Shivering, I settled on the crimson and permitted Morag to dress me. I think we were both startled at the result. I had thought the violet revealed a bit of décolletage, but the crimson was nearly as flagrant. In fact, I felt it was a bit much for a family party, but as Morag reminded me, it was only a family party. Who else would be there to see and be shocked by the rather sumptuous display of bosom? I agreed with her, only because it was too late to change, and I made a note to myself never to wear the violet outside of my own home. What on earth had Monsieur Riche been thinking? Honestly.
I had just a few moments to spare and decided to spend them with Simon. The valet, Renard, was just collecting his dinner tray and he stepped aside at the doorway to let me pass.
"Good evening, my lady," he said, casting an approving glance at my bosom. I drew back, ensuring that even my skirts would not touch him.
"Renard," I said coolly. I could not help it. Every time I saw him, I thought of the odious drawings he had supplied to Henry and my skin crawled. He slipped past me, brushing as near as he dared, and I closed the door firmly behind him. I moved to Simon, my lips set in a deliberate smile.
"How are you this evening, dearest?"
His face brightened. "Julia! You are the very picture—turn around and let me see you properly."
I pirouetted obediently. He watched, nodding in appreciation.
"Lovely. I did tell you bright colours, didn't I?"
"You did," I said, dropping a kiss to his brow. "I feel rather unlike myself, though. I've never worn anything quite so…"
He smiled, reaching for my hand. "You have never looked lovelier. Where are you bound?"
"March House."
"Ah! One of Lady Hermia's musicales, am I right?"
"You are. Shall I plump your pillows for you?"
"Please do. I should far rather have you do it than Renard." He leaned forward and I busied myself fluffing the feathers. "I remember those evenings," he said, his voice tinged ever so slightly with nostalgia. "Edward played the most awful piano, but your singing was quite—"
"Vile," I put in helpfully. He gave me a reproachful little look.
"I was going to say original, but all right. You are frightfully tone-deaf, my darling."
"I know. Pity that I love to sing, isn't it? But you must have paid better attention than Edward to your piano master. Your melodies were always so lovely."
He gazed down at his hands, swollen a little about the knuckles. "I doubt I could play now. Doubt I even remember a note of anything," he said ruefully. "Funny how we spend our entire adolescence learning skills that are supposed to serve us in society, then spend our entire adulthood forgetting them."
"Not all of them. The last time we danced, you still remembered how to do that quite well."
"Well, dancing is different. I always enjoyed that. Music and gaiety and breathless promises to meet in darkened gardens—so much intrigue." He raised a brow meaningfully.
I settled him back against his pillows. "Ass," I said affectionately. "When did you ever make assignations in the garden?"
He waved an airy hand. "Loads of times. I cannot tell you how many lovely memories I have of fumbling with buttons under the cover of leafy darkness.…" His voice trailed off and his eyes were dreamy.
I slapped lightly at his hand. "You are a beast, Simon Grey."
"Yes, but a discreet one. You never knew I was off misbehaving, did you? Did you never once see me slip back into a ballroom, cravat askew, face dewy and flushed with rapture?"
"No, thank God. What of the poor creatures you were deflowering? Were they ever discovered?"
"No, not one, mercifully. But as I say, I was discreet. Edward used to get up to the same, did he never tell you?"
There was a flash of excitement in his eyes, an avidity that comes with truly succulent gossip.
"No!" I leaned forward, heedless of my neckline. "Do tell."
He smiled and wagged his finger. "I shall not. Some secrets should be kept. But the stories I could tell…"
I wrinkled my nose at him. "Very well. Keep your secrets. I don't care a bit." I kissed him again and bade him good-night.
"Good night, Julia. You really do look quite delicious." I blew him a kiss and slipped out, thinking about Edward as a youth, cavorting in the garden with some innocent maid, and wondering why he had never asked me to step outside with him.
Probably because he knew from the first he wanted to marry me, I thought reasonably. Gentlemen do not propose to girls who lift their skirts, Aunt Hermia had warned me, and in this case, she appeared to be correct. Edward had had trysts before me, but had not touched me until our wedding night. Although, if he had ever seen me in this scarlet, he might not have kept his hands so politely to himself, I thought wickedly, with one final glance at the glass.
Wrapping my black cloak tightly around me, I collected the Ghoul and we set off, arriving at March House punctually—no one ever had the courage to do otherwise. Aunt Hermia was legendary for her insistence upon promptness. Most people thought she was a stickler for manners, but the truth was, she had a horror of leathery meat. Rather than hold the meal to accommodate tardy guests, she simply struck the unpunctual from her guest list and harangued the rest of us into promptness. We were greeted at the door by Hoots, Father's butler. There was no sign of Aunt Hermia.
Hoots reached to help me off with my cloak and I asked after her.
"She is attending to Cook, my lady. Some accident concerning a knife and a sprout."
His eyes fell to my exposed bosom and he averted them quickly.
"It is very good to see you out and about again, my lady," he said without a trace of irony. I looked at him suspiciously, but his face was perfectly correct.
"Hmm. Yes, thank you, Hoots."
I turned and Aunt Ursula got her first unimpeded view of my gown. She blanched and reached for her salts, but said nothing. There was a commotion behind me as Portia and her companion, Jane, appeared from the drawing room.
"Portia, Jane, good evening," I greeted, going to kiss them.
"Julia, dearest, I am so glad you are here!" Portia exclaimed, returning my kiss with enthusiasm. "All of you," she murmured with a lift of the brow toward my gown. She was dressed in blue, a delicious cerulean shade that flattered her wide eyes. "Father is just now gone to change and Aunt Hermia is bandaging up Cook in the stillroom. Jane and I were simply aching for conversation. Oh, good evening, Aunt Ursula." Portia went to make polite noises at the Ghoul and I turned to Jane.
As usual, she looked as though she had been dragged through a bush backward. She was wearing one of her favorite shapeless dresses. Usually they were made up in heavy cottons, but she had a few in thick, unattractive fabrics for evening. She wore them with heavy ropes of dull, lumpy beads that could not hope to match the sparkle of her fine eyes or the exquisite colour of her complexion. She put a hand to her untidy red hair. "I know," she said mournfully. "I look a fright. I had put my hair up, I promise. But I seem to have lost the pins."
I smiled at her. "Nonsense. I was just thinking that you look like Daphne, the moment she metamorphosed into a laurel bush."
She looked very happy at the allusion, and I tucked my arm through hers. "Now, what shall you play for us tonight? I am quite out of practice, so I shall not perform, but I always look forward to hearing you."
This was entirely true. Jane was a gifted musician with a remarkably sweet, clear singing voice and a talent with three different instruments. This was perhaps the most significant reason behind why we loved Jane so. The family, and occasionally, friends, were pressed into performing at Aunt Hermia's evenings, usually something we had all heard a hundred times before, and usually done quite badly. We had our gifts, we Marches, but I do not think we numbered music among them. Having Jane with us was rather like having Sarah Siddons stride into the midst of an amateur theatrical.
"The harp," Jane said promptly. "I have a new Irish air I have been practicing. It is very melancholy, very atmo
spheric. You will smell the peat fires and damp wool, I promise."
Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm, and I shivered playfully. "Sounds quite intriguing. What of you, Portia?" I called over my shoulder. "Will you play, or is simply giving us all something beautiful to look at contribution enough?"
She raised a brow at me. "Good Lord, Julia, what has come over you? You are positively giddy. Well, I am glad you are in high spirits, because if I am not mistaken, that is a footstep upon the walk."
A moment later Hoots opened the door. The thing I remember most clearly from that moment are Portia's eyes, dancing with amusement, and Father appearing just at that second, still straightening his necktie. He, too, was looking highly amused, and I wondered if that is how the gods of Olympus looked when they were meddling with people's lives, for they were certainly meddling with mine.
There upon the doorstep stood Brisbane, beautifully dressed in evening clothes, and with him was an elderly gentleman I had never seen before. They were returning Hoots' very civil greeting, and I took the opportunity to hiss at Portia. "What do you think you are doing?"
She smiled back, dazzlingly. "Stirring the pot, darling. But it isn't my hand on the spoon. Father invited them. Mind you speak up, the Duke of Aberdour is rather deaf."
Father had moved forward and was welcoming the pair of them. According to precedence, he presented us to the duke.
"You remember my daughter, Lady Bettiscombe, your Grace." He motioned to Portia.
The duke murmured something, but his old eyes were sharp, noting Portia's beauty, I had little doubt.
"Your Grace," she said loudly, dropping an elegant curtsey as she dimpled up at him. "I am so pleased you could come."
The duke patted her hand and seemed reluctant to let it go.
Portia stepped back and Father waved at me. "I don't believe you know my youngest daughter, Lady Julia Grey."
I made a proper curtsey, and his Grace reached for my hand, taking in an eyeful of my displayed bosom.
"Enchanting. Why have I never met you before?" he asked in an accent slightly blurred with Scottish vowels. He was as perfectly turned out as Brisbane, but with much better jewels. I nearly goggled at the size of the ruby in his cravat.
"I have been in mourning this past year for my husband, your Grace," I said. He was still holding my hand, his eyes wandering over my décolletage in an openly appraising manner. I should have been insulted by such treatment from anyone else, but from him it was merely amusing.
"You have my condolences, my dear, but your husband is more deserving of them. I cannot imagine what a loss he suffered at leaving you behind."
I smiled in spite of myself. "You are too kind, your Grace."
"Not at all. I simply like good-looking women." He tucked my hand through his arm. "You will help me in to greet my hostess, won't you? I do not need the help, but I will pretend to in order to keep you close to me." He finished this with an exaggerated leer and I laughed. Father and Brisbane had greeted each other quietly as Hoots closed the door, and now they stood, watching my exchange with the duke.
"I would be honoured to escort you, your Grace, but I must warn you, your reputation precedes you. I shall be on my guard with you."
He cackled and motioned toward Brisbane. "She is clever as well. I like this one. Say hello, boy. I believe you know the lady."
Brisbane smiled thinly and did his duty. I would have thought it impossible for anyone to speak to him in such a fashion and emerge unscathed, but the duke apparently had the gift of charm. It was clear that Portia thought him adorable.
The duke turned back to me. "I do like you. I might make you an offer of marriage before the evening is over. What do you think of that? Would you like to be a duchess? I'm very rich, you know."
"I do know it. But I am entirely unworthy to be your wife, I assure you, your Grace. Perhaps, if it is not too presumptuous of me, we could just be very good friends."
"How good?" he asked, edging his elbow into my ribs.
"Not quite that good," I replied, patting his arm. He roared with laughter and allowed me to introduce him to Aunt Ursula and Jane. He greeted them in a perfunctory fashion, dismissing one of them as plain and the other as older than Moses, no doubt. He clung to my arm and I led him into the drawing room, where Aunt Hermia had just arrived, breathless and patting her hair. I flashed Father a smile to let him know he was forgiven. He might have broadsided me by inviting Brisbane without my knowledge, but he had ensured my good will with his Grace. It was not every day that I received a proposal of marriage from a duke, even if he was more than eighty years old.
For her part, Aunt Hermia was delighted with her unexpected guests.
"Your Grace! How lovely that you could join us this evening," she said. "It is only a family party, though, and I am certain you will be quite bored with our feeble entertainments."
"Not at all, dear lady," he said, bowing over her hand. "The reputation of the beauteous March women is as widespread as it is accurate. I shall simply admire the view. I believe you have met Nicholas?"
Brisbane stepped forward. "Lady Hermia. How good of you to include me."
Aunt Hermia's face was pink with pleasure. "Ah, we owe you much, Mr. Brisbane." She turned to the duke. "My niece Julia's husband passed away last year under most unfortunate circumstances. Mr. Brisbane was very helpful during that trying time. I am so pleased to see you under more pleasant circumstances, Mr. Brisbane, but I must insist on a forfeit for your supper," she added waggishly.
"Oh, God," I said, sotto voce, to Portia.
"A forfeit?" Brisbane smiled down at her. "I cannot think that I possess anything that would be worthy of your ladyship."
"Heavens!" Portia whispered back. "Did he learn that from the darling old duke?"
"They must be relations," Jane put in. "Charm like that runs in the blood."
"Our evening is a musical one," Aunt Hermia was explaining. "We each of us contribute something to the entertainment of the group. Do you play? Or sing, perhaps?"
The duke snorted, lifting his bushy white brows. Clearly he intended something by the gesture, but the moment was smoothed over by Aunt Ursula's petulant inquiry about dinner. Aunt Hermia bustled forward, suddenly realizing that there were far too many ladies for the men to escort.
"Never mind!" cackled the duke, taking Aunt Hermia firmly by the arm. "We'll be here until Michaelmas if you insist on precedence. Let the young people sort themselves out."
To her credit, Aunt Hermia obeyed, leading the way to the dining room and leaving the rest of us to follow behind in a haphazard fashion. Blessedly, Aunt Hermia favored a round table and precedence there was not an issue. True, the round table created a bit more confusion, but it ensured general discussion, rather than lots of indistinct murmuring. It usually made for more spirited and interesting conversation and this night was no exception. In spite of the duke's presence, Father and Aunt Hermia engaged in a heated debate about the use of Biblical images in Shakespeare's sonnets. It ended with Aunt Hermia throwing walnuts at Father and the duke offering her marriage instead, claiming that spirit was as important a requirement in a wife as beauty.
"That's what I keep telling the boy here," he said, jerking a thumb at Brisbane. "He's got no interest in marrying, he tells me, because he cannot find a woman who interests him for more than a fortnight. He's got a twisty mind, that one, and he wants a woman that's got the same."
Brisbane sipped thoughtfully at his wine. "All women have twisty minds, sir, or so you told me."
Aberdour laughed his dry, creaky laugh. "That I did, boy, that I did. This one gets it from his grandmother," he said, pointing a knobbly old finger. "She was just the same, always turning a word back on you, bending an argument to suit her end. She was a wily bitch. I was glad to see the last of her."
Jane gasped, which did not surprise me. I have often found that the most outspoken liberals are secretly the most conservative in small matters. For all her open thinking, Jane was deeply s
hocked at the duke's plain speaking. Father simply went on cracking nuts, Brisbane kept deliberately at his wine, and Aunt Hermia looked up curiously.
"His grandmother? Is there a family connection, your Grace?"
"My sister," he said, his lips thin. "She ran off with a footman when she was fifteen. She died in childbed eight months later. We had the raising of her son, and did a dog's job of it. He no sooner grew up than he—"
Brisbane coughed sharply and some understanding passed between them, for the duke simply muttered, "Then he bred this one and died on us." I fancied that was not how he intended to finish that sentence, but it must have appeased Brisbane. He had tensed at the mention of his father, but now he uncoiled slightly.
Aunt Hermia cocked her head. Anyone who did not know her might mistake the shine in her eyes for sympathy, but I saw it for what it was—rampant curiosity.
"That accounts for the different surname," she said, "but I do not remember hearing of your father, Mr. Brisbane. Surely he is not in Debrett's." This was simply a conversational gambit. The Shakespearean society's quarterly journal was the only publication she perused for names. In itself, her line of inquiry was only mildly intrusive. But I had felt Brisbane tense again next to me, and I knew he did not like it.
I rose, dropping my napkin. "I think the champagne would best be served in the music room—after the entertainments. Forgive me, Auntie. I am simply too eager to hear Jane's harp."
I smiled innocently to the table at large as I collected my napkin.
As I had expected, Aunt Hermia pricked up like a pointer.
"Jane! Have you a new piece? Splendid! Nothing I love quite so well as a moody Irish harp. To the music room!"
Aunt Hermia never permitted cigars and port on her musical evenings on the grounds that they thickened the voice. There was a general flutter of movement as people rose, gathering wraps and stretching discreetly. Father whistled for the mastiff, Crab, who had been lying quietly under the table, snuffling for crumbs during dinner. Amid the chaos, Brisbane leaned near.
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