The Fictitious Marquis

by Alina Adams

  "How truly wonderful it is to see you again, Julia." Both of Gavin's thumbs gently rubbed the backs of her fingers as he clutched her hands in greeting.

  She hadn't the strength to respond. Julia's tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, blocking any words from escaping her lips.

  Were it up to her, she might have felt content in their merely continuing to stand as is for all of eternity, but Gavin, gentleman that he was raised, politely turned aside, loosening his grip on one of Julia's hands so that he might gesture with his free arm. "Surely, you remember my bride."

  Miss Emma Trent—no, Julia corrected herself, she was Lady Emma Neff, now—greeted her with a display that, while certainly conforming to every rule of ton etiquette, could hardly have been described as overflowing with sincerity or warmth. She said all the right things. She smiled. But the expression never quite reached her eyes. And, despite being a good two inches shorter than Julia, the new Lady Neff nevertheless conveyed the impression of surveying Julia from some lofty mountaintop only she were allowed on.

  "So, then." Realizing that neither woman was about to help make polite conversation, Gavin took the responsibility upon himself. "Julia, tell us of all that is new since our absence."

  As a gesture of his familiarity with the household, Gavin settled on the same windowsill where he and Julia, in the years before he'd gone off to school, had often sat reading. Immediately, Lady Emma rose from where she'd been critically examining the spinet, and moved to perch beside Gavin, so that there might be no more room on the sill.

  To Julia's judgement, the act was thoroughly unnecessary. Not to mention deliberately provoking. Lady Emma's obvious show of possession might have been warranted if she were in any danger whatsoever of losing Gavin to another woman. But she most certainly was not. She was Gavin's wife now, and no one could change that fact even if they wanted to. Which, all in all, convinced Julia that Lady Emma's leap from spinet to windowsill was prompted by nothing more than her malicious need to remind Julia just who it was that had finally won Gavin.

  Furious, both at Lady Emma and at Gavin for marrying such a chit, Julia recovered her tongue long enough to blurt out the one answer to Gavin's polite inquiry sure to make them both take notice. Casually, she informed the man she loved, "Oh, Gavin, have you not heard? I am to be married."

  Perhaps if Jamie had been better at doing as he was told, he might have managed to circumvent his most recent holiday at Newgate Prison. However, seeing as how obedience had never made up a particularly prominent chunk of his character, Jamie waited a good three and one half seconds after Julia left the dining room before completely disregarding her orders.

  Instead of sneaking off to his room as she had demanded, Jamie instead snuck down the hallways in silent pursuit. Luckily, Julia was so preoccupied with hurrying to greet her visitors that she did not notice him following behind at thirty paces.

  But, then again, maybe she did. Because the moment Julia stepped into the parlor, she closed the door soundly behind her.

  Now Jamie was faced with a pair of options. He could shrug his shoulders and utter "C'est la vie." Or he could continue with his quest to discover just what sort of unexpected guest was capable of throwing Miss Julia Highsmith, a lady courageous enough to brave a solo journey into London's East End, into such a tizzy. In the end, the decision over what to do was an easy enough one for Jamie to make. To start with, he did not speak any French.

  Ignoring queer glances from the pair of maids walking down the hall, carrying armfuls of bed linens, Jamie attempted pressing his ear against the door.

  Nothing.

  The hand-carved wood, with its intricate crest of lions bearing crowns on their heads and knights charging into battle, must have been a good five inches thick. The only sounds Jamie could hear were the scratches of his own fingernails on the fine sanding.

  He squatted down on all fours, inhaling enough floor shellack to insure his lungs gleaming just as brightly as the finely polished floor, and proceeded to peer through the crack below the door. All he could spy was a pair of men's Hessian boots, a tassel dangling from the V-shaped front. It reminded him of the silken cord dangling discreetly in the dining room, for the summoning of staff. Fleetingly, Jamie wondered what he might summon if he mischievously decided to tug on this gentleman's boot tassel.

  But there was no time for further pondering of the matter when, in the next instant, Jamie distinctively heard Julia's voice from inside the parlor. "Oh, Gavin, have you not heard? I am to be married."

  "Why, Julia, how wonderful!" The fellow with the boots, the one she had called Gavin, exclaimed, "Do tell us all about him."

  "Oh, yes," Jamie whispered, "Do, Julia."

  "He is very handsome." He heard Julia stand up and pace the room as she continued to extol Jamie's alleged virtues. "And such a wit. I daresay you will find him no equal in all of England."

  "And what of his family, Miss Highsmith?" As far as Jamie could discern, the third voice inside the room belonged to a woman who didn't so much speak, as languidly purr every word. "Surely, you are marrying a man of peerage. A baron, at the very least. Or perhaps a duke? A count? An earl?"

  "Why, my dear Lady Neff, it is very kind of you to worry about my future position. But, fear not, I shall be very well provided for." Julia paused for a moment, drawing out the tension to its highest possible peek, before lowering her voice and cautioning, "Of course, you must both swear to keep this in the greatest of confidences until I am ready to make the official announcement."

  "Of course, of course," Lord Gavin sounded in a most peculiar hurry to hear her news. Almost as if he held some sort of personal stake in the matter. "You have my word as a gentleman, Julia."

  "I appreciate that, Gavin." She paused for a second time, and Jamie could practically hear Julia smiling—or was she merely reconsidering the impetuousness of her actions?—as she revealed, "My betrothed, you see, is a marquis."

  4

  "Truly, Julia, I believe that you have taken leave of your last senses." Salome sat before her mirror, attempting to roll hair as wild and curly as Julia's into a tight widow's bun.

  Her niece stood, back pressed to the door, guilt wrestling for control of her expression with the equally powerful forces of mischief and self-defense. "It was the first title I could think of. After all, we had spoken of the marquis of Martyn only a few hours past. I suppose the memory of it stayed in my head."

  Salome said, "Perhaps it occupied the place where your common sense once used to reside."

  "Are you very cross with me, Aunt Salome?" The hand behind Julia's back nervously twisted the doorknob this way and that, so that their conversation was counterpointed by a rhythmic clicking.

  "Cross? Cross? My darling niece, I have passed cross so long ago, that I no longer even see it from where I am standing. For what I am feeling at present, there exists no word to describe."

  "I had to tell Gavin something. You should have heard the way Lady Emma spoke to me." Julia took a step forward, releasing the knob, and bringing both hands in front of her, anxiously rubbing one palm against the other while, in a small voice, she said, "I have been thinking, Aunt Salome."

  "No, my dear, I truly don't believe that you have."

  "You said that the marquis of Martyn were a dear friend of yours, did you not? And that he never married?"

  "No, Julia." Salome stood up, snapping her jar of powder closed with such force, it raised a minor snowstorm on her bureau.

  "But you did not yet even hear what I intended to ask."

  "No." Salome repeated, turning to face her niece. "I will not use my twenty-year acquaintance with the marquis of Martyn to bully him into adopting that criminal you dragged home from the gallows."

  "But he does not have to adopt him. He just needs to pretend for a bit. The marquis rarely goes out in society, so it isn't as if he will be asked many questions. All he has to do is agree—no, actually, even less, all he has to do is not deny it when we present Jamie as his . . . hi
s cousin, or nephew, or something of that sort. He does not need to honestly make Jamie his heir. He just needs to go along with our pretense for a very little while. And I can even pay him for it. Anything he likes."

  Julia took it as a positive sign when, finally, Salome didn't immediately deny her request. "You must give me some time to think about this, Julia."

  "As much time as you like. Only, I really did plan to take Jamie riding in Hyde Park next week. So that I might start introducing him around as my fiancé."

  "Next week, did you say?" Salome looked at her reflection in the mirror, ripping out each hair-pin one by one, needing to start all over again. "I suppose I should be grateful that you did not say this morning."

  "Good morning, Mr. Lowell."

  Jamie rubbed the sleep out of his eyes just in time to see Moses drop a dozen pounds of clothing across his chest, then announce, "Miss Highsmith wishes you to try these on for size."

  But Jamie was reluctant to move. He had spent his first night at Julia's home marveling at the sheer softness of the linen-covered pillow under his head, and at the way his blanket smelled so sweetly of lilac and powder. Only at dawn had he finally allowed himself to sink into sleep, still fearful that a new day might prove the previous one a most horrible sort of nightmare—the sort that initially masquerades as a dream.

  "If it does not disturb your beauty rest too greatly, Mr. Lowell, I would ask that you proceed to do as bade. Today."

  He blinked to clear his vision, and focused on the image of Julia leaning against the far wall of his room. She wore a green muslin frock with pale lace along the hem, bodice, and sleeves. Her ebony hair lay plaited back off her face, and fastened with a matching spring ribbon, the shade of which brought out a pinkish tinge to her cheeks, and made her eyes seem so black that they appeared almost blue.

  On any other woman, Jamie would have conceded the package to be attractive. But, in the case of Julia Highsmith, he was willing to make an exception to the favorable estimate. Because, in the case of Julia Highsmith, every pleasant feature was permanently overshadowed by her mouth, which never ceased moving.

  Still, Jamie reminded himself wryly, when it came to this young woman, his task were to continue acting pleasant, as if his life depended on it.

  She said, "The clothes belonged to my late father, so I doubt that they might prove exactly your size. We shall need to see about acquiring some more appropriate attire at a later date. Do get on with the business of wearing them, Mr. Lowell. We have quite a lot of ground to cover today."

  Back home, the accepted response to such a cheeky, high-handed order would be—with all due respect, of course—to stand up and elegantly spit at the silly chit. The only factor that presently prevented Jamie from starting off his morning in that particular manner was the minor fact that, if she so wished it, the chit in question could happily send Jamie back to prison.

  And that would be a very bad thing indeed.

  From the moment he'd looked up through the swinging trap door at his hangman, Jamie vowed never again to make a return trip up the platform. In that instant, he hadn't yet known how such a goal might be accomplished. But now he did. All Jamie had to do to avoid the noose forever was please Miss Highsmith.

  And, luckily, pleasing women just happened to be what Jamie did best.

  Only there was a slight wrinkle. Despite her seemingly honest demeanor, Jamie possessed no guarantee that, once he'd fulfilled her purpose, Julia Highsmith might not get it in her head to send him right back to the gallows, if only to insure Jamie's mouth staying permanently shut regarding their deception.

  He had no intention of allowing that to happen. Jamie was prepared to do, or say, anything to prevent it. And, at the moment, only a single, obvious plan of defense was coming to mind.

  Still refusing to budge, Jamie pawed through the mass dumped across his lap, pulling out a pair of black pantaloons and a deep green, many-caped driving coat with golden buttons. He remarked in all apparent innocence, "Gor, these certainly are fine clothes, m'lady. Why, I daresay, they're fair bang up the marker fine enough for a marquis."

  At least his observation proved enough to close that pair of strawberry-red lips for a good ten seconds. Julia stifled a gasp, blushing and pursing her brow as she wondered if Jamie knew . . . How could he know? And, finally, how much did he know?

  Flustered, she exclaimed, "For goodness sake, Mr. Lowell, do confess to what purpose it is that you delight in taunting me so?"

  Actually, Jamie was wondering the exact same thing right about now. He wished he could answer that question, not only for her sake, but for his own as well. A reasonable man might think that, for the sake of self-preservation if nothing else, Jamie should be trying to stay on Miss Highsmith's good side, not needlessly aggravating her. And yet, from the moment they'd met, Julia Highsmith had provoked a most violent reaction in Jamie. But it was one he felt hard-pressed to apply a verb or even an adjective to. The fact of the matter was, he felt incapable of remaining indifferent to her presence.

  "I was merely making polite conversation, Miss Highsmith."

  "Or you overheard my exchange with Lord Gavin and his wife, and are now attempting to embarrass me with my own false boasting."

  "Or that."

  Julia raised her palms to shoulder level. "So. You heard. But I simply could not stand the manner in which Lady Emma posed her questions. She goaded me into the lie."

  "But you provoked it, by offering news of your marriage."

  "That was the Lord's truth."

  "Your marriage to a marquis?"

  She tossed her hair lightly over one shoulder. "I knew that I would eventually need to conjure up some sort of title for you, in order to satisfy my uncle. In this manner, the decision was made for me. All's well that ends well."

  "Except for one minuscule detail, Miss Highsmith."

  "Well, yes. But I intend to worry about that snag at another time. Presently, I am more interested in seeing how you fit those clothes. We must have you looking like a gentleman, before I begin the Herculean task of teaching you to sound and act like one."

  "Very well, then." Still modeling a face innocent enough to twin an angel's, Jamie threw off his blankets, setting one bare foot upon the hardwood floor.

  "Good gracious, Mr. Lowell," Moses snatched at the covers and tossed them back over Jamie's legs. "There is a lady present."

  Jamie turned to Julia. "The lady told me to dress. Today, I believe the command was."

  He didn't dare look to see how his attempt at appropriating some sort of upper hand with Miss Julia Highsmith was faring. Dressed only in his nightshirt, Jamie rose from the bed, stretching languidly. He pretended to yawn, thus necessitating closing his eyes, and avoiding Julia's gaze for a few more moments. It gave her more time to look. And to realize that it wasn't only Jamie's silver tongue that had so charmed the ladies of his past.

  Finally, he turned his head sideways, no longer able to bear the suspense, and snuck a peek at Julia. She still stood against the wall, not even bothering to turn her head in propriety. But her sable eyes remained stubbornly blank. She might as well have been staring at nothing.

  Jamie bit down on his lower lip, and exhaled in frustration with such force, it made the bangs on his forehead fly up.

  That's it, he decided to himself. The lady is pure icicle, straight down to the core.

  "Well?" Jamie entered the drawing room without knocking, and turned sideways, offering Julia a thorough view of his new clothes. "How do I look?"

  He only asked to be polite. Because, after admiring himself in an upstairs mirror, Jamie felt that he really didn't need Julia's assessment. He knew how he looked. Even in clothes half a size too small, he looked good.

  In point of fact, he'd never looked better in his life.

  Despite Jamie's general disdain for the fashions of the aristocracy, he had to admit that they made up in attractiveness what they lacked in practicality. The tight-fitting pantaloons emphasized his muscular figure, wh
ile the glossy black waistcoat and top hat made him appear taller. And smarter. The clothes, Jamie thought, made him look like Somebody.

  And that, after all, was all Jamie had ever wanted to be. Because it was the one thing everyone predicted would never happen.

  His father used to tell the neighbors that his no-good wrong-un of a son would be in prison before he made it into long pants. He insisted to anyone who would listen that the boy was daft, and a fool to boot. Sometimes, Jamie wondered if the reason he'd finally turned to thieving and swindling was because that was exactly what everyone expected him to do.

  With one expertly pointed finger, Julia bade for Jamie to stand in the center of the room while she walked all around him, studying Jamie from every possible angle. She clicked her tongue against her teeth, cocking her head first to one side, then another, and pursing her lips.

  "Well, then?" Jamie demanded. He could feel the confidence of only a moment earlier withering away under her gaze.

  "Presentable," she conceded. "You appear presentable."

  "Only appear, m'lady?"

  "There's more to being a gentleman, Mr. Lowell, than merely pulling on a pair of Wellington boots."

  Julia lectured, "You must always wait to be introduced to a lady, before you may speak to her . . ."

  "Even if she is about to be run down by a phaeton?"

  ". . . At a formal dinner, it is imperative that you make equally polite and animated conversation with both the lady on your right, as well as on your left . . ."

  "Now would that be with, or without, my mouth full?"

  ". . . Stand up when a lady enters or leaves the room . . ."

  "What if a pair decide to do so simultaneously? Do I bob up and down, or merely hop in place?"

  ". . . It would not harm you to learn up a bit on fox hunting, so that you may make conversation with the other gentlemen . . ."

  "Gentlemen foxes, m'lady?"