Amanda McCabe (10 page)

“Delightful,” Marcus growled.

“Mr. Elliott is such a wonderful musician; he is wasted on merely playing for our choir practices.”

“It is not often I have the honor of accompanying such a proficient voice,” Mr. Elliott said modestly. “Miss Barclay could make any pianist sound wonderful.”

The smile Julia gifted Mr. Elliott with was brilliant. Mr. Elliott offered her his arm to escort her back to the tea table. Her hand looked very small and dainty against the black sleeve.

Was she clinging to the man just a bit too hard? Marcus frowned.

“I did not recognize the song,” he said, as Lady Edgemere handed him a cup of tea. “Was it Purcell?” Purcell was the only English composer he could think of.

“It was Shakespeare, you ignorant boy!” Lady Edgemere teased.

“From
As You Like It
,” Mr. Elliott added solemnly, as if he were speaking of Scripture.

Julia gazed at him with admiring eyes. “Mr. Elliott took a First in Literature at Oxford.”

“And he is also well versed in the Classics,” added Lady Edgemere. “He speaks Latin like an ancient Roman.” She gave Marcus a sly, sidelong glance.

Marcus found himself with a powerful longing to plant the perfect Mr. Elliott a facer, right on his perfect nose.

Instead, he took a long sip of the tea, wishing it were something a bit stronger. “Yes. Well. Anyway. I do apologize for not changing before greeting you, Aunt Fanny, when I heard that you were here, I was far too eager to see you.”

“Yes. I am sure that is the reason.” Lady Edgemere shoved a small china plate into his hand. “Here, my dear, eat your cake, and I will tell you why I have come to call.”

Lady Edgemere waited until Mr. Elliott, Marcus, and Julia had walked ahead of her to the carriage before she took her muff from the waiting butler. She slid the fur over her arm and said, “Your name is Douglas, am I correct?”

He bowed. “Indeed it is, my lady.”

“Well, Douglas, I have to tell you, I am not fooled by you for a moment.”

He stood up very straight, his gaze startled. “My lady! Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean that if you are a butler, then I am the Queen of Sheba. I saw you act in
Macbeth
not two years ago at Drury Lane. It was a superb performance.”

Abelard preened a bit, smoothing down his whiskers. “Thank you, my lady. The Scottish play
is
a particular favorite of mine.”

“Yes, it is my favorite, too. You were far more convincing as the thane of Cawdor than you are as a butler. Are you fallen on such difficult times, then, that you are forced to go into service?”

Abelard glanced about nervously. “I am still on the stage, my lady. It is just that, well, things have become rather complicated. . . .”

“Say no more, my good man. Your secret, and I daresay Miss Barclay’s, is safe with me.”

She patted him on the arm, smiled, and swept out to her waiting carriage.

Chapter Twelve

You were better speak first, and when

you were gravelled for lack of matter,

you might take occasion to kiss.

—
As You Like It

“I speak Arabic, you know.”

Julia, who had been watching the countryside go by outside the carriage window, eating up the miles to Belvoir Abbey, looked across at Marcus in surprise. “You what?”

“Speak Arabic. Perhaps not like an ancient Roman, like
some
people . . .”

“Of course not. Romans didn’t speak Arabic, as far as I know.” Julia stared at him, utterly bewildered by the conversation. What did Arabic and Romans have to do with anything?

Then she remembered Lady Edgemere saying that Mr. Elliott spoke perfect Latin—like an ancient Roman. If Julia didn’t know better, she would have said that Marcus was jealous of Mr. Elliott.

But she did know better. Why would Marcus, who was an earl, with all of Rosemount in his possession, be jealous of a curate? Even one as handsome as Mr. Elliott.

Julia shook her head. “Well, that is very nice that you speak Arabic, Marcus. I will be sure to call on you if ever I meet any . . . Arabs.”

Marcus nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer.

Julia burrowed deeper into her cloak and went back to looking out the window. It was a chill autumn evening, perfect for curling up before the fire with a good book. She wished she were there now, cozy beside her bedroom grate, and not on her way to Belvoir Abbey.

She had tried to cry off, to plead a megrim, but Marcus would have none of it.

“Nonsense!” he had said when she tried to demure. “It must have been very dull for you these past few days, with only myself for company. A party is just what you need, Julia.”

So here she was, dressed in another of her mother’s gowns, hurtling through the darkness to what was sure to be a miserable evening.

She wondered vaguely if Lady Angela was planning on spilling wine on her at supper in retaliation.

All too soon, the lights of Belvoir Abbey came into view. The house looked exactly like what it had once been—a medieval abbey. It crouched in the middle of its park, long and low and dark. Pale orange light glowed from the mullioned windows, illuminating the shadows of the people passing behind them. A long row of carriages was lined up along the drive, waiting to deposit what appeared to be the entire county at the front door.

Julia could feel her palms begin to itch inside her gloves with apprehension. She reached up to straighten the fillet of ribbons and pearls that held her curls in place, and smoothed down her pale green silk skirt.

“You look lovely tonight, Julia,” Marcus said quietly.

Her surprised gaze flew up to his. Was he teasing her? But no, his eyes were solemn and serious.

“Th-thank you,” she stammered. “So do you. Look nice, I mean.”

He smiled at her. “I will be the envy of every man here with you on my arm. Especially that curate. What was his name? Emerson?”

It sounded as if Marcus
was
jealous of Mr. Elliott, after all! Because of her? Surely not.

Julia had no time to examine these puzzling thoughts, though. A footman opened the carriage door then, and she was forced to alight, accept Marcus’s outstretched arm, and walk on her suddenly unsteady legs into the Abbey’s cavernous drawing room.

Most of the guests were already gathered there before supper, and they all turned to stare as Julia and Marcus entered the room. Or at least, so it seemed to Julia, who had quite hibernated after her mother’s death and was no longer accustomed to such gatherings.

Her hand tightened on Marcus’s arm as she looked about for a familiar face.

Lady Angela was seated prettily at the center of an admiring circle of young gentlemen, beneath a portrait of herself. Her father was speaking to Mr. Whitig next to the fire, popping peppermints into his mouth. Julia had no wish to speak with either of
them
until it was absolutely necessary.

Her gaze roved over the beautifully dressed cliques of people until she found what she sought. Lady Edgemere, in an eye-catching gown of burnt-orange satin and a matching turban trimmed in tall yellow feathers, was standing across the room with Mr. Elliott and several others. She waved at Julia with her yellow feathered fan and leaned over to murmur in Mr. Elliott’s ear. He, too, looked over at Julia and smiled in greeting.

Julia waved at them in return, and they began to thread their way across the room in her direction.

“Who are you waving at?” Marcus asked.

“Just Lady Edgemere. And Mr. Elliott. See, they are coming toward us.” An imp of mischief prompted her to add, “Doesn’t Mr. Elliott look so handsome in his blue coat?”

Marcus grunted in reply.

“There you two are!” Lady Edgemere cried, holding out her hand to Marcus and offering her wrinkled cheek for Julia to kiss. “I thought you were going to be too late for supper, and I did so particularly want to talk to you some more about the Harvest Fete.” She leaned closer to Julia and whispered, “You just should have seen Lady Angela’s face when I told her I had asked
you
to host the Fete!”

Julia giggled, but her laughter faded when she saw that Lady Angela had chosen just that moment to come up to them and lay her silk-gloved hand on Marcus’s sleeve.

Her coterie of admirers trailed behind her, looking bereft at losing her presence.

“Lord Ellston,” Lady Angela purred, “I am so glad you have arrived, since you must escort me in to supper.”

“It will be my most sincere pleasure, Lady Angela,” Marcus answered.

Julia longed to frown sourly, to stomp her feet in vexation, but she forced her lips to turn upward instead, in a bright smile.

Then Lady Angela turned her attention to Julia. “And dear Miss Barclay,” she said slowly, “such a very . . . charming gown, as usual. You must give me the name of your modiste; I am sure it must be someone local. Mrs. Porter in Little Dipping, perhaps? I detect a touch of the country in those sweet little bows.” She daintily touched the puffed sleeve of her own sky-blue lace gown. “All of my gowns come from London, of course.”

Lady Edgemere gave her a disgusted look. “My dear Lady Angela, you must become more
au courant
. I detect the hand of Madame Auverge in Miss Barclay’s ensemble. The famous Parisian couturier, you know. She once sewed for the Empress Josephine, and she has been quite exclusive since she emigrated to London. She would not even make a gown for Princess Esterhazy! Such a coup to have one of her creations, Miss Barclay.”

It
had
been a coup for Julia’s mother to get the gown, and Anna had been very proud of it, even though she had not had the chance to wear it in public. And now it was a coup for Julia, too, as she watched Lady Angela’s coral lips compress into a tight line and a dull flush spread over her cheeks, clashing with her auburn hair.

Then Lady Angela looked back at Marcus and smiled sweetly. “If you will excuse us, Lady Edgemere, there is someone I would so like Lord Ellston to meet.”

“Of course, my dear,” Lady Edgemere replied. “Mr. Elliott and I were just going to discuss the Harvest Fete with Miss Barclay.”

Lady Angela nodded curtly and moved away, tugging Marcus by the arm. He looked down at her attentively as she chatted and smiled up at him.

“Hmph,” Lady Edgemere snorted. “If that boy falls for her simpers and giggles, then he is a fool.”

Julia tore her gaze away from the departing couple to look at Lady Edgemere in surprise. “I thought she was just the sort of proper lady to be Countess of Ellston. Beautiful, of good family, accomplished. . . .” Julia was unable to go on; she feared she might choke on the words.

“Oh, she is all those things,” Lady Edgemere agreed. “She is also a catty shrew.”

“Lady Edgemere!” Julia and Mr. Elliott cried together.

“It is true. You needn’t give me those shocked faces. You will find, my dears, that when you have reached the age I have, one of the few advantages is that one can say whatever one likes. Whatever the truth is that no one else dares say aloud. But we must not let her ruin our evening! Let us go sit down and talk of happier things. Like your butler, for instance, Miss Barclay . . .”

***

Throughout supper, Marcus found he could not concentrate on Lady Angela’s chatter, or on the rather tough braised beef he was meant to be eating. He kept glancing down the table, to where Julia sat next to Mr. Elliott.

She really did look lovely, like a spring leaf in her pale green silk gown. Her only jewelry was a single strand of pearls, but those, along with the brightness of her eyes, made the emeralds and rubies of the other ladies seem cheap and overdone.

And those bright eyes were now looking intently at Mr. Elliott as he spoke to her. She seemed quite spellbound by whatever the man was saying, nodding occasionally, or smiling softly.

Marcus wished with all his might that he could hear what they were talking about. What could be holding Julia’s attention so deeply? But there were far too many people, too many conversations, between them, and Lady Angela’s chatter was loud in his ear.

“I was just telling Father today how lovely it is to have my old childhood friend back!” she was saying now. “We did miss you so while you were gone. The neighborhood was quite bereft, and even everyone in Town spoke of how much you were missed. The Season was never the same without you.”

“It is most gratifying to be missed,” Marcus murmured, watching as Julia said something to Mr. Elliott.

“And so you were! Very much.” Lady Angela glanced at him slyly. “But now that you are home again, you must have such plans for Rosemount, for the future.”

Indeed, he did, and one of them was to double his excellent cook’s wages, he thought, as he tried without success to cut his beef. “Of course.”

“Yes. You will be wanting to take your place in Society.”

“Perhaps.”

“To start a family. I did tell Father . . .”

Whatever else she said was completely lost on Marcus, as he watched Julia laughing with Mr. Elliott.

Damn that curate! Why did he have to come and be the curate here, anyway? Weren’t there needy parishes in Wales somewhere? And weren’t men of the cloth supposed to be old and ugly?

“. . . Do you not agree, Lord Ellston?” Lady Angela’s words seemed to come to him from a hazy distance.

He tore his attention away from Julia’s laughing face to look down at Lady Angela. “Er . . . of course,” he said quickly.

She nodded with satisfaction and turned her attention back to her plate.

Marcus signaled to the footman to refill his drained wineglass.

***

“You seemed to have an enjoyable evening. Considering that you did not even want to go in the first place.”

Julia, who had been softly humming “It Was a Lover and His Lass” to herself as she watched the miles back to Rosemount roll past the carriage window, smiled across at Marcus. He had seemed rather out of sorts ever since they departed the Abbey. Perhaps that was because he had been forced to share a card table with Lady Angela, her belching father, and Mr. Whitig, all of them notoriously bad card players?

Or perhaps it was because he was leaving Lady Angela behind, when he would much rather be in a carriage with
her
than with Julia.

Whatever it was, he looked quite grumpy.

“I did have a good time, thank you very much. I won at whist.”

“Because you were partnered with Mr. Elliott?” Marcus growled.

“Mr. Elliott
is
an adroit card player. It may not be strictly proper, since he is a clergyman, but we quite roundly trounced Lady Edgemere and Lord Hallsby.”

“And if we were to drive into a ditch just now, he could probably pull us out single-handedly,” Marcus grumped. “If we were fortunate enough to have him come upon us, that is.”

All right, now it was confirmed—Marcus
was
jealous of Mr. Elliott. The intriguing question was, why?

“What do you have against Mr. Elliott, Marcus?” she asked. “He is perfectly amiable.”

“So amiable that you had to flirt with him all evening!” Marcus seemed to regret his words as soon as he said them. He turned rather gray in the faint light of the carriage lamps.

Julia was utterly aghast. “Flirting! Why, if anyone was flirting this evening, it was you and that Lady Angela. Mr. Elliott and I were simply having a pleasant conversation, while Lady Angela was practically sitting on your lap at the supper table. . . .”

Then, the next thing she knew, Marcus was sitting beside her, she was in his arms, and he was kissing her.

Her eyes widened in shock, then fluttered closed at the warm sensations that flooded through her veins like fine brandy. She looped her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his soft hair, parting her lips in wonderful surprise at his seeking tongue.

She had never felt so wonderful, so alive, in all her life! She felt as if she could do anything, as long as his arms were around her. It was like magic. Like the wonder they had found in the midst of the ancient stones.

Then the carriage hit a rut in the road, and they were jolted apart.

Julia leaned back against the squabs, dazed, and watched Marcus’s face as he stared back at her. He looked exactly how she felt—bewildered, overjoyed, and dismayed, all at the same time.

She touched her lower lip carefully, finding it damp and slightly swollen. “Marcus . . .” she said, then fell into silence. She was not sure what it was she had wanted to say.

“Julia,” he murmured. “I am so sorry. What a dreadful mistake. Please forgive me.”

A
mistake
? He was
sorry
? Julia almost gasped from the pain that lanced through her heart. She had just had one of the most beautiful moments of her life, and he was sorry.

She turned her back to him and stared sightlessly out the window. Why were they not home yet? The house, glowing with a welcoming light at the end of the drive, seemed so very far away.

“There is no need to be sorry, Marcus,” she said stiffly.

“Of course there is, Julia! You are a lady, and I jumped on you like some ravening beast.”