TemptingJuliana (16 page)

“I cannot believe you didn’t tell me you’d talked to Lord Stafford,” Amanda said the next afternoon. “What did he say, then?”

The day had dawned bright and sunny for a change, and if it wasn’t exactly warm, at least it was no longer freezing. Following Juliana’s rescheduled sewing party—after which, despite everyone’s help, Emily had calculated that Juliana
still
needed a hundred and seventy-eight items of baby clothes—she’d taken Amanda across the street into Berkeley Square, where they sat on a bench beneath a plane tree, eating ices from Gunter’s Tea Shop.

Or at least Juliana was eating hers.

“Do you know,” she said, “this is the first ice I’ve had all summer.” She scooped the last of the frosty treat and spooned it into her mouth, savoring the heavenly flavor. “Delicious. White currant is the best.”

Amanda’s strawberry ice sat in her dish untouched. “What did he say?” she repeated. “When does he think we should carry out our plan?”

Juliana sighed and licked her spoon. “He doesn’t think we should carry out our plan at all. He called it ‘underhanded.’”

“Underhanded?”

“Yes. He wants to ask for your hand outright. He says there’s no reason your father shouldn’t agree.”

“He doesn’t know my father, then,” Amanda said dejectedly. She poked her spoon at her melty pink ice, staring at the statue of King George in the middle of the square. “What did he say when you told him Father is too stubborn to break the agreement with Lord Malmsey?”

“I didn’t tell him that. James—I mean, Lord Stafford—would never pursue marriage if he knew you’re already engaged. He’s entirely too honorable.”

“Like my father, putting his honor before my happiness.”

“Lord Stafford isn’t selfish, just principled. It’s not the same.”

“Maybe not.” Amanda slowly stirred what was now strawberry soup. “Why didn’t you tell me this last night? On the way home in Lord Stafford’s carriage?”

“I don’t know,” Juliana admitted. She shifted her gaze from Amanda’s disappointed face to the likeness of their monarch. His Majesty was mounted on a horse, wearing some sort of drapey garment she supposed was intended to be Greek or Roman but instead made the poor man look like he was bundled against the cold. “I guess I was trying to figure out how to fix this.”

“And what did you come up with?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Amanda set the dish on the bench beside her. “You
always
have a plan.”

“No, I don’t.” Juliana sighed. “I don’t have a plan this time.”

“Well, I do,” Amanda declared.

Juliana couldn’t have been more surprised if the statue of King George had suddenly come to life and galloped off. “You have a plan?”

“Yes. We shall trick Lord Stafford into compromising me.”

“
We
shall do no such thing.” Juliana wasn’t sure which shocked her more: prissy Amanda suggesting such a plan or the thought of tricking a man who’d become her friend. “That would be reprehensible. Unethical. Completely disgraceful.”

“Why? You said he wanted to marry me. If his supposed honor is standing in the way, we’d be doing him a favor, would we not?”

“No,” Juliana said, and then, “Well, maybe.” Amanda had a point. James
did
want to marry her. He’d said as much, hadn’t he? He’d said Amanda was lovely—many times—and he’d said her father would accept his suit. He wouldn’t
have
a suit if he wasn’t wanting to marry her. Why else would he be courting her? He’d bought her gifts, and he’d asked her to dance. More than once. At every ball, as a matter of fact. And he’d invited Amanda to his home.

Well, technically his mother had done the inviting. But it was his home, and most certainly he’d approved. “Do you enjoy playing whist?” she suddenly asked.

“Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”

Amanda liked whist, as did James. And chess. And she wasn’t sickened by blood. No wonder James loved her and wished to marry her. And the only way to make his wish come true was to—

“I think we should do it this Saturday,” Amanda declared, interrupting Juliana’s line of reasoning. “At the Billingsgate ball.”

Apparently Amanda had
destroyed
Juliana’s line of reasoning, not just interrupted it. Because suddenly she wasn’t sure everything quite made sense. “I don’t know,” she said. “It just seems wrong somehow to plot behind Lord Stafford’s back. It makes me feel guilty.”

“Guilty? I think not.” Juliana couldn’t remember Amanda ever sounding so sure of herself. “I told you, we’ll be doing him a
favor
.”

There it was, that
we
again. That guilty-making
we
. “Maybe you should do this alone, Amanda.”

“Why?” Amanda shifted to face her on the bench, her eyes not sparkling but pleading. “I cannot plan this alone. I need your help, Juliana—you’re the bright one of us, after all.”

Well, Amanda had
that
right. The girl might be bookish, but that was not the same as bright.

“You cannot really feel guilty,” Amanda added.

“Maybe just a tad.”

“Well, you shouldn’t.”

Maybe Amanda’s arguments were valid. After all, James wanted to marry her. And Lord Malmsey certainly didn’t. And Aunt Frances—dear, myopic Aunt Frances—would be devastated if Amanda married Lord Malmsey. The only person who would be happy if Amanda
didn’t
trick James was her dratted, conniving father. Surely that would be the greater wrong.

That all sounded well justified, didn’t it?

Juliana’s sisters often said that justification was one of her many talents.

“Well?” Amanda asked.

“All right. We’ll make a plan.”

“Gracious me.” Amanda lifted her dish and happily scooped up a spoonful of strawberry soup. “I thought you’d never agree.”

Wondering if she
should
have agreed, Juliana started plotting.

ORANGE JUMBLES

James handed the hopeful young woman a pencil and slid a piece of paper across the counter. “Write your name here, please, on line fourteen.”

She squinted at the page.

“There,” he elaborated, indicating the number 14.

She bit her lip and wrote an awkward
X
beside it.

The eleventh
X
on the page. “Thank you,” he said, suppressing a sigh, “but I don’t believe you will find this position suitable.”

Her shoulders slumped as she turned, and he wished
he could help. The introduction of new machinery was causing massive unemployment all over England, but his concern about that problem didn’t change the fact that he required an assistant who could read and write.

As she plodded out of the New Hope Institute, Juliana danced in, gave a jaunty wave toward the Chase carriage outside, and stuck her umbrella in the stand by the door.

It was Wednesday, and—James checked his pocket watch—precisely one o’clock. Having not seen Juliana since the dinner at Stafford House on Sunday, he’d been wondering if she would actually show up. As she walked toward him, her smile seemed to brighten the entire reception room, some feat considering his current mood. It was raining outside—of course—but she was wearing a thin, sunny yellow dress that did nothing to disguise her curves. Which meant it did nothing to help contain his ever-growing lust, either. The bodice was small, as usual, which made him envision her lovely breasts popping right out of it.

Bloody hell.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “No Lady Frances?”

“Oh, she’d be bored, and she doesn’t care for this neighborhood. Besides, this is hardly a situation that requires a chaperone.” She seemed to be staring at the area below his throat. “The carriage will return for me at four o’clock. Why are you out here?” Raising her gaze to his face—with some effort, it appeared—she placed the basket she was carrying on the counter between them. “Shouldn’t you be in one of the treatment rooms, giving vaccinations?”

“I am interviewing for a new assistant.” He gestured toward the
HELP WANTED
sign he’d once again placed in the window. “And playing the part of assistant myself until I find one.”

“Did the last one you hired leave, then?”

“Yes. This morning.” The pouring rain had kept a queue from forming all the way to Surrey today, but that also meant potential new employees were staying home. Juliana seemed to be waiting for an explanation, so he added, “She found herself with child unexpectedly.”

“Unexpectedly? How can it be that a woman does
what it takes to get a child without expecting to find herself with one?”

He knew quite a few ways, actually—he was a physician, after all—but he wouldn’t explain them to an innocent young lady. Not even one unreserved enough to raise the question while wearing a dress with a tiny bodice and staring at the little bit of skin that was exposed where he’d left his top button undone.

“She has no husband,” he said, unfastening a second button to see her reaction. “The father of her child cannot afford to support a wife.”

“Oh.” She looked a mite scandalized, but he wasn’t sure whether to attribute that to his unbuttoning or to the news that his unwed assistant had got herself with child. “She must feel perfectly dreadful.”

“Less dreadful, I expect, since I gave her fifty pounds and sent her off to get married.”

Her entire face lit up. “Then she won’t have to give her child to the Foundling Hospital. That was wonderful, James.”

He hadn’t been feeling very wonderful until now, but the admiring tone of her voice made him want to kiss her. Hell, the mere sight of her made him want to kiss her. The tiny bodice didn’t help, and neither did her obvious interest in his bare skin. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing they were someplace besides the Institute.

Although it was probably best that they weren’t.

“I brought you orange jumbles,” she said, lifting the cloth that covered the basket to reveal biscuits that smelled almost as good as she did. “They’re supposed to be good for the ailing.” She glanced around the crowded reception area. “Though I suppose these people aren’t ailing, really, are they?”

“My goal is to
keep
them from ailing.”

“Yes, of course. Well, the jumbles are supposed to help keep one comfortable as well. Try one.”

As he took one of the sweets—wondering if it was so obvious that he was uncomfortable—a woman and her newly vaccinated son walked out, the youngster sucking a sugar stick. “Excuse me,” James said and stepped from behind the counter. “Number forty-three!”

Another woman and her two children rose and fol
lowed him into the back. Taking the biscuit with him, he showed them to a treatment room. The orange jumble was crisp and tasted sweet and citrusy, but it was not comforting.

When he returned, Juliana was behind the counter, handing a number to a dripping family of four. “You’re number fifty-seven,” she said loudly and clearly. “Please be seated. Lord Stafford will call you when it’s your turn.”

James watched the family try and fail to find seats, then turned to Juliana. “I prefer to be called Dr. Trevor while I’m here. ‘Lord Stafford’ intimidates the patients.”

“I’ll try to remember that. There’s a young woman waiting for an interview—I told her to sit until you were ready. Which of the treatment rooms shall I clean?”

“Pardon?”

“I came to clean treatment rooms, remember?” She pulled off her gloves. “I wore my oldest dress.”

He eyed her oldest dress with its tiny bodice. It looked no more shabby than the one she’d worn to his house for dinner, which meant, of course, that it did not look shabby at all. “What makes you think I would expect a lady to clean anything?” he asked. “The Stafford House maids take turns coming here to clean. Three times a week.”

Her pretty brow creased. “Why did you tell Lady Amanda she could clean, then?”

He shrugged, remembering Lady Amanda’s attitude at dinner. Very ladylike and rather snobbish. “I just wanted to see her reaction.”

“Oh.” Juliana looked thoughtful, or apprehensive—he wasn’t sure which. “And what did you think of how she reacted?”

“Very much like a lady,” he said, leaving out the word
snobbish
.

Now she looked relieved. “Amanda is very much a lovely lady,” she said. “What shall you have me do if not clean treatment rooms?”

“You seem to make an excellent assistant. Why don’t you keep doing that?”

She did prove an excellent assistant, which allowed him to vaccinate patients between interviewing candidates. Two hours later, the number of people in the re
ception room had dwindled to something approaching normal. The orange jumbles were all gone, and they’d indeed seemed to comfort some of the patients. People waiting to be infected tended to be somewhat nervous.

He’d talked to three more women who wanted the job, but they’d all been underqualified.

“The tasks are not very difficult,” Juliana said during a rare lull. Her gaze flicked toward his open shirt and back up. “Why is it that you find it so hard to hire someone acceptable?”

“My assistant must be able to read and write.”

“Many women can read and write—”

“But many of those don’t need employment. Educated women are likely to have fathers or husbands to support them.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” She handed him the box of sugar sticks he’d asked her to fetch. “I shall screen the applicants for you and let you know if I find someone acceptable. That way you can keep administering vaccinations.”

He wished he could find someone as efficient as Juliana. An hour later, she announced she’d found the perfect replacement, a young woman that Miss Smith, his last morning assistant, had apparently sent and recommended. All the supplies in the treatment rooms were restocked, the storage shelves were organized, Juliana had rewritten his scribbled July schedule in a neat, legible hand, and—in part thanks to the rain—only five patients were waiting for vaccinations.

Even better, it was now four o’clock, which meant his second-shift assistant had arrived, as well as two fresh physicians. He was free, and it was Wednesday, so Parliament wasn’t in session. Juliana’s carriage was due to return any moment, but she had no chaperone, for once. She was still glancing where his shirt was unbuttoned whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.

Maybe he could get her alone someplace where he could kiss her, he thought as he followed her toward the door. Maybe he could talk her into going somewhere besides home.

She pulled on her gloves. “Will I see you at Almack’s tonight?”

Somewhere besides Almack’s.

The door opened, admitting two new patients, a footman in Chase livery, and a messenger boy. “Lord Stafford?” the messenger boy inquired.

“Yes.” James took the note, broke the seal, and scanned the single page. “Damn.”

“Is it something dreadful?” Juliana asked, splaying a gloved hand over her breasts in their tiny yellow bodice. Which only made him notice them more. Hell. Was she trying to kill him?

“No. Aunt Bedelia fears some ailment and wishes to see me.”

“I hope she will turn out to be well.”

“She will, I assure you. But I’m afraid I won’t make it to Almack’s tonight.”

“It’s only four o’clock. How long can it take to examine her?”

“Very long,” he fibbed. “I fear Aunt Aurelia will wish to be examined, too.”

“How very unfortunate.” She sighed so prettily that her breasts rose and fell beneath their little yellow bodice. Apparently she
was
trying to kill him. She pulled her umbrella out of the stand. “Shall I see you at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday, then?”

There was no way his mother would accept an excuse for not attending the Billingsgate ball. His aunts would be there, after all, so he could hardly claim they’d summoned him to deal with imaginary aches and pains. “I’ll be there,” he promised.

It wasn’t Almack’s. And Juliana would be there, too. In another tiny bodice.

Too bad he wouldn’t be able to unbutton his shirt.