When a Marquess Loves a Woman

For Kim
Thank you for being my friend from the beginning of this wonderful journey.

April 1820

“G
ood morning, Saunders. Any noteworthy headlines today?” Max Harwick asked when he reached the bottom of the stairs. As part of a daily regime, the butler waited in the foyer with a pressed copy of the
Post
on a bronze platter.

Saunders inclined his bald head, sunlight from a transient window glancing off his polished dome. “Sure to be a hotbed at the House of Commons this afternoon, sir.” Then with a conspiratorial arch of his gray brows, he continued in a hushed tone. “Best walk slowly to the breakfast room.”

“Thank you, Saunders.” Max eyed the paper with eager interest, opened it with a snap, and began his slow trek. As a rule, no one was allowed to read at the table. Not even a man of four and twenty. So Max had become an expert at navigating the halls while devouring the stories with the most political intrigue. Today was no different. Reading about the uprisings in the north counties and the demands for reform, he took each step by rote, guided by the scents of coffee, salted meats, and freshly baked bread.

“Maxwell,” Mother said, clearing her throat.

It was only when he looked up that he realized he'd crossed the threshold already. Then, receiving a pointed glance down to the paper in his grasp, he dutifully folded and tucked it away behind the first of four silver chafing dishes on the sideboard.

Marjorie Harwick was not a strict woman by nature. She was all ease and nurture, with a generous smile and a softly rounded outward appearance to match. Her dark wavy hair was always in some sort of disarray, likely due to her state of constant motion. In all the years of rearing two sons, she'd never raised her voice. However, when it came to breakfasting together in this cozy hexagonal room lined with diamond-paned windows, she was a veritable Yeoman of the Guard. She would have her way, no matter what.

Stepping to her chair, he bussed her cheek, and she affectionately patted his in return. “Good morning, Mother.” Then, catching his father's eye, he inclined his head. “Good morning, sir.”

Alton Harwick mirrored the gesture, touching a serviette to his mouth. After an absent greeting, he glanced toward the hallway. “Is your brother on his way downstairs?”

To be precise, Bramson Sheffield, the Marquess of Engle, was Max's
half
brother. Four years the elder, Bram was the product of their mother's first marriage. Alton Harwick, having been a friend of the late marquess, had confessed on several occasions that marrying Marjorie—after a suitable mourning period, of course—had been the best way to honor the Engle line.

Overall, he was a kind man and a good father and husband. Many of his acquaintances even considered him affable. In fact, he only had one notable flaw: he kept forgetting that Max was
his
firstborn, his only son by blood, and the one who would carry on his name.

“I believe I saw Bram's valet in the hallway,” Max answered. And while he still had Father's attention, he rushed onward. “With the news of the day, this afternoon's session of Parliament is sure to be quite the stir. Father, perhaps we could go to St. Stephen's and watch the proceedings from the gallery.”

“Not today, I'm afraid,” Father said, pushing a bit of egg on his fork toward the blade of his knife. “Bram and I are heading to Tattersall's. There's a prime pair of grays he has his eye on.”

The morning excursion would still leave the afternoon available. But Max made no comment.

“Perhaps another day,” Mother added with a cheerful nod as she dropped a dollop of clotted cream onto her scone. Much to her credit, she loved her sons with equal fervor and gaiety. Yet she was oblivious to the biased favoritism toward Bram that confronted Max on a daily basis.

Moving to the sideboard, he prepared a plate. Vying for his father's time was a battle he'd lost too frequently, and familiarity with the defeat caused a numbness that made it easier to shrug off the disappointment. Besides, it was a pleasanter task to think of how he would spend his afternoon. He loved watching the debates at the House of Commons, and hearing those—who might not have had a voice otherwise—seek justice. He'd even thought of standing for a seat but lacked the money and the influence required.

Since he was a gentleman of limited means, the
ton
discounted him, rarely even aware of his presence. In fact, the only time he garnered attention was when someone wanted to ask after Bram, wondering whether or not the marquess had chosen a bride yet.

Of all the questions posed to Max, that was his least favorite. Even though he never offered a definitive answer, he hated knowing that Juliet White was among the candidates on Bram's list. Yet she was far too beautiful not to be included, lack of fortune or not.

The
ton
called her the
goddess
and some even the
hollow goddess
, believing she was nothing more than a gilded plasterwork molded into perfection. Few knew how insightful she was or how she noticed everything and everyone. Even Max.

Unfortunately, she noticed his brother more. Only a blind man could miss the way her eyes lit up like sapphires against a candle flame whenever she saw Bram.

And with that thought, Max's appetite disappeared. He looked down at his plate with disinterest as he lowered his frame into a straight-backed chair.

“I have a good feeling about today,” Father said, placing his silverware on the rim of his plate and glancing toward the hallway again.

“Do you think Bram has made a decision?” Mother asked.

“There's a good chance of it.
Ah
—and here's my boy now.” Father dropped his serviette to the table as he stood, smiling. “We'd better make haste if you want to land those grays before Knightswold gets his hands on them.”

“
That
I shall not allow,” Bram said with a chuckle as he strode into the breakfast room. He too held a newspaper, folding it beneath his arm before he gripped Father's outstretched hand.

Standing next to Bram, Father painted a rather nondescript portrait—straight brown hair, brushed back from his forehead and tinged with gray at the temples; plain brown eyes; and features that were unremarkable.

Max had those same features but also possessed Mother's dark hair and slight olive cast to his skin. Against Bram's pale coloring, aristocratic bone structure, and magnetic charm, there was little Max could do to compete. So he'd always relied on other methods—eldest son to eldest son.

While Bram had the slim, agile qualities of a top-notch fencer, Max's athletic build was created for stamina. When it came to matters of strength and endurance, he could outmatch and outride Bram any day of the week. Unfortunately, Max's skills were better suited to a jousting tournament during days of old. They did him little good here and now.

“After all,” Bram continued, “a man cannot become betrothed without the finest pair to pull his barouche, can he?”

Mother gasped, smiling. “You have decided?”

“Indeed.” Bram tossed the
Season Standard
—the
ton
's premier scandal sheet—down onto the table, without receiving a word of reprimand. “This morning's column cleared away any doubt I possessed. They have announced this Season's
Original
and, as luck would have it, the name is the very one that holds a claim upon my heart.”

Max stared at the paper. Suddenly, it was like looking at a feral beast on the table, froth dripping from its mouth, claws ready to strike.

Juliet had pinned all her hopes on being named the
Original
. The title was bestowed to the one person who encompassed certain qualities worthy of the
ton
's notice and emulation. For a gentleman, this frivolous honor could mean that his wit or the cut of his clothes had far surpassed the others. For a young woman, her style and poise made her the most sought after of all debutantes. Most importantly, she would have her choice of husband.

And Max feared that her choice was now standing in the room.

Knowing what was expected of him, Max stood as well and offered a hand to Bram. “Congratulations.”

“You don't even know whom I've chosen.” Bram cast a dubious glance down to the hand and laughed. Then he reached for the
Standard
and slapped it into Max's grasp instead.

Ignoring the slight, Max skimmed the column.
Proud to announce . . . this Season's
Original
. . . a young woman with charm, beauty, indefatigable effervescence . . .

“Miss Leonard?” The name left Max's lips on a breath that drained every ounce of air from his lungs. His chest collapsed and then abruptly filled with relief more profound than he'd ever known before. “You're going to marry Miss Leonard?”

From what Max knew about Miss Leonard, she possessed an artful way of boasting her own accomplishments by way of self-deprecation, which tended to earn her even more praise. Yet all he saw was a façade of crafted manners and a false beauty that fed on compliments. Most were blind to her character, seeing her only as a charming, orphaned heiress whose only family was an aging aunt.

“Poor Miss White,” Mother said. “I know she counted on today's announcement. Doubtless that was the reason her parents had planned a party for this very evening. I wonder if they will cancel now.”

Max moved to the sideboard and slipped the paper beside the other. “Of course not. Mr. White is not a man to show his cards. As he and his family always have done, they will display the utmost grace and cordiality.”

Although, rumors were now surfacing that the Whites could not afford to lose their social standing. Apparently, Mr. White had a good deal of debt hanging over his head. Since they were practically neighbors, however, Max wasn't inclined to believe it. There would have been indications, after all—fewer lavish parties, minimal
at home
days, or even wearing clothes out of fashion. But none of that was evident.

“Doubtless, you are correct, Maxwell,” Mother replied before she stood and requested that Father join her in the hall for a moment.

“I'm counting on the Whites' cordiality because I plan to make my announcement at their party,” Bram said once they were alone.

Max balked. “This evening? Surely your new bride would wish for her aunt to host a party in order to make the announcement.”

“By then the news will already have been out.” Bram offered a careless shrug as he lifted Max's plate from the table and took a bite of ham. “Imagine the surprise I shall receive at dinner when I stand and raise my glass to toast my upcoming nuptials. The entire
ton
has been waiting with bated breath for my announcement.”

“It would be bad form.” And it would break Juliet's heart. “I won't allow it.”

Bram laughed. “And who are you,
little brother
, to prevent me?”

U
nfortunately, neither Father nor Mother had succeeded in dissuading Bram from his plan. Therefore, by the time they arrived at the Whites' townhouse that evening, Max was on a mission to find Juliet.

He'd made several attempts to call on her throughout the day but had been turned away at the door, their butler stating that the household was under preparations for the party and therefore could not receive visitors. Max considered leaving a missive but knew that the information was of too delicate a nature to convey through such blunt means. He needed to see her in person so that she could prepare herself and her parents for what would surely come as a blow to all of them.

From the archway, Max surveyed the room, searching for her face. Dozens of guests crowded shoulder to shoulder, filling the small green parlor. Feathered turbans and elaborate coiffures nodded in conversation. Fans flapped, stirring unpleasant odors and cloying perfumes. Voices merged into a cacophony that made the crystals hanging from the chandelier vibrate and shimmer. But there, at the far side of the room, Juliet stood.

With
Miss Leonard.

Both blonde and fair, the two young women angled near one another. While Miss Leonard was pretty, with her ash-blonde curls and almond-shaped eyes, Juliet's beauty possessed an otherworldly quality. Even in a white satin gown that, to him, was like any other, she appeared regal. Every gesture—the tilt of her head, the gentle turn of a fan, a blink—deserved admiration. Her hair was golden spun silk, her features delicate, her complexion the finest cream. Her lashes and slender winged eyebrows were two shades darker, providing the perfect frame for the lovely, keen sapphire irises that never missed a single thing.

It was watching her eyes—as he plotted a course and
pardon me
-ed his way across the room—that gave Max his first jolt of anxiety.

Likely, to everyone else, Miss White and Miss Leonard appeared to be engaged in amicable conversation, but to Max, it was clear that Juliet was distressed. The proof of it lay in her subtle gesture of closing her fan and lowering it heavily to her side, in the slight widening of her eyes, and in the delicate, somewhat halted undulation of her throat as she swallowed.

“I trust that you will keep our secret, Miss White,” Miss Leonard said, her voice only reaching Max now that he was within a pace of them. Apparently, Miss Leonard was too eager to share her announcement and chose not to wait for Bram's toast at dinner. Or perhaps she wanted to deliver the news directly to a known rival.

Whatever she had said, he could not forgive her for it. Not when he noted how Juliet had gone still. How only her gaze moved, shifting down to the double strand of pearls adorning Miss Leonard's neck.

Earlier today, Bram had settled the betrothal with Miss Leonard's aunt and her man of accounts. As a gift of promise, Bram had given his grandmother's pearls. The same ones that Miss Leonard caressed with her gloved fingertips right now.

“I'm certain I do not deserve my good fortune this day,” Miss Leonard continued, her eyes flashing with undisguised triumph. “To be named the
Original
and to become engaged to the most sought after of all gentlemen? This must be a dream, surely.”