Scandal

by Heather Cullman

  For several seconds Julia continued to wrestle with her governing impulse, weighing the satisfaction of unburdening her affront against the endless lectures she would endure from doing so. At last judging the price of satisfaction too steep, she swallowed her withering riposte and forced what she hoped was a contrite expression on her face. "A thousand pardons, my lord," she said, willing herself to smile in her most beguiling manner. "I must confess to being quite diverted by the sights. The Gardens look exceptionally stunning this evening. Do you not agree?"

  Her apology had the calculated effect, for his lordship's pursed lips promptly curved into a most forgiving smirk. "Indeed they do look lovely, Julia, as do you," he drawled, his grasp tightening on her arm as he stumbled on the gravel paving for what must have been the tenth time that evening. It was his high-heeled shoes, of course, the lofty height of which made navigating the rough grade of the Vauxhall paths a very dangerous undertaking indeed. Though such heels had gone out of fashion for men years earlier, fops cursed by a lack of height occasionally still wore them.

  Now steady, thanks to his liberal use of Julia's arm as a handrail, his lordship added, "Did I tell you how vewy wadiant you are tonight? How youh eyes scintillate with the luminawy nitid of twin stahs, and how the incandescence of youh lucifewous smile eclipses the sun with its bwilliance?"

  He had not, but Lords Sothcott, Drewell, and Clapper had all presented that exact word bouquet to her at a ball given the night before. That meant she had either become exceedingly radiant of late, or that the line was the compliment du jour among the men of the ton. Guessing it to be the latter, she smiled with a delight she did not feel and tendered the same response she had given the other men. "I thank you for your charming speech, my lord, though I fear that it is unwarranted." A well-bred girl naturally displayed modesty when faced with effusive praise.

  "Nonsense, my dear," boomed her father, more dragging than escorting her doll-like mother in his rush to walk at their side. "His lordship speaks the truth. You look most radiant this evening. Why, you quite outshine every woman here tonight, except, of course, your dear mother." He patted the white-gloved hand clinging to his arm and smiled down at his wife, who simpered prettily in return. Now directing his attention to Lord Wolton, he added, "As you have no doubt heard, Wolton, our dearest Julia is considered to be an Incomparable by the ton."

  Julia cringed at her father's blatant exaggeration. While it was true that she was much admired by the ton, their regard came more from her well-bred manner and position as the Marquess of Stanwell's daughter than from any extraordinary physical beauty on her part. Oh, that was not to say that her looks were wanting. Truth be told, she was rather pleased by what she saw when she gazed in the mirror. For though she could not lay claim to having the brightest eyes, or the prettiest face, or the finest figure in London-those honors belonged to famous Helene and rightfully so-her looks were an agreeable blend of the physical attributes the ton currently held in favor. Add her rich dowry and Barham blood, which was said to be royal, and she never lacked for suitors.

  "I must say that you two look quite the thing together," contributed her mother, her nod mirrored by both her bouncing golden curls and the extravagant black plumes in her silver crepe turban. "Only see for yourself." She indicted a looking-glass alcove to their right.

  Never one to pass up an opportunity to preen, Lord Wolton promptly followed her directive, wheeling toward the alcove with an eagerness that made him come perilously close to losing his balance. Now viewing his reflection with open admiration, he murmured, "We do make a devilish fine couple. Do you not agwee, Julia, deah?"

  Julia obediently nodded, though as often was the case while in company, her actions in no way resembled her actual thoughts. Odd was the word that came to mind as she watched his lordship's pink-gloved hands adjust the frills at his throat and then smooth the lines of his awful coat. And it truly was awful. Indeed, whatever could have possessed him to have it made up in cloth in such a vile shade of prune?

  Gripped by horrified fascination, the kind one usually reserved for the sight of diseased beggars, Julia contemplated the hideous but fashionable garment in question.

  Apparently his tailor was not all that he should be, for the liberal padding in the chest and shoulders was easily detectable. Repressing her urge to make a face in distaste, she shifted her scrutiny to his waistcoat. Unlike Lord Wolton's coat, it met with her full approval. Made of gold tissue upon which was worked an ostentatious floral design of silver-gilt beads and green-and-pink foil spangles, his lordship's waistcoat was nothing short of a masterpiece. Of course, it was far more suited to a court visit than a concert at Vauxhall-as was the profusion of lace frills dripping from his wrists and neck. And while she was on the subject of his neck-

  Julia paused to consider his stiffly starched neckcloth, which extended over his chin in an obvious attempt to hide its weakness, then glanced at the cheeks above it. Goodness! Was that rouge she spied? Surely no one flushed such perfect crimson circles? Deciding that he had indeed been dipping into the rouge box, she moved on to what she judged as his rather nice green eyes, in spite of his tendency to squint, her gaze finally coming to rest on his flaxen hair. Someone, most probably his valet, had brushed it forward from his crown to frame his narrow face in an artistically stacked arrangement of tight curls.

  She was just wondering how many curling papers it had taken to achieve the elaborate coiffure, when his lordship noticed her studying him. Vainly mistaking her curiosity for admiration of his person, he smiled smugly.

  Julia saw her parents, who stood behind them and were thus reflected in the mirror as well, exchange a look of supreme satisfaction. "Yes. Fine," her mother echoed in a dulcet voice. "Then again, our Julia is always in looks. Why, just last week her hair was compared to gold reflecting the fire of sunset." Briefly touching one of the golden-red ringlets draped over Julia's shoulder, she continued, "Lord Busby compared her eyes to candlelit amber in his latest poem. Oh, and Sir Ludlow said that her teeth-"

  "We all look particularly fine this evening," interrupted Julia, who was rather beginning to feel like a horse on the auction block. Not about to be sold to Lord Wolton for any price, she changed the subject by saying, "I heard you mention earlier that you purchased a new gig, Lord Wolton. Do tell us all about it as we walk to the orchestra rotunda." If his lordship were like every other man in the ton, he would seize the opportunity to brag about his new acquisition.

  True to form, his lordship wasted no time in sharing the particulars of his new highflier, as the fashionable high-wheeled phaetons were called, describing every detail in depth, all the way down to the exact sheen of the varnish used on the undercarriage. He had just launched into a tedious description of the horses he had purchased to pull it, when she heard a feminine voice more bellow than call, "Julia? Julia Barham! Do wait!" Amy. Of course. No one else in her acquaintance had the audacity to hail her in such a bold manner. Following the sound of the voice, she turned, smiling at Amy as her friend raced to where she stood. By the expression on Amy's face, it was clear that she was bursting with news. Following close on her heels in a blur of drab brown skirts was Amy's beleaguered abigail, Miss Philpot.

  "Oh, Julia!" Amy cried, showering gravel hither and thro as she came to a skidding stop. "You will never guess who Papa brought with us this evening." She was practically dancing in her excitement.

  "Lady Amy! You will address Lord and Lady Stanwell this very instant," Miss Philpot chided between huffing breaths. With her spare figure, brisk manner, and careworn face that looked frozen with infinite disapproval, Miss Philpot was the exact sort of dragon one thought of when they heard the word "abigail."

  Amy had the good grace to look chastened as she dropped a pretty curtsy and murmured an appropriate greeting. That formality completed, she again looked at Julia. "As I was saying-"

  "And Lord Wolton," Miss Philpot prompted in a severe tone. "Really, Lady Amy, I simply do not know where your manners have fl
own tonight to ignore a gentleman in such a fashion."

  Judging from the way Amy wrinkled her nose at the command, it was not so much a lack of manners but a hearty dislike of his lordship that made her ignore him. Nonetheless, she did as directed, after which she widened her eyes at her abigail in exasperated query. Miss Philpot nodded primly. "Very well, Lady Amy. You may speak with Lady Julia. But please do remember that you are a lady and refrain from making a spectacle of yourself."

  Always one who knew the side on which her bread was buttered, Amy inclined her head in agreement and then turned her attention back to the party before her. Now the very picture of demure maidenhood, she sweetly implored, "If you please, Lord and Lady Stanwell"-she smiled and nodded at Julia's parents-"Lord Wolton"-a nod in his direction, but no smile-"might Julia be permitted to walk with me for a moment? I have ever so much to tell her, and I do not wish to bore you with my silly chatter. I promise that we shall stay close at hand." Though her supplication was innocent enough, Julia could see from the gleam in her eyes that she was up to her usual mischief.

  A quick, urgent glance passed between Julia's parents, as if each were demanding that the other think of an excuse to keep Julia trapped in Lord Wolton's company. Before either could speak, his lordship answered for them. "I was about to explain the pahticulahs of handling the weins. In view of the fact that Julia is unlikely to undewstand such complexity, I see no weason why she should not walk with heh little fwiend." He fluttered his hand in a patronizing gesture of dismissal.

  Without waiting for his blessing to be echoed by Julia's parents, Amy grasped her friend's arm and unceremoniously hauled her away. Giggling, she mimicked, "Since Julia is unlikely to undewstand such complexity, I see no weason why she should not walk with heh little fwiend." Another giggle. "The stiff-rumped fribble, or I suppose that I should say stiff-wumped fwibble." A snort. "Does he not make your foot itch to kick him?"

  "Hush, Amy. He might hear you," Julia cautioned, casting an uneasy glance back to where his lordship now pantomimed his driving technique to her parents. Miss Philpot walked several paces behind her and Amy, eyeing a nearby cluster of foxed rakes with an expression daunting enough to stop them cold as they surged forward to accost the young ladies in her charge.

  Amy shrugged one lilac-satin-clad shoulder, unconcerned by the notion of offending Lord Wolton. Now looping her arm through Julia's, she said, "You know as well as I that his lordship is far too involved in dazzling himself with his own brilliance to take note of anything that we feebleminded females might say. That fact aside, can you truly claim to have never suffered from the urge to kick him, especially when he flaps on about the inferiority of the feminine mind?"

  "Well, no," Julia admitted with a sheepish grin.

  Amy nodded her satisfaction. "I must confess to being relieved. For a moment, I feared that it might be H for Hartshorn after all. Speaking of the letter H" -she hugged Julia's arm in hers, her face animated with renewed excitement-"you shall never in a thousand years guess who Papa brought with us this evening."

  "I am sure I cannot," Julia replied. And it was true. Any number of people, men, in particular, could have elicited such ebullience from Amy.

  "Guess," her friend demanded, giving the arm she held an insistent tug.

  Julia made a helpless gesture with her free hand. "Umm. Let me think. Is it Mr. Crawford? I believe you said that your father commissioned him to renovate his bank on Threadneedle Street." As everyone in their set knew, Amy thought Mr. Joshua Crawford, one of London's leading architects, to be beyond dashing. And since Mr. Crawford was the youngest son of Seymour Crawford, a viscount of no small

  means, he was of high enough society to be publicly hosted by Amy's hierarchy-conscious father.

  "No. No! I said H," Amy exclaimed in an exasperated voice. "Think, Julia, think!"

  Julia did exactly that, her mind running over the short list of men in the ton whose surnames began with an H. Finding none with the attributes to put Amy in such a pucker, she sighed and shook her head. "I give up. Who is it?"

  Amy hugged her arm so hard that Julia feared she would have a bruise from it on the morrow. "It is H, as in Harwood!"

  "What!" Julia came to an abrupt halt, stunned that Amy's widowed father would not only play host to a man of such questionable reputation, but would also allow his young daughter to act as hostess. Certain that she had misheard, she clarified, "Are you saying that your father is here in the company of Mr. Gideon Harwood- the Gideon Harwood?"

  Amy's head bobbed up and down in a dizzying motion. "Yes. Yes! Papa invited him to join us tonight and oh! He is ever so wonderful. Come, you must let me have Papa introduce him to you."

  Meet Gideon Harwood? Julia's heart seemed to freeze in her chest. It was unthinkable-impossible! After the mortifying way in which she had run him down at Mr. Lackington's bookshop-heavens! What he must think of her! Besides, what use could she possibly have for such an acquaintance? Since he would never be a part of her set, the introduction would serve only as an inconvenience, saddling her with the obligation to acknowledge and perhaps even converse with him should they accidentally meet in the future. And what could she possibly have to say to such a worldly man that would not make her sound like an utter ninny? Worse yet, what would the ton have to say should they spy her speaking to him? Considering the nature of the speculation about him, she could only imagine how tongues would wag.

  Yet how could she not meet the man who fascinated her so? And she had to admit that she was fascinated to no end by him-by his mystery, by his physicality, by the beguiling masculinity of his presence. He was so unlike anyone she had ever met before, foreign and exotic, a world apart from herself and her dull, sheltered existence. Indeed, she could not remember a time in her admittedly untried life when she had been so attracted to a man.

  And there lay the crux of her resistance to meeting him: She was frightened of the intensity of her attraction to him. Not, of course, that he posed any real danger to her heart. Being of such disparate stations, nothing could ever come from her attraction, not even if she wished it, which she most assuredly did not. No, it all came down to the fact that she disliked the feelings he aroused in her. They bewildered and unnerved her, making her feel helpless and out of control. And she hated feeling helpless.

  "Come." Amy gave Julia's abused arm another tug. "I promised to meet them at the orchestra rotunda."

  "Well . . ." Julia vacillated, grappling for a reason, any excuse at all, to avoid meeting the unsettling man. Desperate now, she glanced back at her parents, hoping to see them signaling for her return to their fold. Better to suffer Lord Wolton's tedium than the sensations she feared would overcome her in Mr. Harwood's presence. To her dismay, her parents seemed caught up in his lordship's performance and paid her no mind at all.

  As she looked away again, Miss Philpot approached. "Lady Julia?"

  Julia smiled at the woman, praying she carried news that would provide for her escape. "Miss Philpot?"

  "Your parents bade me to inform you that you may walk to the orchestra rotunda with Lady Amy. They will meet you there."

  "Oh, perfect!" Amy squealed. "Come. I simply cannot wait for you to meet him."

  Feeling as if the air had been knocked from her, Julia allowed herself to be pulled into the opulently garbed current of humanity that now streamed toward the beckoning organ music that wafted through the light-festooned trees.

  Down the Grand Walk they were swept, past the curved arcade of gaily lit supper boxes, in which visitors could enjoy the Garden's legendary fare, and through the Piazza, an imposing domed structure that boasted a spectacular chandelier with seventy-two lamps. Glancing back as they passed out of the Piazza and into the Grove, where the orchestra rotunda was erected, Julia noted that Miss Philpot remained close at their heels. Her parents and Lord Wolton, however, were nowhere to be seen, swallowed up in the surging swell of plumed headdresses and flower coronets.

  Only half listening as Amy chattered on about
the gown she was to wear at an upcoming ball, Julia stepped into the Grove. Formed by a quadrangle of colonnades and illuminated by fifteen hundred globe lamps that sparkled among the foliage like fallen stars, the Grove was a dreamlike vision that made one long to pinch oneself to confirm that one was indeed awake. In the center of the chimerical vista, set like the solitary jewel in a fairy queen's crown, was the lavish orchestra rotunda.

  As Julia and Amy joined the throng gathered before the rotunda, Amy frowned and said, "I was to meet Papa and Mr. Harwood to the left of the stage, but I do not-oh, there they are."

  Julia looked in the direction of Amy's nod, her heart jumping to her throat as she spied the men, who stood slightly apart from the crowd, engaged in an animated conversation. Though Amy's father was by no means a small man, he seemed almost dwarfed by Gideon Harwood's remarkable height, as did the other men present. Then again, there wasn't a man in London who would not fade into insignificance next to Mr. Harwood's imposing figure, Julia decided, smitten anew with awe. Still far enough away to observe him without him noticing her doing so, she allowed her gaze to roam over his splendor, noting every detail of his appearance.

  He wore an exquisitely tailored black coat that was cut away in the front to reveal a waistcoat of silver silk embroidered with an intricate striped pattern of black and red scrolls. Layered beneath the waistcoat was an under waistcoat of gleaming scarlet satin, its high-rolled collar creating a bright frame of color that drew the eye to his neckcloth.

  Unlike Lord Wolton and many of the other men in attendance tonight, Mr. Harwood had forgone frills, choosing instead a plain neckcloth, which he wore tied in a perfect knot beneath his strong chin. The contrast of the stark white linen against his sun-bronzed skin was dramatic, to say the least. Unable to make out the rest of his face for the shadows, Julia dropped her gaze, shocked to find herself perusing his unmentionable regions.

  Though she normally tried not to notice such places, she could not tear her gaze away from his snug pearl-gray breeches, and the fascinating way they clung to his muscular hips and thighs . . . and other places. As Amy had commented the morning of the snail experiment, there was no doubt whatsoever as to which sex he belonged. The indelicate thought had just crossed her mind when she heard the author of the observation giggle. Suddenly aware that she gawked, Julia flushed and looked away.