She went still. “You haven’t?”
“No,” he said, drawing in the breath he needed for strength. “Five years ago, the day after I proposed to you, I went to your house and found a letter waiting for me instead of my bride. That event is something you likely imagined would have happened.
“But what you don’t know is that my proposal was not given on impulse,” he continued, baring it all. “I had already planned a life with you hundreds of times in my mind. The morning after, while you were in a carriage preparing to wed Lord Granworth, I was standing in your foyer, arguing with your butler. I carried with me every farthing I possessed in the world, along with a ring in my pocket and the determination to make you happy for the rest of your life.”
Silvery light glinted off the moisture gathering in Juliet’s eyes, but she said nothing.
He handed her his handkerchief and closed his eyes briefly when their fingers brushed, leaving his skin aching for more. Instead, he took a step back. “Of course, I know your reasons now and understand that yours was not an easy decision. Perhaps I should have told you how much I loved you.” He steeled himself to continue. “How much I still love you and want to marry you.”
She gasped, putting his handkerchief to her mouth as tears began to slip down her cheeks. And for a moment, he hoped that those were tears of joy.
But her next words proved otherwise. “You know how I feel about marriage.”
“All too well.” He jerked a nod. “The idea frightens you. And it should because I would want everything you could give. Not only your love but children too, and decades of your life until we are both too old to remember those five years we spent apart.”
He waited a beat for her response, until he remembered how long he’d been waiting already. Looking up to the shadowed ceiling, he let out a breath, feeling like a fool.
But before he set his hand on the door, prepared to leave, she spoke. “Max, I don’t think I’m ready.”
“And I don’t think you ever will be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
News of the South American Stock Swindle spread like wildfire through London late Friday. Fortunes were lost, without any hope of recovery.
Juliet knew precisely how it felt to have no hope. She’d felt this way since Max had walked away from her last night. Worse than that, he’d ignored every missive she’d sent today, returning them unopened. She didn’t know what to do.
“A panic has ensued,” Zinnia said, as if reading her mind rather than the newspaper. “Many have rushed to their banks to remove all their funds, only to find the institution locked and a notice of bankruptcy on the door. Rumors are even spreading that smaller banks have borrowed money from other banks.”
“In such a crisis, those notes will be in excess of the amount that can be ensured,” Juliet remarked absently, the business portion of her brain filling in while the rest of it was distracted on thoughts of Max.
This entire ordeal was all Bram’s fault. He simply refused to take no for an answer and did not care one fig about listening to her either.
After Bram called the other day, Zinnia had told her of Marjorie’s concerns about his estate falling into ruin. Ever since, Juliet suspected that his fascination with her was mainly financial. True to form, however, while appearing to court Juliet, he’d also been wooing a slew of debutantes, keeping the ton wondering whom he favored. Not surprisingly, he switched his attentions between several who were the prettiest but who also had large dowries.
Juliet wished he would abandon his pursuit of her and go after one of them.
“Lord Pembroke fled the country in the dead of night,” Zinnia continued, having moved on from the Post to the Standard. “Rumor has it that he’d been part of the scheme all along.”
“He used people for their money.”
Zinnia issued a hum of disapproval. “He should have relied on the standard practice among our set—to marry well.”
Juliet scoffed, despondency making her bitter. “For some men, one fortune is not enough. Take Bram, for example. Not only did he gain his wife’s dowry but also the inheritance her aunt left her. Now he is looking for more. In my opinion, he is no better than Pembroke. And it pains me to think that I once cherished him above all others. I was such a fool back then. If I had only seen . . . ”
“That Lord Thayne loved you?”
“Yes, I—” Juliet stopped. “How did you know?”
After all, her cousin had not been in the room last night to hear his confession. She hadn’t even been in London five years ago but in mourning for Lord Cosgrove. In fact, she hadn’t returned to town until Lilah’s first Season.
“Marjorie told me.” Zinnia lowered both papers, her expression soft. “When Lord Thayne inherited and was intent on finding a wife, I’d asked her why he hadn’t married before.”
Juliet swallowed down a lump of guilt. “Because of me?”
Zinnia didn’t respond, her silence like a cog in the wheel of Juliet’s thoughts.
“I feel so powerless,” Juliet said after a moment, propping her elbows on the table and burying her face in her hands. “I cannot give him what he wants.”
“Then perhaps you should offer something else until you don’t feel so . . . ” Zinnia paused and then cut directly to the heart of the issue with one word, “afraid.”
Juliet growled to herself in frustration. A woman could be madly in love but still not ready to marry, couldn’t she? The terrified strumming of her heart told her that it was possible. After all, hadn’t Max warned her that he would want everything she could give?
And what she could give him now was reassurance that she cared nothing for Bram, but Max had refused to read the letters she’d sent. So what was she to do? Storm over to Harwick House and tell Bram once more that she did not intend to marry him? He likely wouldn’t believe her and would only be encouraged by the gesture.
In fact, she imagined that the only way to be rid of him was if she suddenly lost her fortune.
Juliet lowered her hands, inspiration dawning through the gloom. “I think I have an idea that just might do the trick.”
Leaving Hanover Street, Juliet’s carriage lumbered toward one of her banking institutions. Standing on the pavement outside his bank, his head bowed and his cravat askew, was none other than Mr. Woldsley. He was staring at the notice of bankruptcy hanging on the door as he withdrew the key from the lock.
Juliet tapped on the hood and asked the driver to stop. “Mr. Woldsley,” she said from the window. “Surely, you are not closing your institution.”
He turned, his eyes bloodshot, his nose red. “Oh, it’s you. If you’ve come for a withdrawal, then read the sign.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder to the notice fixed to the other side of the glass.
“I have not come for a withdrawal,” she assured him, feeling more confident in her plan by the moment.
He sneered at her, but there was more exhaustion than vehemence behind it. “Then to gloat?”
“Not at all. In fact, I believe I can help.”
“Help. Ha! The likes of you have caused this to happen—people demanding all their money at once, not understanding how lending institutions work.”
“Mr. Woldsley,” she said patiently. He, more than most anyone, knew that she had never once demanded all of her money but only the interest accrued. “How much does your bank need in order to remove the sign from that door and open on Monday?”
Knowing a bit about business and seeing the catastrophic nature of this occurrence, she felt certain that the Bank of England would step in by then to lend funds to many of the smaller banks to prevent a complete collapse.
He straightened his shoulders and pulled sharply on the lapels of his coat. “Amusement at another’s misfortune is petty indeed. I don’t think you understand the scope of this disaster—”
“I am prepared to lend your bank fifty thousand pounds.”
Thankfully, her statement closed his mouth with a snap. Otherwise, she would ha
ve driven onward.
He went white, his bottom lip working against his teeth as he stuttered, “F-fifty th-thousand pounds? But how could you . . . manage to procure such an amount?”
“I manage my money quite well, Mr. Woldsley,” she said. “Now, if you would care to remove that sign, I believe we may have a business arrangement to discuss.”
“And what do you want in return?”
“My money returned to me eventually, of course. In addition, I would ask for two favors. The first being that no one knows of my involvement in saving your bank, to which I am certain you are already amenable. And the second, I would like a statement of my account, listing the amount of two pence and no more.” Yes. That should do the trick indeed.
He stared dubiously at her, his eyes crossed as if a horn were protruding from the center of her forehead. “And whyever would you want such a document?”
“Those are my reasons alone,” she said succinctly. “Oh, and I would add one more thing to the list. I never want to hear you say the words ‘I don’t think you understand’ ever again.”
Mr. Woldsley swallowed, looking sheepish—quite possibly for the first time in his life—and then he nodded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Season Standard—the Daily Chronicle of Consequence
At long last, we have our Original! I’m certain this name will come as no surprise to many of you, for haven’t we all be watching her every step this Season? Surely our favorite goddess, Lady G—, is the most deserving of this coveted title . . .
Bram slapped the paper down on the breakfast room table. “What a triumph! Did you see the paper, Mother?”
“I am seeing it now on the table where it does not belong,” she said sternly, eyeing Bram until he picked it up and placed it on the sideboard. “But yes, I am quite pleased for Juliet. I believe this honor has been long awaited. Would you agree, Maxwell?”
Max nodded absently, pretending that his focus was on the ham steak on his plate. In truth, he’d read the Standard first thing this morning. And since then, his stomach had churned with a sense of unease at the events that were about to unfold.
“It is fine for her indeed,” Bram said. “But think of how it will be when I marry not one, but two Originals!”
Max knew Bram’s announcement was forthcoming. His suit would be denied, of course. Yet even prescience in this circumstance did not take away the utter rage and despair he’d been feeling these past few days.
“That is in poor taste, Bramson, considering the fact that your first wife died giving birth to your child,” Mother chided. “In fact, I find this whole rush to be married quite distasteful. And if weren’t for little Patrice, I would forbid it.”
“Forbid.” Bram laughed and pressed a kiss to Mother’s cheek, as if her words were a jest. Then again, Bram only listened to one opinion, and that was his own. “For now, I shall be off to pay a morning call. Are you not going to congratulate me, little brother?”
Max abruptly stood and then clasped his hands behind his back. Then, bowing to Mother, he said, “I will be in my study if you need me.”
But before he could exit the room, Saunders appeared in the doorway, holding a missive in his gloved hand. “An urgent message from Lady Cosgrove, ma’am.”
“Oh dear,” Mother said as she took the note and then repeated herself several times as she read it, all the while shaking her head.
“What is it, Mother?” Max asked, fearing that something dire had happened.
“It is terrible news! Poor Juliet! She has lost everything, her entire fortune.” Mother pressed the page to her breast, tears welling in her eyes. “The banks that closed, the ones that went under . . . Apparently, those were where she kept her money.”
“No! That cannot be. She is rich as Midas!” Bram railed.
Mother drew in a breath, wiping her eyes with the crook of her finger as she settled her gaze on Bram. “You should rush over immediately, for your proposal will come at a most beneficial time. I will follow shortly, and we will begin to make arrangements.”
Bram went white, his grin dissolving into a grimace, as if he were about to retch all over the table.
Max thought only of Juliet and what she must be suffering at this moment. More than anything, she’d wanted to be independent, to have control of her life. But with this news, she would soon be dependent upon her cousin.
Suddenly, Max knew what he had to do. He would give Juliet her house. He’d intended to sign it over all along, but after her stipulations following their intimacies, he hadn’t wanted to leave her in doubt. At least with this, she still could have part of the life she wanted.
Then, by Monday next, he would leave for Lancashire, and finally be free of the hold Juliet had over him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Juliet was surprised but elated when Mr. Wick announced that Max had come to call. Her first instinct was to rush to the parlor, but she was told that Max requested to wait in the study, with Mr. Saunders.
It was only the mention of Saunders that reminded Juliet of their wager. She hadn’t even had time to read the Standard with all that had transpired, but Zinnia had given her the news.
The Original. What a shock, to say the least! It was strange how her return to London was like stepping back in time but making different choices.
“Good morning, Max,” she said, trying not to smile too gaily in front of Saunders, and then she greeted the butler as well.
Bram had come and gone earlier. As expected, he’d explained that his affections had been caught off guard by someone else—Miss Leeds, apparently—and he was set to leave town for a few days to better acquaint himself with her family. Juliet had wished him well and, secretly, good riddance. Never in her life would she have thought how lucky she was to have lost him to Miss Leonard all those years ago. And this evening, she would say a prayer for the woman who had endured him for as long she could.
Max did not look directly at her when he offered his greeting but immediately gestured to Saunders to unlock the box. When Saunders did, he summarily left the room and closed the door behind him.
The box with their chosen candidates was before them now. Juliet stood beside Max as they both looked down at it sitting on the polished mahogany desk. “I can tell you right now that I did not win,” she said with a small laugh, happy to be here with him.
“And I can tell you,” Max began as he opened the box, “that I did.”
He reached in and unfolded a slip of foolscap that carried a familiar slanted scrawl. Lady Granworth.
Instantly, tears gathered in her eyes, and she tried to blink them away. When she failed, Max withdrew his handkerchief and laid it on the desk before her. Still, he had not looked at her, but somehow he knew she was weeping.
“You chose my name, even when we were”—she sniffed—“enemies?”
Then, at last, he turned his gaze to her, and she almost wished he hadn’t, because there was no hardness, no animosity, no heat, only emptiness, as if he felt nothing for her.
“You were never my enemy.” He turned back to the desk and withdrew the other paper. One breath came out on something just short of a laugh. “Ellery. It makes so much sense, and yet I was blind to that. Blind to many things.”
He closed the box and attached the lock once more. Then he withdrew a roll of parchment from within his coat and spread it out on the desk, angling it for her to see. “Here is the deed to the house. As you can see, I have transferred it into your name.”
Confused, she shook her head. “No. The house is yours. You won our wager.”
“I do not need the house as much as you do. Nor do I want it.”
His coldness caused panic to rise within her. And when he took the box and turned to leave, she reached out and stayed him with a hand upon his arm. “Do you remember when I told you that kissing you five years ago had changed everything and also frightened me?”
The corner of his mouth twitched for an instant. “You said it was a catacly
smic event.”
“Yes, it was,” she said on a breath, somewhat relieved that he remembered. “More than you know. That kiss was the reason the house was so important to me. You turned my world upside down in that library, and I have spent every day since wishing I could feel that way for the rest of my life. I thought that if I returned and started over in that house that I could capture the feeling of knowing that something else was inside of me.”
He looked down at his arm as if waiting for her to remove her hand. “And now you have it. The deed to the house is yours so that you may start over or continue to relive your past. It does not matter to me anymore.”
“No. I don’t want the house. What I’m trying to tell you is that I found that feeling. And it had nothing to do with that house after all.” She curled her fingers into the wool, holding tighter. “It was you, Max. It’s always been you.”
His head whipped up, leveling her with a glare. “That’s rather convenient, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You are out of options. There is no Lord Granworth waiting in the wings or even—I expect—Lord Engle.” He shrugged free of her. “I will not be held in your regard simply because you are without a fortune. I am no one’s last resort, Juliet.”
Why had she not seen it before? “Can’t we go back to the way it was before your brother returned? If I would have known that you’d felt slighted in any way, I would have—”
“What would you have done? Made a public declaration of your affection? Come now, you forget how well I know you. And how much you prefer to stay inside that cage where your heart is safe.”
“That is not true. Perhaps it was at one time but no longer.”
“I am not going to argue the point.” He blinked and suddenly that emptiness had returned to those beloved mud-puddle eyes.
“Max, you said the door was always open.”
“I’m afraid that always has come and gone. Good day, Lady Granworth.” And Max walked away.
When a Marquess Loves a Woman Page 21
