When a Marquess Loves a Woman (6 page)

He exhaled a thin stream of air, banishing the scintillating visions. And reminding himself that he was in the room with his mother and Juliet's cousin did the trick.

He turned away from the sideboard and walked toward their circle. “There were a few unexpected moments of warmth, but otherwise no. I found the day remarkably pleasant.”

“Did you happen to spy Juliet?” Mother asked. “I know that you are rivals, but as a family friend, it would still be a kind gesture if you looked after her welfare.”

Feeling too restless to sit, he stood behind a silver-striped chair and rested his hand along the back, drumming his fingers. “We spoke for a moment, and by all appearances, she seemed in fine health.”
Very fine, indeed
. “In fact, our main topic of conversation—albeit briefly—concerned cake.”

Mother's lips pulled into a frown directed at him. As her son, he knew that this expression meant that he was guilty of a crime. He swallowed and made sure that his grin disappeared with the whiskey.

“Considering how your conversations typically end, I suppose that
cake
is all the pair of you can speak of in order to avoid a public display.”

He coughed, imagining how their
display
might have turned into another scandal, should anyone have happened upon them. Or even happened upon him, standing there alone and with blatant evidence of his arousal straining against the fall of his breeches for a full ten minutes afterward. He'd had to sing hymns in his head in order to walk at all. But when he'd made the mistake of licking his lips and tasting sweet icing, he'd had to start all over again.

By now, he should have built up a healthy amount of regret for his actions, but he could not summon any. If given the chance, he would still do the same, even if only to hear her gasp of surprise and see her eyes dilate with passion. And he didn't want her to forget either.

Suddenly inspired by a wicked idea, he left the room to speak privately with Saunders. When he returned, he bowed to his mother and Lady Cosgrove. “As an act of unfettered civility on my part, I have asked the kitchens to send over a slice of cake to Lady Granworth, along with the best wishes for her quick recovery.”

I
t wasn't until they'd begun pudding and were eating that very cake that Saunders came to his side and informed him that a parcel had been delivered from Lady Granworth's tiger.

Excusing himself for a moment, Max went to the study, where Saunders had left it on the desk. Eager to see what she'd written, he opened the sealed missive first.

Dearest foe,

Thank you for the cake. Since I
never
require silverware when eating such confections, however, I am returning that which you sent. Please feel free to find a better place to keep it. Should you require suggestions, I would be more than happy to direct you to stick the tines firmly into your posterior. Repeatedly.

Your most ardent enemy,

J

He barked out a laugh that echoed off the paneled walls and marble-fronted fireplace before sifting down into the carpet. Upon reading the note again, his laughter continued until he was out of breath. He already knew what he would find in the package. But unwrapping the brown paper only enhanced his amusement, for he found a fat silver fork tied at the neck with a pink ribbon.

In this moment, he could find no reason to bring forth his animosity. He merely enjoyed their well-matched rivalry.

Then he sobered. He knew better than to allow himself to laugh or thrill at anything she might do. Hadn't he made this error once before and to his own detriment?

Juliet was too good at pretending that nothing affected her. So good, in fact, that what happened today might have been only an aberration. And therein lay a temptation to prove there was more lying in wait beneath the surface once and for all. But where would that leave him?

He'd traveled that road before and knew that it led to nothing. What he truly needed was her absence from London before he made a fool of himself again.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

A
dozen flower bouquets, twenty-three invitations, and one small crate arrived the following morning. Since the first two were everyday occurrences, Juliet had little interest in them. After removing the cards, she typically sent her tiger to deliver the flowers to the patients at the sanatorium. Then, while sipping chocolate in the morning room, she would respond to the invitations before embarking on her daily walk. The crate, however, was something different altogether.

“Was there no card?” Juliet asked Mr. Wick, standing near the rosewood table in the foyer.

“No, my lady. None other than your name,” he said, indicating the plain white card with
Lady Granworth
in a scrawled sideways slant.

Curious, indeed.

Truth be told, a small thrill sprinted through her. None of her admirers had sent her a gift before, not even when she'd been a debutante. Oh, certainly, she'd received plenty of flowers, but they had lost their appeal during her marriage. Lord Granworth had only presented her with flowers when she was amidst a gathering of people and only for the purpose of hearing their praises at what a fine husband he was. Pretending to be the gay bride each time, especially when she knew what he was like in private, had grown tiresome.

Both she and the butler were still staring down at the crate when Zinnia came upon them.

“Whatever is that?” she asked.

“I'm not entirely certain, though it could be a gift,” Juliet supposed and explained that the sender was a mystery.

Zinnia's fine brows arched like handles of shepherd's crooks. “And the reason you have not opened it is because you are wary of the contents?”

“Not at all.” Juliet laughed. “Merely speculating what it could be.”

She knew it was ridiculous, but she was savoring the moment. Though it was difficult to admit to herself, she'd felt nearly as excited when the domed platter had arrived last night. At first, she'd had no idea what it contained. And even when the enormous slice of cake was revealed, the exhilaration did not fade. In fact, she'd found herself oddly enthralled by Max's jest. But since they were enemies, as he'd so aptly reminded her yesterday, she could not reveal it. Not even to Marguerite. Therefore, in the privacy of the seldom-used, moldering upstairs sitting room, she'd penned her scathing retort to Max, all the while grinning from ear to ear.

“As you requested, Mr. Wick,” Mrs. Wick, their housekeeper said, handing a short iron lever bar to her husband. And with a glance around the foyer, Juliet noted that the downstairs maid, Myrtle, had also come closer. Her polishing cloth—which was likely for the silver—now smeared circles on the tabletop.

It seemed that Juliet was not the only one surprised and excited about this new occurrence.

“With your permission, my lady?” Mr. Wick asked.

Juliet inclined her head, holding her breath.

The lid came off with a screech, the nails yanked from the wood sending a shiver down her back.

Zinnia was the first to speak. “Is that . . . ice?”

And sure enough, within a bed of straw sat a glistening, wet block of ice.

Confused, Juliet first wondered if this delivery was made in error, and she would need to return it. After all, ice was too precious a commodity to waste, and they still had plenty left over from yesterday's delivery . . .

Then something occurred to her. “Zinnia, did you happen to mention my ice order at Harwick House last night?”

Her cousin hesitated a moment and then offered a nod. “Only to allay Marjorie's concerns for your health, though I was careful not to be overheard, as Lord Thayne was across the room.”

Juliet wanted to growl. Of course, Max had overheard. She'd been in that parlor often enough to know that if a person sighed on one end of the narrow room, the rounded ceiling would carry the sound all the way to the window and flutter the curtains.

“This isn't Marjorie's handwriting,” Zinnia said, examining the card. “In fact, I'd say it appears rather masculine—
Oh my!
Do you suppose that Lord Thayne did overhear and sent this out of concern for you?”

Her cousin's keen eyes were sparkling a bit too brightly for Juliet's taste. “Hardly. Max is no more concerned for my well-being than a wolf is for a rabbit's. This was merely an error in delivery, and we will return it to the ice house.”

Even though she was certain it had been Max looking to taunt her, she decided it would be far better to pretend otherwise, before Zinnia took hold of any romantic notions and then—
heaven forbid
—shared them with Marjorie.

Juliet had overheard the two widows, along with their friend, the Dowager Duchess of Vale, proclaim credit for recent successful unions. Among those were Cousin Lilah to Jack Marlowe, Viscount Locke; Ivy Sutherland to North Bromley, the Duke of Vale; and Adeline Pimm to Liam Cavanaugh, the Earl of Wolford.

The last thing Juliet wanted was to give them the smallest inkling of an idea that either she or Max were anything other than sworn enemies. She had no time to fend off matchmaking schemes from the determined trio. After all, she had a wager to win and a candidate to groom.

“L
ook at all these invitations, Maxwell,” Mother said as she entered the study.

“Hmm . . . yes, very nice, elegant script, fine paper,” he said, giving the toppling stack a cursory glance. Then he resumed making a note in his ledger—a bill of sale for a certain block of ice delivered to Hanover Street this morning. Grinning to himself, he wondered how his
gift
was received, having little doubt that Juliet had figured out the identity of the sender. However, his ruminations were disturbed by the clicking sound of his mother's fingernails tapping on his desk.

He looked up, fairly certain he'd mentioned everything he was supposed to about something as trivial as a stack of cards. “You are giving me that perturbed, impatient glower that tells me I've forgotten an important task. Yet, for the life of me, I do not know what it might be.”

She gestured to the cards as if the answer were obvious. “You have yet to tell me if there is a certain debutante's company you favor. Surely you would want to become well acquainted if you are to be betrothed by the end of the Season.”

“As of twelve hours ago, when we last had this conversation, I have not had the opportunity to meet any potential candidates, if you'll recall. Therefore, I will agree to accept any invitation where debutantes with more than half a brain are in attendance.” There, all settled.

He returned to his ledger, scratching out a sum. Recently, he'd hired a steward to look after Mother's accounts and to see to the running of the estate in Max's eventual absence. He kept his own books separate, even though he was the one responsible for providing his mother the funds she required. Her annual allotment was already spent this year, her money sent to Bram to help with the apparent repairs he needed for his country estate in Devon. Though why he'd requested the funds sent to his chalet in France, Max didn't know. And he wouldn't ask either.

“Here is an invitation from Lord and Lady Simpkin. They have two daughters,” Mother said, shuffling through the cards. “Tell me, are you partial to fair-haired young women, or would a brunette suit?”

An errant vision of golden spun silk and dancing blue eyes flashed through his mind before he was aware of it. The instant he was aware, however, he purposely thought of dark hair, auburn hair, and brown eyes. “I care not.”

“Are you certain? Because that would help to narrow down your selection.”

“You would only ask me which shade I prefer next. Black as the ink in my pot, brown as this leather blotter, red as my chestnut mare, or blonde as golden”—as the words tumbled out of his mouth, he felt as if his mind and tongue had conspired against him—“spun silk.”

“Hmm . . . Strange that you would use those words, for that is exactly how I would describe Juliet's hair. It is a most becoming shade.” She hummed to herself, looking at the cards that she'd already considered. “I do not believe there is another debutante that is her equal.”

“As a widow, she is no longer considered a debutante.” He grumbled.

Mother offered an absent shrug before she flashed an invitation in front of him. “Here is one from Colonel Owen. Miss Owen is intelligent, though she has bright red hair and freckles. Does that bother you?”

Was she even listening to any of his responses at all? “Not in the least.”

“You are quite unlike your brother. Bram only wanted to pursue the pretty girls.”

“Only those deemed pretty by the
ton
. Aside from that, I don't know if he ever had a preference. He was set on marrying the
Original
.”

“Yes. Terrible business. Usually, the
Original
is a fine representation of the tradition, but Miss Leonard turned into such a wild creature after they married. And with Bram so determined to have her, and she him, I thought their natures would balance each other out after a time. However, I'm no longer certain of it. When Bram writes—which is not often enough—I hear less and less about her. It makes me wonder if she is still traveling a great deal with her friends, as she had been inclined to do from the beginning.” Mother released a tired exhale. “I'd hoped that, by now, I might have been a grandmother.”

Max had thought as much as well. After all, Bram had been married five years now. Yet there was no silencing the rumors that Lady Engle had become a favorite in France with both female
and
male companions. “Perhaps it is time for him to return to England and think about his responsibilities.”

Bram had inherited a seat in the House of Lords, but he'd never taken advantage of it. He cared too little for the longevity of their country and the lives of the people who resided within it and too much about seeking his own pleasures. As for Max, he spent the majority of his day garnering support to repeal the Corn Laws, believing that a reduction in food costs was the first step for lessening the financial strains in the north counties.

“He is not like you, Max. He has no desire for politics.” She stacked the cards together, gathering them in her hands. “For him, arguing is pointless unless certain victory awaits.”

Max chuckled. “Everyone enjoys winning an argument.”

“True,” Mother agreed with a smile. “You, however, enjoy all of it, from the inception to the end result. You will need a bride who is not only intelligent but of mild temperament as well.”

Max shook his head in disagreement. “I would want my wife to be someone who is unafraid to speak her mind. There is no enjoyment in a one-sided argument.”

Mother lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “It may come as a surprise to you, but most people do not enjoy conflict. Unless members of the
ton
begin hosting debates instead of balls, I fear you will encounter difficulty finding any debutante who fills your short list of criteria.”

“Capital notion!” he quipped, gesturing to the invitations in her grasp. “Find a debate in any of those cards, and I would be glad to attend.”

She wagged the stack at him. “This is no time for jesting. Surely you are eager to settle into your estate in Lancashire. You have only been there once since you inherited and not even for a sennight.”

The reason he'd left so soon was because he'd been inundated with visits from nearly every country gentleman with a daughter,
or five
, requesting his attendance at dinners and assemblies.

At first, Max had been thrilled by the prospect of meeting so many of the people living near his estate. But soon it had become apparent that they only wanted him to marry their daughters. Max, on the other hand, wanted to know their thoughts, their concerns and issues, because he wanted to represent their interests in Parliament. But in such circumstances, he had received little more than an abundance of politeness coming forth with all the cordiality of a suitor courting a debutante.

“As I have said before, I will return when I have found my bride.”

“It seems to me,” Mother began, pausing as one does while wielding a hammer, sizing up the head of the nail before continuing, “that you spend far more time thinking about your wager with Juliet instead.”

“I can manage both at the same time,” he proclaimed but wasn't sure he fully believed it. Since Juliet had returned to town, he'd been distracted. He'd bought a house on impulse, found himself in a wager with her, hired a troop of laborers to repair the house, entered into another wager with her, licked cake from her fingers, caught himself thinking of cake quite often, and now ice . . . “Besides, once I have won there will be no more distractions.”

Mother crossed her arms. “And no more debutantes, if you are going to wait until month's end.”

He crossed his arms as well, reclining in his chair. “Then you had better make a decision about which event I'm escorting you to this evening.”

She narrowed her eyes. “We will be attending Lord and Lady Simpkin's ball. I've been told by Lady Simpkin herself that their ballroom can hold two hundred comfortably and four in a crush. It opens to the garden as well, which I know appeals to you. Since it promises to be a lovely evening, I'm certain everyone will be in attendance. Perhaps even someone who enjoys debating every topic as much as you do.”

While Max knew of no debutante who matched that particular description, he knew of a certain widow who did. Once again, instinct warned him to stay away from such events where Juliet might be present. Yet it paled in comparison to the galvanic expectation buzzing through him.