“Don’t go.” Her voice came out raspy with unspent tears. But he closed the door just before she said, “I love you.”
If he heard her, it was not enough to stop him.
Juliet remained in her chamber for the next two days. None of her dresses pleased her, so she didn’t bother to change out of her night rail. No food tempted her, so she didn’t bother to eat. And if it weren’t for Marguerite, she likely wouldn’t have even brushed her hair.
She did, however, find the shadows creeping along the ceiling in slow intervals somewhat fascinating. She spent the majority of her awake hours watching them and feeling as if that murky light now lived inside her. Despair moved in the same manner, slithering over one’s soul to banish the light that once lived there.
“Enough, madame,” Marguerite said, standing with her hands on her hips at Juliet’s bedside. “You cannot let a broken heart linger, or it will become part of you.”
Juliet thought of Zinnia and her midnight walks to her late husband’s portrait. “My cousin fairs well enough with hers.”
“And I have often thought the true reason she walks slowly is because she cannot find a reason to move forward with her life.”
Marguerite was a little too wise for Juliet’s tastes. “I’m sure she enjoys her independence.”
“But she cannot rest her arm upon it when she walks or feel its warmth beneath her touch.”
Juliet fought the urge to cover her ears but closed her eyes instead, blocking out the shadows and her maid’s disapproving glower. Unfortunately, when she did, her memory forced her to see Max’s cold expression as if the image were burned into her eyelids. She couldn’t escape it.
“I made him wait too long,” she said on a broken whisper. “I thought that by getting rid of Bram, I would have more time. But Max still believes that I chose Bram over him when it mattered—and for all the ton to see.”
“Is it wrong for him to want everyone to know that you are his, even if he accepts that marriage frightens you?” Marguerite fussed with her pillows, piling one on top of the other until Juliet was forced into sitting upright.
Juliet’s head spun, but she wasn’t sure if the dizziness came from her new position or from what Marguerite said. “You don’t understand. Max wanted me to make a grand gesture, declaring my feelings.”
“And?”
There she went again, trying to make it sound so simple. “And what? I was afraid, and he knew it.”
“Afraid that he does not love you in return? Non, for he has already told you that he does.” Marguerite handed her a cup of tepid tea and then nudged her hand until she drank from it. “Then you must be afraid he is like your late husband and will treat you abominablement.”
“Max is nothing like Lord Granworth,” Juliet declared with utter certainty. “He is kind, patient, handsome, intelligent, tender . . . ”
“Quelle horreur.” Marguerite scoffed, took Juliet’s teacup, and replaced it with a buttered scone. “I can see why you would not want to marry a man such as Lord Thayne.”
Juliet took a bite without thinking, then another, and another until there was nothing left but a sprinkling of crumbs dusting the coverlet. She might have been hungry after all. “You don’t understand,” she said, reaching to the side table for her teacup. “Loving Max consumes me. He’s all I can think about. When I returned to London, I swore that I would never let another person rule my life.”
“Oui, but those other people in Bath, and even your parents, they took from you, making you feel less and less. But with Lord Thayne . . . ” Marguerite sank down onto the edge of the bed, her dark eyes warm and sincere. “Madame, I have never seen you so confident before.”
Juliet nodded and felt the sting of tears again. “I know it. He has always brought out the best in me, even when I’m at my worst.”
“There is a good chance he always will.”
It was true. All of it. The reason she’d always had trouble concealing her emotions from Max was because they were connected. Not by mere attraction, or even friendship, but by a more intimate, ever-present bond. Love.
She needed to stop being so afraid of losing herself and instead realize what she could gain by sharing herself instead. But . . . “What if it’s too late?”
“The more important question is—what if it is not?”
Suddenly feeling light and hopeful, Juliet embraced Marguerite and then shooed her off the bed so that she could get up and prepare herself for the day. Because today she was going to . . .
Her thoughts came up blank.
“I don’t know what to do.” Standing by the washbasin, she looked at her bedraggled reflection and cringed. “Of course, I’ll need a bath first of all, but after that, I’m not certain. I suppose I could just march over to Harwick House and tell him.”
“Ah, but he wants a bold declaration, non?”
Juliet rang the bell pull, considering her options. “There is another problem as well. He believes that I chose Bram over him.”
Marguerite shook her head, murmuring in French about how she’d warned Juliet that jealousy was a poison. Once she’d finished her diatribe, she continued in English. “Then you will have to lure the brother back so that you can choose Lord Thayne over him.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“You will think of something, madame.” Satisfied, she dusted her hands together. “Also, Lady Cosgrove wished to know if you will be joining her for tea with the Dowager Duchess of Vale.”
Juliet’s thoughts were headed in a dozen different directions, but at the reminder of how she’d agreed to help Gemma, they stopped. Thus far, Juliet had offered her new friend advice on how to approach the idea of marriage with an unfeeling, calculated heart. It was only in this moment that she realized what a disservice she was doing.
Instead of encouraging Gemma to find a man willing to marry her and to ensure that a marriage contract was firmly in place, Juliet should be instructing her to find value within herself. Only then would Gemma know what she truly wanted and deserved.
As soon as a woman understood her worth, she would be willing to risk anything in order to gain her heart’s desire.
Anything, Juliet thought, even . . . cause a scandal.
Suddenly, she knew exactly how far she would go to prove her love to Max.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Even after five days had passed, Max was hesitant to enter the study when he learned that Mother had invited Lady Cosgrove and Juliet to dinner. Saunders, however, informed him that Lady Cosgrove had come alone.
The tightness beneath Max’s chest gradually faded. Or at least it lessened a degree. In time, it would fade completely.
When Max entered the parlor, he greeted Mother and Lady Cosgrove but did not ask after Juliet. No one seemed to notice. Therefore, he took the liberty of fetching their sherry from the sideboard.
“I have heard the good news,” Mother said to her friend. “And I must say that I am heartily relieved to know that Juliet’s tragedy was a mere accounting error. She must be glad to have her fortune once again.”
Mother had told Max the news as well, and he was glad for Juliet. He would not have to worry about her in any way. She could do with her life as she wanted.
“I hesitate to tell you,” Lady Cosgrove whispered, likely not knowing how well sound traveled in this room.
“It is fine,” Mother whispered back. “Maxwell will not hear you from across the room.”
A brief pause followed, during which Max opened the sherry and began to pour.
“This afternoon, Juliet informed me that it was all a ruse,” Lady Cosgrove continued in hushed tones. “She never lost her fortune, not even for a single day.”
“No!” Mother gasped quietly. “But what could have been her reason?”
Max went still, eager as well for the next words.
“And that is the reason for my hesitation. You see, it has to do with your eldest . . . ”
“Say no more.” Mot
her clucked her tongue. “I suspected that Bramson was only interested in her fortune, and that is why I pushed him to make a declaration that day.”
Damn! Max looked down at the cabinet and saw that he’d spilled the sherry. Likely he’d drained half a bottle, and now it dripped on his shoes.
“But Maxwell saw to it that his debts were paid, and he was free to marry whomever he chose. And from what Bramson has told me, he has chosen Miss Leeds, whose dowry is five thousand pounds,” Mother continued. “He is a few miles north of town at her family’s country estate for a few days.”
“Which is what I had heard; however, just before I left, Juliet received a missive from Bram. Apparently, he has had a change of heart and asked permission to renew his address to her.”
“He has?” Mother’s voice was slightly raised in surprise before she lowered it again. “And surely he could not have heard the news of her good fortune while he was away. So perhaps he does possess true affection for her.”
“Perhaps. She sent a response to him immediately.”
“Maxwell, what is taking so long?”
He nearly jumped at the louder sound, dropping the towel he was using to mop up. “A bit of a spill, but I have recovered now.” He turned and crossed the room to hand them their sherry glasses. “Have I missed any important news?”
Mother blinked owlishly. “None whatsoever.”
“And you, Lord Thayne—any news regarding your upcoming travels to Lancashire?”
He sat in the chair opposite and swirled his whiskey thoughtfully, wondering what could have been Juliet’s reason for the pretense of losing her fortune. “My trunks are packed, and I am prepared to depart at first light on Monday.”
“And what of your quest for a bride?” Mother asked.
“Halted for the time being. I think I would rather be settled into my estate. Then, in a year, perhaps . . . ” He let his words trail off with a shrug. But he knew that it would be a long time before he would think about marriage again.
“You are not the only one planning a trip,” Lady Cosgrove said after a sip. “Juliet has decided that she too will be traveling. Though not until the sale of the house is final.”
“The house?” He frowned.
Lady Cosgrove looked to Mother and then back to him, her expression grave. “Forgive me. I thought you’d heard. She is selling the townhouse.”
“Did she give a reason?”
“Her words were a mystery to me, but I believe she mentioned something about a painful lesson and a desire to let go of the past.” Lady Cosgrove shook her head slowly. “Now that you have me thinking, I remember that I was to pass along a message to you, Lord Thayne, stating that she fully intends to have the bank draft made out to you, since the house was yours, after all.”
Max gritted his teeth. He was not going to let her pay him for the house. If he allowed that, then it was like none of what had transpired since had even happened. And that Juliet was simply getting exactly what she’d wanted from him all along—to buy the house from him.
Now, the fact that she wasn’t going to live in the house that was four doors down from his mother bothered him to no end.
“And you’re sure he heard all of it? Every word?” Juliet asked when Zinnia returned later that evening, practically ambushing her in the foyer.
Zinnia nodded, removing her hat and gloves. “He spilled sherry everywhere.”
Good. That was definitely a good sign. “What about the news that I’m selling the house?”
“Completely incensed.”
Better and better.
“Was that muscle along his jaw ticking?”
“Violently,” Zinnia drawled.
Juliet smiled and embraced her cousin. “Now we simply have to wait for tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bram returned to Harwick House early Sunday morning as the family and servants were preparing to leave for church. Without any pomp or circumstance and still in his traveling clothes, he joined Max and Mother in the carriage.
While Mother was glad to receive him, Max would have preferred if he’d made an excuse to stay behind. After overhearing the conversation last night, Max guessed that Bram had learned the latest rumors from town and made certain to renew his addresses to Juliet.
And this time, Max was not going to be around to watch the spectacle.
“I did not expect your return for another two days,” Mother said to Bram as he brushed the travel dust from his trousers and onto Max’s shoes.
“I thought it unfair to accept Miss Leeds’s and her family’s hospitality when I am no longer certain she is the bride for me.”
“This is news, indeed,” Mother murmured with a trace of incredulity. “Have you decided to wait for a more appropriate time to marry?”
“Not at all.” Bram offered a half a shrug. “The truth is, I find that my heart is engaged elsewhere.”
This pretense of his brother’s was testing Max’s patience. “This does not happen to have any bearing on recent news regarding Lady Granworth, does it?”
“Recent news?” He lifted his brows in innocence and placed a hand over his heart. “I do not know what you mean. However, the name that you have spoken is the very same that plucks at the strings of this organ beneath my breast.”
“Then you have no idea that her fortune has returned to her.”
“No, indeed, little brother. I am merely here by her summons.” He withdrew a letter from his inner coat pocket and unfolded it. “She writes: ‘If you are able, then return to town at your earliest convenience, as I have an important announcement regarding my future marital arrangements.’ ”
Max reached across the carriage and snatched the letter out of Bram’s hand, expecting it to be an invention of his brother’s imagination. What he saw instead was confirmation of every word.
Juliet was planning to marry? No. This couldn’t be true. Max knew her too well.
When they pulled up to the church, Bram removed the note from Max’s numb grasp and slipped out of the carriage with a triumphant chuckle. “As I said before—when a woman mentions marriage, she is thinking about marriage.”
All through the service, Max sat stunned, waiting for it to end. He didn’t want to believe that Juliet had chosen to marry another, but her handwritten words proved otherwise. More disturbing was that she had sent the letter to Bram, as if she’d summoned him back to London with a single purpose in mind.
Then, at last, they were nearing the end of service. He could hear the restless shuffle of hymnals and reticules as the parishioners prepared to depart.
“This is the first reading of the banns,” the reverend began, his voice booming from pulpit, “for a holy union between Lady Granworth of Somerset and . . . ”
No! Max jumped to his feet in an instant. This couldn’t be happening. Was she truly intending to marry Bram?
Max wouldn’t allow it. Turning, he saw her sitting three rows behind in her usual place.
“The Marquess of . . . ”
She smiled at him, her eyes beaming like gems in the sunlight. She looked so happy, so in love, the way he’d always wished she would have looked at him.
And suddenly he knew that he could not ruin this for her. If she loved . . .
“Thayne of Lancashire,” the reverend concluded.
There was a collective gasp in the church that echoed up to the ceiling and down again, settling inside his chest. At first, Max didn’t think he’d heard it correctly. His ears were suddenly ringing.
“Should you know of any impediment . . . ”
Beside him, Bram stood too. “I believe you are mistaken, Reverend Thomas.”
The reverend looked at the card again and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Lady Granworth of Somerset to wed the Marquess of Thayne of Lancashire. Lady Granworth, is this correct?”
Now, Juliet stood. The church had gone so quiet that he could hear the rustle of her pink skirts.
“It is,” she said with a nod, still lo
oking at him—him!—with that glowing gaze. “In three weeks, Wednesday next, I will marry the Marquess of Thayne. The man I love.”
If his brain were functioning, he would have been stunned by her public declaration.
But his heart heard the most important part . . . she loved him.
“And Lord Thayne, is this correct?”
Max was already sidestepping his way out of the pew and striding down the aisle. He took her hand in his, feeling that this was exactly how it was always meant to be. “It is, but I might have to argue about the date.”
Already he’d imagined a dozen ways to coax her to the altar sooner.
She laughed, squeezing his hand. “Would you care to wager on that, Max?”
EPILOGUE
The Season Standard—the Daily Chronicle of Consequence
Dear readers, the day we have been anticipating for three weeks is here at last! Doubtless, many imagined that news of an elopement between our Lady G— and the Marquess of Th— would certainly preempt this morning’s planned ceremony. Reports abound of innumerable high-stakes wagers on the outcome. Scandalous!
This paper, however, suspected that our resident goddess and this Season’s Original would have her grand day. For rumor has it that a length of the finest blue satin was delivered to a certain house on Hanover Street, which is guaranteed to draw many a passerby to catch a glimpse of the bride on the pavement in front of St. George’s.
In other news, whispers regarding the sudden withdrawal of the Marquess of E—e . . .
“You cost me a hundred pounds, Thayne,” Jack Marlowe, Viscount Locke, growled, gripping Max’s shoulder with a broad fist. While his voice was gruff, the smirking eyes beneath his tawny brow were not. “Even Lilah thought you would elope with her cousin.”
Standing beside him in the violet parlor at Lady Cosgrove’s townhouse, Liam Cavanaugh, the Earl of Wolford, flashed a playfully threatening grin and clutched Max’s other shoulder. “Aye. And I doubled the wager, as Adeline wanted a gambling adventure, so now I am out two hundred pounds.”
When a Marquess Loves a Woman Page 22
