The Fictitious Marquis Page 11

  The further Jamie moved up in society—and, to date, his rise could be truly called meteoric—the less he believed the myths, folklore, and ghost stories that had played such a large part in his upbringing. But the duke's rambled warning about witches and the devil forced Jamie to remember all sorts of tales that he had long ago thought a part of his past. And, despite his successful show of indifference, Jamie had to admit to the slightest stirring of fear.

  From the first day, he'd known that Julia was hiding things from him. Such was her right, and Jamie had let it be. But now . . . what if her secrets were genuinely something sinister? Truly, she had all but brought Jamie back from the dead once. What sort of a trap was he getting himself snared in?

  Jamie didn't even know why they were going to France, save Julia's insistence that she had matters to settle there. What sort of matters? And why the infernal secrecy?

  Making the decision to untie this knot once and for all, Jamie marched himself back into the ballroom.

  Julia stood surrounded by a crowd of female well-wishers. With a smile guaranteed to melt even the most resistant, Jamie charmingly asked the young ladies to excuse them. He and Julia had a few personal matters to discuss.

  Pulling her away, Jamie sequestered them in the kitchen, where even Cook could hardly overhear their words above the clatter of pots and plates.

  "Jamie, what is it?" Julia rubbed the arm where he had previously grabbed her. "You're scaring me."

  "Well, it's no less than what your uncle did to me." Taking a deep breath, Jamie demanded, "Why did you refuse to marry Gavin? I know you love him. I saw you walking in the garden hand in hand."

  Julia gasped, "You were spying on us?"

  "Don't flatter yourself. The entire scene so sickened me that I escaped as soon as possible. But you still have not answered my question. Why did you refuse to marry Gavin?"

  "I—I told you, Jamie."

  "Yes, yes, I know. Bad blood. But what does it mean? No one will tell me what it means. Your uncle only speaks in riddles."

  "He is afraid of besmirching his own reputation."

  "Why? I thought it was your mother's family that festered under this dark cloud, not his."

  "My uncle does not wish to be tainted with the tar-brush of his older brother's folly."

  "What about me?"

  "What about you?"

  He grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking Julia not hard enough to hurt, but with enough feeling to get his point across, and charged, "What does your uncle mean when he swears that you have the devil inside you?"

  "The devil?" Julia pushed Jamie away. "Is that what he said? And is that why you are acting like such a madman?"

  "Where I am from, we take the devil very seriously, Miss Highsmith, seeing how we live next door to the fellow day to day."

  "Well, where I am from, Mr. Lowell, we save such superstitious nonsense for children's bedtime stories and church sermons."

  "Your uncle didn't think it was nonsense."

  "My uncle was trying to scare you. He succeeded beautifully."

  Jamie challenged, "You obviously believed his superstitious nonsense enough to sacrifice your own happiness, and save Gavin."

  "You don't know what you are talking about."

  "Enlighten me."

  "No."

  The simplicity of her response took Jamie by surprise. "No?"

  "No." Julia coolly puffed up her sleeves where Jamie had crushed them. "Nowhere in our arrangement did I promise to tell you anything that is no concern of yours. In fact, I distinctly remember warning you against asking too many questions."

  "Our arrangement," he repeated.

  "Yes. You do recall it, do you not? The initial conversation that put us on this merry path?"

  "So everything that has happened up to this point, was all a part of some arrangement?" Jamie made sure to put enough emphasis on each word, so that Julia understood exactly what he was asking.

  When she didn't snap back with an easy answer, he even allowed himself to suspect that perhaps he had finally gotten through to her. That Julia, as well as he, was willing to admit that they had already gone beyond and above some insignificant arrangement, and were moving into an area and a situation that couldn't be charted, predicted, or planned. One that required complete honesty on behalf of both participants.

  Yet, in spite of Jamie's hopes, ultimately, Julia looked him straight in the eye and boldly replied, "Yes."

  "Yes, what?"

  "Yes to your question. Yes, this has all been a part of our arrangement. And you were marvelous, just as I suspected you would be when I chose you."

  Jamie snapped his arm back to eye level, feeling the blood shooting through his fingers, ready to strike and strike hard.

  But it wasn't until Julia, frightened, ducked her head out of his reach, that Jamie realized what he had almost done. He froze, looking at his hand as if it belonged to a complete stranger, and slowly lowered it to his side.

  He'd never previously wanted to hit a woman. Not because Jamie was any more gallant or self-possessed than the average man, but because in order to hit, you have to feel angry. And, in order to feel angry, you have to care. And Jamie had never before cared enough to raise his hand to any woman.

  Sensing that the moment of danger had passed, Julia slowly released the breath she was holding, as anger swept in to replace the previous strokes of terror in her expression.

  "What were you trying to do, Mr. Lowell?" Julia pointedly demanded. "Beat the devil right out of me?"

  Stiffly, they walked out of the kitchen side by side, and returned to the ballroom. The duke of Alamain lay in wait for them, hissing to Jamie and Julia, "How dare the both of you make such an announcement without my blessing?"

  "I thought that we had already been granted it, Uncle. After all, you did not refuse Mr. Lowell's request when he came to ask for my hand at your home this past week."

  "But neither did I approve it."

  "Do you wish to withhold your blessing now, sir?" Jamie asked.

  "Well, I, you must understand—"

  "On what grounds would you refuse us, Uncle?"

  "Attention, please, everyone, attention," Jamie left the duke sputtering for an appropriate answer, and raised his voice to be heard in every corner of the room. "Miss Highsmith's uncle has an announcement that he wishes to make, regarding our marriage."

  The guests turned to listen, causing Collin Highsmith to flush a deep red, and briefly glance behind him, apparently in the hope that every eye might possibly be centered on another. Alas, no one magically appeared, and the duke realized himself to be stuck.

  He yanked a handkerchief embroidered with his initials out of one pocket, and dabbed at the droplets of sweat gathering along his eyebrows. He coughed, he pounded his chest a few times, he took a sip of wine. Still, the guests watched and politely waited.

  Sighing resignedly, the duke cleared his throat for a second time, and, albeit without much enthusiasm, raised his glass.

  "A toast," he said finally. "A toast to my lovely niece, and to her future husband."

  It was nearly dawn by the time the final guests bade them good-bye, wished Julia and Jamie all the best, and climbed into their carriages for the return trip home. As soon as the last titled waistcoat crossed the threshold, Jamie figured his part in the affair to be at an end. Exhausted, he gratefully pulled the slightly wilted cravat from around his neck, using it to dab at the moisture on his face, and began walking up the stairs towards his bedroom. It was only when he realized that Julia were no longer behind him that Jamie paused, turned, and, puzzled, sat down on the steps, watching through the banister as Julia continued standing where she was, peering out into the darkness.

  She'd run one hand through her hair, tugging at the knots and swirls her maid had so toiled over all afternoon, and letting the jet-black curls spin carelessly past her neck and shoulders.

  From the back, she suddenly looked much smaller than Jamie ever could have guessed at head on, esp
ecially after Julia kicked off both shoes behind her, tapping the pair into a corner without so much as turning her head to look where they went. She sighed, the gesture causing her shoulder blades to snap up, then slowly lower back into place. The hem of Julia's dress swished against the floor, rustling slightly from the wind.

  Jamie wondered how she didn't catch cold, standing without a wrap, and wearing a gown with gossamer, puffed sleeves that only reached to the tips of her elbows.

  He stood, meaning to close the door, or at least suggest that she take a few steps back from the wind when Julia, hearing Jamie's footsteps behind her, unexpectedly said, "When I was a little girl, I used to love sneaking downstairs and watching my parents after all their guests had gone home. They would wait until the last carriage pulled out of sight, and then my mother would close the door, and turn around, and my father would be standing there. Looking so handsome. And he would reach for my mother's hand, kiss it, smile, and then he would say, 'I hope the most beautiful girl at the ball saved her last dance for me.' And my mother—oh, Jamie, my mother was so beautiful. Like those models that the painters hang in museums. My mother would squeeze my father's hand, and she would say, 'Always.' Always. And then he would lead her to the dance floor, and they would dance. Just the two of them. As if there wasn't another soul left in the world." She turned around to face him, and Jamie realized that there were tears in her eyes. "I still expect to see them. Isn't that terribly silly of me? I am hardly a little girl anymore. But every time the last guest disappears over the horizon, I still expect to turn around and see my parents. Dancing."

  He didn't know what to say. Whatever anger Jamie had felt towards Julia earlier than evening inexplicably dissipated into a foreign emotion of equal strength, but more ambiguous identity. He could not empathize with Julia's feelings of loss, because, to be truthful, Jamie could not recall a single person or incident in his past that might have prompted a similar sense of bereavement. And yet, she had described it all so beautifully, that, strangely, Jamie could almost see the way it had once been, and an unfamiliar twinge of regret tugged at his heart, as if he too had lost something infinitely precious.

  Swallowing hard, Jamie took a step towards Julia, gently closing the door behind her.

  He stretched out both arms, reaching for Julia's hand and bringing it to his lips. Softly, Jamie said, "I hope the most beautiful girl at the ball saved her last dance for me."

  She looked up at him with moist-bright eyes. Hesitantly, Julia brought her right arm, palm up, towards Jamie, resting it ever so carefully on the side of his shoulder. She bit down on her lower lip, needing to exhale deeply before replying in a voice barely audible, "Always."

  He took her hand and led her to the silent dance floor, their footsteps echoing against the scuffed parquet.

  And then, for a while at least, the two of them danced in the Highsmith family ballroom as if there wasn't another soul left in the world.

  Unfortunately though, such was not the case.

  Not more than five minutes after they began, Aunt Salome blew into the room, directing what looked like an entire fleet of servants to collect and polish the silverware, store the tureens and plates, scrape the meats and vegetables into combined dishes to conserve space, and see to it that the bottles of sherry, hock, port, and claret were all returned to their proper places. She stopped with a start upon spotting Jamie and Julia.

  In spite of the fact that they'd done nothing wrong, the pair instantly dropped hands and guiltily moved away from each other, allowing Salome to step in between them.

  She turned to face Jamie, cocking her head to one side and observing, "You are full of surprises this evening, Mr. Lowell. First dancing to music most would be afraid to hum in private, then dancing to no music at all."

  "I find that it saves the expense of hiring an orchestra."

  Salome sniffed imperiously at the remark. "I suppose, young man, that you presume yourself to be amusing."

  "I am amusing. You just never noticed before." Jamie refused to let the condemnation upon her face shame him into thinking he'd committed an act worth apologizing for. "Your niece, on the other hand, has grown in appreciation for my talent by leaps and bounds."

  "Well, fortunately for us all, I possess a few years ahead of Julia, and a bit more life experience. I've known men like you, Mr. Lowell. I know your tricks and your games. And I am not about to let my niece become another bit of muslin in your collection."

  Incensed by this accusation of chicanery amidst one of his rare moments off, Jamie fought to control his temper. Squeezing both fists at his sides in an attempt to remain in control he carefully said, "I believe, Mrs. Weiss, that you owe me an apology. I committed no crime this past half hour, save asking your niece to stand up with me."

  "And how long, Mr. Lowell, would it have been before you asked her to lie down with you, as well?"

  The insinuation was more than Jamie could bear, although the query did cross his mind as to why he should find this particular charge of plying his trade so disturbing. Jamie turned to Julia, hoping, no, expecting her to defend him, to insist that Jamie had meant no harm. But she would not even meet his eyes. On the one occasion when he ached to hear her speak, Julia Highsmith had chosen to remain uncharacteristically silent.

  But he would be damned before Jamie allowed either woman to see how much they had wounded him.

  Face neutral, Jamie took a step backwards, bowing deeply from the waist. "Good evening, Miss Highsmith, Mrs. Weiss." And, controlling his urge to storm out of the room, calmly walked past the dance floor, through the main hall, out the front door, and out of sight.

  Jamie waited until he felt certain that both Julia and Salome were in bed before returning to his opulent prison. Yet, considering how tired he felt after an evening spent trying to act like a future marquis, Jamie found it exceedingly difficult to fall asleep. He tossed and turned, even going so far as to hurl his pillows on the floor in the hope that a return to the unadorned surroundings he was used to dozing in might make things easier.

  By morning, Jamie had been up a dozen times, fiddling with the window curtains in an attempt to immerse the room in blackness. In all honesty, the bed chamber was already dark enough, and a few random streaks of sunlight were hardly the reason for his insomnia. When he felt like it, Jamie could fall asleep at noon, on the noisy sidewalk in front of the House of Lords.

  The only reason that he was experiencing so much trouble slumbering now was because every time Jamie closed his eyes, he saw Julia staring back at him.

  Jamie couldn't understand it. She was hardly the first woman with whom he'd played romantic games. And he could state so with certainty, because, in fact, Jamie still remembered the very first woman.

  He had been fourteen years old, and completely on his own. One week earlier, Jamie's father had, in a drunken binge, picked up his only son and threw the lad into the street, cursing a warning never to return. It wasn't the first time Pa had done such a thing, but it did prove to be the last. Not even his mother's hysterical pleading could convince the old sot to reconsider.

  He slept for the first few nights huddling next to the back wall of a bakery, where a stove operating on the inside could provide at least some sort of warmth. Hungry, Jamie spent half the morning eyeing a peddler's fruit and vegetable barrow. He knew that, if he actually got close enough to snatch an apple or two, then he could scurry away through the alley and avoid being caught. Unfortunately, the barrow's proprietor watched everyone who came near like a hawk. He rarely looked away for more than a second. And that didn't leave Jamie enough time to make his move.

  But it did give him enough time to learn that his target possessed not only a fine assortment of fruits and vegetables, but also a young daughter.

  Her name was Philipa, and, like her father, the bulk of the girl's face was dominated by a pair of murky gray eyes that, when suspicious, turned into disbelieving slits.

  And it were just those slits that Jamie encountered the first
time he managed to get Philipa alone. Knowing that, in her father's line of work, she must have heard every beggar's story invented by man, Jamie chose to take a completely different approach. Rather than groveling or playing on her sense of charity, he instead introduced himself as a public school boy playing hooky and slumming in the East End, reinforcing the charade by jumping just such a boy and robbing him of his clothes prior to approaching Miss Philipa.

  When she appeared unconvinced, Jamie launched into a series of riotous tales describing life at his thoroughly fictional boarding school, culminating with a reluctant admission that Hensley Hall was holding its first formal ball Saturday next, and Jamie truly didn't know any girls who would be willing to go with him—seeing as how small he was for an eighteen-year-old—and, well, would Philipa, would she, could she ever consider, well, going with him?

  By the time they finished setting up the details, including where to meet and who would be chaperon, Jamie was clutching in one arm a complimentary bag full of apples, plums, and berries to share with his mates back at school.

  And, after that, it was all so easy.

  Practicing his trade on a series of East End girls, Jamie eventually moved up to the more respectable classes. In his experience, daughters of ministers, country doctors, storekeepers, and other such honest chaps were rarely prepared for a confrontation with a born liar, and they were the ones easiest to get around on.

  As a supplement to his natural abilities, Jamie made a point of improving himself through education.

  An ape-leader librarian introduced him to all the great poets and philosophers to be found between two book covers. She bought Jamie newspapers, and they would spend the evenings going over every story page by page, with her filling him in on history, vocabulary, and other relevant details.

  A seventeen-year-old seamstress taught Jamie about color and material and fine clothes.

  He took a job driving a dandy's rig, so that he might receive an understanding of what sort of dressing women found attractive, and lost the bulk of his Cockney accent by convincing a pretty upstairs maid to sneak him into her master's study, where Jamie spent days hidden behind the porticos, listening to how the well-bred spoke, then wandering the streets until all hours, repeating and rehearsing what he had heard.