When a Marquess Loves a Woman (4 page)

Juliet couldn't help but wonder how different her life might have been if she had.

So, two months ago, when her dear cousin Lilah had volunteered to be transformed into the
Original
, Juliet had wagered against Max without thinking of the repercussions of failure. All she'd wanted was to give Lilah the chance to make the choice that was right for her. The choice that Juliet had not made for herself.

Fortunately for Lilah, it worked.

Yet Juliet still needed to forge her own path. And it mattered that her new beginning start in the place where she had once believed anything was possible. Therefore, it had to be that house.

“The
Original
has not been decided, so the wager is not exactly over,” she reasoned. “Even today's edition of the
Standard
agrees.” Though apparently, the editor failed to realize that their initial bargain was over, with neither Juliet nor Max the victor.

His brows lifted dubiously. “But we know that our choices will not be named.”

As it happened, both of the people they had chosen in their wager were now married, which left them ineligible to be named.

“True,” she hemmed. “However, there is something we both desire—I want my house, and you want me to leave London.”

“Correct.”

Finding it more amenable to address a problem when her blood flowed unhindered from head to toe and back up again, she stood and moved toward the back of the silver-striped chair before continuing. “Then I propose another wager.”

M
ax set the glasses down on the table and folded his arms across his chest. A familiar tension coursed through him, the superfine wool pulling taut over his biceps and shoulder blades. He knew better than to enter into any bargain with Juliet. Yet if he didn't know any better, he might think that he'd purposely goaded her for this exact purpose.

And if that were true, then he must be going mad. “A new wager, when the last one is not cold in its grave? I humored you once but no more.”

“ ‘Humored' me?” She offered him a cool, practiced smile that she had mastered during the past five years. “The previous wager was all your doing, if you'll recall.”

Nothing in her lovely countenance gave away that he'd struck a nerve. No unbecoming red blotches marred her flawless complexion. Her tone remained melodious. Her bearing, ever-poised. And yet, there was a flash of something in her eyes that reminded him of the woman he used to know. Irritation? Anger? Passion?

He couldn't be certain. All he knew was that he loathed the part of him that stirred because of it.

“The first challenge was more about satisfying a curiosity. I'd wondered if this was merely a game for you or if you truly desired that house for a more personal reason.” He waited a beat for her to fill in the blanks. When she didn't, he shrugged and continued. “Though it couldn't mean too much to you if you were willing to leave London altogether.”

“Is not the first step of a new journey the most fearsome, yet promising the greatest reward?” Mother asked, offering a nugget of wisdom in Juliet's favor.

Max knew that Juliet was not one to take such risks. She preferred the ground beneath her feet to remain perfectly paved and without a single rut to set her off balance—like marriage to a man with no fortune would have done.

“I had every intention of winning.” Juliet lifted her hand from the back of the chair, pointing one manicured fingernail toward the ceiling. “And moreover, your stipulation was that I could not buy a house in London, not that I had to leave.”

He caught his gaze straying for an instant—nothing more than an unbidden skim down the elegant column of her throat, a cursory sweep over the ripe swells rising above the gold embroidered edge of her green bodice—to the petal-soft hand that had so recently brushed his. But there, he noticed tiny, red, crescent-shaped impressions from her fingernails pressing into her palm. Perhaps she wasn't as cool and composed as she wanted to appear.

Yet the instant he registered her words, his chin jerked up. She had just admitted to twisting their bargain to suit her own desires. “You were not even planning to honor the wager.”

“
Au contraire
, to the very letter,” she said with a quick tsk of reproach. “However, you never said that I was to be banished from London altogether. Do try to be more specific next time.”

He clenched his teeth. “Then
I
would draw up a contract, so that there would be no misunderstanding.”

“And
I
would be amenable to that. An unbreakable bargain, to which we both must adhere.”

That
something
flared in her sapphire eyes once more, causing his breath to stall in his throat and cutting off his immediate reply.

His mother spoke before he could. “Then what is your proposal, dear?”

Juliet arched a brow at Max, as if to gauge his willingness to listen. He offered a nod in response.

“The
Standard
claims that the contest is down to two candidates,” she began. “As there are two of us, the matter is simple. I shall write down a name, as will you. Keeping our guesses secret, we hand them to an outside party and witness”—Juliet gestured to his mother and Lady Cosgrove—“who then take those names and place them into a box, locking it tightly for safekeeping until the
Standard
posts the results . . . whenever that may be.”

“Undoubtedly there will be an
Original
by the end of this month,” Mother said with a certainty that he would question later. “My concern, however, is for you, Juliet. I fear what will happen should you not . . . win.”

“Leaving London would be a heavy price, indeed,” Lady Cosgrove added with a dignified shake of her head.

Juliet batted a defiant glance in his direction. “I am too determined to give up, no matter what
obstacle
stands in my way.”

Max chuckled, for he was equally determined to see her live anywhere else. He would never give in. Letting her live in the house where she'd once spurned him, only to eventually see her take another husband, was the last thing Max would concede.

“What should you do if both of you choose the same candidate who is then named the
Original
?” Lady Cosgrove asked.

Juliet tapped her finger against her chin. The gesture drew his attention to the purse of her lips and the plumpness of the bottom one. He remembered the silken texture of that flesh, the flavor . . . how it felt between his teeth.
Damn
.

It was pure folly to allow his thoughts to venture to that one moment. It had been years ago, after all. Surely, he would have forgotten about it entirely if Juliet had stayed in Bath. But with her return, the past had come flooding back, threatening to drown him in that single memory.

He was willing to do anything to put miles between them once more.

“In that event, it would be a draw,” Juliet said in response. “Since both of us cannot win, then neither of us would. I would remain a thorn in Max's side, and he, the bane of my very existence.”

Unable to help it, he grinned at her flippant quip. “But when I win, you will find another part of England in which to live.”

“Oh yes, I hear that Lancashire has some
fine
properties,” Juliet answered immediately, almost as if she'd given thought to following him to his country estate and making his life a living hell.

Max's arms flexed, and he was about to warn her that he would not take kindly to such an action, when she suddenly laughed.

“What a temper you have, Max,” she said, proof that her observational skills had not diminished. A prim smile curled the corners of her mouth. “You needn't worry that I will scamper about the country looking to needle you. Once this has concluded, we will go our very separate ways and be all the happier for it.”

“Hmm . . . ” Mother murmured, standing. “But what if neither of you wins? This could go on for years.”

“Absolutely not,” Max argued. He couldn't survive it. “Once this is over, it will be finished for good.”

“It would be another draw,” Juliet said, ignoring him and answering Mother's question. “Therefore, Max will want to choose his candidate with great care to have a chance at all.”

He fixed her with a hard stare. “One month, Lady Granworth—that is all.
And
I will list that in the contract.”

Her hesitation lasted only for a minute before she surrendered a nod.

“Good,” he said. “With such a reward, I will only accept victory.”

In fact, with the name he had in mind, there was no way he could lose.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

B
right sunlight shone down over the manicured park at Lord and Lady Minchon's estate. Rows of boxwood lined the long, grassy avenue, with ivy and moss-shrouded statues at every forty paces. The manicured garden was in the design of a
patte d'oie
, splitting off into three directions to form a giant goosefoot upon the lawn. One lane hosted a Grecian folly. Another, a shaded, tree-lined arcade. And the last was a mystery because the large fountain at the intersection blocked Juliet's view.

Taking the advice of a nearby alabaster nymph with grayish green ivy draped over her brow, Juliet lowered the pink netting from her wide straw bonnet.

Several of the young debutantes in attendance carried lace parasols. As soon as the footmen brought trays of miniature pastel cakes and tea around, however, they would learn their error. One cannot enjoy a garden party without the use of both hands.

Experience came with age, she supposed, and both had their advantages. For instance, when she was younger, it would have bothered her to arrive at a party unaccompanied. Having a friend or even her parents on her arm had helped her to endure the not-so-subtle whispers about her appearance. Because of her features and coloring, the
ton
had labeled her the
goddess
during her first weeks in society. And by the time she'd reached her third year, she'd become the
hollow goddess,
with many believing her to be shallow and unfeeling. Even her late husband had possessed that idea about her.

Few took the time to know her. For if they did, they would know that an empty shell would have crumbled during the terrible years of her marriage. Oh, but there were so many times she'd wished to be hollow. That way, the demeaning statements, the threats, and the degradation would have slipped right through her. Instead, they'd settled inside her, firmly latched like insect larvae feeding on the underside of leaves. The more Lord Granworth's words had filled her, the emptier she'd felt.

“Attending the picnic alone, I see,” Max said from just over her shoulder, adding a cluck of his tongue.

She started, her heart and lungs lurching free of those dark musings. Of course, outwardly, she revealed nothing. Concealing her reactions had become an art she practiced. Her parents had taught her that a lady never revealed her true feelings. That was bad form. But what had begun as a lesson in good manners had quickly turned into an act of rebellion shortly after her debut. She had vowed never to let society know that their lack of true friendship and scornful monikers ever affected her.

Stopping on the lawn beside her, Max touched the brim of his tan willow-weave top hat with his gloved fingers. The pale shades of his camel coat and buckskin breeches accentuated his dark features, making his complexion swarthy and exotic compared with the pale, ruddy-cheeked gentlemen in attendance. Though, handsome or not, at least none of those gentlemen were smirking at her.

“And your companion is in your pocket, I suppose?” She glanced down at his green waistcoat toward the folded horizontal slits cut into the cashmere. A stray gold thread at the corner of his pocket wanted her attention, practically begging for her to pinch it off with her fingers, but doing so suggested an intimacy that not even her husband would have permitted when he was alive.

Besides, it would also make tongues wag. As it was, heads were already turned in their direction.

“Perhaps,” Max said, turning marginally toward her. “The pockets are too small for me to search, though you are welcome to discover their contents.”

If it were any other man, she might imagine that he was flirting with her. Since this was Max, who hated her above all others, however, she knew better. Therefore, she chose to ignore the thread
and
the comment. “I was to attend with Zinnia and Ivy, but the former was concerned that the abundant sunshine would cause spots, and the latter was unwell.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.” And to Max's credit, his sincerity was evident.

“An effect of her delicate condition,” she said, referring to the baby that the Duchess of Vale was carrying. “I am told that the early stages are a trial for some women.”

Of course, Juliet had no experience in such matters, nor any opportunity to hope for such. Lord Granworth never wanted anything, even pregnancy, to alter his most prized object—
her
. She'd been for display only, to admire but not to touch.

Thankfully, Max did not comment further on the topic. He stirred again, shifting his stance and staring out across the park. “Yet you still chose to attend, even without an escort. One might wonder at the reason.
Or
if you'd planned to meet someone.”

“Are you intimating that I have a lover here? That I chose the Minchons' park for a tryst?” A wry laugh escaped her. “I could say the same of you, as you spend your afternoons in the gallery of the House of Commons and not attending social events. Are you here for a clandestine meeting or perhaps even for a bride?”

His mouth quirked in something just short of a smile. “We have a wager to think of, have we not? Perhaps I am here to ensure my candidate's success.”

Three days had passed since they'd signed the contract and cast their ballots for this Season's
Original
, handing them over to Mr. Saunders for safekeeping. At first, they had intended to entrust Marjorie and Zinnia with the task. Yet after careful thought, they decided that the honorable butler was the better choice. Mostly because Saunders would not inadvertently use his position in society to influence the outcome.

Since that day, Juliet had not found herself at an engagement where Max was present. And the only reason she'd noted his absence was the simple fact that the past two events had been rather dull. So much so, in fact, that even an argument with her nemesis would have been preferable.

“And perhaps I am here for the same purpose,” she said, using her most aloof and mysterious tone. Yet, admittedly, she was curious over Max's selection. Though passing a glance over the guests at large, she did not see a single debutante or gentleman to shake her confidence.

Her own candidate, Viscount Ellery, was not in attendance. Therefore, if Max was here to spy on his own, she was certain that they had chosen different names. And even more certain of her own victory.

“Then again, perhaps I am merely here to take in the fine weather,” Max said, his tone dipping lower into an aura of mystery as well. With a sideways glance, he suddenly shook his head. “Though it is a shame that you have come unprepared. I see that most of the other women have parasols to protect their complexions. One single spot,
Goddess
, and you could lose your moniker.”

He was trying to spark her ire, she knew, and she fought all the harder to remain unaffected.

“I am amazed at how you can still underestimate me, Max.” Proving her point, a dozen footmen in bright cerulean livery descended the terrace steps, toting silver trays. She gestured to the bronze-handled walking stick beneath the grip of Max's large hand. “I hope you are adept at balancing a saucer on your hat.”

By the sudden twitch of his jaw, his gaze on the servants, she saw the instant his foible occurred to him. But Max was nothing if not quick-witted and decisive, for he summarily tucked the stick beneath his arm.

He dusted his hands together. “Every problem has a solution.”

She pretended to turn her attention to the seam of her lace mitts and, in that split second, spied Max's gaze sweep down the length of her pink-and-white striped walking costume. A surge of heat, that had nothing to do with the sun, filled her stomach and radiated outward. She was accustomed to being watched and scrutinized by men and women alike, so it shouldn't have made her feel anything at all. Yet there was something in the way that Max studied her that caused the unbidden response.

She wasn't entirely sure what it was. Though perhaps the reason stemmed from knowing that he disliked her but seemed to observe her against his will. A peculiar sense of triumph filled her at the thought.

“Mmm . . . ” she mused. “You are clever, to be sure. Yet you missed a perfect opportunity.”

“And what was that?”

“Why, to ask me to feed you cakes, of course.” With a jaunty wave of her fingers, she left him to stand there, as she relished the stunned, somewhat slack-jawed expression on his face.

M
ax stared after Juliet's retreating figure. Her hat was tilted enough to show her eyes dancing with delight beneath the pink netting as she glanced over her shoulder at him. And he might have laughed as well at her cleverness if he hadn't been distracted by the view.

Her dressmaker should be sent to gaol for such a design. The gathers and pleats revealed the perfect delineation of her narrow waist and the slight flair of her hips, as if she wore no garments at all. He felt as if he'd fallen victim to a mesmerist's charm, which swayed ever-confidently back and forth.

Still recovering from her suggestion that he should have asked her to feed him cake, he couldn't seem to banish the image from his mind. Correction—
images—
for several, highly detailed visions instantly formed, including various methods and positions in which to indulge in cake.

Fighting against these errant thoughts, he reminded himself that
one cannot eat his cake and have it as well
. Not with Juliet. Besides, given their rivalry since her return, he doubted that her comment was intended as a flirtation. More likely, it was a device of distraction, the same way that members of Parliament argued against a bill by attacking their opponents on a more personal level.

And if Max knew anything at all, he knew that Juliet was a skilled adversary. As a widow as well as an experienced player among the
ton
, she knew exactly how to use her wiles. He wondered how many others had fallen under the same spell, only to have found in the end that it was all a ruse.

Abruptly, his mood darkened. He didn't want to think about the past and how he'd once thought she was a different person. Nor did he want to imagine all the other men who'd been lured by her . . . cake-feeding skills.

But
did
she have a lover? He couldn't seem to rid his mind of the question.

There had been no whispered allegations regarding that fact. In truth, since her return, the only name hers was linked to was
his,
which was confirmation that the
ton
was frequently misled and misinformed. Clearly, society hadn't an inkling of the insurmountable animosity between them.

Still, that did not stop him from wondering if her sly wit wasn't the only thing sly about her. Hadn't she already admitted to wanting to skirt the stipulations of their previous wager? So was her remark just now truly a flirtation and nothing more? Or a means of distraction?

The answers shouldn't matter to him, but for reasons beyond good sense, they did.

Of course, it was easy to imagine that she was merely trying to ensure her victory over him. Perhaps her candidate was, indeed, in attendance.

In direct line of his thoughts, Juliet paused to greet the Earl of Dovermere and his eldest daughter, Lady Piper Laurent. They shared an acquaintance because Dovermere was now father-in-law to Juliet's cousin Lilah. It seemed likely that they were merely exchanging pleasantries. However, it could also be that Juliet had chosen Lady Piper as her candidate for the
Original
.

Max mused on the idea and found that it wasn't a terrible plan. After all, a month ago Lady Piper had made one or two appearances in the
Standard
, which listed her as a favorite for the
Original
. And now, with Dovermere's son, Jack Marlowe—lately Viscount Locke—in good standing among the
ton
, Piper had a sporting chance.

She was poised, pretty, and refined, as most debutantes were. And having been Jack's friend for years, Max had spoken with Piper from time to time and found her sharp wit was like her brother's. The anonymous committee who selected the
Original
could make a worse choice and, in the past, had done so. Though to Max's mind, Lady Piper Laurent did not have a chance against the name he'd written on his ballot.

Thinking of his certain victory, he smiled to himself.

Glancing around the park, he studied the faces beneath the shaded brims. Every gaze seemed to flit toward Juliet. Young women were fussing with their parasols, closing them and setting them aside to sip their teas, and all the while staring with transparent envy at Juliet as she progressed, unencumbered, down the avenue toward the fountain. The men wore expressions of admiration. Of course, some were far too admiring, bordering on blatant lust, as if she were walking solely for their pleasure. And Max had a sudden desire to blacken a few eyes.

Not out of jealousy, he told himself. This surge of roiling heat in his gut stemmed from the desire to teach those young bucks a lesson in manners. After all, they were entirely too obvious in their appreciation of her figure.

Normally, Max would laugh and pity them because they did not know what wreckage Juliet tended to leave in her wake, what utter destruction to a man's soul. Today, however, he found that his temperament was not inclined toward humor, sardonic or otherwise.

He blamed it on her, of course. If not for her flirtatious comment, he would be enjoying the fresh air and sunshine while keeping a surreptitious eye on his candidate. In fact, he should be thinking about finding a bride. Instead, he could not stop thinking about cake and wondering if, perhaps—

“M'lord,” a footman said, interrupting his thoughts and stopping in front of him with a confection-laden tray.

Max cast a cursory glance over the lace serviettes that were smaller than the palm of his hand. Were gentlemen expected to pick up one of those dainty bits of frippery merely to eat an iced cake that was no larger than a single bite? He chuckled to himself, prepared to send the footman away and to return to his prior thoughts. Then, suddenly, it occurred to him that an opportunity lay before him.