“Surely your mind would be better engaged on finding a bride, rather than on who I take to my bed.”
His countenance darkened, those mud-puddle irises brewing a storm, as if she’d struck a nerve. “Make no mistake. My sole concern is only that you do not find a reason to stay in London. I should hate for you to fall in love with your paramour, only to have to leave him behind at month’s end when I have won our wager.” Abruptly, he lowered his arms and straightened.
She released her grip on the shelf. Had this encounter been all about their wager, and because Max wanted her absence more than anything?
Part of her knew it was true. He had made it perfectly clear since her return that he would do whatever it took to rid London of her. Had refusing him all those years ago truly made him despise her so much that they couldn’t even live within the same city?
Regrettably, she’d had ample proof of the answer.
A fair amount of hurt pierced her, cooling the heat in her veins. Years ago, he’d been her friend, and that night, he’d consoled her as any friend might. Didn’t he realize that she could not have taken advantage of that and forced him into the world of her father’s debts?
At the time, and even now, she knew she’d made the best decision. But apparently, Max saw her refusal as an act of war.
Then so be it.
Former friend or not, she had no intention of letting him win. This was too important to her.
CHAPTER SIX
The Season Standard—the Daily Chronicle of Consequence
The chivalry of our Viscount E— knows no bounds, for he was spotted last evening at Lord and Lady S—’s soiree, risking his fine Corinthian blue coat to brave a prickly thicket. Not only did he spare the Belgian lace netting over Lady G—’s awe-inspiring gown, but he rescued her fan as well, and there were no small number of sighs at the sight of the event. One must wonder if our resident goddess was equally affected.
It wasn’t until Max stepped through the door of Hatchard’s Bookshop that he realized he’d been stalking Viscount Ellery all morning.
Purely by chance, they’d passed each other on Rotten Row. Or rather, Max had passed Ellery, after urging his horse to a full gallop and nearly making a spectacle of himself around the bend.
In the end, he’d received a few congratulatory comments on his fine horsemanship, queries as to if he was practicing for a race, and if there was a waiting page in the betting book at White’s. Unbeknownst to the onlookers, he won the race, albeit against an oblivious opponent. Ellery was even among those who’d congratulated Max. And he felt foolish for such a hollow victory.
Then, instead of returning home to brush down his mount, he found himself on Piccadilly. And standing not four feet from him in this shop was none other than Ellery.
Realization struck him like a blow to the back of the head, catching him unawares. Whyever was he engaged in a pseudo-competition with Ellery?
Like before, Max assured himself that he was not jealous. That he had not spent the remainder of last evening wondering if Juliet had plans to pursue Ellery for the purpose of an affair. That he had not practically demolished the master bedchambers in the second floor of his house because he could not stop imagining her sharing those rooms with her paramour. Which was ludicrous on many levels—mainly because she wasn’t going to win the bloody wager, and therefore she wouldn’t live there.
Satisfied with that bit of logic, Max turned to leave.
“Lord Thayne. We seem to have the same list of errands today,” Ellery said with an amiable smile.
Suddenly caught without a ready excuse for being here, Max picked up the nearest book and lifted The Tempest. “Apparently so.”
Ellery held up a trio of leather-bound books with romantic titles. “These aren’t necessarily to my own taste. However, it has recently occurred to me that my library is rather dull for anyone other than a fanatic of Surrey history, as well as the flora and fauna of the region.”
Max frowned. Juliet also had an interest in plants and gardens. Ellery’s library might appeal to her, just as it was.
Turning to the shelves, he replaced the book in his hand and pretended to search for another. “I always find books on battle strategies engrossing.”
Ellery chuckled. “Undoubtedly. Though my aim is to appeal to a more tenderhearted reader. I want my library to be welcoming to my future bride.”
This was news, indeed. Abruptly, Max’s dark mood cleared.
He turned, extending a ready hand. “Congratulations. You must forgive me, for I had not heard.”
“Thank you, but no,” Ellery began with a shake of his head. “I did not mean to imply that I am betrothed at the moment. As of yet, I am having little luck finding a bride this Season with such a vast selection of suitable young women. A mutual acquaintance of ours—Lady Granworth—suggested that hosting a house party tends to narrow the field and that making a list of guests would bring several to mind.”
A shiver of foreboding doused Max’s limbs.
“Ah. A reasonable suggestion.” Max nodded. Stowing his congratulatory handshake for the time being, his thoughts were distracted and dark once again. Ellery wasn’t the type of bloke to hunt for a mistress. He was a quiet gentleman, looking for a wife. Suddenly, the nightmare that had compelled Max to demolish the bedchambers seemed a little too possible. “Do you plan to invite Lady Granworth?”
“And Lady Cosgrove, of course. I have the utmost regard for both of them and would never think of inviting one without the other. A woman’s reputation is to be treated with care.”
Bugger it all. Everything the Standard printed about him was true. Max wanted to despise him, but this man was a veritable saint. “Typically, those rules do not apply to widows. After all, no one would think less of Lady Cosgrove for attending without Lady Granworth.”
Max adopted an insightful tone, hoping that his inference—that Ellery should view Juliet and her older cousin as one and the same—was subtle.
Ellery, on the other hand, stopped smiling. He straightened his shoulders, his chin and gaze set with a determination. “True. However, Lady Granworth is a woman of marriageable age. Very much so, indeed.”
And that was the moment when Max realized that—while he wouldn’t necessarily enjoy ripping out Ellery’s throat—he would like to spar with him in a ring at Gentleman Jackson’s and bloody his nose. Very much so, indeed.
“How right you are,” Max said, all politeness, even as the distinctive rubbing sound of his own leather glove tightening into a fist reached his ears.
This reaction wasn’t out of jealousy. It was because of Ellery’s audacity at pretending to know Juliet better than he did. Max knew she was still of marriageable age, but he also knew that she wasn’t interested in marriage.
In fact, Max would wager that Ellery did not know that Juliet purposely filled out her dance card with indecipherable scrawls so that she wouldn’t have to dance at a ball but could still politely refuse. And if she ever were interested in marriage, she would do as she had done with Bram and save all her dances for her beloved.
“Perhaps I could send you an invitation as well. I should like to have a rousing discussion on battle strategies,” Ellery said with a lifted brow, his expression revealing that there was more than gallantry and courtly charm to this quiet gentleman, with the way his blue irises sharpened to steel.
Mistakenly, Ellery might believe that Max was a rival for Juliet’s affections when that was far from the truth. The only interest Max had in Juliet was her absence. That was all.
And the more he kept telling himself, the more he was sure to believe it.
“I would like nothing more than to accept. However, I am planning my return to Lancashire at the first of summer.”
“A pity. I have a lake simply brimming with perch. And the carp make for some fine sport.”
Max inclined his head. “Perhaps another time.”
Turning to leave, he spotted a book sticking out of the shelves a little fur
ther than the others. The green spine and golden lettering caught his attention first, but it was the title that made him grin from ear to ear.
It was perfect.
“We have received a letter from Lilah,” Juliet informed Zinnia later that morning.
In the months since Juliet had come to stay with her cousin, they had adopted the habit of sitting in the morning room each day around ten o’clock to read mail, contemplate invitations, and answer correspondences.
It was a comfortable schedule that one would imagine had come from years of acquaintance—something just shy of two old, doddering women set in their ways—but instead was born of an instant friendship after a lifetime of familial discord, which had been in place before Juliet’s birth. Zinnia didn’t speak of it, but Juliet knew that it had something to do with an unfair division of assets from their late grandfather’s estate. Juliet knew all too well how money or the lack thereof tended to taint relationships, even with her own parents.
Zinnia looked up from her own letter, quill paused over the blotter and a fond smile upon her lips. “Will Lilah be returning soon?”
“They are in Hampstead now and will make their journey to London by Monday next.” Juliet handed Zinnia the letter.
As for herself, she couldn’t wait to see Lilah. Even though they too hadn’t known each other overly long, there was an immutable bond forged between them. Juliet found that she was even closer to Zinnia and Lilah than she had ever been to her own parents. It was a matter of acceptance, she supposed. Her cousins liked her for who she was, not for what they could gain.
Zinnia sniffled, her eyes glistening. “She writes here, ‘I never knew that my heart was capable of loving someone so much. And he . . . well, he loves me just the way I am.’ ”
“Of course he does. She is perfect in every way.” Feeling tears sting the corners of her eyes as well, Juliet slipped a lace handkerchief from her sleeve.
And in the same moment, though with a handkerchief from her own sleeve, Zinnia dabbed at her own eyes. “I am glad Lord Locke found her.”
“He is family now, Zinnia. I’m certain it is perfectly proper to call him Jack.” It was no secret, however, that Zinnia disapproved of the way that Juliet referred to Max by his given name. She, on the other hand, thought it was a bit pretentious to call him Lord Thayne, or even just Thayne, considering their sordid history and the fact that everyone knew of it.
“I suppose you’re right, on both counts.” Zinnia looked off toward the window, a dreamy quality to her gaze. “Did you know that Jack was my late husband’s middle name? Theodore Jack. I would sometimes say his names together when I pretended to be cross with him for being too bold. And then he would set about altering my opinion.” A slight blush tinted her vellum cheeks the powdery color of a ripening peach.
While most people knew Zinnia as a reticent woman who took great pride in her daily exercise and firmly believed that her form and stature served as an example for all, they were not aware of her secret. Likely, there were few who could ever imagine seeing her without a rigid spine. But they would never know how soft she became—her shoulders bowed forward, her head tilted to the side—each night when she visited the portrait of her late husband in the first floor gallery. In those moments, there was also a frail exhaustion about her, a loneliness so keen that it seemed to drain the light from the taper she carried.
“You were happy?” Juliet could already guess the answer but was enthralled by this rare, loquacious side of her cousin.
Zinnia drew in a deep breath and pressed her handkerchief to the lower rims of her eyes once more. “The happiest. Even after we’d been married for ten years, he accused me of placing each of the stars in the sky so that they would complement my eyes and leave him unable to look at any other woman.”
Juliet felt her heart pinch with envy. She’d never had that with Lord Granworth. While he regularly admired what he saw on the outside, his words were hardly romantic. He approved of the quality of her voice but dismissed anything she said as meaningless. He cared nothing for her interests, nor did he bother to endure polite conversation with her. She was either to listen to him or to praise him, nothing more. He treated her as if she were an empty vessel, and after a while, she’d believed it.
It wasn’t until recently that she’d begun to feel like someone again. A whole person.
“He sounds as if he was a wonderful husband,” she said to Zinnia.
“Every woman deserves such a love to cherish.”
Juliet sensed that the remark was aimed at her but decided not to acknowledge it. Skimming the correspondences, she hoped to hide the fact that she’d spent too many years of her life without a single ounce of self-worth, deserving of nothing. And it wasn’t only Lord Granworth or the ton who treated her as if she was a hollow goddess. Even her parents had.
Not at first, of course. They were the doting and loving parents that any child could hope for . . . until they saw profit in her beauty. Once she had come out into society, earning high praises, members of the ton frequently commented on how her face and poise could gain a wealthy husband.
Soon after, Father’s gambling had increased. He’d begun to wager exorbitant sums on credit. Mother too had become caught up in the whirlwind of town life, exceeding her accounts at all the shops and seeing the admiration for Juliet as a means to gain the most coveted invitations. And knowing what was expected of her—to make a beneficial match—Juliet had resigned herself to the fact that everyone saw her as an object.
It wasn’t until the moment that Max had kissed her all those years ago that she had a startling realization that not everyone saw her the same way.
He had always been her friend, willing to converse with her whenever his brother was off dancing or talking to the other young women who vied for his attention. Much of the time, their conversations had been the only part of those engagements that pleased her. He always drew her into discussions that required more than a bland, indifferent response, ones that called for her opinions. The topic of politics was typically frowned upon and thought too coarse for polite society, but Max had never been one to speak of the mundane. Juliet had assumed that was simply his way, and he spoke to everyone with the same intensity.
Yet in that moment in her parents’ library, she’d realized something else entirely. Max didn’t see her as a hollow goddess. He saw her as woman of flesh and bone. Not only that, but he’d treated her as if he expected to find a shared desire, a passion. And it was such a difference that it shocked and frightened her.
She’d run from it, confused, and suddenly unsure and aware of the person residing in her own skin. It wasn’t until later, after it was too late, that she reasoned Max had only been consoling her. He’d pitied her because Bram had chosen someone else. Nothing more. Otherwise, they might still be friends.
She only wished she could stop thinking about it.
Juliet paused in her card shuffling, drawn away from her thoughts. “Here is a letter from the Dowager Duchess of Vale. Strange, but it is addressed to me.”
“Perhaps Edith is immersed in one of her projects and requires your assistance.”
Projects was a euphemism for matchmaking. After having married off both of her nephews, the dowager duchess was determined to find a match for her niece. Unfortunately, Miss Desmond had a terrible black mark against her name. If this was her venture, Juliet did not believe the dowager duchess had much hope of success.
“I can think of no reason why she would ask for my help.” After all, Juliet had only managed to free herself of scandal by marrying one of the wealthiest men in England at the time. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a surplus of those lying around.
“Have you not noticed how well received you are among the ton?”
Juliet dismissed this compliment as rose-colored nonsense from a family member who could no longer see her flaws. It was actually quite sweet of Zinnia. “I have noted their reception of me each morning in the Standard. I am merely a curiosity, or worse,
a scandal waiting to happen once more.”
She was still grateful that no one had spotted her in Max’s embrace at Lord and Lady Minchon’s party or again in Lord and Lady Simpkin’s library. No one else would have understood that those instances had only been part of their continued, if not escalating, animosity.
Mr. Wick cleared his throat from the doorway, putting a halt to her musings. When she looked over, she noted that he was holding a rather large package wrapped in brown paper.
“For you, my lady,” he said, placing it on the table before her.
There was nothing other than a red stamp of ink in the upper corner. There was no name. “It is from Hatchard’s, only I don’t recall placing a book order. Are you certain it is for me?”
“If I may, the delivery boy was something of a street urchin and not one of their usual runners. Nevertheless, he was quite insistent that it was for you, my lady.”
“Curious,” Zinnia said with a lift of her brows. “Much like that block of ice.”
With the reminder, Juliet wondered if perhaps . . .
And before she could even finish the thought, a wayward thrill took flight within the walls of her stomach, lifting it ever so slightly.
Outwardly keeping her composure, she set about untying the string with the unhurried patience of a centenarian on a final birthday, reveling in the moment and knowing that whatever it might be—even a mistaken delivery—it had already surpassed her expectations.
The moment she parted the paper and saw Lady Granworth in the familiar slanted scrawl on a small white card, Juliet knew it had not been a mistaken delivery. And the moment she read the title, she also knew it was from Max and no one else.
The Regal Traveler’s Guide to Notable Libraries
She wanted to laugh. Their rivalry was certainly an oddity. And while he likely thought he was taunting her, she was secretly delighted. If her enemy was the only one who listened to her, then she would like to keep him as her enemy forever.
When a Marquess Loves a Woman Page 8
