The Fictitious Marquis

by Alina Adams

  As he moved into the drawing room, he heard, behind him, Collin Highsmith whisper to his niece, "I do not like this, Julia. I do not like this one bit."

  7

  For a man who did not like him one bit, the duke of Alamain certainly took great pains to ask Jamie what sort of sherry he preferred, to offer him a cigar, and to favor his niece's intended with a brief history of the Highsmith family.

  Pretending to be deeply engrossed in the tale, Jamie arranged his features in a show of attentiveness, all the while proceeding to study his surroundings. Because, without a doubt, this manor was by far the grandest home he'd ever been in.

  Starting off in a single-room hovel, and then proceeding to charm his way gradually upward by means of the daughters of the middle class—merchants, clergymen, civil officials, and the like—still never prepared Jamie for the life enjoyed by England's aristocracy. If he had believed Julia's home something to behold, then her uncle's residence quite simply made him dizzy.

  Instead of a single crystal chandelier, this room hung three, every piece of glass a work of art within itself. The furniture stood covered with a rich, velvet-textured black damask. The intricately carved wood gleamed from a decade of conscientious polishing. Two mirrors, each in a flowering golden frame, hung on opposing walls, making the room appear filled with an infinite amount of treasures.

  And the quiet. Despite all he had already seen, it was the peace and serenity of these isolated manor houses that still appealed to Jamie the most. No couples breaking rolling pins over each other's heads, no drunks staggering home and passing out in the alleys, no peddlers hawking their wares at the tops of their lungs. Until he'd come to the country, Jamie had possessed no idea that birds actually made an audible sound when they opened their mouths. And such a pleasant sound at that.

  Which, sadly, was more than Jamie could say for the duke of Alamain. For the next ten minutes, Julia's uncle droned on and on about no topic in particular, requiring nothing more of Jamie than an occasional nod of the head.

  Swishing the sherry about in his decanter, the duke took a final swallow, throwing his head back and sucking the final drop out of his glass, before finally turning towards the matter at hand. "You seem like a fine lad," he said. "Good future, fine family, a pleasant income and title to look forward to. Yes, yes, don't look so surprised. I've heard quite a bit about you these past weeks. All of it favorable, let me assure you. Why, all of London is talking about the marquis of Martyn's charming nephew."

  Jamie made a note to compliment Salome on her handiwork.

  "So, tell me then, why in the world would you want to marry my niece?"

  "Because I love her, sir," Jamie answered with the sincerity of someone who'd been practicing for such a question all week.

  "So? What matters that?" The duke moved to stand beside the fireplace, underneath a nearly life-size portrait of himself in leaner days. "Why should a promising young gentleman like yourself wish to tie himself down with the likes of Julia?"

  "I do not understand, sir." A moment ago, Jamie had come in expecting to be asked to defend himself. Now, he was facing the task of speaking up on Julia's behalf.

  "The girl has no positive attributes. She is stubborn, rude, argumentative, domineering, surly, ill-mannered, and, Lord help us all, how that girl can talk in circles until even the strongest go begging for mercy."

  "You say that as if it were a bad trait." Jamie offered the duke his most innocent, beguiling smile.

  The Duke peered at him queerly. "You find her complete lack of decorum charming, do you, Mr. Lowell?"

  "In all honesty," Jamie was surprised to realize how true the words sounded to his ears, "those are exactly the traits I find most appealing about your niece."

  "Hrmph." Twice, in ten minutes. Jamie really must be displeasing His Grace now. Apparently exasperated with his young guest's refusal to follow the prepared text for this dialogue, the duke drew his chair closer to Jamie's, leaning over until they were practically sitting face to face, and whispered, "The girl comes from bad blood, you know."

  "Bad blood?" The only bad blood Jamie knew of, was the kind that refused to stop dripping from your nose, mouth, or eye after a tavern brawl. "What sort of bad blood?"

  "Suffice it be for me to explain that my brother, God rest his soul, made a most unwise choice in his marriage. He wed for love, you understand. The girl was thoroughly unsuitable. I am afraid that Lyle was a bit like Julia in some respects. Absolutely impossible to stop once a particular bee landed in his bonnet. They were able to hide the truth, of course. He forbade her to so much as speak of it to another living soul. But, well, I feel that it is my duty as a gentleman to warn you. There's bad blood on the mother's side, Mr. Lowell."

  "Is that why Julia refused Lord Neff's proposal?"

  All three of the duke's chins wagged in synchronized surprise. "Told you about that, did she?"

  "Julia and I are very honest with one another." We only lie to everyone else.

  The duke nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed. I counseled her to do so. You cannot begin to imagine the scandal and heartache it would have caused Gavin if the truth ever came out. Why, he would have been ruined. Absolutely ruined. And his children. Goodness gracious, it might have meant the end of the entire Neff line."

  Considering how long and how hard she had been staring at the drawing room door, Julia felt the least she ought to be able to do was see through it by now. Or at least hear through it.

  What could Jamie and Uncle Collin possibly be talking about this entire time? All the duke needed to do was utter either yea or a nay to the marriage. How long could such a simple task take?

  Surely, after the fiction Jamie had performed for Hitch and the marquis's benefit, how hard could it be to pass for a living, breathing peer?

  Julia shivered, remembering just how real Jamie's death act had seemed. A second after Hitch fired, Jamie actually flew backwards, landing on the ground in a crumpled, seemingly lifeless heap. His performance was so good, Julia actually imagined that she had seen the bullet enter his body. She imagined she saw the blood that came spurting out of his chest on point of impact.

  She'd wanted to scream then. But, like in the worst of nightmares, no sound was forthcoming. She wanted to run to him, pick him up off the ground, tend to his wounds, and beg Jamie not to die. But, in the end, Julia did none of those things.

  She tried to tell herself that it was due to fear. Her legs felt rooted to the spot, cold, and as heavy as two columns of Roman marble. She couldn't move, much less run anywhere. Her breath stayed trapped in her throat, also frozen into a block of ice that refused to move either up or down. Her head spun, necessitating Julia's grabbing onto a tree branch for support. That was why she could not follow her heart and run to Jamie. At least, that was what Julia spent the last week trying to convince herself was the reason. But even she no longer believed her own rationalizations. Because Julia knew that the reason she had stayed where she was, even as she stood convinced that Jamie were bleeding to death in front of her eyes, was because Julia felt terrified of running to Jamie, only to have him reject her. She couldn't bear the humiliation of reaching out to Jamie and having him push her away.

  And yet, the impulse to do so was undeniable.

  So, naturally, Julia fought it by treating Jamie shabbily.

  So that he would grow angry with her.

  Because it was a great deal easier for Julia to keep her distance from him when Jamie was shouting at her, than when he was acting as sweet and compassionate as he had during the ride back from the marquis's house. In fact, if Julia had her way, Jamie might remain perpetually cross in her presence, so that he might not seem any more appealing to Julia than he already was.

  After what felt like a decade of nervous waiting, but, in actuality was barely three quarters of an hour, the drawing room doors finally opened, and her uncle returned to the foyer, followed by an uncharacteristically somber Jamie.

  Immediately, Julia feared the worst. They
had been denied, found out, exposed. And yet, her uncle didn't appear angry. In point of fact, he was positively beaming with self-satisfaction.

  "Well?" Julia demanded, looking from the duke to Jamie. "Have you come to an agreement?"

  "Not yet," Jamie said. "Your uncle tells me that he still needs to give some more thought to this matter."

  "Thought? Thought? What is there to think about?" Julia shouted her queries so loud, Isaac warned her to stop, lest she spook the horses. Slamming the carriage door shut behind them, Julia demanded of Jamie, "What did he say, exactly? Did he sound well disposed to your proposal? Did he sound skeptical?"

  "He sounded," Jamie told her truthfully, "like someone who wishes to make sure that you never marry."

  "Don't be daft. Why in the world would my uncle not . . ." Julia's voice trailed off as even she recognized the obvious. Slowly, she said, "He does not want to pass on my inheritance. He wants all of my father's lands and wealth for himself."

  "That would be my guess, yes."

  Julia fought the instinct to order Isaac to turn around and head back to her uncle's home, so that she might throttle him. Instead, she settled for asking, "What did he tell you? To keep you from wanting to marry me?"

  Jamie fidgeted, hesitantly running his tongue against his upper lip before answering, "He told me that there was bad blood on your mother's side of the family. That it had been passed on to you. And that you would, in turn, pass it on to your children."

  Bad blood.

  He'd told her as much six months past, when Julia came running to her uncle, dizzy from the thrill of Gavin's proposal, and so certain that the duke would give his consent to her marriage that she'd never even contemplated what Julia might do if he refused.

  But he didn't refuse. That was Collin Highsmith's brilliance. Instead of forbidding his niece to marry Gavin Neff, he merely warned her against it. Cryptic, at first, forcing her to all but beg for details, then, finally, with an oh-so-sincere sigh of regret, the Duke confessed all.

  About Julia's mother. About Salome. And about Julia herself.

  She hadn't believed him.

  He told her to ask Aunt Salome.

  And it were Salome who, after cursing her brother-in-law with words Julia never even suspected the older woman of knowing, much less uttering, confirmed Uncle Collin's tale. Bad blood.

  The phrase echoed and multiplied in Julia's brain until she feared it overflowing. Of course, to Uncle Collin, that is exactly what it was. He had despised her mother. And he had cursed Lyle for dooming them all to living in constant fear of discovery.

  Cautiously, Jamie inquired, "What did he mean, then, your uncle? About the bad blood? What was he talking about?"

  "That," the answer came automatically to Julia, "is none of your concern, Mr. Lowell."

  "Fine." Jamie crossed his arms and turned away.

  Was he pouting again, or merely complying? With Jamie, it were so hard to tell just what was going on behind those infuriating eyes. His pupils were a shade of blue so light, they reminded Julia of brightly gleaming mirrors. No matter how deeply she peered into them, all she saw back was a noncommittal reflection. Every sincere emotion, she suspected, was firmly locked up behind that impenetrable mask.

  He said, "Your uncle's words may be none of my business, but his actions most certainly are. He is determined to prevent your ever marrying. When he realized that I was not about to be frightened away, he appeared ready to simply veto our union."

  Julia grabbed Jamie's arm. "He wouldn't dare."

  "Aye, he would."

  "What did you say to him?"

  "I told him that I needed more time to consider his warning, and convinced him to postpone his official decision."

  "Thank God." Julia felt free to breathe again. Awkwardly, she tried to compliment Jamie. "That truly was quick and clever thinking on your part."

  He shrugged, indifferent. "It is what you hired me to do."

  His use of the word "hired" surprised Julia. Or, rather, she was surprised by how much it affected her. Somehow, she found the fact that he considered their circumstance a job rather insulting. Although, she couldn't for the life of her decipher why.

  Jamie continued, "Unfortunately, we cannot stall him forever. Eventually, when he realizes that I still intend to marry you, all your uncle needs to do is formally forbid it, and you will be back at the same spot you were weeks ago. He holds the ultimate power over you." Jamie couldn't help himself from adding, "Rather, in the same manner as you do over me."

  Julia chose to ignore his closing barb. Although, sadly, she was forced to admit the validity of all that came before it. Jamie was absolutely right. Her uncle did have the power to make sure that she never received her father's inheritance. And, since that was obviously the duke's plan, there was no reason why he couldn't go on rejecting every suitor she presented him with as unsuitable.

  Her only option was to intersect him. To trick the duke into publicly voicing his approval for her marriage. Or at least to maneuver him into a situation where he had no choice but to do so.

  Over dinner, Julia barely had a chance to taste the delicious broiled chicken and kidney pie Cook had served them. She was too busy watching Jamie eat.

  At first, Julia thought her fascination stemmed from simply wishing to monitor his table manners. She still suffered nightmares of their going into society, and of Jamie reaching for the wrong piece of silverware, or committing some other unforgivable faux pas. However, after becoming convinced that he had done an exemplary job of absorbing every lesson she had drummed into him, Julia realized that the reason she so enjoyed watching him eat was because Jamie was the first person in her life whom she'd ever truly seen enjoying his food.

  Everyone else she knew merely cut, chewed, and swallowed. The scrumptious breakfasts and luncheons and dinners and suppers in front of them had so long ago become predictably routine that no one even tasted them anymore.

  But Jamie relished each bite.

  Every morsel was a new experience, every slice a dream come true. He noticed everything, from the tender flakiness of the pie's crust, to the rich juices spilling out of its meat, to the sweetness of the baby potatoes. He cut his dinner into small pieces, chewing each one long enough to drain every last bit of taste pleasure. He didn't hurry through the food, but rather reveled in all the sensations available.

  Julia watched, nearly mesmerized, the sleekness with which he handled the cutlery. It amazed her that someone as big as Jamie could so sensitively manipulate the delicate silverware, managing to make a simple, simultaneous raising of his fork and knife look almost balletic in its beauty.

  The backs of his hands were deeply tanned from the sun, the palms covered with work-induced callouses that only now were starting to soften. She could see the veins underneath his skin flex with every flick of the knife. To Julia, they seemed almost flirtatious in their constant appearance and reappearance.

  The pie in her throat froze on its way down, as the full impact of her thoughts finally sunk into Julia's brain.

  Truly, she must be going mad.

  What other answer could there be?

  After all, sane people certainly did not first grow hypnotized by forks and knives, and then interpret perfectly natural body rhythms as flirtations. What in the world was wrong with her?

  Noting Julia's preoccupation with his eating habits, Jamie awkwardly lay down the cutlery. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked.

  It took a supreme yank of will for her to look into his eyes and force her features into a charade of indifference. "What? Wrong? No. I—I was just . . . thinking. About my uncle. And what I can do. To stop him."

  Wonderful. Now she was even incapable of speaking in complete sentences. A few more days like this and Julia could forget marriage and France, and concentrate instead on keeping her uncle from committing her to the insane asylum.

  But Jamie did not appear to notice. He nodded his head thoughtfully and agreed, "The duke of Alamain will not be an easy
bloke to budge once he's got his mind made up."

  "It runs in the family," Julia said.

  "That it does." Jamie saw the expression on Julia's face unexpectedly change from a frown of frustration, to the beginnings of a foxlike smile. He asked eagerly, "You have thought of something to cross him?"

  She rocked her head mischievously from side to side, the grin growing wider with each bob. "Possibly. Very possibly."

  "Well, go on then. Out with it."

  Julia rubbed her hands one against the other, tapping both middle fingers against her lips. She turned to Jamie, eyes shining, and said, "You are a charming fellow, are you not?"

  Raising his eyebrow, he slowly replied, "Some individuals have been heard to agree with that, yes."

  "Individuals, yes, I know. But how skilled are you at charming large crowds?"

  He shrugged. "A large crowd is just a mass of individuals. I don't foresee a particularly great difference."

  "Excellent." Drowning in excitement, Julia couldn't continue sitting still. She leapt out of her chair and proceeded to pace up and down the room, amazed that Jamie didn't suffer a stiff neck from watching her. "We'll throw a ball. A huge ball to introduce you to society. We'll invite everyone we know. Well, perhaps everyone I know, not everyone you know."

  "A wise decision, I am sure."

  "And we will invite my uncle."

  "Somehow that does not sound nearly as wise."

  "You don't understand. At this ball, you are going to be so charming and so appealing and so, well, irresistible, that the whole of the ton will fall in love with you on the spot."

  "Or at least by the stroke of midnight."

  "Don't you see? If you make the ton accept you, then my uncle will possess absolutely no feasible reason for refusing you my hand in marriage, without risking painting an absolute fool of his own self in public." Julia paused in front of Jamie's chair. She could feel her cheeks blazing red with enthusiasm, and suspected that her hair—barely manageable under the calmest of circumstances—was, no doubt, currently flapping about her face in a plethora of ebony curls. She probably looked a mess, and would never have dared to appear in public in such a manner. Yet, strangely, in front of Jamie, Julia felt no embarrassment. She asked him eagerly, "What do you think of my plan?"