Juliana

by Lauren Royal

“Must there be a reason? Can’t it just be for the good of humanity?”

  “I think not,” she said. “Not when you’re so passionate about the subject.”

  He mentally added perceptive to the list of her assets. “My brother died of smallpox.”

  “Oh,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

  “There was nothing I could do to help him. Nothing I could do but watch him die. Have you ever seen someone suffering with it?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. At least not in the final stages.”

  “I hope you never will. The pain is excruciating, and the pocks—well, never mind.” He wouldn’t sicken her by describing the way they’d spread until Philip had seemed to be little more than one huge, oozing pustule. “Suffice it to say I’m hoping someday no one will ever suffer with it again. And I plan to do my part to make that happen.”

  Her gaze was full of admiration. “You’re a good person, James.”

  Her praise made his spirits soar, but she didn’t need to know that. So he shrugged. “We cannot afford to ignore this chance. Vaccination has given mankind an opportunity we’ve never had before—to wipe a horrific disease off the face of the earth. Forever.”

  “I hope you can convince Parliament, then,” she said and reached to take his hand.

  She was holding his hand. He was afraid to react, for fear she might notice and snatch hers away. Keeping himself still, he glanced toward her chaperone, but Lady Frances was still gazing out the window, humming softly to herself.

  He looked down at their joined hands. Juliana wasn’t wearing gloves. Prior to flouncing out to the carriage, she’d grabbed her umbrella but left a pair of white gloves sitting on the marble-topped table. Lady Frances hadn’t noticed—shocking!—and James hadn’t thought to remind Juliana to take them.

  Or maybe he hadn’t wanted her to.

  Her hand felt small in his, her palm smooth and warm. He couldn’t remember ever being so aware of anyone touching him before. Well, it had been over a year, he supposed, since he’d held a girl’s hand.

  “I see now,” she said. “Your brother’s death is why you became a physician. I’ve been wondering what would compel an earl to take up doctoring,” she added, squeezing his fingers with compassion.

  He tried not to squeeze back, lest she realize what she was doing. “That’s sound reasoning, but not the way it happened. Philip was my older brother—he was supposed to be the earl. I became a physician before his death, not after, because, as a second son, I needed a profession. I was at his bedside as his physician when he died.”

  “You don’t blame yourself for his death, do you?” Sympathy flooded her eyes. “Just because you’re a doctor—”

  “Good gracious, no!” What an active imagination she had. Even in James’s darkest days, he’d never tortured himself with that. “He had the severe form of smallpox—variola major—which defies treatment. There is nothing a physician can do but keep the patient as comfortable as possible and hope for the best.”

  “So doctors do nothing?”

  “Oh, there are things they try, but they generally involve bleeding, emetics, and purgatives—methods I don’t favor. I’ve found they weaken a patient more than they strengthen him.” He shook his head. It was difficult talking about this, but it seemed important, somehow, that Juliana understand his point of view. “I don’t blame myself for his death. But I would blame myself if I allowed smallpox to continue destroying lives without doing everything in my power to stop it.”

  She nodded. Her eyes looked blue now, a blue softened by kindness and concern. “I’m truly sorry you lost your brother to such a devastating disease.”

  “You must have lost a brother, too,” he realized suddenly. “Else Griffin wouldn’t be the marquess. He wasn’t meant to be, was he? After Oxford, he joined the military, same as I did.”

  “Our brother Charles died of consumption,” she said. “A few months after our mother succumbed to it first.”

  They called consumption a “gentle death,” but James knew better. Its victims might fade away rather slowly and gracefully, but watching a loved one die was never easy. And Juliana had suffered through that twice.

  “Consumption seems to descend upon certain families,” he told her. “Probably because it’s not easily transmitted like smallpox, but after weeks and months in the same home—”

  “I thought it wasn’t contagious.” She looked shocked. “We all cared for my mother and brother with no concern of risking our own health. The doctors told us consumption is caused by the patient’s own constitution and runs in families only because relations are so often alike.”

  “That may be the prevailing wisdom, but I don’t believe it. And I’m not alone. More than two thousand years ago, Hippocrates himself warned doctors to be wary of contracting it from patients. And early in the last century, Benjamin Marten wrote a paper theorizing that consumption is caused by ‘wonderfully minute living creatures’ that can pass from one person to another, although rarely without extended periods of contact.” His explanation didn’t seem to be making her rest any easier, so he tried a different approach. “I don’t expect you need to worry about catching it now if you haven’t already. Nor should your sisters or Griffin. Whatever ‘minute creatures’ might have been in your home are long gone, I’m certain, and you needn’t fret that you were all born with constitutions that will cause you to develop it, either.”

  “So Charles caught it from our mother, but none of the rest of us did.” She drew and released a breath. “I’ve always wondered if the rest of us might succumb eventually. Is it wicked of me to be relieved?”

  “It’s natural to be relieved,” he said. “And I could be wrong. Most physicians wouldn’t agree with me.”

  “I don’t think you’re wrong,” she said. “I think you’re a man who thinks for himself, who looks for his own answers instead of blindly accepting what others claim. We need your sort of people. You’re the people who discover things that make the world better for all of us.”

  She would never know how much her words meant to him. He faced a lot of scorn from respected doctors—some of them even his own mentors—who sneered at his adoption of new, unconventional practices like refusing to bleed patients and believing cleanliness helped prevent infection. He wasn’t the only physician who embraced such ideas, but he was definitely in the minority. Sometimes the pressure made James question his own judgement. But he never quite lost his faith that they—doctors—could do better. They could do more than offer old wisdom. They could provide cures.

  And Juliana’s faith in him made the pressure that much more bearable.

  “Thank you,” he said, squeezing her hand.

  A mistake. Looking startled, she pulled it away. “So.” She cleared her throat. “Tomorrow evening at the ball…just how are you planning to ask Lady Amanda if you might court her?”

  His jaw dropped. The sudden turnabout made him feel as if his brain had just fallen off a cliff. How did she do that? How had Juliana gone from holding his hand to assuming he was still planning to court Lady Amanda?

  Well, he wasn’t. He’d decided instead to court Juliana. Or rather, to complete the sequence of this odd, sort-of courtship they’d already begun.

  Put simply, he’d decided to kiss her so he could get on with his life.

  But he didn’t quite know how to answer her question, because she hadn’t asked him if he was planning to court Lady Amanda. She’d asked how he was planning to ask for permission.

  When he didn’t immediately respond, she added, “Perhaps I can help you devise some particularly gallant method.”

  “Like what? Shall I ride into the ball on a charger, dressed in armor?”

  “Really, now, James, be serious.”

  He was serious. Serious about wanting to kiss Juliana.

  “James?” Juliana asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Lucky for him, just then the carriage rolled to a halt in front of th
e Egyptian Hall, saving him from another question he couldn’t answer.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE EXTERIOR of the museum at Number Twenty-two Piccadilly bore a vague resemblance to an Egyptian temple. A very vague resemblance. In fact, it would look rather Palladian, Juliana thought, were it not for the ankhs along the cornice and the two full-length statues that flanked a window above the entrance.

  “Are those sculptures supposed to be Egyptian?” Aunt Frances asked.

  “An Egyptian god and goddess.” James gestured toward the figures. “That’s Isis on the left, and her brother and husband, Osiris, on the right.”

  Juliana wondered how he’d come to know such things. “Shall we have a look inside?”

  James gave the doorman three shillings for their admission, took a guidebook and handed it to Juliana, then ushered her and her aunt into the museum.

  “So many people,” Aunt Frances said, looking dazed as they jostled their way down a corridor.

  “They’ve all come to see Napoleon’s carriage,” Juliana told her. “And Captain Cook’s artifacts. And,” she added, reading off the cover of the guidebook, “’the Collection of Fifteen Thousand Natural and Foreign Curiosities, Antiques, and Productions of the Fine Arts.’”

  “I’m feeling faint,” Aunt Frances said.

  “We don’t have to look at all of them, Auntie. Listen to this.” Pausing in the first of the exhibition rooms, Juliana quoted from the introduction. “’The museum’s owner, William Bullock, formed his collection during seventeen years of arduous research at a cost of thirty thousand pounds.’”

  “Thirty thousand pounds,” James said in wonder. “Just think how many vaccinations all that money could have provided.”

  Or how many foundlings it could have fed, Juliana thought. But there were other good uses for money. “Widening the public’s horizons is also a worthy cause. Don’t you agree, Aunt Frances?” She glanced around. “Aunt Frances?”

  “There she is.” James pointed toward an exhibit of stuffed African animals. “On that bench, by the rail.”

  Juliana wove through the crowd to sit beside her, beneath the raised trunk of a massive gray elephant. “Are you unwell, Auntie?”

  “I’m fine, child. I thought I’d sit here a while and rest.” Aunt Frances patted her chest with a happy sigh, and Juliana knew she was thinking about Lord Malmsey and his red roses. “You young people go ahead and start looking. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  “We cannot just leave you here,” Juliana said.

  “Of course we can,” James disagreed. “You wouldn’t want to risk your aunt’s health by taxing her, would you?”

  “She doesn’t look unhealthy to me. Her cheeks are rosier than I’ve ever seen them.”

  “Fever,” James said succinctly.

  Concerned, Juliana turned to feel her aunt’s forehead. “She’s not hot.”

  “Impending fever, then. She needs to rest as a preventative measure.” When Juliana failed to rise, he reached for her hand and pulled her from the bench. “Will you argue with a physician?”

  “Go on,” Aunt Frances put in, waving her gloved hand.

  Juliana suddenly realized her own hand was bare, and pleasantly enveloped in James’s larger one.

  “Come along.” He tugged on her hand. “Your aunt will be fine. I believe Captain Cook’s artifacts are in the next room.”

  She pulled her fingers free. Holding her hand in the carriage was one thing—and no doubt the result of those macaroons—but she’d not allow it in public. “We haven’t seen the things in this room yet.”

  “A bevy of stuffed animals,” he said dismissively. Besides the African display in the center, the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with creatures in glass cases, stacked one on top of another. “What’s so interesting about that?”

  “There are hundreds of different species.”

  “You’re too short to see most of them,” he said. Then, apparently deciding the discussion was over, he draped an arm about her shoulders to guide her out of the room.

  Shocked, she darted a glance to her aunt, but the woman was staring into space, a vague smile curving her lips. Daydreaming, no doubt. She certainly wouldn’t be smiling if she’d seen James’s arm around Juliana.

  Unless, on second thought, seeing James’s arm around her had struck Aunt Frances with a vision of Lord Malmsey holding her in the same fashion. Because Juliana had to admit that being tucked up under a gentleman’s arm like this was quite a striking sensation.

  But Amanda probably wouldn’t like it, she decided. James was acting a bit more amorous than what she’d had in mind. She’d had no idea the macaroons would prove to be so potent.

  The next chamber’s walls were covered with historical arms and armor. Still attached to her, James walked slowly, admiring the collection as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

  “James,” she said quietly.

  “Hmm?”

  “You have your arm about my shoulders.”

  “I know. I’m practicing for wooing Lady Amanda.”

  Oh, dear, just as she’d feared. She’d known she shouldn’t have let him eat those macaroons. “I don’t think Lady Amanda would want you to do this.”

  “Why not? You like it, don’t you?”

  She couldn’t argue with that, so she didn’t.

  “We fit together rather well,” he added, studying a curved sword.

  They did fit perfectly. She’d thought him too tall, but he was just the right height for her to fit perfectly under his arm. Not, of course, that that made it at all proper. And in any case, he wouldn’t fit perfectly with Amanda, since Amanda was much taller.

  “Um, James?”

  “Hmm?”

  “People are going to see us and assume you’re courting me instead of Lady Amanda.”

  “We aren’t acquainted with anyone here,” he said easily, “so they’re not going to assume anything.” He looked up higher, to peruse a battered shield. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

  She tried to wriggle away without looking conspicuous. “I cannot really see it. I’m too short. Perhaps we should go see Napoleon’s carriage instead.”

  “Use my quizzing glass,” he offered, handing it to her with a smile.

  She really had no choice but to take it. Like at the ball, he’d left the long chain around his neck, so she had to lean yet closer to raise the glass to her eye. He smelled nice. Spicy. She couldn’t seem to focus on the shield.

  He dropped his arm and moved behind her, which was a relief. But then something—his fingers—brushed her neck, and a little shiver ran through her. She blinked through the lens at an ancient, pitted rifle. “What are you doing, James?”

  “Just pinning up a strand of your hair that’s fallen down.”

  Her hair was so straight it often slid right out of its pins. But she’d never had a gentleman fix it before. Studying the rusty edge of a cutlass, she wondered if she should stop him.

  “I’d do the same thing for Lady Amanda,” he said, apparently reading her mind. “It’s very gallant, don’t you think? I’m getting some excellent practice.”

  She switched to examine an old flintlock. “Are you finished yet?”

  “Not quite.”

  That rich, chocolatey voice was making it difficult to pay attention, especially since it seemed to be coming from right behind her ear. “You’re standing a bit close to me, James.”

  “You’re holding my quizzing glass,” he pointed out.

  And whose idea had that been? “Do you expect Captain Cook used this pistol?”

  “What pistol?” he asked, his hands leaving her hair to rest lightly on her shoulders.

  She could feel his breath, warm on the back of her neck. “This pistol I’m looking at on the wall.”

  “That’s part of Bullock’s collection.” His voice sounded even closer. “Captain Cook’s artifacts are in a case to your right.”

  She turned her head to the right, and his lips met her nap
e.

  They felt warm and soft. She inhaled sharply when the brief contact ended.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” she whispered, scandalized—although, to be honest, she was mostly scandalized because it had felt so good. “I understand that you wish to practice, but you’re taking things too far.”

  “What things?” James asked.

  She dropped the quizzing glass and whirled to face him. “You kissed my neck.”

  “In public? I think not.” His expression was one of studied innocence. “You have an active imagination, Juliana.”

  She’d been told that before, but she hadn’t imagined this. “You’d better not do that to Lady Amanda,” she warned. “She wouldn’t like it.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to kiss Lady Amanda. She’s rather stuffy, isn’t she? Rather like Castleton.”

  “The duke is not stuffy!”

  He shrugged and motioned toward a glass case with a few people standing before it. “Did you want to see Captain Cook’s artifacts?”

  “Yes,” she said and made her way over.

  She’d wanted for months to see Captain Cook’s artifacts, ever since the Morning Post had printed an article about their arrival at the Egyptian Hall. But they weren’t nearly as interesting as the newspaper had made them sound. As she stood before the glass case, her gaze wandering over yellowed shark’s teeth and ugly specimens of cloth made from bark, she wondered how it would feel should the duke kiss her neck like James had.

  Perhaps she ought to give the duke a few macaroons so she could find out.

  “Do you expect those old bones are really from the grave of an ancient Hawaiian chief?” she asked.

  “If Captain Cook said so, I’m sure they are.”

  She wondered if Amanda would find all of this more interesting. Probably, considering she was fascinated with crusty objects from ancient ruins. “Are there any Roman antiquities in this museum?”

  “I haven’t noticed any yet, but there might be.” James slipped an arm around her waist. “Would you like to have a look around and see?”

  “Not particularly.” Remembering that he’d known the identities of the Egyptian statues outside, she asked, “Would you recognize Roman antiquities?”