AS LADY Hartley's guests followed the Wolverstons from the room like rats mesmerized by a piper—except in this case they were riveted by Amanda's dramatic pleadings—Juliana watched Lady Stafford push through them in the other direction.
"James!" she cried, throwing her arms around him.
He held her for a few seconds, but then extricated himself. "Please go, Mother. Take Aunt Aurelia and Aunt Bedelia back to the tent. I'll talk to you in a few minutes."
She looked to her sisters, who were standing there with their mouths open, and back to him. "But, James—"
"Go. Please. I need to talk to Lady Juliana."
As they departed, leaving the two of them alone, he turned to her.
She felt like she hadn't breathed in the last five minutes.
And like she might never breathe again.
She thought she should cry, but she felt numb. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what she could say. All the words seemed to have been sucked right out of her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. It was all she could manage.
James only nodded.
She'd never seen him look so pale, so lifeless. Not even when he'd been deathly afraid of Emily's snake. The very sight of him in that state made anger rise in her, which finally loosened her tongue.
"Lord Occlestone should be shot."
"I may not like the man," he said wearily, "but others followed us in here as well. Lady Amanda's father would have found out one way or another. Occlestone isn't to blame for this."
"I know. I'm to blame. But I'll fix it."
She had to fix it.
James's lips quirked to form something that might have been a sad smile. "You cannot fix everything, Juliana. But the fact that you never stop trying…well…it's one of the many things that made me fall in love with you."
There was no way she could live with herself if he had to marry Amanda. "I can fix this, and I will," she reiterated. "I have to." And then she froze. "One of the many things that made you…what?" She held her breath again, but for an entirely different reason, and then her gaze dropped to his hand. And her breath went out in a rush. "You brought roses."
He glanced down, as though he'd forgotten he was holding them. "They're a bit worse for the wear."
They did look a tad bedraggled. "But they're red roses."
"There aren't many of them. I couldn't easily carry more than a dozen. Not two dozen like we ordered for Lady Amanda, and compared to what Lord Malmsey sent to your aunt—"
"They're red roses." He wasn't handing them to her. "Are they for me?"
Abruptly, he held them out. "Who else could they possibly be for? For what other woman in all of London—nay, in all of the world—would I buy and dethorn red roses? Bloody hell, I must've nicked myself twenty times."
"You said you would never fall in love again." She grabbed the flowers and held them tight to her chest, the paper crinkling, their sweet scent wafting to her nose. "Oh, James, I love you, too."
He held out his arms, and she bolted into them, and he held her close, the bouquet crushed between them. And then the tears that wouldn't fall finally did, because really, it was just too much.
And too late.
He'd brought her red roses. She'd been hoping he loved her, but now that she knew he did, her meddling had ruined everything.
She was going to fix it, but for now she couldn't stop weeping. Couldn't stop sobbing. Couldn't stop.
"Hush," he murmured while her tears wet his waistcoat. And, "hush," while they soaked through to his shirt. And finally, "Do you know what I hate even more than snakes?"
She shook her head, rubbing her nose in the damp warmth.
He put a finger under her chin and lifted it, until her eyes were forced to meet his. "A woman's tears," he said. "I swear to God, sweetheart, they make me feel more helpless than anything."
"I'm sorry," she said, and she was. Sorry for crying, and sorry that made him uncomfortable. But mostly sorry James loved her and she loved him and everything was such a mess.
"Hush," he said one last time, and then he lowered his head and kissed her, a little soft kiss. And another one. And yet another, but it wasn't soft, it was devouring instead.
Juliana stopped crying, because she didn't want to upset James anymore. Or maybe it was because his kisses were such a distraction. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and leaned into him, and threaded her fingers into the dark curls that spilled over his collar. Everything was wrong, but this—this one thing—was heartbreakingly right.
She was in love.
She couldn't remember ever being so happy and so sad all at once.
"I'll fix this," she said when he finally allowed her to draw breath. "We have five days before Saturday."
He smoothed her hair back from her face, her dratted, slippery hair. "Five short days."
"Five and a half," she whispered, inhaling his scent, starch and soap mixed with roses. She wanted to hold that scent inside her. She hugged him tighter, wishing she didn't have to let go.
But she did have to. At least for now.
"Five and a half," she repeated.
It would have to be enough.