Chapter Five

Julia sat in the morning room, pen in hand, staring at the last three lines she’d crossed out on the otherwise pristine page. For the past two hours she’d been attempting to work on her (proposed) pamphlet. The Society of Ladies for the Expansion of Female Literacy was a club that most fashionable women did not elect to join, but it was one of the charitable endeavors that mattered most to Julia. As an unmarried woman, she did not have much of a position in the Society—or in any society—but Julia did what she could for the cause, including writing up pamphlets to be printed at club expense and distributed to the public. It was useless, though. Her topic was supposed to be The Importance of Scholarly Education in the Development of Moral Character, but every sentence she wrote, no matter how urgent or packed with meaning, conjured images of the Duke of Ashworth. To improve her spirit, a woman must first improve her mind, morphed into: To improve the Duke of Ashworth, a woman must first improve her Duke of Ashworth. She put down the pen and slumped in a most unladylike manner.

“You mustn’t worry,” Susannah said. The girl was seated at the pianoforte, her fingers dashing across the keys as she played a piece by Mozart. Brilliant, as always. Susannah needed music in the way Julia required books, as if she would die without it.

Though the Duke of Ashworth was rapidly putting Julia off reading or thinking entirely. Last night she’d attempted to peruse Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman in order to settle her nerves. It had turned into A Vindication of the Rights of the Duke of Ashworth, and she doubted very much that the duke needed any help protecting his bloody rights.

“If Constance ever learns what happened, she’ll confine me to the attic for the rest of my life.” Julia left the writing desk and flopped onto the sofa. “I’ll become something out of a Gothic tale, singing mad songs and knitting sweaters for mice.”

“I’m sure no one saw you.” Susannah finished her concerto with a flourish. “We’d have heard something by now.”

“It’s only the morning after.” Julia sighed. “Do you believe the papers would carry such news? I can see the headline. Spinster Compromised at Weatherford Ball: War Against Napoleon Deemed Trite In Comparison.”

Julia glanced around the room, resigning herself to its four walls. They were not unpleasant walls. Indeed, they were painted a buttery yellow, and sported glass-paned doors that opened upon the rose garden. But she would never move outside of this cloistered world. This and Pennington Hall, her family seat in Kent, were the only two places she would ever again be allowed to go. At least Julia could remain in her ancestral home. The Beaumont heir, Sir Hugh, was a distant cousin who resided in America and took little interest in an impoverished estate. Still, this would be her entire world. A comfortable one, to be certain, but limited. She’d have her pamphlets that no one would read, and once in a while, she’d be permitted to dote upon Susannah’s children like a good aunt. That certainly wasn’t a shameful life, but it was too constricting for a woman of her temperament. Such a quiet existence was as good as a prison sentence to Julia.

How could she have been so foolish? Julia had always prided herself on good sense, but one infuriating, brutally handsome man had reduced her to a creature that cared only for its own pleasure. Sensational pleasure, yes. The greatest, most intense pleasure she had ever experienced, or ever would.

“Why are you so flushed?” Susannah asked.

“It’s warm in here.” Julia grabbed a book, opened it, and stared at a page for several moments before realizing it was upside down. Her stepsister came and sat beside her.

“Perhaps he’ll call on you.” Susannah sounded so earnest. “Maybe he’s on his way right now to propose.”

“Not if Lady Weatherford’s description was accurate. I’m certain His Grace found another lady to woo after I left. Perhaps two at once.”

“Julia!”

She couldn’t help smiling. “You’re so easy to shock, darling.”

For a chaste gentlewoman, Julia read a great deal of “sensational” literature. Of course, women like her never ended well in those kinds of stories. According to Gothic novels, most fallen women ended their lives in Castilian nunneries or died of spontaneous illnesses. Even so, the lurid tales suggested there should be fire between a man and woman. Last night had been an inferno.

“Really,” Susannah said. “He might surprise you.”

“Surprises are rarely pleasant.”

The girls stopped speaking as Constance entered the room. Julia’s stepmother was back on her feet today, though still somewhat sickly. Her eyes were puffed, and she fluttered that lace handkerchief to and fro, ready to catch a sneeze.

“My deaw Zoozannah.” Constance discreetly blew her nose. “Ah, dat’s beddah. Dow. Ahem, now, whom do you think will be calling on us today?”

“I’d hoped Lord Caldwell might visit, and Mr. Dorchester. They seemed to enjoy dancing with me last night.”

“Susannah was the belle of the ball,” Julia said.

“Indeed.” Constance fixed Julia with a withering glare and blew her nose. “She might have made more conquests if you hadn’t forced her to retire early. A broken shoe, puh. Of all the insipid reasons to leave!”

“I’d already danced my fill,” Susannah said.

“And I wouldn’t have helped Susannah’s chances by falling into the punch bowl.” Julia stared wearily at Constance. She imagined looking at this woman for the rest of her life. Bringing tea, mending clothes, carrying small, yappy dogs from room to room. Why hire a lady’s maid when one had an unmarriageable stepdaughter?

“I’m certain most gentlemen wouldn’t have noticed. Truly, your delusion knows no bounds, Julia.”

“My delusion?” Julia rarely lost her temper, but today might be special.

“You are on the shelf. Men pay no attention to spinsters!”

Julia was tempted to brag of her exploits with the Duke of Ashworth, but knew that Constance would immediately stuff her into a sack and return her to Kent by post.

“I’m sorry I didn’t lock myself in a closet until the ball was over. In future, I’ll remember my place.”

“Nonsense. I’m quite well again.” Constance gave another angry honk into her handkerchief. “I’ll chaperone Susannah for the rest of the Season. You will remain here, do needlework, and listen politely to the stories of her exploits.”

“Mamma,” Susannah cried, but Julia pressed her stepsister’s hand. If Susannah became angry, Constance might accuse Julia of turning the girl against her.

“Understood, my lady. From now on, polite listening is my greatest pleasure. My only pleasure. I may never speak again, in fact.”

“You make everything so dramatic.” Constance sniffled.

The lady brightened as Hodge, their butler, entered. Hodge’s presence meant there were callers. For Susannah, obviously.

“Yes, Hodge?” Constance beamed.

“The Duke of Ashworth, my lady.”

Julia lost momentary feeling in her hands and feet. Susannah squeaked.

“Well! Susannah, you certainly made an impression. A duke, of all things!” Constance appeared giddy.

“Calling for Miss Beaumont,” Hodge said.

All color drained from Constance’s face. She looked as if a gust of wind or even a moderate sneeze might knock her over.

Susannah beamed as she hurried to her pianoforte. Meanwhile, Julia was too stunned to speak, which had never happened before. Perhaps the duke had come to make her an offer.

Freedom might be on its way to this very room, wrapped in a handsome package.

When Ashworth entered, Julia made certain to rise slowly. He mustn’t know how eager she was. The duke greeted Constance with poise and charm.

“Lady Beaumont, I presume?” He bowed his head. “A pleasure.”

Constance gaped. Julia understood her stepmother’s reaction. Yesterday evening, he’d been enthralling. In the broad light of day, this man was the epitome of masculine beauty. Constance managed a curtsy and a mumbled excuse before fluttering out the door. The duke appeared bewildered, as well he might. Leaving two unmarried women alone with him was hardly respectable behavior.

“She’s been ill,” Julia said. “Unfortunately, it’s not serious.” She gestured to a chair. “Will you have a seat, Your Grace?”

“Thank you, Miss Beaumont.” He bowed to Susannah at the instrument. “Miss Fletcher, I presume?”

“I’m not here.” Susannah played a merry tune. “Don’t speak to me.”

“Er. Quite.”

As they sat, Julia cursed in silence. She’d promised herself she’d be calm if they ever met again, but that was impossible. The Renaissance masters might have thrown down their brushes in dismay upon seeing this man. What artistic genius could capture the essence of such perfection?

Meanwhile, Julia recalled being in his arms, his mouth covering hers. She forced her heart not to quicken at the memory.

Ashworth sat with an easy grace, at once relaxed and yet somehow commanding. He wore a suit of dove gray, his dark hair swept back. The sharp planes of his face and the sensual curve of his mouth were oh so touchable. Susannah softened her playing, giving Julia a chance to speak.

“Did you enjoy the ball, Your Grace?”

“Perhaps too much.”

The duke’s brows knit in concentration, and Julia’s heart beat faster. Did Susannah have it right? Was he working up the courage to propose? “I came to tell you,” Ashworth began.

“Yes?” Julia leaned forward as the duke reached into his deep coat pocket…and pulled out a shoe.

“I found this last night. Since it’s missing a heel, I thought it might be yours.”

Julia took the shoe, cursing her own excitement. The duke had not come to ask for her hand. His regard had been only for her feet, the monster.

“Thank you. These slippers belonged to my mother. I’m happy to have them reunited.”

“Yes. It’s unfortunate when one loses its mate.” He cleared his throat. “Slippers, that is.”

“I’ve often thought life would be easier as a shoe. You come into the world with your match already made.”

“You’ve often thought this?” He arched a brow. “How unusual.”

Most men would have sounded off put, but he appeared amused.

“Spinsters have plenty of time to entertain eccentric thoughts.”

“That seems a paltry benefit compared with what you’re missing,” the duke said. His words delivered in that deep, rich voice sounded suggestive. Susannah missed a note in her surprise.

“I beg pardon?” Julia asked.

“Well. That is…” His Grace realized the slip he’d made as he glanced at Susannah.

“Susannah knows about last night,” Julia said.

“Yes. I do think you’re an abominable cad, but I now understand how my dear stepsister lost her head.” Susannah played something that conjured the idea of thunderstorms and horrible shipwrecks. Fittingly romantic.

“Ah yes. Stepsister. Lady Weatherford mentioned that.”

“You spoke to the viscountess?” Julia snapped. “Have you been telling all of London? Perhaps you’d like to make a formal announcement of rakishness in the Times.”

“I’d never considered such a thing,” he mused. “Perhaps all rakes should advertise. How modern.”

“Be serious, please.”

“I may have lost my head, madam, but I would never spread ruinous gossip about a lady.” The Duke of Ashworth sounded serious. “I merely asked the viscountess where you’d gone. You left in a hurry.”

“You can’t be surprised.” Julia lifted her chin in defiance. “After your shocking disregard for my virtue.”

“Forgive me, but you were only too happy to disregard it yourself.”

The cheek of it all shocked Julia. Gentlemen in these circumstances were supposed to either beg forgiveness or look disdainfully upon a fallen woman. They weren’t supposed to trade barbs with her. This duke was unlike any other man she’d ever met before.

“That doesn’t matter. It was your duty to protect me from, er, myself.”

“Come now, Miss Beaumont. You seem like the type of woman who knows her own mind.”

He sounded rather attracted to the idea. Attraction was not the problem between them. Or rather, it was the greatest problem.

“Either way, last night ruined any chances I had of securing a match.”

“It shouldn’t. No one knows, and the Season’s only begun. Though you may be a spinster, you’re the comeliest one I’ve ever come across.”

He and Julia held each other’s gazes, both refusing to be the first to look away. This man was a fascinating oddity. He was smug and self-congratulatory, but his admiration for her was real. Fierce, even.

“My stepmother says that the Season’s over for me.”

“Does she know what happened between us?”

“No. She likes to think of me as furniture. Something reliable that never leaves the house.” And that didn’t mind being sat on.

The duke frowned.

“So that’s why you’re still unmarried,” he said.

“This is my first time in London since I was seventeen years old. Maybe when I’m fifty I’ll be allowed back.” Julia hated to be self-pitying, but she felt like a bird trapped under glass.

“Damn cruel,” Ashworth muttered. “And a damned waste, if I may say.”

“You may not.” Julia drew herself up.

“But I must.” The duke stood and went to look out onto the garden. His movements were swift, and Julia could sense the anger simmering beneath that handsome facade. “A woman like you, reduced to being a nursemaid? Someone with your wit should be out in society, commanding attention. Someone with your…evident charms,” he growled, “should be married. You’re the kind of woman that men yearn to satisfy. Though I doubt the lucky bastard who could match you exists.”

Susannah gasped. Gentlemen did not curse in front of ladies. Julia had always hated that custom. Most men treated women as if they were children. This duke was no gentleman, but in his own odd way he’d shown her respect. He didn’t find her merely desirable. He found her capable.

But knowing that he’d walk out and leave her to this dismal little life only infuriated Julia.

“Well. Thanks to you, my one chance of escape was ruined. A true gentleman would have come here to offer a hasty marriage, but you’ve offered me a shoe. A broken shoe, at that.”

“Meaning?” Now the duke appeared cross, which did nothing to erase his irresistible charm. How unfair.

“Meaning I don’t want your pity.”

“I don’t deal in pity.” Ashworth leaned against the wall. The powerful line of his body relaxed, making him still more attractive. Damn the man, he was impossible.

Julia realized that Susannah had stopped playing anything resembling music. Rather, she plinked one note on the pianoforte again and again as she watched their scene with widened eyes.

“Susannah! Play something else.”

Susannah obliged by playing two notes over and over.

“Honestly, you don’t strike me as that intelligent, Your Grace,” Julia said. The duke narrowed his eyes.

“With all due respect, madam, my experience suggests otherwise. I have a lot of experience.”

“If I hadn’t rescued you last night, you’d have fought another duel over a woman’s honor. You might have been killed! Yet directly after escaping, you attempted to seduce me.”

“Attempted?” The duke smirked.

“Only a fool would chase women the way you do. You’re lucky I have no father or brothers to call you out.”

Ashworth seemed to realize she had a point, which caused him to appear even more aloof and charming. Men were ridiculous.

“It was an unfortunate lapse in judgment,” he said. A lapse in judgment. What every woman hoped to be called. “You see, Miss Beaumont, I hadn’t anticipated that a beautiful woman and a delectable sparring partner could exist in the same exquisite packaging.”

By the devil, he was insolent. And charming. Insolently charming.

“Lady Weatherford tells me you’ve seduced nearly every married woman in the ton. That means every husband wants to shoot you. An intelligent rake wouldn’t antagonize so many powerful men in possession of so many well-oiled pistols.”

“What would you know of a gentleman’s oiled pistol, Miss Beaumont?” The duke spoke low to spare Susannah’s ears.

“I’ve read a great deal,” she drawled.

“You think so little of me, yet I returned your slipper. Surely that’s the mark of a gentleman.”

“No, it’s the mark of a prince from a fairy story.”

“Ah, but in those tales the prince offers his hand along with a maiden’s, er, shoe.”

“Yes, and you’d never be so honorable.”

Julia toyed with her mother’s shoe as she pondered their fascinating predicament. In a way, they had opposite problems. She strained toward marriage, while he risked getting shot to avoid it.

An idea made Julia drop the slipper. Ashworth cursed as he picked it up.

“You seem hellbent on losing this blasted thing.”

“I’ve had a thought,” Julia said.

“Only one?”

She studied the duke as he lounged in his chair. A handsome rake. A witty scoundrel. The type of man women dreamed of, but who was too much a cad to ever make a devoted wife happy.

No, marriage to a sweet, romantic girl wouldn’t suit him at all.

Fortunately, Julia was neither of those things.

“You and I,” she said, “make quite a pair of rogues.”

“A charming rogue on my part.”

“Neither of us has met society’s expectations. We have that in common.”

“What are you saying, Miss Beaumont?”

“A normal gentleman would’ve proposed marriage, but you’re no ordinary gentleman and I’m certainly no ordinary lady.” Julia waved her retrieved slipper. A warped fairy tale, indeed. “Therefore, I will propose to you. My dear Ashworth, we should marry as soon as possible.”