Julie took extra care in dressing for the dinner party. Her blue satin gown was fashionable, but not ostentatious. The lustrous pearls at her throat were elegant, but not garish. The loose curls around her face were pretty, but not overdone.
No one—not even Nigel, the noble Marquess of Currington—could find fault with her appearance.
And if she didn’t turn as many heads as she had in the daring red silk a couple of days ago, she didn’t mind.
No one would mistake her for a wallflower tonight.
Uncle Alistair had kissed her cheek in the parlor before she left and reminded her of her promise to find a husband.
Sam was conspicuously absent.
She told herself she wasn’t disappointed, that she only wanted to wish him a good night after their heartfelt conversation that afternoon.
But it was just as well that he didn’t show, because she tended to lose her head around him, and tonight of all nights, she needed to keep her wits about her.
Now, she sank against the plush velvet squabs of Nigel’s coach, admiring the gleaming woodwork of the cab and fine curtains adorning the windows. Never had she ridden in such a luxurious conveyance, and she felt rather like a princess being whisked away to a royal ball.
She wished she knew who the other guests would be and hoped Charlotte might attend so that there would be at least one friendly face at the table. But the truth was, she wasn’t attending Nigel’s dinner party to mingle with important people or exchange the latest on-dit.
Her primary goal of the evening was to speak to Nigel about her uncle’s house—and convince the marquess to allow her uncle to stay there. Julie was not above begging, although she’d prefer it if Nigel were to meet her half way.
And she saw no reason why he shouldn’t.
Which reminded her of her secondary goal of the evening—to determine the nature of their relationship, once and for all.
First, at the masquerade ball, he’d kissed her, then failed to call in the days and weeks that followed.
He’d sent his brother to evict her and her uncle, and then sought her out at the Breckinridge Ball, insulted her family, and promised to see what he could do about her uncle’s house—whatever that meant.
And now, he’d invited her to a dinner party, which certainly reflected some level of interest … and perhaps an inclination to make their association public or even woo her.
But she couldn’t be sure.
More important, she wasn’t entirely certain she wanted Nigel to court her. After their kiss, she’d been desperate to see him, or at least receive some small token of his affection—a poem, flowers, a note.
But that was before Sam had shown up on her doorstep, confusing her with his heat-filled glances and knee-weakening kisses. Everything about him was dangerous. Deliciously so.
What sort of woman was she, to kiss two brothers? Meg and Beth would be appalled at her wantonness. Gads, she was appalled herself.
But the tentative kiss she’d shared with Nigel was nothing compared to her all-body-consuming kiss with Sam. It was like comparing burlap to silk. Water to champagne.
Not that the kiss with Nigel had been bad, precisely.
But it had not set her blood on fire or made her hunger for something she couldn’t even name.
To be fair, Nigel had no doubt restrained himself during their kiss. Out of respect for her. He’d probably flogged himself mercilessly for taking the liberty of chastely touching his lips to hers.
And in spite of that minor transgression, he was ten times the gentleman Sam was. If she truly had a choice between the two brothers, it should be no contest. Nigel was handsome, wealthy, titled, respected.
But Julie didn’t burn for him the way she did for Sam.
As the coach rolled to a stop in front of Nigel’s stately townhouse, her belly twisted in knots.
Tonight was important. She must behave properly throughout the evening and make polite conversation with the esteemed guests. Her manners must be flawless.
She alighted from the coach, and glided up the walkway just as she and her sister had practiced as girls, balancing a book on their heads—but without fail, Julie’s book had ended up bruising someone’s toe.
The marquess’s butler admitted her, quickly ushering her into the foyer, as if he’d been expecting her. “Welcome, Miss Lacey,” he said stiffly. “I’ll see you to the drawing room.”
“Am I late?” Julie asked.
He remained stony-faced. “Not that I am aware, miss.”
Why, then, was the house so still? She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and strained her ears, listening for the buzz of guests greeting one another, enjoying pre-dinner drinks. But the only sound she heard was the click of her heels on the polished marble floors.
The house was cool, sober, and refined—not unlike Nigel.
She followed the servant down a corridor, past muted landscapes and genteel portraits. At last, the butler swung open a door and waved her through. “Lord Currington awaits you inside.”
Julie frowned. “And the other guests?” she asked—but the stodgy butler had already turned and left.
So, she took a deep breath and walked into the marquess’s drawing room, her head held high.
He stood alone, his back to her, staring out a window at the moonless sky. The resemblance to Sam was so striking that, for a moment, she felt her heart flutter.
“Good evening, Miss Lacey.” Nigel faced her, his cool gaze flitting over her appreciatively.
She waited till he approached, and curtsied. “Lord Currington.”
He bowed over the hand she offered in a perfectly gentlemanly fashion. “It is good to see you, Juliette.”
She arched a brow. “Where are the rest of your guests?”
He had the good grace to look chagrined. “Forgive my bit of subterfuge. There are no other guests.”
A chill slithered down her spine. “You deceived me.”
“Not exactly. This is a dinner party.” He paused. “For two.”
Rage bubbled and seethed beneath her skin. His good looks, title, and wealth did not give him the right to manipulate her. “I must go.” She headed toward the door as fast as she dared, invisible books be damned.
“I had thought tonight would be an opportune time to discuss your uncle’s house,” he said casually, as if he were commenting on the lack of rain.
She froze, her slippers glued to the floor.
“You are certainly welcome to leave if you wish,” he continued smoothly. “My coach and driver are at your disposal. But I was under the impression that you wanted to talk about your uncle’s situation. A subject that is best addressed privately.”
Steaming, she spun to face him. “Do not pretend that you arranged this evening out of consideration for me. You lured me here under false pretenses. It is beneath you.”
He dropped his chin, contrite. “Perhaps I am not the saint everyone imagines me to be. I am only a man, Juliette. And if I’ve erred in bringing you here tonight, I beg your forgiveness … but I do hope you’ll stay.”
She hesitated. “I want to see the deed to the house. In the unlikely event that my uncle cannot locate his bill of sale or lease, I wish to know your selling price.”
He shot her an amused, superior smile—the sort her palm itched to slap off his face. “We may discuss all of those details … in due time. But dinner is already served, and I think we shall both need sustenance before we launch into such matters. Will you do me the honor of accompanying me to the dining room?”
Meg and Beth would tell her she was a fool to even consider dining alone with the marquess. But she was already in his home, and she desperately needed answers. Besides, she knew he would never physically hurt her. Whatever his faults, he’d never threatened her in that manner. “I will dine with you,” she said slowly. “But you must understand this. I will not tolerate any more lies, any more deception. If you fail to be truthful with me, I’ll walk out your door and never speak to you again.”
“That would wound me greatly,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. Julie searched his face but couldn’t detect a trace of sarcasm.
“Then I suggest you do not test me,” she said.
“Fair enough.” He offered his arm, and she allowed him to escort her through to the most elegantly set table she’d ever seen. Three softly glowing candelabra lined the center of the long table, casting light that danced off every crystal glass, every porcelain plate. The silver cutlery sparkled and the soft green wallpaper shimmered. Two rows of gold-framed landscapes surrounded them like windows to luxurious, exotic worlds.
Julie refrained from gaping as she sank onto her silk-covered chair seat and spread her crisp napkin across her lap. It was a far cry from their cozy dining room at home. Uncle Alistair’s table invited shared confidences and genuine laughter. The marquess’s table, by contrast, invited careful conversation and controlled smiles.
Though Julie preferred the former, it was impossible not to be impressed with the opulence that surrounded her. And for the briefest of moments, she recalled what it had felt like to be a wallflower. Plain and unfashionable in the midst of a sea of beauty and grace; small and powerless in an ocean of wealth and aristocracy.
She didn’t ever want to feel that way again.