When a Marquess Loves a Woman (18 page)

Juliet's fingertips glided over the surface of the faded leather blotter. Then she moved to stand on the opposite side and, facing him, lifted the lid on the birchwood box with brass hinges.

“There is a Bible inside.” With her discovery, her gaze met his, her expression both amused and curious. “Is this your despatch box, like the ones they have in Parliament?”

He shrugged. “Of course. This was
my
Parliament. Every minister and shadow minister were expected to uphold the honor of their appointments.”

Silhouetted by the window behind her, a faint hazy glow settled around her, and a soft smile touched her lips. “You truly used this room to practice your debates, didn't you?”

“Do you doubt it?”

Slowly, perhaps even fondly, she shook her head. “Not at all. In fact, I can picture you standing here as a boy, with your hair falling over your brow as you rail at your imaginary opponent. I'd wager you were completely adorable.”

He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. No man, no matter his age, wanted to be labeled
adorable
. Yet even though he put on a frown, his heart thrummed with pleasure. “I was fearsome, spending many an hour wearing down the opposition.”

“But was it a fair fight?” she teased, pointing across the desk to the empty space before him. “After all, I see no despatch box for your opponent.”

“There is a second box. Only now, the slips of paper holding the names of our candidates are tucked inside, and Saunders has it locked away in his pantry, awaiting the end of our wager.” A heavy silence fell between them, weighted with expectation. Their wager would soon be over, and the binding twine that had brought them together would be severed. Max hoped that all the other strands woven around them would hold fast. Though this lack of assurance frustrated him. “Nevertheless, I always argued both sides, out of fairness.”

Her brow delicately furrowed. “Did you have no one to argue with you?”

While his heart warmed at the evidence of her concern for his younger self, he did not want her pity. “I preferred this space to myself. Besides, Father was usually on an outing with Bram, instructing him on how to be a marquess and uphold the Engle line.”

“And what about teaching you how to uphold the Harwick line? You were his only son, after all.”

“And Bram was the son of the man he'd admired most,” Max said matter-of-factly. “Besides, it was long ago.”

She lifted her chin, her mouth set in a firm line. “If it is so ancient, then why does it anger me to learn of it?”

Looking down at the way her delicate hand had curled into a fist, he realized she was not pitying him. She was defending him. His breath halted in his throat. Her vehemence on his behalf birthed a hope so fragile and sharp that it caused his chest to burn. He rubbed his hand against the buttons of his waistcoat just over his heart.

Years ago, he had shared his thoughts with her, his passions, and his pursuits, but he had kept this part to himself. Now, things were different. He wanted to tell her the things that he'd never told anyone else. But later.

“Likely for the same reason that I would rail at your parents for not having treated you as you deserved.” Walking around to her side of the desk, he set his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him.

A breath shuddered out of her at that first touch. He felt it too. Seven long days of needing to touch her . . .

His thumbs strayed to the bare flesh beyond the ribbon trim, stroking the smooth ridge of her collarbone. She closed the space between them, her arms wrapping around his waist as she rested her cheek against his chest. “Oh, Max, I missed you.”

He held his breath as the quiet admission clamored through him in a noisy, rambunctious burst of joy. The Juliet of old would never have revealed so much and so openly. Even though it was not a declaration of love, those words were the nearest thing to it.

“I even missed arguing with you.” She laughed softly and lifted her face.

He could hardly breathe. It felt as if his dreams were finally coming true. “I can think of no reason to argue at the moment.”

“Well, I certainly can.”

He felt the flesh of his brow pucker in confusion before she continued.

“You have yet to kiss me.”

He grinned, his hands slipping down her back, following the enticing curve of her spine as he pulled her hips flush against his. “I could say the same of you.”

Her gaze drifted to his mouth and held. He waited for her to take what she wanted. And smiling, she rose up and brushed a tender kiss across his lips.

Then, before she could get away, his mouth covered hers with more urgency. And that was all it took. The desire between them ignited like tinder, those fast flames feeding on their combined yearning. Her lips plumped beneath his, parting in sweet invitation. Welcoming his tongue with hers, they tangled together as if forging knots to keep them here, like this, for hours.

Their bodies moved as one like the steps of a dance—him forward, her back—until she met with the desk behind her. He lifted her, nudging the despatch box to the side as he stood between her thighs, the eager iron-hard length of him wedged against the heated nook of her body. Their hips rocked simultaneously, paying no attention to the few layers of clothes between them. They simply wanted the release denied to them from more than a week of longing.

But Max wanted more than a quick release. He wanted all of her. His deft fingers moved to the row of buttons at her back as he dragged his mouth down her throat to the spot that made her whimper.

“What are you doing?” she asked between shuddered breaths.

“Removing your dress.”

“And what makes you think I need to be
un
dressed in your Parliament?”

That taunt set off a burst of fantasies that they would have to explore later. But for now . . . “Because when I'm inside of you, I don't want anything between us. And neither do you.”

She moaned her agreement as she sealed her lips to his. Just as he reached the last button—
damn these tiny pearls
—a sudden wail pierced the air. The sound of it was so close that it was no surprise to hear Miss Slade's voice in the hallway, shushing Patrice and promising to find her father straightaway.

Even though the cries dissipated as they drifted by, most likely toward the stairs, Max and Juliet's happy reunion was interrupted.

Again, Juliet laughed softly and rested her forehead on his shoulder. “For a moment, I'd forgotten that people were waiting for us. I suppose we should be grateful for the reminder.”

“No, we shouldn't,” he grumbled, knowing that the opportunity was lost. While he would surely be able to coax her, the moment of unreserved and vulnerable passion was gone. Even more than he wanted her body, he wanted her heart completely open to him.

Framing her face, he kissed her brow, her nose, and both corners of her mouth. Then, holding her gaze, he took her hand and placed it over his heart.

“I missed you too, Juliet.” Said with the same quiet promise that she had done, he let the words settle between them, wanting her to understand and testing the waters to see if she was ready to hear the actual words he wanted to say.
I love you, Juliet
. . .

She looked down to where her hand rested and back up at his face, her eyes widening ever so slightly. A pretty pink flush still clung to her skin, but her breasts were rising and falling in quick, panicked breaths.

“I really must go. Zinnia will worry, and as it is, I'll have to figure out an excuse.” As she spoke, she nudged him back a step before she set her feet on the floor.

“Don't run”—he dared to keep her hand, gently restraining her—“not this time.”

“I will return this evening.” She offered him a nervous smile. Then she squeezed his fingers before slipping from his grasp, and turned so that he would button her dress.

Obviously, it was too much, too fast. But
bloody hell
, how long was he supposed to keep this locked up inside? Reminding himself to be patient was even more difficult now that he sensed she was closer than ever to accepting the truth—she was
his
.

The only problem was, he needed her to see it on her own.

When he finished, she turned. She must have read the doubt and restlessness in his expression because she placed her hand on the despatch box. “I promise.”

It wasn't the answer he was hoping for, but it was what he had for now.

L
ater that evening, when Max strode into the parlor and saw Juliet, he felt like a man who had the whole world within his grasp. Everything seemed possible. She had not run after all.

Standing near Lady Cosgrove and Mother, Juliet wore a silver gown that cascaded sinuously over her form. The blue ribbon bordering her bodice was the exact shade of her eyes when they were dark with desire. And it had been far too many hours since he had seen that particular hue.

“And what has you so pleased, Max?” Juliet asked, taking a step toward him. Behind her, Mother continued to show off Patrice to her friend, while Miss Slade stood near the door, likely waiting for Bram to make an appearance. “Or is it surprise that I am seeing?”

He met her gaze, wishing he had the freedom to take her hand, to pull her closer. “Is a man not allowed to express pleasure without requiring a reason?”

Her lips twitched in a wry grin. “I pity your opponents in Parliament, for they will never receive a direct answer to a question.”

Perhaps
, he thought, admiring her clever wit. Yet any candid response he might give her would likely end up with him on bended knee. “Sometimes it is better to circumnavigate than to land directly on the argument.”

“You prefer the endlessness of a circle, do you? Always finding yourself back at the beginning?”

He took a moment to consider. “Revisiting the start of something allows for better perspective.”

“Hmm . . . I believe you have the right of it. After all, that is why I want to live in my townhouse. I should like to recapture a certain part of my life.” Opening her fan, her gaze drifted to the door, coincidentally in the moment that Bram walked into the room. “However, it would not mean as much if I did not have my independence.”

A low groan of frustration escaped Max, though no one could have heard it because Patrice's sudden wailing filled the room. Even so, all Max could think about was that somehow he'd wound up stuck at the beginning with Juliet, when that was the last thing he wanted.

Instead of taking charge of his daughter, Bram walked toward the sideboard, Miss Slade on his heels, asking what she should do. In response, the sound of Bram's oath carried overhead.

“The sound travels well in this room, does it not?” Juliet whispered from behind her fan and cast a sympathetic glance toward the child. “Excuse me, Max. I believe Miss Slade would benefit from some instruction.”

On impulse, Max reached out to stay her, but she slipped past him before his hand connected with hers. Thankfully, it did not appear that anyone noticed.

Across the room, Juliet whispered something to Miss Slade, who curtsied and then took the steps to remove the child from the room. It was all done with grace and poise. Yet for some reason, it made Max cringe at how effortless it was for her to take charge on Bram's behalf.

After their brief conversation, a familiar sense of foreboding filled him, no matter how hard he tried to shrug it off. Most of all, Max hoped that his plan of waiting for her to be ready would work and that the lure of reliving the past would fade.

Since Bram's return, however, Max's instincts were telling him that it wasn't a good idea to leave matters unresolved between him and Juliet. He didn't trust his brother's agenda.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

T
he Season Standard—the Daily Chronicle of Consequence

The date we have all been waiting for is nearly here, dear readers! In one week, we shall know the name of our
Original.
And, of course, for those who have been invited to Lord and Lady B—cke's gala, they will have a final opportunity to speculate on who will be crowned. Thrilling, indeed!

For now, we are ever watchful over the Marquess of E—e who was spotted in the park looking dangerously handsome atop his new phaeton . . .

I
n the morning, Juliet took her daily walk near the fashionable hour so that she might encounter Ellery. Thus far, he'd been making a splendid showing, but she didn't want his favor to fall beneath the shadow of Bram's return. Therefore, she decided to make sure that he did something truly remarkable to keep him firmly in the hearts of the
ton
and, with any luck, the anonymous committee members as well.

Normally, she stayed away from the Serpentine and kept to the less-traveled paths. However, she knew that Ellery frequently took this winding road toward Rotten Row for his horse's exercise. And sure enough, not far in the distance, she saw him riding high in his glossy black phaeton, his silvery gray top hat and coat looking like shining armor in the sunlight.

When the moment was right, she would pretend to trip and twist her ankle, barely catching herself with her parasol. Looking down, she saw the perfect spot where she could avoid any shrubbery.

But just when she lifted her gaze, she saw the blur of another phaeton whipping around Ellery's. The driver's head was turned to look back over his shoulder, and Juliet knew in an instant she would be crushed beneath the immense wheels.

Fearing for her life, she dashed to the side of the road. Then, tripping over a branch, she landed on all fours in the dirt.
Drat it all!
But at least she was alive. Taking a quick accounting, she found that she was unharmed, for the most part.

Behind her, she heard several shouts and a scream. Suddenly, she knew that the graceful trip she'd planned had turned into a clumsy, public incident. Instead of merely losing her footing—and thereby procuring Ellery's gallant rescue—she'd been nearly bowled over by a madman.

By the time she righted herself and began brushing the dirt from her poor ruined skirts and gloves, she heard the voice of someone quite familiar, only it wasn't Ellery.

It was Bram. “Lady Granworth, you should take care. Why, the Serpentine is no place to walk.”

Looking past him, she saw that the madman's phaeton was now empty, the horse's reins tied to a nearby branch just off to the side.

“Were you the one driving that menace?” she asked, sounding like a harridan and not caring a whit.

Bram had the nerve to laugh at her. In fact, he didn't bother with an apology. “Allow me to escort you to Hanover Street. I will have you home in no time at all.”

Considering the way he drove, she did not doubt it.

Though, remembering her purpose, Juliet cast a somewhat panicked glance in Ellery's direction. He too had left his phaeton and was striding toward her.

“Lady Granworth, may I be of assistance?” Ellery said, coming upon them. His expression was concerned when he looked at her but turned hard when his gaze landed on Bram.

“And who might you be?” Bram asked rudely.

Juliet made the introduction, each man nodding curtly. She had no intention of ruining her plan and nodded to the viscount. “Thank you, Ellery, that is very kind—”

“However, she already has an escort,” Bram interrupted, putting his hand on her elbow.

Ellery, standing a few steps away, waited for her response. And since there was a curious crowd gathering, and it would not suit either her cause or Ellery's character to allow a battle to ensue, she abandoned her venture. “Lord Engle will see me home. Thank you again, Ellery. You were kind to stop.”

But if she thought her terror was at an end after nearly being trampled on the path, she was a fool.

She felt an even greater risk while Bram tore through the streets all the way to Hanover Square. He paid no attention to her requests for him to slow, and she feared that she would be sick.

Then, to further her humiliation and dismay, when they finally arrived, Max was just coming down the steps of Zinnia's townhouse. Messy, disheveled, and thoroughly embarrassed, Juliet wanted to hide.

He rushed to the pavement, tossing his walking stick to the ground. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

She stopped, clutching the side rail of the driver's perch, and sat up straighter so that he could see that she was well. “I am fine, Max. A little dirty, but alive.” No thanks to Bram.

Before Bram could even set the brake, Max had climbed up to assist her, his hand seeking hers with care, as if she were suddenly an ornament of blown glass. If they were alone, she would have scolded him, even if she found it rather sweet.

Still feeling unsteady once he had her on the ground, she held onto his shoulders a little bit longer for support. “Thank you,” she whispered and forced herself to release him and step back. She missed the feel of his hands on her waist instantly.

Bram hopped down and stood beside her. “And why are you here, little brother?”

Max's shoulders went back, and he clenched his jaw, causing a muscle to twitch. “I came to pay a call on—”

“On my cousin,” Juliet finished for him in a rush, casting a look of reprimand. He looked positively territorial, and she ignored the responding pulse that quickened in her own body. She felt as if Max were engaged in some sort of medieval joust against his brother for the honor of wooing her. Ludicrous! Yet part of her was afraid of how much it pleased her and how much she wanted to be claimed by him. “I believe I heard Zinnia mention that your mother was sending something over.”

Bram chuckled. “You are still Mother's errand boy, I see.”

Max gave her a dark look but answered his brother. “Apparently so. There could have been no other reason I was here.”

She swallowed, feeling guilty. But really, did he expect to announce to the entire
ton
that he was now paying calls on his sworn enemy? She wasn't even ready to tell him how she felt. The last thing she wanted was to have the gossips announce it before she did. Already, it seemed that a parade of carriages had converged on the square to watch the spectacle.

Thankfully, Mr. and Mrs. Wick appeared on the stairs, rushing down to the pavement. Zinnia was framed in the doorway.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Juliet said, taking hold of Mr. Wick's arm, eager for this entire episode to end.

T
he following morning, Bram strode into the breakfast room, all smiles and brimming with pleasantries. “Good morning, Mother. And little brother, how fares your courtship of that debutante?”

Max was tempted to tell him to bugger off but thought better of it. “It is promising.”

Or at least it was until Bram had returned. Now, Max felt as if he'd stepped in mud up to his knees, and every step forward was interminably delayed.

Bram continued on as if Max's response was of no importance. “I have an announcement that I'm certain you are both eager to hear. I have decided on a bride—or courtship, rather. But it is my guess that, soon enough, Max and I will have a new battle, and that will be to see who claims the first wedding day at St. George's.”

Mother shook her head. “Bramson, we've been in mourning. Surely you could not have decided on a bride as of yet.”

“It has become quite clear to me since yesterday. Can you not guess?” Bram puffed out his chest and gripped the edges of his lapels. “I mean to marry Juliet Granworth.”

Max frowned. “Have you spoken to her about this?”

“I did not even need to because it was she who made the suggestion to me in the carriage.”

“She said she wanted to marry you?” Max was stunned, but before he jumped to conclusions, he would find out from Juliet.

“Not in those exact words, but she did agree that I should take a wife soon for Patrice's sake. And I shall.”

At Bram's ridiculous assumption, Max wanted to relax once more. With the history between them, however, he couldn't let go of the reminder that Bram had usually gotten everything he wanted.

The
ton
was enthralled by Bram, carefully watching his every move. And Max felt the stirrings of a peculiar sensation of déjà vu.

T
oo sore for walking, and frankly too embarrassed to return to the park yet, Juliet stayed in. Unfortunately, word had spread about her brush with death, and nearly every gentleman of her acquaintance came to call, in addition to a few ladies, including Lilah, Ivy, and Gemma.

But not Max.

Worse was the audacious bouquet that Bram presented to her. The flowers were so large and so many that she had to hold them with both hands when he thrust them at her. She tried to smile, but it froze when she spied several ants climbing out from the centers.

“Peonies. How lovely,” she cried but tried to hide her alarm. “Myrtle, could you please take these to the upstairs sitting room.” And she quickly handed them off to the maid.

Then the next day, he brandished another bouquet of peonies, of such magnitude and quantity that they ended up in this morning's
Standard
.

“The Marquess of E—e hefted another armful of enormous peony blossoms up the stairs of a certain Hanover Street house,”
Juliet read aloud to Zinnia, who sat opposite her in the morning room.

“Mrs. Wick requested to keep the flowers out on the terrace, as the ants were spotted in the hall, in the parlor, and crawling out of the upstairs sitting room.” Her cousin paused in the act of penning her letter and shook her head in disapproval.

They'd both thought that banishing them to the moldering sitting room, which they used primarily for the purpose of storing unwanted objects, had seemed the perfect solution. Juliet hadn't the heart to send those flowers to the sanatorium, as the patients had enough troubles without adding insects to injury.

“I'm not certain what I should do if this continues,” Juliet confessed.

Zinnia gave a peculiar look, tilting her head to one side. “We can always throw them out.”

Juliet laughed. “I'm not speaking of the flowers but of Bram.”

“Do you not like Lord Engle's attentions?”

She hesitated before answering. “At first, I thought he was trying to make amends for having nearly killed me, but he never actually apologized. Then yesterday, it occurred to me that he might be courting me. Or at least
he
thinks he is. He never asked, and I would not have consented. What unsettles me most is that I fear Marjorie desires the match.”

“With Lord Engle?” Zinnia blinked owlishly. “Not at all.”

Before Juliet could ask Zinnia to elaborate, Mr. Wick cleared his throat from the doorway.

“You have a caller, my lady.”

“I don't believe I'm at home today.” Juliet checked the calendar to be sure she wasn't mistaken. Most people only had certain
at home
days when they were accepting calls. After all, no one was expected to be available on a whim.

“Yes, my lady. I said the same to your caller; however, he is rather insistent. His lordship states that you will make an exception for him.”

Could it be Max? Her heart began to race. She hadn't seen him in days, other than the day she'd fallen in the park. He hadn't returned, even though she'd offered a perfect excuse to call. Running an errand for his mother was innocent enough, wasn't it? “Who is it?”

“Lord Engle, my lady.”

That oh-so-brief elation abruptly vanished. “I am still not at home. No, wait. I will see him, but keep him in the foyer.” Then to Zinnia, she added, “This will not take long.”

It was time to be perfectly clear with Bram that she was not interested in courtship or marriage.

When she stepped into the foyer, she saw that he was holding not one but
two
bouquets of peonies.
Poor Mrs. Wick.

“Considering how well received the other bouquets were, I knew you liked these the best,” he said with a smug grin. “And did you see the paper this morning? The entire
ton
is quite envious.”

Max would have known that her exclaiming
“peonies”
in such a shocked tone was not necessarily stating a preference. In fact, she had told Bram quite plainly that she preferred roses. But he had not listened.

He was entirely too much like Lord Granworth in that regard. In fact, he was too much like Lord Granworth in many regards. Complimenting her clothes and how well she looked, and then complimenting himself and how well they looked together.

At one time, it might have thrilled her to know that Bram was courting her, like having a second chance to relive the past. But if she could go back in time, she would not return to the days when she wrote his name in her diary.

No. There was only one day from her past that she would revisit, and someday she would tell Max about it.

Taking the flowers, she set them on the table. No doubt ants were now crawling out of the petals and onto the rosewood. Thankfully, Mr. Wick was ready and armed with a crumb broom and pan.

“Lord Engle,” she began, “I have enjoyed your return to town. You are as charming and entertaining as ever. However, I want to make sure you know that I have no intention of marrying.” And then to be perfectly clear. “I believe, and I'm fairly certain that the
ton
believes, you are courting me, but I cannot allow it to continue.”

“This was all in good fun. Nothing more.” Bram smiled and offered a nod of understanding, before he bowed and took his leave.

Well, that was a relief. In fact, it was so simple that Juliet wondered if she'd misread his intentions.