When a Marquess Loves a Woman (19 page)

Somewhat uncertain, she made her way back to the parlor with the hope of returning to her previous conversation with Zinnia. With any luck, she would find out what Zinnia had been about to say—regarding the matches Marjorie wanted for her sons—before they were interrupted.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

T
he night of Lord and Lady Babcocke's ball had arrived. After escorting Mother to the gallery, Max stood near the doors to the card room, his gaze straying to Juliet too often.

This evening, she was a vision in dark red silk, with gussets sewn into the fabric beneath her breasts and molding to them like worshiping hands. The single ruby pendant that rested in the hollow of her throat winked in the light of the chandeliers whenever she turned his way. And he was happy to note that it winked quite often, because she watched him too, gracefully maneuvering her fan to disguise the direction of her gaze.

He hadn't seen her in days. Max ached for her and would have moved a mountain to see her, if she'd only given him one small reason to believe she wanted him to. But he respected her desire for independence and, perhaps, wanted her to
miss
him again. After all, the last time they were apart, she had expressed more about her feelings than she ever had before.

So instead, he read about her callers in the
Standard
and listened to Bram profess how eagerly she awaited his calls.

Max reassured himself that he was not being overshadowed by his elder brother, who now breezed into the room, grinning as if he owned the world. The truth was, Bram was in debt up to his eyes and didn't own much of anything, other than an estate he kept in near financial ruin.

“What, no peonies in hand?” Max asked when Bram stopped beside him.

Since there was no change in his expression, his brother likely didn't hear the sarcasm. “They did cause quite the stir. It is a shame they will not be in bloom much longer.”

“A shame, indeed.” But Max wondered if Bram had ever bothered to figure out that Juliet liked roses. Velvety pink roses that were the shade of her lips, to be exact.

“But it is all part of the game,” Bram said. “She is almost mine. In fact, she made a point of telling me that she was not interested in marriage.”

Max grinned, more certain than ever about his course. Yet out of curiosity, he asked, “But why should this please you?”

“Because when a woman mentions marriage, she is thinking about marriage. Of course.”

“Or perhaps she was actually telling you that she had no intention of marrying.”

Bram shook his head against such logic. “All she needs is someone to change her mind.”

“And if she already knows her own mind?” Max knew this about Juliet as well. She knew exactly what she wanted. And Max believed—
hoped
—she wanted him.

“No wonder you are still unmarried.” Bram laughed. “You have far too much to learn about the fairer sex. You must guide them.”

Unlike his brother, Max had learned something from Juliet. She revealed herself in actions more than in words, and she responded to gestures, more than bold declarations. And tonight, he was going to give her every opportunity to show him what he meant to her.

Tonight, he was going to ask her to dance.

“W
hat a complete crush, my dear,” Lady Babcocke said to her husband as they lingered near the open doorway that led to the balcony.

Juliet did not mean to eavesdrop, but she was standing on the other side, applying her fan to cool her cheeks. She'd been staring at Max quite often this evening, and in his gaze she saw so many promises that it made her feel flush with eagerness. If only he would cross the room to her.

Then again, that was likely not a wise decision, for surely everyone would know what was between them the moment they breathed the same air. That was the only thing that kept her from crossing the room to him. Because of their wager, nearly
every
eye followed their
every
move.

Even if she could wend her way through the crowd, the gossips would label her as Max's lover by morning. And what frightened her most about that was that it didn't frighten her nearly as much as it should.

“It may be a crush,” Lord Babcocke murmured to his wife, “but we are not likely to see Pembroke here, are we?”

“Is Pembroke unwell?” Lady Babcocke asked.

“He should be, after what I heard. He's been trying to get everyone to invest in his South American silver mine, but word has it that it never existed.”

“No.”

“It's true, my dear. Though I pity anyone who fell for it because the lender closed his doors today, without a word. Just took the money and fled.”

Juliet hid her astonishment with her fan, waving it swiftly and pretending to be distracted by the clasp of her dance card chain at her wrist. This time, instead of filling her card with illegible names for every dance, she took special care to write down one name in particular for the waltz.
Maxwell Harwick, the Marquess of Thayne
. If only he were to ask her.

“What will happen to all those who were swindled?”

Lord Babcocke shrugged. “Ruination. What else?”

The conversation earned the attention of others passing nearby. “What were you saying about ruination and Lord Pembroke?” With the question, more guests stopped and gathered. And soon enough, there was such a crowd around the balcony doors that Juliet could not escape.

“Surely, there will be banking institutions that will help those who were cheated,” someone said after the news had been repeated several times over.

“Not likely,” Lord Babcocke said, puffing out his chest and rocking back to the heels of his shoes. “But if there were, would
you
be eager to trust those bankers who may have had a hand in it? I'd have a mind to withdraw all my funds.”

Juliet shook her head, no longer hiding the fact that she'd been listening. “No, I'm certain that is not the answer. After all, imagine if everyone went to the bank and demanded all their money at once.” She shuddered, knowing the banks could not support it.

She never went into any of her lenders and demanded her entire fortune. No, she simply took out what was needed, a few pounds here and there. Because she knew that her gold, in part, helped fund those banknotes Mr. Woldsley was so fond of, and since many people carried those notes, there needed to be gold in the vault to support them.

Unfortunately, her words of caution fell on deaf ears. The crowd was far more eager to hear Lord Babcocke's dire warnings.

Juliet managed to extricate herself from the mob but wound up stopping short when Bram stepped into her path. He was the last person she wanted to see. She thought she'd made herself perfectly clear.

“Why, Lady Granworth, you are a sly one. Have you happened this way during the waltz to procure a dance partner?”

Her gaze searched for Max. “No, indeed.”

“Ah, waiting for a formal offer, I see.” He bowed, ignoring her headshake. “Would you do me the honor of this dance?”

Unbelievable! Had Bram always been this obtuse? If there weren't so many people watching with avid interest, she might simply have walked past him. But causing a scandal would only spoil her hopes for the remainder of the night.

“I'm sorry, but this dance has already been promised to another . . . ” she said, searching for her dance card even now but finding it absent from her wrist. Drat! She must have dropped it over by the balcony doors.

“Surely the gentleman should have come to claim you by now.”

She tried to be patient with Bram, but quite honestly, his manipulation was wearing on her nerves. “He is likely making his way to my side right this instant.”

“Then allow me to escort you to him.” But instead of proffering his arm, his slipped his hand around her waist and began the steps of the waltz. It was in those few seconds, before she turned away and left him alone on the ballroom floor, that she spotted Max across the room.

The hard look he gave her was something she would never forget. Only now did she realize how often she'd seen it in the past but dismissed it as a product of Max's argumentative nature. And she noticed how much pain was there too.

Because of it, she knew she would have to do something drastic to get Bram out of her way once and for all.

M
ax left the ballroom a much wiser man. At last, he realized that Juliet would never give him everything he needed. He'd been patient, with the great hope that she would soon be ready. But now he knew differently.

“Max,” Juliet said, out of breath as she emerged from a narrow passageway beside the main hallway. Lifting her hand, she absently smoothed back a lock of hair that had slipped from her coiffure. “It was not what it looked like.”

He gritted his teeth. He'd had experience enough with exactly what it looked like. She'd saved the waltz for Bram. “The past has taught me differently.”

“Please,” she beseeched him quietly, glancing down the hallway to the trio of guests who were walking toward the ballroom, their backs to them. “Come away from the main hall so that we can talk privately.”

Of course, she would not want anyone to see them together. Not even now, with so much more between them. He'd had enough of being cast aside by her, and it was time she knew.

Stepping into the narrow corridor, he opened the door to the nearest room. Thankfully, it was not a library but a small sitting room, swathed in the flickering light of the garden torches beyond the window.

“About the dance,” Juliet began.

Max shook his head and held up a hand immediately. “This is about more than a single waltz. This is about patience and things that we've concealed from each other. And perhaps I am as much to blame because I haven't been completely honest with you.”

She went still. “You haven't?”

“No,” he said, drawing in the breath he needed for strength. “Five years ago, the day after I proposed to you, I went to your house and found a letter waiting for me instead of my bride. That event is something you likely imagined would have happened.

“But what you don't know is that my proposal was not given on impulse,” he continued, baring it all. “I had already planned a life with you hundreds of times in my mind. The morning after, while you were in a carriage preparing to wed Lord Granworth, I was standing in your foyer, arguing with your butler. I carried with me every farthing I possessed in the world, along with a ring in my pocket and the determination to make you happy for the rest of your life.”

Silvery light glinted off the moisture gathering in Juliet's eyes, but she said nothing.

He handed her his handkerchief and closed his eyes briefly when their fingers brushed, leaving his skin aching for more. Instead, he took a step back. “Of course, I know your reasons now and understand that yours was not an easy decision. Perhaps I should have told you how much I loved you.” He steeled himself to continue. “How much I still love you and want to marry you.”

She gasped, putting his handkerchief to her mouth as tears began to slip down her cheeks. And for a moment, he hoped that those were tears of joy.

But her next words proved otherwise. “You know how I feel about marriage.”

“All too well.” He jerked a nod. “The idea frightens you. And it should because I would want everything you could give. Not only your love but children too, and decades of your life until we are both too old to remember those five years we spent apart.”

He waited a beat for her response, until he remembered how long he'd been waiting already. Looking up to the shadowed ceiling, he let out a breath, feeling like a fool.

But before he set his hand on the door, prepared to leave, she spoke. “Max, I don't think I'm ready.”

“And I don't think you ever will be.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-O
NE

N
ews of the
South American Stock Swindle
spread like wildfire through London late Friday. Fortunes were lost, without any hope of recovery.

Juliet knew precisely how it felt to have no hope. She'd felt this way since Max had walked away from her last night. Worse than that, he'd ignored every missive she'd sent today, returning them unopened. She didn't know what to do.

“A panic has ensued,” Zinnia said, as if reading her mind rather than the newspaper. “Many have rushed to their banks to remove all their funds, only to find the institution locked and a notice of bankruptcy on the door. Rumors are even spreading that smaller banks have borrowed money from other banks.”

“In such a crisis, those notes will be in excess of the amount that can be ensured,” Juliet remarked absently, the business portion of her brain filling in while the rest of it was distracted on thoughts of Max.

This entire ordeal was all Bram's fault. He simply refused to take no for an answer and did not care one fig about listening to her either.

After Bram called the other day, Zinnia had told her of Marjorie's concerns about his estate falling into ruin. Ever since, Juliet suspected that his fascination with her was mainly financial. True to form, however, while appearing to court Juliet, he'd also been wooing a slew of debutantes, keeping the
ton
wondering whom he favored. Not surprisingly, he switched his attentions between several who were the prettiest but who also had large dowries.

Juliet wished he would abandon his pursuit of her and go after one of them.

“Lord Pembroke fled the country in the dead of night,” Zinnia continued, having moved on from the
Post
to the
Standard
. “Rumor has it that he'd been part of the scheme all along.”

“He used people for their money.”

Zinnia issued a hum of disapproval. “He should have relied on the standard practice among our set—to marry well.”

Juliet scoffed, despondency making her bitter. “For some men, one fortune is not enough. Take Bram, for example. Not only did he gain his wife's dowry but also the inheritance her aunt left her. Now he is looking for more. In my opinion, he is no better than Pembroke. And it pains me to think that I once cherished him above all others. I was such a fool back then. If I had only seen . . . ”

“That Lord Thayne loved you?”

“Yes, I—” Juliet stopped. “How did you know?”

After all, her cousin had not been in the room last night to hear his confession. She hadn't even been in London five years ago but in mourning for Lord Cosgrove. In fact, she hadn't returned to town until Lilah's first Season.

“Marjorie told me.” Zinnia lowered both papers, her expression soft. “When Lord Thayne inherited and was intent on finding a wife, I'd asked her why he hadn't married before.”

Juliet swallowed down a lump of guilt. “Because of me?”

Zinnia didn't respond, her silence like a cog in the wheel of Juliet's thoughts.

“I feel so powerless,” Juliet said after a moment, propping her elbows on the table and burying her face in her hands. “I cannot give him what he wants.”

“Then perhaps you should offer something else until you don't feel so . . . ” Zinnia paused and then cut directly to the heart of the issue with one word, “afraid.”

Juliet growled to herself in frustration. A woman could be madly in love but still not ready to marry, couldn't she? The terrified strumming of her heart told her that it was possible. After all, hadn't Max warned her that he would want everything she could give?

And what she could give him now was reassurance that she cared nothing for Bram, but Max had refused to read the letters she'd sent. So what was she to do? Storm over to Harwick House and tell Bram once more that she did not intend to marry him? He likely wouldn't believe her and would only be encouraged by the gesture.

In fact, she imagined that the only way to be rid of him was if she suddenly lost her fortune.

Juliet lowered her hands, inspiration dawning through the gloom. “I think I have an idea that just might do the trick.”

L
eaving Hanover Street, Juliet's carriage lumbered toward one of her banking institutions. Standing on the pavement outside his bank, his head bowed and his cravat askew, was none other than Mr. Woldsley. He was staring at the notice of bankruptcy hanging on the door as he withdrew the key from the lock.

Juliet tapped on the hood and asked the driver to stop. “Mr. Woldsley,” she said from the window. “Surely, you are not closing your institution.”

He turned, his eyes bloodshot, his nose red. “Oh, it's you. If you've come for a withdrawal, then read the sign.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder to the notice fixed to the other side of the glass.

“I have not come for a withdrawal,” she assured him, feeling more confident in her plan by the moment.

He sneered at her, but there was more exhaustion than vehemence behind it. “Then to gloat?”

“Not at all. In fact, I believe I can help.”

“Help. Ha! The likes of you have caused this to happen—people demanding all their money at once, not understanding how lending institutions work.”

“Mr. Woldsley,” she said patiently. He, more than most anyone, knew that she had never once demanded all of her money but only the interest accrued. “How much does your bank need in order to remove the sign from that door and open on Monday?”

Knowing a bit about business and seeing the catastrophic nature of this occurrence, she felt certain that the Bank of England would step in by then to lend funds to many of the smaller banks to prevent a complete collapse.

He straightened his shoulders and pulled sharply on the lapels of his coat. “Amusement at another's misfortune is petty indeed. I don't think you understand the scope of this disaster—”

“I am prepared to lend your bank fifty thousand pounds.”

Thankfully, her statement closed his mouth with a snap. Otherwise, she would have driven onward.

He went white, his bottom lip working against his teeth as he stuttered, “F-fifty th-thousand pounds? But how could you . . . manage to procure such an amount?”

“I manage my money quite well, Mr. Woldsley,” she said. “Now, if you would care to remove that sign, I believe we may have a business arrangement to discuss.”

“And what do you want in return?”

“My money returned to me eventually, of course. In addition, I would ask for two favors. The first being that no one knows of my involvement in saving your bank, to which I am certain you are already amenable. And the second, I would like a statement of my account, listing the amount of two pence and no more.”
Yes. That should do the trick indeed
.

He stared dubiously at her, his eyes crossed as if a horn were protruding from the center of her forehead. “And whyever would you want such a document?”

“Those are my reasons alone,” she said succinctly. “Oh, and I would add one more thing to the list. I never want to hear you say the words ‘I don't think you understand' ever again.”

Mr. Woldsley swallowed, looking sheepish—quite possibly for the first time in his life—and then he nodded.