she said stubbornly.
“But Amanda’s wedding is quickly approaching,“ Claire said. “Better to take a chance on a suitable young man she might come to love, than to face certain doom on the arm of Lord Malmsey.”
Perhaps they were right. Unfortunately, Amanda didn’t have enough time to get to know Lord Stafford well. Juliana squeezed her friend’s hand. “You might have to find someone you like a lot and marry him, then be struck by love later.”
Amanda swallowed her mouthful of cake before speaking. “Grow into love, you mean?”
“Exactly,” Juliana said. “Lord Stafford isn’t just handsome, he’s also young and well-off.”
“What are you looking for in a husband?” Alexandra asked Amanda. “Besides appearance and status, that is. Looks fade, after all. Shared values and interests are much more important.”
“Very true,” Elizabeth said deferentially.
They all deferred to Alexandra on the topic marriage.
Amanda seemed to consider that question for a minute. “I would like a husband who is interested in Roman antiquities.”
Juliana nearly dropped her jam knife in surprise. “Since when are you interested in Roman antiquities?”
“Since my father found the ruins on our property. It’s a fascinating subject.”
“Hmm,” Juliana said.
She suspected Amanda’s fascination had begun as a hopeless attempt to please her father, but it might have grown into a real interest. One sometimes had to go to extremes, Juliana knew, to amuse oneself in the countryside.
However, she sincerely doubted James shared her friend’s passion for Roman antiquities. How could he have time to pursue a hobby when he couldn’t even find a few minutes to comb his hair?
“What else are you looking for in a husband?” she asked.
Amanda pondered a moment more. “I would like for him to play chess. If I’m to live away from Aunt Mabel, I’d like someone with whom to play chess.”
Juliana doubted James had time for chess, either. So she was surprised when Rachael said, “Lord Stafford definitely plays chess.”
“However do you know that?” she asked.
Having finished sewing the coat, Rachael knotted the thread. “When Griffin came out of the card room last night, I overheard him saying he’d lost thirty guineas to Lord Stafford playing chess.”
“Thirty guineas!” Now Juliana did drop her knife. Surely that sort of money could be better spent elsewhere—donated to the Foundling Hospital, for instance. “I had no idea Griffin gambled such high stakes.”
“He usually doesn’t, I expect,” Rachael said, looking amused. “He seemed a bit foxed, which isn’t usual for him, either. In any case”—she smiled at Amanda—“Lord Stafford does enjoy chess.”
Juliana jumped on that positive attribute. “See, there’s more to him than appearance and wealth…” She trailed off as she noticed a smear of jam on the little frock in her lap. Drat. She pulled our her handkerchief
“He’s also a physician,” Claire reminded her.
“That, too. Which means he’s well-educated and he cares for people.”
“He limps,” Amanda pointed out.
“Only slightly. And does it signify?”
“Indeed, it shouldn’t.” Corinna looked up from her easel. “You make him sound ideal, Juliana. Why don’t you marry him?”
“Don’t be a goose. I have a duke courting me.”
She wetted a corner of her handkerchief and scrubbed at the stain, thinking that only yesterday she’d despaired of ever finding a husband. How quickly her life had turned around! Not only had the duke danced with her twice at Lady Hammersmithe’s ball—raising eyebrows and sparking rumors—but toward the end of the evening he’d very kindly asked if he might pay her a call tomorrow afternoon.
She’d accepted, of course. She wasn’t an idiot.
“By the end of the season,” she said dreamily, “I may be the Duchess of Castleton.”
Amanda’s mouth dropped open. “You’d marry the Duke of Castleton?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“No!” She looked horrified. “He’s a by-blow.”
Juliana quit scrubbing. ”What do you mean?”
“It’s an open secret,” Rachael explained. “The previous duke was away many years ago, looking after his interests on the Continent, when his wife conceived a child here in London. To this day, no one knows who fathered the child. It really doesn’t signify, though, since the last duke arrived home before the current duke was born and acknowledged him as his son.”
“It signifies to me,” Amanda said. “Marriage to a known by-blow would taint my family.”
“It is shocking,“ Juliana mused. “But on the other hand…he’s a duke. His parentage hasn’t affected his standing in society. And it plainly isn’t his fault.”
“I’d never be certain of my children’s true heritage. For all we know, the duke could have been fathered by a footman!”
“I cannot see why that makes a difference,” Rachael said, “considering the last duke claimed him for a son.”
“I’d never trust him to be faithful to me.”
“Why shouldn’t you trust him?” Juliana wondered. “I’d guess the last thing he wants to do is subject his own children to the shame he’s had to live with.”
Amanda raised one of her newly plucked brows. “You know what they say: like father, like son.”
“In this case, don’t you mean: like mother, like son?” Corinna chimed in.
“They also say the sins of the father—or mother—shou
ldn’t be visited on the child.” Juliana felt sorry the duke had been forced to grow up under this cloud. “He was a victim, not to blame. You’re being unfairly judgmental.”
Amanda just shrugged and returned to her atrocious blanket. But Juliana could tell that her straitlaced friend would never change her mind. Of course, that didn’t matter, since it was Juliana who intended to marry the duke. Amanda belonged with Lord Stafford.
Juliana passed her a second Shrewsbury cake, hoping it would help convince her that James was right for her. That was why she’d risen at dawn this morning to bake them, after all—they were supposed to help convince people. “Did you meet a young man you liked better than Lord Stafford?”
“No,” Amanda said. “But there are many more to meet.”
“Not this season. They seem to be staying home.” Juliana recommenced scrubbing. “I wonder if it’s because of all the cold and wet.”
“Now you’re being a goose.” Corinna swirled her brush in green paint. “I’m having a marvelous time this season—there are plenty of young men.”
Of course she was having a marvelous time. It was her first season, and Griffin wasn’t pressing her to marry. Not yet, anyway. Juliana was supposed to wed first. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love.”
“I’m not in any hurry.” Corinna dabbed at her canvas, creating a grassy field out of nothing.
Juliana would never figure out how she did that. Giving up on the stain, she rose and wandered closer to inspect the scene. A gentleman and a lady walked hand in hand over rolling hills. Corinna never used to paint people—only landscapes and still lifes. But this past year she’d been adding people to her paintings more and more often.
And not just any people. Couples. Maybe she was falling in love. “Are you sure?” Juliana asked.
“I don’t have time to fall in love right now.” Corinna added a dab of white to the green paint on her palette. “My art is more important. Next year, I plan to submit to the Royal Academy.”
“You do? I’d no idea there were women in the Royal Academy.”
“There aren’t. No woman has been admitted in almost fifty years.” Corinna mixed the colors together, creating a lighter shade of green. “But there’s no rule banning us, though there is a minimum age requirement. In a few years, I’ll be old enough to campaign for admittance. And in preparation for that, my first objective is to have one of my paintings selected for next year’s Summer Exhibition.”
Juliana was a bit stunned. Of course, it was just like her sister to formulate an elaborate, ambitious plan without talking to anyone, even her own family. Corinna went her own way, always. And maybe it was just the Shrewsbury cakes, but Juliana found herself convinced—her little sister would soon make history.
Meanwhile, Juliana herself couldn’t even make a batch of baby clothes.
Though she knew she should get back to work, she stepped to the window and gazed out at the unceasing rain. Not only was her sewing project in jeopardy, her scheme to match Amanda and James was at a standstill. Amanda seemed, at best, unsure about her feelings for him, and he was making no effort to persuade her. The trouble was, there was only so much Juliana could do to prod them along.
Or was there?
Suppose James’s problem wasn’t apathy, but inexperience? He spent all his time doctoring—had he ever even courted before? Did he know how to woo any lady, let alone a proper, prissy one like Amanda? Considering what Juliana had seen of him so far—the odd staring, the lack of careful grooming—she’d wager that he was entirely clueless about women.
Maybe she’d even put thirty guineas on it.
There was only one solution: Juliana would have to instruct him. Of course, convincing him of the necessity of such training was sure to be a delicate matter. She’d visit him at the New Hope Institute tomorrow, she decided, since it was closed on Sundays. And she’d have the cook package up some Shrewsbury cakes to bring along.
She returned to her chair and the jam-stained frock. It seemed all her scrubbing had only served to spread the pink splotch further and ruin her handkerchief in the process. But this was only the third of thirty frocks she had to make, and she’d already poured hours of work into it.
While no one was looking, she turned the garment inside out—now the stain would be hidden inside the lining—and continued sewing.
FIFTEEN
“WHAT DO YOU think of this dress, dear?” Sitting across from James at the breakfast table Monday morning, Mother held up her copy of La Belle Assemblée, open to one of the hand-colored fashion plates. “Shall I order something like it for the next ball?”
“It’s lovely, Mother.” Given that his mother hadn’t shown any interest in clothes since his father passed away, James knew he should be pleased to see her enjoying life again. But instead he was still annoyed that his plot to convince her to quit pressuring him had failed so miserably.
“I had a wonderful time dancing,” she said for at least the dozenth time since the ball.
His only relief had been the few hours she’d spent overnight with her sisters. She’d enjoyed that, too. His aunts’ peach-ridden town house was near Oxford Street with all its shops. A perfect distance from his own mansion in St. James’s Place—close enough for an easy visit, but far enough that he didn’t see his aunts every time he stepped out the door.
He folded the Morning Chronicle and set it carefully by his plate. “I have an idea, Mother.”
“Hmm?” She flipped a page of her magazine.
“Why don’t you move back in with your sisters? You could help them redecorate and get rid of some of that horrendous peach. I’m sure you’d enjoy that more than living here with me.”
Mother hadn’t always lived with him. Once he’d finished medical school and wed Anne, he’d established his own household. After his father’s death, when James inherited Stafford House and the country estate that went along with his title, his mother had moved in with her sisters, not wishing to intrude on his life with his wife. But then Anne died, and Mother came running back home to “help” him.
And here she’d stayed. For too long. He loved her dearly, but a grown man was entitled to some privacy and autonomy. He’d truly appreciated her “help” while he’d needed it, but he’d long since recovered some semblance of a life, even if he didn’t feel ready to marry.
“Don’t be foolish, James. Should my sisters ever decide to redecorate, I can help them from here. Who would run this household if I abandoned you? Stafford House is one of the largest homes in London.”
One thing he wasn’t lacking was money. “I have a staff. And I can hire more people should I need to.”
“That’s not the same as having family oversee matters.” She flipped another page, tilting her head to peruse the dress pictured. “I wouldn’t think of moving out until you have a wife.”
Yet another reason to marry. James took a big gulp of tea to settle his churning stomach.
“Very well, then,” he said, setting down the cup. He knew she wouldn’t budge on this matter. “I must be off.” He pushed back from the table and rose. “I wish you a pleasant day.”
She looked up. “I trust you haven’t forgotten that Bedelia is expecting you this morning?”
Blast it. He had. His mind had been on other things. Especially a hazel-eyed sprite he had no business thinking about.
“I haven’t time, I’m afraid.” He shrugged into the tailcoat a footman held out. “Only one doctor volunteered today, so I must fill the other spot,” he said, buttoning the coat. “I’m expected at the Institute by ten.”
“The people can wait a little longer for their vaccinations. Bedelia has been suffering with chest pains.”
“Aunt Bedelia is fine, Mother.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” She paused for a sip of her tea. “But what if she isn’t?”
She always got her way in the end.
SIXTEEN
“THIS DOESN’T look like a nice neighborhood,” Aunt Frances said w
ith a worried frown.
“It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.” Reaching over the basket of Shrewsbury cakes on her lap, Juliana pulled the carriage’s curtains closed.
“Herman doesn’t like the dark,” Emily said, reopening them.
“Then Herman should have stayed home,” Juliana told her. Aunt Frances was peering out the window again, looking even more nervous, so Juliana dug into her reticule for something to distract her. “Here, Auntie. I forgot to give you this letter. It arrived in the morning mail.”
Emily stroked Herman’s olive green scales, for all the world like he was a real pet. “I never get letters.”
“I never get letters, either.” Eyes wide behind her spectacles, Aunt Frances broke the seal and held the paper up to the light. As she scanned the single page, she sucked in a breath. “Goodness gracious!”
Juliana stifled a smile. “What does it say, Auntie?”
Her aunt’s cheeks were suddenly so rosy, she looked like she’d eaten an entire bowl of trifle. “It’s a poem.”
“A poem? Does it rhyme?”
Aunt Frances nodded violently.
“Who is it from?”
“I’m not at all certain. He didn’t sign his name.”
“How do you know it’s a he, then?” Emily asked. “It might be from a girl.”
The older woman raised a hand to pat her modestly covered bosom. “He signed it”—her voice dropped conspiratorially—“Your Secret Admirer.”
“Oh, Aunt Frances! That’s so romantic!” Juliana sneaked a glance out the window, wondering how much longer she could distract her. “Whoever he is, he must have been at Lady Hammersmithe’s ball Saturday night and seen you in that beautiful fawn dress.”
Aunt Frances looked doubtful. “I’ve worn that dress dozens of times.”
“Well, then, we must order you new ones, don’t you think? Before next Saturday’s ball.”
Though she hadn’t bought a new dress all season—probably all decade—her aunt nodded. “I suppose we must.”
