Julia was not in the least bit romantic, nor had she ever struck a fancy to any of the men who had sought to woo her, so to find herself on edge—merely at the sight of a man—was unnerving. Her body hummed and thrummed as she pushed her way through the crowd, and though she told herself that she was not looking for Lord Montague, her every nerve was alert to him.
Thankfully, a distraction from her inner confusion was offered, when the room began to whisper as one, and heads began to turn in the direction of the dancefloor. Julia, who by now had reached the refreshment table, craned her head so that she might see over the crowds, and gave a delighted laugh when she found what it was that everyone was looking at—two wallflowers, dancing with a pair of dukes.
Julia's two closest friends, Violet Havisham and Charlotte Drew, were each partnered with a towering duke for a country set. Neither of Julia's fellow wallflowers looked particularly pleased with this arrangement, but then—Julia smiled—she could not say that she would be too pleased either to be partnered with the ferocious Orsino, or the snooty Penrith.
Still, at least Charlotte had taken the first step in her plan to help her sister. Charlotte's father had recently issued an edict that Bianca Drew, the younger of the two Drew sisters, would not be allowed make her come-out unless Charlotte secured the attentions of a duke. The task had seemed impossible only that morning, but, Julia smiled, when the tenacious Charlotte was involved, anything was possible.
A footman handed Julia a glass of bitter lemonade and, as the music started, Julia took herself away to a quiet corner, content to have a moment to herself while the masses were distracted by the sight of two wallflowers dancing with two famously elusive dukes.
Julia stepped behind the heavy, velvet curtains, which led to a quiet alcove—usually reserved for ladies who wished to mend a ripped hem in private—her mind distracted from Lord Montague with thoughts of her friends.
The alcove was the very place that the three girls had first met, midway through their first season, three years ago.
Julia, who since birth had been raised with one purpose in life—to come out and find a husband—had found herself a little underwhelmed by her first season, and had been plagued by a gnawing feeling that something was not right.
The endless whirl of balls and outings was not as fun as she had anticipated they would be, and her soul felt rather flat. True, dozens of men sought to claim her hand, and her dance card was always full, but still Julia could not find contentment.
There was something missing, Julia had thought, and one evening, as she listened with glazed eyes to yet another suitor, she realised what that was.
Friends.
Young ladies, all of them it seemed, had bunched off into groups. She could see them over her suitor's shoulder, giggling and whispering together, or chatting seriously, or silently walking the room together. All of them seemed to be having tremendous fun, while Julia was left alone to listen to men talk at her and not to her.
Julia had never had a friend, unless one counted Thomas, which she did not for her cousin had never treated her as such, and during her first season out she began to realise that the growing disquiet within her was not some strange malady, but loneliness.
On the night that she first met Charlotte and Violet, Julia had been suddenly struck by the terrible idea that even though she was surrounded by people, she felt very much alone, and had felt so overwhelmed that she had taken herself away on the pretext of mending her hem.
In the alcove, she had taken one long, shuddering breath, as she had sought to quell the tears which threatened to spill from her eyes.
Luckily, before she had a chance to dissolve into mist, a figure had barrelled through the velvet curtains, at such a speed that she had crashed straight into Julia.
"Oh, I am sorry," the girl had cried, as she straightened herself up, "I did not see you there. Oh, but I am not sorry as well. I cannot bear to watch Aunt Phoebe disgrace herself so."
The girl, despite declaring that she could not watch the scene she had sought to escape, had duly turned and poked her head back through the curtains, giving a groan of despair at what it was that she saw.
Curious, Julia had pushed away thoughts of her own sorrows, and had peeked out through the curtain to see what was amiss.
"Is that your aunt?" Julia had queried, nodding toward a stout woman wearing what seemed to be a full peacock upon her head.
"Yes," the girl beside her had whispered.
"And is she..?"
"Yes," a great sigh had erupted from the girl beside her, "She really is poking Count Lieven in the belly with her cane. Oh, she can be so—so—so Scottish sometimes. She should know better than to talk politics at Almack's. I shall never live it down."
The girl had then removed herself from her spying post and had thrown herself down on to one of the chairs with a moan of dismay. Julia, who was not accustomed to anyone—particularly strangers—exhibiting any signs of distress, hovered around her like a worried hen.
"Well," she had offered brightly, hoping to soothe the girl, "At least you can take comfort from the fact that nobody has ever died of embarrassment."
"They just wish they had," came the dark reply, quick as a whistle.
"Er," Julia's repertoire covered bonnets, ribbons, and articles from La Belle Assemblée, it was not equipped to deal with despairing young ladies and their mad aunts. Thankfully, Julia had been saved from her panic by the arrival of another girl to the alcove.
"Oh," the girl had glanced from Julia to the other girl curiously, "I did not expect to find anyone here."
"Well, next week you shan't," Julia's companion had offered with a wan smile, "For I am certain that my voucher will be revoked after my aunt's performance this evening."
"Is Lady Havisham your aunt?" the new girl questioned, with an approving smile, "I must say, she really is tremendous. Did you know she's upbraiding the Russian ambassador on behalf of Poland, as we speak?"
"Lucky Poland," the girl gave a giggle, "Though I don't think her efforts will come to much."
"You never know," the new arrival said brightly, "She really is quite terrifying. Count Lieven is probably worried that she'll replace her fox stole with one made from him."
The three girls had all burst out laughing at the idea of Lady Havisham wearing the Russian ambassador as a scarf, and they were momentarily united in laughter.
"Are you both hiding too?" the new arrival had queried, bluntly . "My old paramour has arrived and he made a beeline for the American heiress he's rumoured to be courting. I couldn't stand to watch that scene unfold."
"Oh, would you find it terribly sad to see him with a new love?" Julia had asked, sympathetically.
"Lud, no," the girl threw back her head and gave a laugh, "She's his new victim, not his new love. I was just afraid that I would not be able to restrain myself from trying to rescue her. It would be a fool's errand, though, for the ton would simply think me mad with jealousy rather than concern. I am Charlotte, Charlotte Drew."
Her words were delivered in a forthright, honest manner, which Julia had found endearing. Here, she thought, was a lady who would always speak her mind.
"I am Violet Havisham," the girl on the seat gave a small wave of her hand, "Hiding from my aunt, and from having to face into another evening as Almack's resident wallflower."
"Er," Julia had hesitated—unused to sharing so much with strangers, "I am Julia Cavendish. I am..."
Julia trailed off; she could not tell two strangers that she had disappeared because she was overwhelmed by loneliness—it really wasn't the done thing.
"I am Julia," she repeated, before continuing on determinedly, "And I am sick to my back-teeth of Almack's, and balls, and men who talk of nothing but themselves. And bonnets. I really don't care for them, at all."
Julia had been nearly breathless as she finished speaking, and for a moment she had wondered if she had—perhaps—overstepped the line with her rantings. But the two faces which looked bac
k at her had held no censure, instead, they had been sympathetic.
"I have no time for Almack's," Charlotte had sighed, "What a waste it all is! I want to champion the poor and help those less fortunate—not bob about in a dress looking pretty and waiting for a man to pick me."
"I want to be a painter," Violet had added dreamily, "To see Venice, and Florence, and study with the great masters."
Well, Julia had thought, she had nothing to add, for she had never been allowed to be anything more than a blank page upon which her parents, and then endless suitors, had scribbled their hopes and wishes. A vase which they filled with their own dreams, not bothering to check if she had dreams of her own.
And now, here she was with nothing to add to the conversation, for she did not know what she wanted—she just knew what other people wanted for her and of her.
"I want to..." Julia had trailed off, frowning slightly as she thought. "I want to live. Really live. My own life. Not a life ruled by the diktats of my parents or a beau."
She had thought perhaps she had sounded silly, or spoilt, but Charlotte and Violet gave wistful sighs in answer to her impassioned statement.
"The ultimate dream," Charlotte had exhaled, her green eyes distant.
"T'would be heaven," Violet had agreed.
Julia blinked, wondering at the feeling which had burst forth within her chest. Was this—was this camaraderie she felt? If so, it was really quite pleasant.
"Perhaps we should band together," Charlotte had said, her tone implying that she had already decided they would. "Support each other through the worst of the season and help each other realise our dreams."
"Sounds good to me," Violet had replied cheerfully, "What about you, Julia?"
That she even had to ask the question made Julia want to laugh aloud. Only a few minutes before she had been wishing for friends, and now she had found not one, but two!
"I think it sounds splendid," Julia beamed, sealing the deal.
For the next two seasons, the girls were inseparable. Every ball, every musicale, every regatta or tea-party, they could be found bunched together—a trio of determined wallflowers.
But all good things must come to an end, and while Julia's parents had indulged her for two seasons, they had painedly let her know that this season, she was expected to wed.
"We only want what's best for you," Lady Cavendish had sighed, as she pushed a strand of Julia's hair away from her eyes, "You won't deny me the satisfaction of seeing my daughter safely wed to a man who can provide for her, will you, dear? Before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I should like to know that you will be cared for."
Lady Cavendish, who was the most robustly healthy person one could ever chance to meet, was quite fond of using her own death as a bargaining chip in negotiations. And, as she knew her daughter inside out, she also knew what else to play upon when trying to guide Julia in the preferred direction—Julia's stubbornly practical streak.
"I should hate to see you fall into the life of spinsterhood and end up as a companion to Aunt Mildred," Lady Cavendish had continued with a sad sigh, "But if you do not wed, I fear that is the path you will find yourself upon. For your father will not indulge you with another season, nor will he fund the bluestocking lifestyle you seem so bent upon. Don't you want a home of your own, dear?"
"Yes, Mama," Julia had replied, finally seeing what it was that she had been so blind to for the past two seasons.
Her friends had grand plans—but even better, they had families who would support those plans. Charlotte, whose father was one of the wealthiest men in England, was set to inherit a fortune—with or without a husband. While Violet had her twin brother Sebastian, who would gladly walk on hot-coals to ensure his sister's happiness—not to mention Aunt Phoebe, who would never force her niece into an unwanted marriage.
Julia was, in essence, alone in the world. Oh, her parents would never see her starve, but as Thomas was set to inherit—and her cousin was not overly generous—Julia could not hope to rely on him for future assistance.
Her future, without a husband, was a rather bleak prospect.
"Very well," Julia had sighed, squaring her shoulders like a man facing the gallows, "This is the year I will marry."
Her words were like a pistol shot, starting the race to find Julia a husband. In the weeks since, every eligible man her parents thought worthy had been thrust under Julia's nose for her inspection—and every one of them had been found lacking.
Julia gave a great sigh, as she leaned back against the wall and stared blindly into the distance. Her heart ached with a longing for something, anything, which might offer her an escape. Something which might fill her with the same hope that her chance encounter with Charlotte and Violet had offered, all those years ago.
"I want to live," she whispered to the empty alcove, feeling rather silly but equally as sincere.
"I'd rather like you to live too," the alcove answered back, in a voice which was deep, melodic, and Etonian in its origin. "Preferably with me, preferably as my wife, and preferably until the day I die."
Julia blinked, as a warm flush stained her cheeks. Someone had heard her! They would think her fit for Bedlam, she thought, as she whipped her head around to see who it was who had spoken.
"I—" Julia began apologetically, before trailing off as she saw just who it was who had interrupted her contemplation, "Oh."
It was Lord Montague; he had silently stolen through the curtains and was watching her with eyes that were both amused and possessive. His handsome face wore a lazy smile that sent Julia's heart skittering, and she struggled to retain her composure in the face of being confronted with the man she had been ogling all night. The man who also just happened to be the son of her family's arch-nemesis .
The flatness of her tone was quite obvious, but it did not appear to have any effect on Lord Montague, who grinned across at her, his dark eyes paradoxically bright and sparkling.
"An 'oh' is not a no," he smiled, as he took a step closer, "I shall take heart from that."
"I would really rather if you did not take anything from me, my lord," Julia sniffed, making to take a step backwards before recalling that she was standing with her back against the wall, "And I would rather that you leave. It is not proper for you to be here with me, alone."
"My intentions are honourable, my lady," Lord Montague replied, taking a theatrical step backwards and holding up his hands in a sign of peace, "I would never seek to besmirch the reputation of my future wife—or any woman, for that matter."
"If you are so concerned about reputations," Julia sniped, "Perhaps you should pay some care to your own, my lord."
"I am wounded," Montague replied, clutching a gloved hand to his—rather broad, Julia had to admit—chest. "My lady does not think well of me."
"My lady does not think of you at all," Julia shrugged, as she struggled to control the hammering of her heart.
Montague, being tall and muscular, seemed to command all the space in the small alcove, and his very presence had sucked all the air out of Julia's lungs. It was alarming to the sensible, practical Julia to find herself feeling so scattered by the mere presence of a man.
Though he was devilishly handsome, she admitted reluctantly.
"If you do not think of me," Montague questioned, raising a laconic brow, "Then why have your eyes been following me around the assembly rooms all evening?"
Julia flushed; her spying had not been as skillful as she had thought.
"One must keep tabs on one's enemies, should one not?" she countered, when she finally found her voice.
"Am I your enemy?"
Either Montague was a very gifted actor, or her words had actually hurt him. Julia paused, as she thought on the rivalry between their two houses. Her father detested the Duke of Staffordshire and nurtured his hate as diligently as her mother nursed the blooms in her hot-house. Thomas, likewise, was driven into a rage anytime that he read about Staffordshire or his son in the papers—though one mig
ht forgive him his anger, given that a Montague had killed his father.
But Julia? No, she had never much been moved by the enmity betwixt their two houses. The need to shed the blood of enemies was a need felt only by the males of her line.
Though she did have some familial loyalty.
"I have no quarrel with you," Julia admitted, "But my father and your father, and my father's father and your father's father, and so on and so forth, have had plenty of quarrels. And should my father think that I was speaking to you—given who your father is—then he shall have a rather big quarrel with me."
"You might need to run that by me again," Montague winced, as Julia finished rambling, "Though I did catch that you have no quarrel with me—which is fortunate. I should hate for my future wife to dislike me before we are even wed."
Julia blinked; was he quite the full shilling? She knew that Lord Montague had a reputation for being the wildest of London's young-bloods. Perhaps he had hit his head during a Phaeton race on Rotten Row? Or maybe he had supped tainted wine during one of Prinny's infamously sordid parties at Carlton House.
"Are you always this ridiculous?" she asked, valiantly attempting to suppress a smile. It would be impossible, Julia realised, to be much in low spirits around Lord Montague. His eyes seemed to dance with constant laughter, and even his posture was ebullient—as though he knew that his next step would take him on a grand adventure.
"The rule of thumb with me, my lady," Montague replied, most earnestly, "Is that if the day ends in a "y", then I can generally be found doing something ridiculous. Though do not take that to mean that I am not sincere when I say that you are the most—"
Julia stilled, as she steeled herself to hear Lord Montague tell her that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Hundreds of men had said this to her over the years, and each one had expected to be awarded with gratitude for their observation that Julia's face was decidedly symmetrical. Each one had expected her to fall into their arms when they waxed lyrical about her hair, or her smile, or—in the case of the less desirable men—her figure.
The Rake and Lady Julia (Wilful Wallflowers Book 3) Page 2
