TemptingJuliana (2 page)

SPICE CAKES

“How many baby clothes do you need to make?”

“A lot.” In her bedroom at the Chase town house in Berkeley Square early that evening, Juliana set down her little pot of lip pomade and picked up the list the Governors had given her. “Three frocks, three caps, three nightshirts, one mantle, one coat, one petticoat, two blankets, and ten clouts. And that’s
per
child. There will be ten babies.”

Emily bit into one of the spice cakes she and Juliana
had baked after returning from the Foundling Hospital. “So you need to make thirty frocks?”

“Yes.” The girl was articulate
and
good with arithmetic. “And thirty caps, thirty nightshirts, ten mantles, ten coats, ten petticoats, twenty blankets, and a
hundred
clouts. All within a month, before the next reception day.”

Juliana set the list on her dressing table. Upside down, so it would stop taunting her. Whatever had she got herself into? She’d been thrilled when the Governors accepted her offer to provide clothing for the next intake of infants—until she’d realized just how
many
clothes she’d need.

She wasn’t worried about the cost of the materials, because she was certain she could cajole Griffin into paying for whatever her allowance wouldn’t cover. But the mere thought of making so many items was daunting. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

Emily frowned. “I’m not very good with a needle.”

“You can hem blankets and sew clouts. That’s not very difficult, and it will be good practice.” Reaching over the girl’s snake, Juliana wiped a few spice cake crumbs off her mouth. “I’m going to invite my sisters to help, too. We’ll have a sewing party. It will be fun to work together.” She dipped a finger into the lip pomade. “But I think you’ll need to leave Herman home.”

“I told you, he’s not dangerous.”

“His danger, or lack thereof,” she told the child, watching her in the dressing table’s mirror as she slicked pomade on her lips, “is not the point. Little ladies do not carry snakes.”

Emily’s delicate chin went into the air. “I do.” She adjusted the long, olive green reptile where it was wound around her neck, the better to eat another spice cake. “What are these cakes supposed to do again?”

“Help me choose a husband wisely.”

“All the gentlemen will want you. You look beautiful tonight, Lady Juliana. Of course, you always look beautiful,” she added with a wistful sigh.

Juliana lifted a pot of rouge. “You’ll look beautiful when you’re my age.” It was true. Other than her unfortunate attachment to the reptile, the child was a model
of femininity. She always wore pink. Emily’s blond hair and large, luminous gray eyes held much promise, and she was tall for her age. Since Juliana was slightly built, the girl would be as tall as her in no time.

“I’m certain you’ll be wildly popular,” she assured the child, “if only you’ll get rid of the snake.”

“Mama and I found baby Herman in our garden,” Emily told Juliana for probably the hundredth time. “She said we could keep him and watch him grow.”

Emily’s mother had been dead some four years. Having lost her own mother three years prior—although, thankfully, at age nineteen, not age four—Juliana felt for the young girl.

“Your mother would understand,” she told her gently. “Surely she didn’t intend to keep Herman long. I’d wager she hadn’t an inkling that little baby snake would grow to be five feet long, and I’m certain she didn’t make a habit of carrying him around. Why, I’d warrant she’s looking down on you right now, waiting for you to grow up and stop toting that horror-inducing creature everywhere.”

“Herman is not a creature. He’s a
pet
.”

“A cuddly kitten is a pet. A rambunctious dog is a pet. A snake is not—”

“Are you ready yet?” Corinna arrived in the doorway and frowned. “A Lady of Distinction doesn’t hold with wearing rouge.”

Juliana’s gaze flicked involuntarily to a book on her night table,
The Mirror of the Graces
by A Lady of Distinction. Their brother had given them both copies, hoping that learning deportment would help them find husbands more quickly.

“A Lady of Distinction is a twit.” To emphasize her point, Juliana brushed more color on her cheeks before rising. “Yes, I am ready. Have a spice cake while I deliver Emily home.”

Corinna took one. “Aunt Frances is already waiting in the carriage. You know she abhors being late to balls.”

“Aunt Frances abhors being late to anything.” Aunt Frances liked everything just so. But she was an endearing lady nonetheless, and it was quite kind of her to act as their sponsor and chaperone for the Season, so
Juliana didn’t grumble. She took Emily by the hand and led her downstairs, Corinna following in their wake.

It was raining—seemingly an everyday occurrence this summer—but a quick walk next door brought Emily safely to the house she usually shared with only her father and a gaggle of aging servants. Emily had two older brothers, products of two earlier marriages, but one was married and the other was away at Cambridge most of the year.

Their gaunt butler, a man who must have been eighty if he were a day, swung the door open as they arrived.

Emily stepped inside. “When shall I see you again, Lady Juliana?”

Who could deny that adorable, pleading face, even if it
was
framed by a snake? “Monday,” she promised the girl. Rain pattered onto her parasol and puddled at her feet. “I’m sure your father is looking forward to being with you tomorrow, but on Monday the two of us shall visit the shops and choose fabric for the baby clothes.”

“Will Lady Corinna not wish to come, too?”

“I believe she will prefer to paint.” Corinna always preferred to paint; she was happiest when filling her days with color, oils, and turpentine. “I shall see you Monday,” Juliana promised softly and headed through the drizzle to the carriage.

Inside, Corinna waited with Aunt Frances, their matching deep-blue eyes impatient. The women’s eyes, however, were their only similarity. Aunt Frances’s peered from behind round spectacles in a face surrounded by clouds of soft gray hair—prematurely gray hair, considering she was still in her forties. Corinna’s hair was a swing of wavy brown, her face as fresh as only a twenty-one-year-old woman’s could be. She had no need of cosmetics.

Juliana, on the other hand, figured she needed all the help she could get. Due to circumstances beyond her control—namely, several successive deaths in the family, which had kept her in mourning for several years—this was her
first
Season. At twenty-two! And the Season was more than halfway over already, yet she’d failed to find a man to catch her interest.

Not that her brother hadn’t been trying his damnedest to locate one.

He was waiting at the ball when they arrived, looking over the crop of men. Unfortunately, this far into the Season, Juliana had already met almost everyone there was to meet. The
ton
comprised all the people who mattered in society, but that was a limited social group, after all. Yet he’d managed to line up candidates for her first three dances and was keeping an eye out for more.

Griffin was leaving no stone unturned in his quest to marry her off. Though she had no objection to marrying—or dancing, for that matter—she wasn’t sure she appreciated her brother’s interference. But she knew his heart was in the right place, and she did like to dance, so she dutifully danced with the three men, smiling and chatting pleasantly, even though none of them was even remotely what she was looking for.

Lord Henderson was too tall. Lord Barkely was too dark. And Mr. Farringdon was kind but a mite dim, not to mention he had a most unfortunate, distracting tic. She could hardly take her eyes off his twitching cheek.

The spice cakes were not going to help her choose wisely, she thought with a sigh, if no acceptable men bothered to attend this ball.

James Trevor, the Earl of Stafford, hadn’t been to a ball in years. And he hadn’t particularly wanted to come to this one. However, being a man who liked to look for the good in things, he’d decided to regard tonight as an opportunity to renew a few acquaintances. Griffin Chase, the Marquess of Cainewood, was one of them.

But his old chum didn’t look very happy.

“Whom are you glaring at, Cainewood?”

“My sister.” Cainewood’s frown deepened. “She’s not dancing.”

James’s gaze followed the marquess’s across the ballroom, landing on what looked like a dainty sprite. He lifted his quizzing glass and squinted through it. “That wheaten-haired little thing?”

“Wearing yellow? Yes, that would be Juliana, wasting precious time.”

“She’s conversing with another woman—”

“Another sister. But Juliana is
supposed
to be meeting men. I despair of ever finding her a husband.”

“Ah.” Dropping the quizzing glass, James let it dangle on its long silver chain and focused on Cainewood, who’d been a boon companion in their days at Oxford. He hadn’t seen the man in years, and he’d never met his family, but in an odd way he still felt he knew him.
He couldn’t help but smile at his old friend’s consternation.

“Juliana is twenty-two,” Cainewood added as though that explained everything.

“That doesn’t sound particularly old.” James himself was twenty-nine.

“I’ll have to marry Corinna off after her.” Cainewood gestured toward his other sister, a pretty girl with long, wavy brown hair. “I’d hoped to get them both settled this Season, but Juliana is not cooperating. Unfortunately, I believe she’s already met everyone here, except…” His green gaze narrowed on James. “Perhaps you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” Cainewood said with the easy smile that had won him so many women in their university years. “Will you at least suffer an introduction to Juliana? You’re an earl now, are you not? An earl needing a wife.”

An earl needing a wife—the same exact words James’s mother had used to describe him earlier this evening as she’d all but dragged him from the carriage into this house.

But although James had inherited the title almost three years ago now, he still had a hard time thinking of himself as an earl, let alone
an earl needing a wife
.

A second son raised in a close family, James had never thought he’d become the Earl of Stafford. That had been his older brother’s future, not his. Following university, James’s father had bought him a commission in the army. He hadn’t ever minded being an officer. It was expected. He wasn’t drawn toward the clergy, and many of his friends—Cainewood included—had embraced the military life. After less than two years, though, James had been wounded and sent home.

Thinking back to those days now, he shifted and flexed his left knee, which always ached in the sort of cold, wet weather London had seen this summer. On days like this he still walked with a slight limp, but he was profoundly grateful the army surgeons had managed to save his leg rather than amputating it. So grateful
that, needing another profession after his recovery, he’d become a physician. He hadn’t been long out of medical school before he’d realized he’d found his true calling. In the years following his return to England, James had been a man completely happy with his choice of work and his life, especially after he fell in love and married.

Then everything had fallen apart.

His brother had died first, leaving James reeling with the realization that he’d someday be the earl. He didn’t
want
to be an earl—he
liked
being a physician. He liked helping people, and he liked feeling that he made a difference. Every day was unique and challenging, and there were always successes to balance the disappointments. Managing an earldom seemed such a tedious, thankless task in comparison.

Then, while he was still coping with the loss of his brother, his father’s heart had stopped, and suddenly James
was
the earl, like it or not.

The first months after that had passed in a dark, painful blur, but his young wife had helped him through those days and weeks, until one morning James had awakened and realized he was happy. Perhaps a bit guiltily happy—he still mourned his brother and father, after all—but happy nonetheless. He’d found he quite liked sitting in the House of Lords—it was another chance to make a difference—and managing the earldom wasn’t as thankless a task as he’d believed. And, in addition, his wife had convinced him that he could be a physician as well as an earl, regardless of the narrow views of society, and help more people than ever, now that he had no need of the income. Utilizing the vast fortune left to him, James had opened a facility in London where children whose families were too poor to pay for doctors could get smallpox vaccinations, an endeavor dear to his heart. Life had been good again. And he and his wife were expecting a baby, their first child.

What man wouldn’t have been happy?

Then his wife had died in childbirth, and their baby, born too early, had died along with her. All the physicians, James included, hadn’t made a bit of a difference. And James had wondered if he’d ever be happy again.

Now, two years later, he was still wondering. But his
mother was pressuring him to remarry and sire some heirs, and although he didn’t expect to find happiness or love again, he figured he might as well at least consider making
her
happy. She was a good, caring mother, after all, and perhaps a wife, even one not loved, would ease some of the loneliness he’d suffered these two years past. So he’d allowed himself to be dragged to this ball. And now he forced himself to smile and answer Cainewood.

“Yes, I am an earl. And I’d be pleased to meet your sister.”

Cainewood wasted no time marching him across the room and introducing him to both of his sisters. As James bowed over Juliana’s hand, he caught himself staring into dancing eyes that were full of life. He’d thought he’d be immune to Cainewood’s sister, so he found himself surprised. Or perhaps
shocked
would be a better word.

And it felt wrong somehow.

But Cainewood’s sister was a pretty thing, and he couldn’t seem to wrench his gaze from those eyes. Green eyes. No, blue. He couldn’t decide. They seemed to change as he watched.

“Will you honor me with a dance?” he asked, bemused.

“It would be my pleasure,” she assured him.

He hadn’t danced since his wife died. He wondered if he remembered how. But there was a waltz playing, and Juliana fairly melted into his arms.

He remembered.

“What color are your eyes?” he asked.

She laughed, a joyful, tinkling sound. “Hazel. Why?”

“I couldn’t tell. They looked green at first, but now they look blue.”

“Well, they’re hazel,” Juliana repeated, wishing he would stop staring at them. It seemed almost as though he could see right through them, as though he could see into her head. As though he could glimpse her very soul. And that was an unnerving thought, no matter that she had nothing to hide.

She glanced away, her gaze landing on her married sister. Alexandra had come to town for the Season while her new husband claimed his seat in the House of Lords.
How happy they looked dancing together, Alexandra’s dark eyes locked on Tristan’s steady gray gaze. Their road to romance had been a rocky one, but they’d been fated to be together from the first—and Juliana had known that, of course.

If only she could find such a love for herself.

Still feeling Lord Stafford’s gaze on her, she shifted in his arms and met his eyes, mentally daring him to look away. He didn’t. His eyes were a warm brown, and she had to look up to see them. Way up.

She could get a crick in her neck dancing with such a man.

“I haven’t seen you at any other balls,” she commented. “You must take your duty to Parliament seriously.”

The corners of those warm eyes crinkled when he smiled. “That and my profession.”

“Your profession?”

“I’m a physician.”

“I thought you were an earl,” she said.

One of his dark brows went up. “Can I not be both?”

“Of course you can,” she said quickly, although she’d never heard of an earl-physician. “What do you do, exactly? Have you many patients?”

“Some, although I’m not taking on any new ones. Most of my time is spent at my facility, the New Hope Institute.”

“New Hope,” she mused. “I’ve heard of that. Something to do with smallpox?”

“I provide vaccinations, yes. To anyone willing to receive one, regardless of the ability to pay.”

“That sounds like very important work,” she allowed. He was a most unusual man. And an excellent dancer. Having noticed a slight limp as he’d initially approached her, she wouldn’t have thought he’d dance so gracefully.

However, much as she enjoyed dancing, finding a man who excelled at it wasn’t her priority. After all, it was not as though she had a shortage of dance invitations—she danced her feet off at every ball, with or without Griffin in attendance. She had no problem attracting men; the problem was finding one she considered hus
band material. And Lord Stafford had many shortcomings.

When the music came to an end, he led her by the hand off the dance floor. “It was a pleasure, my lady.”

His voice was warm like his eyes, low and smooth as rich chocolate. The very sound of it seemed to weaken her knees. “Thank you,” she said. The musicians struck up a country dance, and as he was still holding her hand, she half expected him to lead her straight back to the dance floor. Instead, he raised her fingers toward his mouth. Then, rather than pucker his lips in the customary salute in the air above her hand, he lowered them to actually touch her glove.

Scandalous. She could have sworn she felt the kiss through the white silk. A tingly sensation.

“Thank you,” she repeated more faintly.

“Thank
you
,” he echoed with a smile.

A smile that looked as dazed as she felt.

No sooner had he turned to leave than Griffin descended, snapping her back to reality. “Well?” he asked.

She watched Lord Stafford walk away, shoulders broad beneath his tailcoat. Loose, tousled curls grazed his black velvet collar. Many fashionable men achieved a similar look with pomade and curl papers, but his hair looked
naturally
tousled. Like he was too busy to bother to control it.

“He’s too dark,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“You know I prefer golden-haired men. And he’s entirely too tall—I felt like a child dancing with him.”

Griffin looked down on her, both literally and figuratively. “Face it, Juliana—you’re short.”

As though she hadn’t noticed most of the world towered over her. “He works,” she said. “He has a
profession
.”

“And this makes him unacceptable as a husband?”

“Should I marry him, he wouldn’t have any time for me.” She wanted a grand love, like Alexandra and Tristan’s; she wanted a husband who loved her to distraction. She wanted endless hours spent in passion with the man she decided to marry. And for heaven’s sake,
this
man couldn’t even find a few minutes to comb his hair properly. “I’m sorry, but he just won’t do.”

The fact that Lord Stafford’s work was important was hardly a mitigating factor—and the fact that her heart had stuttered when he’d so impertinently kissed her hand had no bearing whatsoever.

Griffin released a long-suffering sigh. “I shall keep looking.”

“You do that,” she said, patting his arm and silently wishing him luck. The spice cakes had clearly been a waste. Poor Griffin. “In the meantime, I must speak with Alexandra.”

She scanned the ballroom in search of her older sister and finally found her talking to Aunt Frances.

“Who was that you were dancing with?” Alexandra asked as she approached.

“Lord Stafford.”

“He’s very handsome.”

“His hair is too dark.” At Alexandra’s blank look, Juliana shrugged. “Can you come to the Berkeley Square house next Wednesday afternoon?”

“I expect so. Why?”

“I need help making clothes for the Foundling Hospital babies.”

“Your newest project, I take it?” Alexandra’s brown eyes sparkled with mischief. “What have you got yourself into this time?”

If only she knew. “Corinna wanted to see the Hospital’s art gallery, but oh, the poor foundlings were heartbreaking. And their mothers.” Just thinking back on the balloting, Juliana wanted to cry. “I
must
do something to help them.”

“Of course you must,” Aunt Frances said. “With you, it’s always something.”

That much was true; Juliana couldn’t deny it. “And what does that make me?” she wondered. “Impulsive? Melodramatic? Judgmental, overwrought, overemotional?” She stopped there, knowing she was all of those and more. Honestly, she could go on and on.

Which was why she wanted to hug Alexandra when she said, “No. That makes you compassionate, giving, hopeful. Kind and unselfish and vulnerable.” Her per
fect, responsible, married sister gifted her with a quiet smile. “It makes you lovable, Juliana. That’s what it makes you the most.”

She
did
hug her sister then, and her aunt, too, her heart not broken now but aching with warmth and affection instead. Yet all the while she was wondering:
If I’m so lovable, why can’t I find a husband to love?