When a Marquess Loves a Woman (10 page)

To Juliet, every word he spoke only reminded her of Lord Granworth's many insults that had chipped away at any self-worth she might have possessed.
“Your parents are nothing more than leeches who willingly sold their only possession on a whim. You were nothing to them but a lovely trinket to use for trade. At least I understand your true value. After all, men have offered me thousands of pounds to spend one night with you. Don't you see, my pet? You are quite valuable just as you are—unspoiled and beautiful. Make no mistake, however. When those offers cease, and their envy wanes, I will have no use for you, much like your parents and all of my followers who are pretending to be your friends.
”

She didn't know if rage emboldened her or righteousness, but Juliet closed the distance between them in two steps and repeated her warning.

Markham flashed another grin. “Be warned, Lady Granworth, if you should swat me with your fan, I might enjoy it.”

Only now did she realize she was holding it open at her side as if the fan were claws attached to her fingers. She was so used to carrying one that it had become something of an extension of herself. She closed it and then did indeed smack the hand that lay upon Gemma's arm.

What happened next was a blur.

Markham moved suddenly, snaking his hand out toward Juliet. In turn, she wielded her fan against him, opening and then closing it sharply, his finger within the sticks and the guard. And then, she twisted it.

A horrible snapping sound followed. A sickening shudder tore through her, and she knew, even before he howled, that she'd just broken Markham's finger.

M
ax rounded the corner of the terrace just in time to hear Markham curse and hold his hand protectively against his chest. “Why, you cunning little b—”

“Markham,” Max called out, earning an alarmed glance from Markham. Juliet and Miss Desmond were pale and still—and likely in shock.

Markham collected himself quickly, straightening his shoulders, but still clutched his hand. “I'm glad you are here, Thayne. You can serve as my witness to the extortion Lady Granworth was attempting, threatening to pull me into some sort of scandal, unless I show favor to her charge. I had no idea they were scheming together—”

“If you expect me to believe that, then you know little of my own character, let alone Lady Granworth's. You see, if she were to tell me that the sky is now cloudless and bright and that the dampness falling down from the heavens was ocean mist, I would believe her over any claim you might make,” Max said, stalking closer. “And if she were to tell me that a duel at dawn was the only way to settle this matter, then I would comply. Most heartily.”

Now it was Markham's face that went stone white. “That won't be necessary. I was just leaving.”

As Markham skulked toward him, Max blocked his path and looked to Juliet.

Holding his gaze, her face illuminated by the ambient light from a street lamp beyond the garden wall, she looked heartbreakingly fragile, and his anger toward Markham grew. But as the moment progressed, that mysterious inner strength she possessed showed itself. Some mistook this part of her demeanor as coldness, a flaw that made her unapproachable. Not Max. He'd always admired her strength.

She straightened her shoulders. “Markham isn't worth the cost of gunpowder, as long as he stays away from Miss Desmond.”

“Oh, he will.” Max would make sure of it. But he'd wait until later to make his point perfectly clear to the viscount.

Markham's mouth twisted into a sneer. “You've become a right solid prig since you inherited. I liked you much better when I didn't know who you were.”

Max nodded and let him pass, knowing that—later this evening—Markham truly would wish they'd never met at all. For right now, however, all of Max's attention was on Juliet and Miss Desmond.

Juliet turned to lay a comforting hand on Miss Desmond's shoulder, who by the appearance of her disheveled coiffure and distraught expression was still clearly shaken.

“I was told that men behaved with decorum in society,” Miss Desmond said, her expression haunted, as if from a recurring nightmare. Stripping off her glove, inside out, she let it fall onto the wet stones and looked down at a series of long red impressions on her arm. “I should have kicked him when I had the chance.”

Max looked down at those marks and felt a rage so powerful that he could barely think of anything other than ripping Markham's arms from his body.

“I'm afraid that some men never learn, dearest.” Then Juliet drew in a breath. “I apologize. I should have warned you about him.”

Gemma shook her head in a way that offered absolution. “It wasn't your fault. It is my father's doing, and now I know I will never be able to escape what he has done.” She swallowed, turning rather green. “I-I think I need a moment alone.”

“Of course,” Juliet said, laying a protective hand over Miss Desmond's arm. “We'll go to the retiring room.”

“No, I'd better not wait—” Miss Desmond covered her mouth with her bare hand, dashed out into the garden, and summarily bent over the nearest shrub. The harsh sounds of her retching punctuated the air.

Juliet watched over Miss Desmond, withdrawing a handkerchief and walking toward the garden steps, Max beside her. “She deserved so much more than Markham's unseemly offer.”

Max clenched his jaw as grim understanding flooded him. He knew Markham was a cad, but he never imagined that he would openly proposition an innocent. His actions were unconscionable.

“Why is it that so many men refuse to acknowledge that a woman has a beating heart beneath her breast and a brain in her head, just as they do?” Juliet growled with vehemence, her own fist pressing against the balustrade. “And what's worse is that I have this raging desire to change those skewed opinions, even after years and years have taught me that it is a battle of futility.”

Her declaration seemed to stem from something deeper than her anger toward Markham. In the past, Max might have taken this opportunity to ask her, to console her. This time, however, he feared that doing so would only bring forth more of the tender, protective feelings making a resurgence within him. And denying them was proving to be a hard-fought battle.

He reminded himself that he was not the fool who had once fallen in love with Juliet. That door was closed. Now, he was older and made wiser by circumstance.

And yet, when she lifted her face to his, looking at him with unguarded eyes, seeking solace, Max's heart could not resist. “You said it best already—those men are not worth the cost of gunpowder. Your arguments are too valuable to be wasted on the deaf. Instead, offer your words to the members of your own sex, for they are far more deserving.”

A faint smile graced her lips. “At last, I approve of your argument.”

He bent to retrieve her fan from the stones, only to realize the painted silk leaves and the ribs were rent in two.

“I thoroughly detest the man. He made me break my fan,” Juliet said, taking it from his grasp. Her tone was almost flippant, yet a visible shudder stole over her, making her chin tremble. She swallowed. “The sound of it was quite alarming, actually. I don't think I'll ever forget it.”

More than anything, Max wanted to pull her into his arms. But he settled for brushing his fingers over the sheen of mist covering her cheek. “You've been in the rain too long. Your flesh is cold.”

“I don't feel it at all,” she said and briefly closed her eyes, her cheek lingering in the cup of his palm. Then she drew in a breath and stepped back. “I suppose that is proof positive that I will not disintegrate in the rain like a plaster mold.”

He needed to get her out of here before he gave in to the urge to embrace her and shield her with his coat. “I'll escort you through the garden gate to your carriage and send word to your cousin and Lady Vale before I take you home.”

“You should stay and find a dance partner.”

“I'm not leaving you.” An uncontrollable wash of tenderness rushed through him. It was so powerful that he took a step closer without thinking. Alarm bells clamored through, warning him that it was dangerous to feel this way, that he'd been here once before, and it would end badly.

Their friendly animosity was suddenly under siege—at least on his part—by something more powerful.

“Come now, Max,” she said softly. “We cannot leave the ball together without causing another scandal. I'm certain Zinnia will be ready to depart at once, as will Edith.”

In the end, he knew that Juliet and those alarms were right. “Very well.”

After taking a step down the stairs, she paused with her hand on the rail and turned to him. “Oh, and Max?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for the book.” She flashed a knowing grin.

Before leaving to fetch her cousin, he smirked back at her. “I have no idea to what you are referring, Lady Granworth.”

C
HAPTER
N
INE

T
he following day, Max rode to his solicitor's office, hoping that business matters would keep his mind from wandering to Juliet. Yet he wasn't holding out too much hope. Thus far, no distraction seemed to work.

After his
visit
with Markham, Max had returned home only to lie awake for half the night. He couldn't stop thinking of her and recounting all the things he wished he could have done to clear away the anguish from her expression. Even reminding himself of the animosity between them had not aided him. And it was because she had revealed her feelings to him that made it impossible.

She'd been open to him, even welcoming his touch upon her cheek. She had not shied away or pretended indifference either but offered a rare glimpse into the heart that she usually concealed so well.

For years, he'd convinced himself that he'd conjured romantic notions that had no foundation, that he had made too much out of every look, laugh, and effortless conversation, believing that they had shared one mind. But after last night, he'd begun to believe once more.

And that was pure folly. Proof of that was the fact that he'd left Harwick House before dawn, walked to his townhouse, and then roamed those halls where memories—both painful and poignant—kept him company.

It wasn't until he'd taken a good look at the man in the shaving mirror an hour ago that he realized an idiot stared back at him, and a familiar one at that. After all, he'd been here before, and he knew the inevitable outcome.

Juliet would sooner run—would even marry an old man she barely knew—before she would ever give Max a chance.

Leaping down from his horse onto the pavement outside his solicitor's office, Max warned himself to put her firmly from his mind. His determination was even marked in the firm manner that he looped the reins to the post.

In the next instant, however, all his efforts fell asunder.

Lifting his head, he caught sight of Juliet exiting the bank a few doors down. Covered from neck to ankle, she wore a modest white pelisse, which was not the type of garment that evoked a man's fantasies. And yet he was stirred all the same.

Perhaps it was the flash of red sarcenet, lining the underside, that made his pulse leap.

Why was he always so drawn to the barest glimpse of what lay beneath the surface with her? Even her white hat was trimmed in red silk on the underside. And all he could think about was stripping every bit of it away to discover what else he might find.

Here on the pavement, where dozens of people would bear witness, was certainly not the time to indulge in a foolish dream. Nonetheless, he found himself listing forward, prepared to take a step in her direction.

Thankfully, her tiger rushed around from the back of her carriage to open the door and lower the step. That red lining flashed once more as she gathered her skirts in preparation. Then, just before she slipped away, her hat tilted, and her gaze swiveled in his direction.

A smile graced her lips and held for seven full beats of his heart. In that time, he imagined striding up to her, hauling her into his arms, and lowering his mouth to hers to see if she tasted exactly how he remembered.

But then she was gone, nested inside the carriage, with the door closed behind her.

On a slow exhale, he reminded himself of the many times he'd watched her retreat. More than likely, it would happen again and again. And what Max needed was someone who would stay. What he needed was a wife. Therefore, it was time to turn his thoughts permanently away from Juliet and onto suitable candidates.

With that thought in mind, he pivoted on his heel and instantly collided with a passerby. The gangly man had his head bent in apparent study of the papers in his grasp.

“See here! Watch where you're—” Lord Pembroke looked up at him with a glower, but then his eyes went round, the whites seeming to expand to three times their size as his irises shrank. Stumbling back, he lifted his free hand to his hat, clutching it with a boney hand. “Forgive me, Lord Thayne. Clearly I wasn't paying attention to where I was going. I was just reading these documents about that”—he swallowed—“venture I mentioned to you . . . at Lord and Lady Simpkin's.”

Max held up a hand, not wanting to listen to an entire recapitulation of prior events. “This is not a killing offense, Pembroke, so you may relax and simply be on your way.”

Surprisingly, Lord Pembroke listened and scurried off without another word. Max would have found the sudden exit out of character, or even strange, if he was not so grateful for it.

The sound of a chuckle from the doorway of Barnaby and Pluck drew his attention to North Bromley, the Duke of Vale, who met him on the pavement outside the solicitor's office. “I see our
friend
attempted to sell you shares of a silver mine too, Thayne.”

They shared a smirk of exasperation. “What are the odds that he's changed his conniving ways?”

When asked a mathematical question, Vale always took the matter seriously. Even now, his dark eyes sharpened, as if he could imagine a slate before him, a stick of chalk in his hand. “Factoring in the length of time he has been alive, and analyzing the portion of when we were all at school together, I'd say nine-tenths of one percent. However, if you were merely asking theoretically, then I would say none at all.”

Max agreed with a grin, a ready quip on his tongue. But then, the mention of calculations distracted him, suddenly reminding him of Vale's
Marriage Formula
.

Last Christmas, Vale had developed an equation designed specifically to find an ideal match. He'd even tested it on himself and had married within days of meeting his bride for the first time. By all accounts, Vale and Ivy were truly perfect for each other, two halves of one whole.

And finding his own other half was exactly what Max needed in order to put Juliet far from his mind. “Since we are on the topic of mathematics, how fares your plans for opening a registry service for those wanting to use your
Marriage Formula
?”

Vale shook his head and tugged on the lapels of his coat. “Abandoned, I'm afraid. With my first child on the way and my fellowship with the Royal Society, establishing those registries no longer seems important.”

The news was disappointing. Yet Max was never one to give up without putting forth some sort of argument. “I'm certain there are many people who would benefit from it.”

Vale looked at him with interest, his dark eyes sharpening. “Are
you
one of the ‘many people'?”

“I have given it thought, yes,” Max admitted, always having believed in Vale's concept from inception. In fact, he wondered why he hadn't thought of asking Vale sooner. “As you know, I intend to leave for Lancashire at summer's end. I would like to have the matter of a wife settled before I go.” And if there was anyone who would not balk at marrying in such a short amount of time, it was Vale, who'd married by special license.

“As I recall, you felt it was a matter of duty. Yet now, I sense urgency more than obligation.”

“The Season is nearly over, and I am running out of time.”

Vale nodded, his expression one of thoughtful scrutiny, as if he were gauging Max's reaction. “And would it offend you to learn that I have already calculated your formula?”

“No, indeed, for I am most eager to learn the results.” Knowing Vale, this should not have surprised Max, but it did. He had to wonder why Vale wouldn't have told him immediately.

Vale's gaze veered to the pedestrians stepping past them, and he bowed his head absently in greeting as a low laugh escaped him. “I think not.”

“Truly, I cannot imagine any reason why I would not wish to know,” Max stated. “I have no qualms over marrying for lack of fortune, family connections, or even beauty. So there can be no name you could utter of which I would disapprove.”

When Vale arched a brow without speaking a word, Max suddenly understood why his friend had not told him the name. There could only be one reason, after all.

Because the formula had paired him with the single person whom the
ton
knew to be his bitterest enemy—
Juliet
.

Max clenched his teeth. “If that is true, then your equation is flawed.”

Vale merely shrugged, not taking offense. “Which is another reason why I have discontinued my endeavors regarding the marriage registry. It was Ivy who made me realize that I'd disregarded the most important of all factors—love. That deep, abiding emotion overshadows all the other criteria, rendering them meaningless.”

And Max knew better than anyone that Juliet could not give him love. Once upon a time, he had imagined that he could win her over, but no longer. He wanted more than mere glimpses.

A painful sense of longing pierced his heart. “Then I will simply find a suitable match on my own. There is always another way.”

L
ater that week, Juliet and Zinnia dined at Harwick House.

Juliet found that she was not only well enough to attend but eager. In the past few days, she'd had no more pink spells but had grown rather fond of her sworn enemy. And she even imagined that they were back to becoming the friends they once had been.

She sipped her wine contentedly. The dinner was pleasant and cozy, accompanied by the patter of rain over the copper awning outside the dining room window and the crackle of a low fire in the hearth. Max sat at the head of the table to her left, Marjorie to her right, and Zinnia across from her, providing a taste of the life she'd wanted upon her return to London.

“Maxwell has decided to become serious about finding a bride,” Marjorie said as the footmen brought in trays laden with capons, roasted potatoes, candied carrots, and also a fine aspic of pork and eggs.

All eyes fell on Max, waiting for confirmation. Juliet felt a sudden anxious rise in her pulse, though without cause. She already knew Max wanted to marry soon and had taunted him on several occasions because of it. At the moment, however, she could think of no suitable jest to cause him embarrassment.

“I had a recent conversation with Lord Ellery, who explained to me the logic of how hosting a party often brings to mind the ones, in particular, you wish to invite.” He looked pointedly at Juliet, making her wonder if he knew this had been her advice to Ellery. “Of course, it is a rather rudimentary notion . . . ” He let his words trail off as a smirk gave her the answer.

“And yet you still managed to understand the concept? Bravo, Max.” She saluted him with her glass. “
Have
you made the list for your party?”

“He wishes to have a ball instead,” Marjorie added, her tone shocked as she exchanged a glance with Zinnia. “As I said, he's quite serious.”

The cozy, warm feeling Juliet had experienced only moments ago transformed into an unpleasant churning that made her wine taste bitter. She set her glass down, even while knowing that this sensation had nothing to do with her wine and everything to do with Max's decision. When he married, it would change everything about their dinners.

What if he chose to marry an idiot, or a shrew who had no sense of humor? Or some self-absorbed
cabbage
whose idea of intelligent conversation began and ended with her most recent purchase at the milliner's? If he made the wrong choice, these dinners would suddenly become a chore she would have to endure, rather than something she enjoyed.

“Actually, I have begun my list,” Max said. “It is surprising how clear everything becomes, once you set ink to paper. Several young women have shown themselves to be quite intelligent, possessing varied interests and pleasing conversation.”

Juliet clenched her fists in her lap but kept a congenial—if a bit strained—smile on her lips. “You failed to mention your requirement of one who relishes a good argument. Of all traits, surely that is on the top of
your
list.”

“I will reserve all of my arguments for Parliament and offer my bride a perfectly agreeable home life.”

And for some reason, hearing those words sparked Juliet's ire. Or perhaps it was the smugness in his countenance, as if he were issuing some sort of challenge, that he would make the best husband and his marriage would be the happiest in all of England. Essentially, he was promising this to a woman he hadn't even chosen, and—
drat it all
—Juliet might be the teensiest bit envious of her. Because if anyone was stubborn enough to make good on his promise and keep his wife happy all the days of her life, it was Max.

“Do you know I have never hosted a ball?” Marjorie asked, her question cutting through the sudden tension. “We've had parties and dinners aplenty, even with a bit of dancing in the parlor, but never a ball.”

Zinnia lifted her serviette from her lap and delicately touched the corner of her mouth. “A ball is so much effort. And our houses are similar in the way that, to truly have enough room for dancing, we would need to use the first-floor portrait gallery.”

“You are right, Zinnia. The gallery would be the only option, leaving room enough for a quintet in the adjoining hall.” Marjorie relaxed, reclining back in her chair. “That is a relief, as I'd feared I would be forced to demolish a wall, as Maxwell has done at his townhouse.”

Juliet's throat closed, and she was thankful that she hadn't taken another sip of wine or else she would have choked. “Demolished a wall?”

“Yes.” Max cut into his capon as if the matter were nothing of consequence.

“A ghastly sight, to be sure,” Marjorie said with a flip of her fingers in the air before she reached for her wine goblet. “I went to visit yesterday and saw the wreckage with my own eyes. Why, it is practically unlivable. I shudder to think how long it will take to finish.”

“Mother, are you purposely trying to pique Lady Granworth's interest or unleash a tempest? As it is, dark clouds are forming above her head, and her stare is so cold that I am feeling chilled.”