April 1820
“Good morning, Saunders. Any noteworthy headlines today?” Max Harwick asked when he reached the bottom of the stairs. As part of a daily regime, the butler waited in the foyer with a pressed copy of the Post on a bronze platter.
Saunders inclined his bald head, sunlight from a transient window glancing off his polished dome. “Sure to be a hotbed at the House of Commons this afternoon, sir.” Then with a conspiratorial arch of his gray brows, he continued in a hushed tone. “Best walk slowly to the breakfast room.”
“Thank you, Saunders.” Max eyed the paper with eager interest, opened it with a snap, and began his slow trek. As a rule, no one was allowed to read at the table. Not even a man of four and twenty. So Max had become an expert at navigating the halls while devouring the stories with the most political intrigue. Today was no different. Reading about the uprisings in the north counties and the demands for reform, he took each step by rote, guided by the scents of coffee, salted meats, and freshly baked bread.
“Maxwell,” Mother said, clearing her throat.
It was only when he looked up that he realized he’d crossed the threshold already. Then, receiving a pointed glance down to the paper in his grasp, he dutifully folded and tucked it away behind the first of four silver chafing dishes on the sideboard.
Marjorie Harwick was not a strict woman by nature. She was all ease and nurture, with a generous smile and a softly rounded outward appearance to match. Her dark wavy hair was always in some sort of disarray, likely due to her state of constant motion. In all the years of rearing two sons, she’d never raised her voice. However, when it came to breakfasting together in this cozy hexagonal room lined with diamond-paned windows, she was a veritable Yeoman of the Guard. She would have her way, no matter what.
Stepping to her chair, he bussed her cheek, and she affectionately patted his in return. “Good morning, Mother.” Then, catching his father’s eye, he inclined his head. “Good morning, sir.”
Alton Harwick mirrored the gesture, touching a serviette to his mouth. After an absent greeting, he glanced toward the hallway. “Is your brother on his way downstairs?”
To be precise, Bramson Sheffield, the Marquess of Engle, was Max’s half brother. Four years the elder, Bram was the product of their mother’s first marriage. Alton Harwick, having been a friend of the late marquess, had confessed on several occasions that marrying Marjorie—after a suitable mourning period, of course—had been the best way to honor the Engle line.
Overall, he was a kind man and a good father and husband. Many of his acquaintances even considered him affable. In fact, he only had one notable flaw: he kept forgetting that Max was his firstborn, his only son by blood, and the one who would carry on his name.
“I believe I saw Bram’s valet in the hallway,” Max answered. And while he still had Father’s attention, he rushed onward. “With the news of the day, this afternoon’s session of Parliament is sure to be quite the stir. Father, perhaps we could go to St. Stephen’s and watch the proceedings from the gallery.”
“Not today, I’m afraid,” Father said, pushing a bit of egg on his fork toward the blade of his knife. “Bram and I are heading to Tattersall’s. There’s a prime pair of grays he has his eye on.”
The morning excursion would still leave the afternoon available. But Max made no comment.
“Perhaps another day,” Mother added with a cheerful nod as she dropped a dollop of clotted cream onto her scone. Much to her credit, she loved her sons with equal fervor and gaiety. Yet she was oblivious to the biased favoritism toward Bram that confronted Max on a daily basis.
Moving to the sideboard, he prepared a plate. Vying for his father’s time was a battle he’d lost too frequently, and familiarity with the defeat caused a numbness that made it easier to shrug off the disappointment. Besides, it was a pleasanter task to think of how he would spend his afternoon. He loved watching the debates at the House of Commons, and hearing those—who might not have had a voice otherwise—seek justice. He’d even thought of standing for a seat but lacked the money and the influence required.
Since he was a gentleman of limited means, the ton discounted him, rarely even aware of his presence. In fact, the only time he garnered attention was when someone wanted to ask after Bram, wondering whether or not the marquess had chosen a bride yet.
Of all the questions posed to Max, that was his least favorite. Even though he never offered a definitive answer, he hated knowing that Juliet White was among the candidates on Bram’s list. Yet she was far too beautiful not to be included, lack of fortune or not.
The ton called her the goddess and some even the hollow goddess, believing she was nothing more than a gilded plasterwork molded into perfection. Few knew how insightful she was or how she noticed everything and everyone. Even Max.
Unfortunately, she noticed his brother more. Only a blind man could miss the way her eyes lit up like sapphires against a candle flame whenever she saw Bram.
And with that thought, Max’s appetite disappeared. He looked down at his plate with disinterest as he lowered his frame into a straight-backed chair.
“I have a good feeling about today,” Father said, placing his silverware on the rim of his plate and glancing toward the hallway again.
“Do you think Bram has made a decision?” Mother asked.
“There’s a good chance of it. Ah—and here’s my boy now.” Father dropped his serviette to the table as he stood, smiling. “We’d better make haste if you want to land those grays before Knightswold gets his hands on them.”
“That I shall not allow,” Bram said with a chuckle as he strode into the breakfast room. He too held a newspaper, folding it beneath his arm before he gripped Father’s outstretched hand.
Standing next to Bram, Father painted a rather nondescript portrait—straight brown hair, brushed back from his forehead and tinged with gray at the temples; plain brown eyes; and features that were unremarkable.
Max had those same features but also possessed Mother’s dark hair and slight olive cast to his skin. Against Bram’s pale coloring, aristocratic bone structure, and magnetic charm, there was little Max could do to compete. So he’d always relied on other methods—eldest son to eldest son.
While Bram had the slim, agile qualities of a top-notch fencer, Max’s athletic build was created for stamina. When it came to matters of strength and endurance, he could outmatch and outride Bram any day of the week. Unfortunately, Max’s skills were better suited to a jousting tournament during days of old. They did him little good here and now.
“After all,” Bram continued, “a man cannot become betrothed without the finest pair to pull his barouche, can he?”
Mother gasped, smiling. “You have decided?”
“Indeed.” Bram tossed the Season Standard—the ton’s premier scandal sheet—down onto the table, without receiving a word of reprimand. “This morning’s column cleared away any doubt I possessed. They have announced this Season’s Original and, as luck would have it, the name is the very one that holds a claim upon my heart.”
Max stared at the paper. Suddenly, it was like looking at a feral beast on the table, froth dripping from its mouth, claws ready to strike.
Juliet had pinned all her hopes on being named the Original. The title was bestowed to the one person who encompassed certain qualities worthy of the ton’s notice and emulation. For a gentleman, this frivolous honor could mean that his wit or the cut of his clothes had far surpassed the others. For a young woman, her style and poise made her the most sought after of all debutantes. Most importantly, she would have her choice of husband.
And Max feared that her choice was now standing in the room.
Knowing what was expected of him, Max stood as well and offered a hand to Bram. “Congratulations.”
“You don’t even know whom I’ve chosen.” Bram cast a dubious glance down to the hand and laughed. Then he reached for the Standard and slapped it into Max’s grasp instead.
Ignoring the slight, Max skimmed the column. Proud to announce . . . this Season’s Original . . . a young woman with charm, beauty, indefatigable effervescence . . .
“Miss Leonard?” The name left Max’s lips on a breath that drained every ounce of air from his lungs. His chest collapsed and then abruptly filled with relief more profound than he’d ever known before. “You’re going to marry Miss Leonard?”
From what Max knew about Miss Leonard, she possessed an artful way of boasting her own accomplishments by way of self-deprecation, which tended to earn her even more praise. Yet all he saw was a façade of crafted manners and a false beauty that fed on compliments. Most were blind to her character, seeing her only as a charming, orphaned heiress whose only family was an aging aunt.
“Poor Miss White,” Mother said. “I know she counted on today’s announcement. Doubtless that was the reason her parents had planned a party for this very evening. I wonder if they will cancel now.”
Max moved to the sideboard and slipped the paper beside the other. “Of course not. Mr. White is not a man to show his cards. As he and his family always have done, they will display the utmost grace and cordiality.”
Although, rumors were now surfacing that the Whites could not afford to lose their social standing. Apparently, Mr. White had a good deal of debt hanging over his head. Since they were practically neighbors, however, Max wasn’t inclined to believe it. There would have been indications, after all—fewer lavish parties, minimal at home days, or even wearing clothes out of fashion. But none of that was evident.
“Doubtless, you are correct, Maxwell,” Mother replied before she stood and requested that Father join her in the hall for a moment.
“I’m counting on the Whites’ cordiality because I plan to make my announcement at their party,” Bram said once they were alone.
Max balked. “This evening? Surely your new bride would wish for her aunt to host a party in order to make the announcement.”
“By then the news will already have been out.” Bram offered a careless shrug as he lifted Max’s plate from the table and took a bite of ham. “Imagine the surprise I shall receive at dinner when I stand and raise my glass to toast my upcoming nuptials. The entire ton has been waiting with bated breath for my announcement.”
“It would be bad form.” And it would break Juliet’s heart. “I won’t allow it.”
Bram laughed. “And who are you, little brother, to prevent me?”
Unfortunately, neither Father nor Mother had succeeded in dissuading Bram from his plan. Therefore, by the time they arrived at the Whites’ townhouse that evening, Max was on a mission to find Juliet.
He’d made several attempts to call on her throughout the day but had been turned away at the door, their butler stating that the household was under preparations for the party and therefore could not receive visitors. Max considered leaving a missive but knew that the information was of too delicate a nature to convey through such blunt means. He needed to see her in person so that she could prepare herself and her parents for what would surely come as a blow to all of them.
From the archway, Max surveyed the room, searching for her face. Dozens of guests crowded shoulder to shoulder, filling the small green parlor. Feathered turbans and elaborate coiffures nodded in conversation. Fans flapped, stirring unpleasant odors and cloying perfumes. Voices merged into a cacophony that made the crystals hanging from the chandelier vibrate and shimmer. But there, at the far side of the room, Juliet stood.
With Miss Leonard.
Both blonde and fair, the two young women angled near one another. While Miss Leonard was pretty, with her ash-blonde curls and almond-shaped eyes, Juliet’s beauty possessed an otherworldly quality. Even in a white satin gown that, to him, was like any other, she appeared regal. Every gesture—the tilt of her head, the gentle turn of a fan, a blink—deserved admiration. Her hair was golden spun silk, her features delicate, her complexion the finest cream. Her lashes and slender winged eyebrows were two shades darker, providing the perfect frame for the lovely, keen sapphire irises that never missed a single thing.
It was watching her eyes—as he plotted a course and pardon me-ed his way across the room—that gave Max his first jolt of anxiety.
Likely, to everyone else, Miss White and Miss Leonard appeared to be engaged in amicable conversation, but to Max, it was clear that Juliet was distressed. The proof of it lay in her subtle gesture of closing her fan and lowering it heavily to her side, in the slight widening of her eyes, and in the delicate, somewhat halted undulation of her throat as she swallowed.
“I trust that you will keep our secret, Miss White,” Miss Leonard said, her voice only reaching Max now that he was within a pace of them. Apparently, Miss Leonard was too eager to share her announcement and chose not to wait for Bram’s toast at dinner. Or perhaps she wanted to deliver the news directly to a known rival.
Whatever she had said, he could not forgive her for it. Not when he noted how Juliet had gone still. How only her gaze moved, shifting down to the double strand of pearls adorning Miss Leonard’s neck.
Earlier today, Bram had settled the betrothal with Miss Leonard’s aunt and her man of accounts. As a gift of promise, Bram had given his grandmother’s pearls. The same ones that Miss Leonard caressed with her gloved fingertips right now.
“I’m certain I do not deserve my good fortune this day,” Miss Leonard continued, her eyes flashing with undisguised triumph. “To be named the Original and to become engaged to the most sought after of all gentlemen? This must be a dream, surely.”
“A dream come to fruition is precious indeed,” Juliet said softly, but bravely and without the slightest tremble. “Whenever such blessings arrive, we must believe we are worthy of them or else lose their favor.”
Juliet’s gaze shifted, alighting on Max. Within the faceted blue depth, he saw the stark fragility hovering there. And though her expression remained flawlessly untouched, if not stoic, he felt as if she were reaching out to him with invisible arms, like a hummingbird in search of a sturdy branch upon which to land—to rest, if only for a moment.
Wordlessly, he inclined his head, prepared to be of service.
Miss Leonard pursed her lips as if in thought. “Wise words, Miss White. I will keep them in mind during the next weeks while I am planning my wedding. In fact—”
The sharp tinkling of a bell and the announcement of dinner cut off her doubtlessly unsuitable statement. That was when she turned and noticed Max in their midst and then looked straight through him.
“Oh! Is Bram about? Do you know what his plans are for this evening? Surely he intends to escort me into the dining room . . . ” Her words trailed off as she stood on tiptoe and began searching the room for the sight of her betrothed.
Then with the acclaimed effervescence that had earned her the ton’s favor, she summarily abandoned them. Making her way toward the door, she wove through the exiting crowd, offering demure giggles and feigned apologies for every foot she trod upon and every arm she grazed. It was obvious to Max, however, that she cared little for anyone aside from herself.
In effect, she was the epitome of Bram but in a feminine form. They were well matched in that regard.
“And that was the reason you called, I suppose,” Juliet said from beside him, her voice wearier than it was a moment ago. “To warn me?”
“It was.”
Drawing in a breath, she stared at the backs of the dwindling crowd. “You are a good friend, Max.”
He winced, those words just as painful as if she would have said, “You would have made a fine brother-in-law.”
Yet if all she would give was her friendship, he would take it. He knew her dreams had suffered two deathblows today. And he also knew she would recover from them in time. Until she did, and ever after, he would remain the strongest branch beneath her feet.
“Would you allow me to escort you to dinner, Miss White?”
With a nod, she took his proffered arm. They trailed the haphazard procession toward the dining room. With a glance over his shoulder, he noticed that they were the last to leave the parlor. In fact, the moment they exited, the servants swept inside to tidy up before dinner ended, when the ladies would return while the gentlemen remained in the dining room for a brief interval.
Max shuddered to think of what it would be like for Juliet, enduring Miss Leonard’s gloating all evening. Knowing what awaited Juliet in the next few minutes—the toast that Bram had planned—Max guided them into a slow, ambling pace.
Juliet did not try to hurry him. “I should have thought you would arrive late, having spent your afternoon and evening watching the debates at the House of Commons.”
“You know me well,” he said, the words ringing with truth beneath his breast. During these past two Seasons, they had attended the same gatherings, shared countless conversations, exchanged ideas, and even engaged in a handful of good-natured debates. “Though I had no appetite for argument today.”
She gazed up at him, her eyes glinting with mockery. “Come now, Max, you always have an appetite for argument. I’ve had ample proof in the numerous times that my family has dined with . . . ”—her words drifted off, taking that glint with them—“yours.”
He tried to remain sturdy for her, his forearm tightening as if to infuse his strength into the delicate hand resting there. Yet it did nothing to prevent the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes. For one who prided herself on remaining composed, he knew that revealing her inner anguish to the other guests would be the last thing she would want to do.
Without thought, he steered her quickly through an open doorway off the hall—the library, as it turned out. The room was empty and dark, aside from the light filtering in through the partially open door. They would only have a minute to be alone, but it might be long enough to allow her to recover.
He produced his handkerchief and gently touched it to her lower lid. “I do believe an errant turban feather has made its way into your eyes. Horrible nuisances. They make my eyes water too.”
She offered a small laugh, slipping the handkerchief from his fingers and blotting away the evidence. “How gallant of you to ignore my foolishness and what a hen-wit I’ve become.”
“You are neither fool nor fowl but simply human.”
“Hush,” she said, swatting the center of his gray waistcoat with the folded linen. “Practically everyone here believes I’m nothing more than a hollow shell. You must keep my secret.”
“Then it is our secret.” He took the handkerchief from her. Propriety demanded that he release her at the same time or at least step apart from her. Instead, he did what seemed more appropriate and curled his hand over hers. And the moment he did, he knew this was the right decision. Her small, soft hand fit perfectly within his, as if her bones had been chiseled from his own. “They don’t even deserve to know the truth of your nature.”
Curiosity, and perhaps even surprise, lifted her brows, her head tilting slightly to one side. “What truth is that?”
“That you are clever, and your wit is subtle but sharp. Nothing escapes your notice,” he said, stroking his thumb along the seam of her glove. “And you possess more grace and poise than any other woman in all of England.”
As he continued his declaration, her gaze drifted from his eyes to his mouth, as if to see the words he spoke for better understanding. But her focus stirred him. The heat of his body rose ten degrees at least. The air between them—what little there was of it—warmed and turned fragrant. A sweet and earthy scent of rose and sandalwood, made of her perfume and his shaving soap, filled his nostrils. Their combined fragrance merged with the leather-bound books and the faint tangy citrus of the furniture polish, creating a unique and thoroughly potent aphrodisiac.
For the second time, he told himself that he should put distance between them. And if she would have given the barest hint of discomfort, he would have done so. Instead, his feet ignored this command and shifted closer to stand on either side of her slippers, the soft folds of her skirts tucked between his thighs.
Still holding her hand, the length of her forearm now rested at an angle between them. Her white gloves puckered slightly at her wrist, and he worried his thumb into the crease, thinking about how this kid leather was the only thing between his touch and her bare flesh.
His gaze shifted to where the sleeve of his coat brushed the outer swell of her breast. All he saw was another barrier. And in that instant, he hated his tailor for having sewn this coat. Hated society’s strictures that forced him to don clothes at all.
A somewhat confused-sounding puff of air escaped her lips. “Anyone else would have remarked on what they saw of me on the outside.”
“And they are all fools.”
By the fresh clarity in her gaze, he knew she was seeing him. When a fond smile curved her lips and she lifted her face, he knew she saw more too.
He was not like everyone else. He was not merely Bram’s insignificant half brother. He was not his messenger either. In fact, Max was . . .
Kissing her. His mouth descended to her soft, dewy lips with a sudden impetuousness that left him reeling. He wasn’t even aware of moving. Yet somehow he released her hand so that he could frame her face—a tender gesture that did not match the quick escalation of need within him.
Her mewl of surprise stopped him, however. He drew back marginally, breathing hard and heavy after only a moment, and prepared an apology in his mind. “Forgive me. I—”
But before he could finish, she made that throaty sound again, gripped the lapels of his coat, and pressed her lips to his.
Juliet. His blood cheered her name. His mouth slanted over hers, urging her lips apart. At first, her tongue shyly waited behind her teeth, tentatively bumping against his, only offering the barest hint of sherry flavor that lingered there. Then a tremor quaked through her. He felt it when she arched into him—breasts, stomach, and hips all tantalizingly close. And in that moment, Max hated white satin as much as he hated wool.
But honestly, ridding her of this dress after a first kiss should have been the last thing on his mind. The first thing should have been the fact that they were both at a dinner party. Her parents were the hosts. They would not serve dinner without them and likely would have noticed their absences immediately.
Unfortunately, none of those thoughts occurred to him until he heard a man cough and clear his throat. Juliet must have heard it too because she broke away from their kiss with a gasp, her gloved fingertips covering her lips as if to hide the evidence.
But it was too late.
Lord Granworth, an impossibly wealthy, elderly statesman, stood in the doorway. Over his shoulder were three other guests—apparent late arrivals, who were all being escorted by a wide-eyed maid who kept looking from Juliet to Max as if they were Adam and Eve caught naked in the garden of Eden.
If given another few minutes perhaps . . .
No. Max refused to think of that now. He needed to keep his head about him.
With this one ungoverned act, he’d just ruined Juliet. Tainted her virtue in the eyes of society. And there was only one way to make amends—they would have to marry.
For a short duration, they would be pariahs. However, in time they would be welcomed back into society. Since he was a man without means, he would learn a trade to find an income, the same way that his friend Jack Marlowe had. Then Max and Juliet would find a modest house and begin a family. He could see it all, their lives laid out perfectly before them.
Max took a breath, certain of his course. All in all, it was almost a blessing that Lord Granworth had stumbled upon them when he did.
The baron sent his party and the maid on ahead and discreetly stepped back into the hall, while still providing his chaperonage, albeit after the transgression.
Standing in front of Juliet, Max took her hand and bowed over it. “I will set matters aright. I promise. We will marry.” Saying the words aloud caused a surge of elation within him. He was breathless with it. “With your father’s permission, we will ride to Gretna Green in the morning.”
Juliet turned pale. “My father—no. I cannot do that to you.”
A smile touched his lips as he shook his head. Did she believe he was merely being gallant again? Surely even she knew the gravity of their situation.
“This was a mistake. I’m sorry, Max.” And before he could stop her, she ran from the room.
Max moved to follow, but with Granworth there, and Juliet rushing toward the stairs, which likely led to the family chambers, he stopped.
By the time he turned around, he saw Mr. White striding toward him, a glower knitting his brow. Obviously, he’d heard—and likely every other guest had as well.
Max straightened his shoulders. “With your permission, Mr. White, I request an audience.”
“It would be better if you left. Immediately.” White’s glower turned harder, revealing his anger and immeasurable disappointment. Then, lifting a shaking hand, he raked it through his hair. It was the only time Max had ever seen him without his composure intact. In fact, White’s entire being seemed to vibrate with impotent rage.
Max felt as contrite as possible. “Yes, sir. I understand, however—”
“You may return in the morning when I have a cooler head.”
Hearing the edge of desperation in White’s voice, Max stowed his request. After all, it would do him no good if his future father-in-law loathed him. “Of course. My apologies, sir.”
With a bow, Max turned on his heel and left the party. By tomorrow, he would have a plan to offer. The interim hours would also allow Juliet to ease into an understanding of the situation. They would marry and, most important, Max would make her happy. No matter what.
It wasn’t until the following morning that Max learned of Juliet’s elopement.
“The family has gone to Lord Granworth’s estate in Somerset, sir,” their butler said at the door.
Max refused to believe it.
He shouldered his way inside, prepared to demand an audience with White. Max wasn’t going to leave here without Juliet. He had a carriage waiting, a satchel packed, and just enough money for them to stay a few weeks at an inn until the gossip died down. Damn it all, he even had a sapphire ring in his pocket!
But as he took in the scene around him—the maids and footmen bustling about, draping linens over the furniture, lowering the main chandelier to cover it as well—he realized it was true.
And Juliet was gone.
“Sir, if I may,” the butler said, extending his hand, a missive pinched between this thumb and forefinger. “This was supposed to go out with the post, but since you are here . . . ”
His name and address were looped elegantly on the small square of parchment. Numbly, he took the letter and opened it.
Max,
I apologize, both for what I am doing and for what I did last evening. I cannot begin to explain my own actions and profound regret at their results. I hardly know myself any longer.
The clarity I’d hoped to find this morning is still absent, and so I made the choice that better suits all parties involved.
Yours affect
Warmest regards,
J
Max stared down at the letter and then slowly crumpled it in his fist. He’d been wrong about Juliet. If she could believe a word she’d written, then she never truly saw him. Worse, she left without giving him a chance to prove her wrong, discounting him like all the others had.
And he would never forgive her for it.