The Fictitious Marquis Read online

  He cocked his head to one side. "It might work."

  She grinned ear to ear, as if he had paid her the grandest of compliments. "I'll go start the guest list."

  Julia turned away, already hurrying towards the parlor, trying to remember where she had last seen her best stationery, when she heard Jamie's voice calling out to her, "Make certain that you do not forget to include Lord Gavin and his lovely bride on that guest list of yours, Miss Highsmith."

  8

  As a Chinese opium trader once told Jamie, "Be careful what you wish for. You just may get it."

  He seriously considered that bit of wisdom as, exactly one week after she first conjured the idea, Jamie stood before a mirror, dressing in preparation for Julia's ball.

  What in the world had possessed him to insist that she invite Lord Gavin and Lady Emma? Like many of Jamie's remarks, that one had shot out of his mouth without stopping to consult with Jamie's brain on the prudence of the utterance. And then it just hung there in the open air, like a sleeping bat.

  What did Jamie care if the Neffs came or not?

  His only acquaintance with both consisted solely of the moments spent peeking under the door at their footwear. Hardly the most intimate of friendships. And yet, even though he tried denying it to himself, Jamie knew why he had so insisted. Because Jamie wanted another opportunity to watch Julia with Gavin.

  He considered himself an excellent judge of people. He boasted that, based on the things they said, the things they didn't say, the way they moved, and the way they stood, that Jamie could see through societal convention and instantly discern the true nature of a couple's relationship. And now Jamie wanted a chance to apply that skill to Julia and Gavin.

  The only thing he didn't understand was why Jamie found either one of the pair worth his efforts.

  Two weeks, and Julia thankfully was no longer supervising every article of clothing that Jamie put on. In fact, her only comment upon seeing him descend the stairs, dressed for the ball in a rich, purple buff coat, black pantaloons, and a pair of top boots, was, "Finally. Our guests are due in at any moment."

  Her own gown was a demure white, with rose-petal embroidery on the puffed sleeves and bodice. She wore her hair swept up, mimicking the latest fashions, and emphasizing the graceful curve of her neck. Although in Jamie's opinion no dresser's artificial creation could match the beauty of her curls when she allowed them merely to fall loose about her shoulders.

  However, any compliment Jamie may have wished to offer Julia on her appearance died from the angry expression in her eyes. Ever since Jamie brought up Gavin's name in Julia's presence, she had acted distinctively cold towards him, going so far as reverting to the imperious "Mr. Lowell."

  Yet, to her credit, Julia proved nearly as convincing at play-acting as Jamie. The moment their first guest crossed her threshold, the anger in Julia's eyes was instantaneously replaced with seemingly sincere warmth. She greeted everyone by name, asked about their families, and presented Jamie with such devotion, introducing him simply, yet coyly, as the marquis of Martyn's nephew, that even he was almost fooled into believing she truly adored him. The only time Julia's expression of perpetual joy ever wavered was in the instant Gavin and his wife strolled up to pay their regards.

  Appraising the fellow for the first time at eye level, instead of from the boots up, Jamie found very little to be impressed by in Gavin Neff. He was of average height, solidly built, and with blond hair that looked as if it had been wet down with a damp comb. His clothes, of course, were of the finest sort, but Gavin's abnormally wide shoulders made even the most specifically tailored shirts nevertheless appear slightly ill-fitting. He wore a cravat starched so stiffly that Jamie doubted the gentleman could see over it in either direction, or down at his sparkling Hessian boots.

  Lady Neff, however, invited no such derogatory observations. In Jamie's opinion, Gavin's wife was quite possibly one of the handsomest women he had ever seen. Although small in stature, her presence filled up the room. She sparkled, not only from the diamond and emerald necklace at her throat, or from the sheer brilliance of her silver-threaded green gown, but from the manner in which she appraised her surroundings, indicating instantaneously that she considered herself superior to every other soul on the premises. Hers was the quality Jamie perpetually associated with the truly confident. It was an attitude he had put great efforts into developing. And, like any pupil, he was enchanted and honored to see a master at work.

  Julia introduced Jamie to both Emma and Gavin simultaneously, although her standard expression of adoration was not nearly as enthusiastic on this go-around. Gavin and Jamie shook hands, and then he bent from the waist to kiss the glove of Lady Emma. She smiled charmingly at him, perhaps resting her arm in Jamie's grip a split second longer than required.

  "It is," she purred, "truly a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lowell."

  Jamie waited until Lord Gavin and his wife seamlessly blended into the ballroom full of guests behind them before confronting Julia. "Isn't there something written in the Bible about not coveting your neighbor's husband?"

  "I believe the tenth commandment is thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, Mr. Lowell."

  "Ah. Well, then, that makes all the difference." Jamie glanced over his shoulder, making sure that they were safely out of earshot, and asked, "You are in love with Gavin Neff, aren't you?"

  "That's Lord Gavin, to you." Julia refused to look in Jamie's direction. She stood with her back to him, eyes fastened on the dance floor, where a flurry of dresses and black evening coats were performing yet another quadrille.

  "What I don't understand, though," Jamie persisted, "is why, if you love him so, you turned down his proposal of marriage?"

  "Do try to keep your memory at least relatively current, Mr. Lowell. My uncle warned me against marrying Gavin, for the same reason that he attempted to discourage you."

  "Yes, of course. Bad blood and all. But Lord Neff's proposal took place before you needed your inheritance so badly."

  "Yes. So what of it?"

  "Why did you not simply say to hell with your uncle, forfeit the inheritance, and wed Gavin on the sly?"

  Julia spun around, her skirts swishing so sharply that they slapped Jamie across the shins. "First of all, Mr. Lowell, you will watch your language in this house. Second of all, I could not just disregard the words of my uncle and elope with Gavin. That isn't how things are done among civilized people. And, if you were a civilized person, you would know that." The color in her cheeks was swiftly racing to catch up with the rosy shade of embroidery decorating Julia's dress. "And thirdly, Mr. Lowell, it was my decision, not my uncle's, to refuse Gavin's proposal. I could not do such a thing to him. He is a very important man. His family has a history and tradition going back a hundred years. Each of the sons is not only a peer, and an exemplary member of the House of Lords, but also a graduate of Oxford and a student of the law."

  "So?" Jamie mimicked Julia's previous statement. "What of it?"

  "If I were to have married Gavin, no son of his could ever do any of those things."

  "Why in the world not?"

  "Because, he would also be a son of mine."

  Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

  Well, there he had it. Jamie asked Julia for the truth, and she had given it to him. Julia loved Gavin. It was that simple. Seeing her talking to him only confirmed it.

  Jamie leaned against the ballroom's far wall, a glass of champagne in one hand, and watched his fiancée and the man she loved, exchanging conversation in the opposite corner. They weren't alone, of course. Julia's sense of social decorum would never allow her to, in good conscience, ignore the bulk of her guests in favor of a single individual. From the first moment, she'd made certain to surround herself and Gavin with a neutral crowd of friends and acquaintances.

  They weren't alone. But they might as well have been.

  For it didn't matter whom Julia was talking to, her gaze never left Gavin. She laughe
d at his wit, agreed with his opinions, and complimented his tastes. She did everything but crown him king.

  Her eyes danced as she spoke to him, and, every few moments, Julia would reach over to affectionately straighten his coat, or touch his wrist while she spoke. Her entire face, despite the harsh lighting of the ballroom, appeared softer somehow, no longer as crowded with worry and anger, as when she spoke to Jamie. She looked years younger. And so undeniably beautiful, that it were as if Jamie were seeing a completely different person.

  "May I?" A woman's voice interrupted Jamie's reverie, and nonchalantly slipped the champagne glass out of his grasp. He watched silently as Lady Emma took a sip of Jamie's sparkling wine, taking care to place her lips exactly in the spot Jamie had recently touched, and smiling sweetly at him over the rim.

  "Good evening, Lady Emma."

  "Mr. Lowell." With a nod of her head, she indicated Gavin and Julia across the room. "I daresay that our respective escorts have come to the conclusion that two is but the perfect number to make this evening a smashing success."

  "I understand his lordship and Julia are childhood friends."

  "Yes," Lady Emma sighed, obviously very tired of hearing about it. "But neither one is a child anymore."

  Jamie shrugged. Under no circumstance did he intend to find himself trapped in the middle of whatever strained relations passed between Gavin and his wife.

  Lady Emma continued, "Of course, in your case, it isn't you who should worry about Julia, but rather, I suspect, Julia who needs to worry over you."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Emma returned Jamie's champagne glass to him, taking the opportunity to run one hand appreciatively down the length of his arm. "You are a very handsome man, Mr. Lowell. This room must be filled with hundreds of women who would love to snatch you away from right underneath her nose."

  Jamie smiled to himself. It certainly was pleasant to find a kindred spirit in the room. The only difference was, while Jamie manipulated for a living, Lady Emma did it for the sheer spite.

  He carefully disentangled his arm, placing one hand over his heart and announcing in all seeming seriousness, "I'm afraid that's impossible, Lady Emma. I am quite devoted to Julia."

  Her ladyship looked across the room at Gavin. "You aren't the only one, Mr. Lowell."

  The lady had a point.

  As far as Julia and Gavin were concerned, there didn't seem to be another soul in the room. They probably didn't even know which tune it was that the orchestra was playing.

  But Jamie was hardly about to give Lady Emma the satisfaction of seeing that the fact bothered him. Instead, he merely continued smiling, and, keeping his tone level, reminded, "It is me that Julia has agreed to marry."

  "Yes. I suppose she didn't think Gavin good enough for her. Why settle for a viscount, when you might win a marquis?"

  Win, Jamie laughed to himself, being the operative word.

  "Unfortunately," Lady Emma continued, "Gavin has never quite gotten over it."

  "He married you, my lady."

  "His father was dying. Gavin needed to marry someone, to assure the old man of there being an heir. Sometimes I suspect that I was simply the woman standing closest to him, when he decided a proposal must be made."

  Jamie laughed out loud, turning to face Lady Emma, both hands on his hips. "Come, come, now, Your Ladyship. Our acquaintance may currently be limited to a scant few minutes, but please, please, do not think me such a fool as to be convinced by this show of self-conscious modesty."

  Lady Emma gasped in what Jamie supposed was intended as proper indignation. But, to him, the puff sounded exactly like what it was—a lifelong charlatan shocked at finally being realized.

  "Please, Lady Emma, do not take my words in any but the sincerely complimentary manner with which they were intended," he reassured. "It is merely that I see you as a beautiful woman. What is more, I know that you see you as a beautiful woman. Under such circumstances, it is very difficult for me to believe that you truly think you might be any man's second choice."

  Unsure of whether he was insulting, mocking, or praising her, Lady Emma allowed Jamie's explanation to pass without comment, and, instead, insisted, "But I was second choice. For Gavin. He wanted Julia. It was only when she turned him down that he focused his attentions to me."

  "And you are never going to forgive him for it."

  "No," Lady Emma corrected, "I am never going to forgive Julia Highsmith for it. I would like to see her suffer. Well, actually, I would like to see her dead. But I will settle for suffering."

  "I see."

  "Do you?"

  "Yes," Jamie told Gavin's wife. "I understand perfectly."

  And, to be honest, he didn't find the proposition unappealing. Lady Emma was certainly a lovely woman, and, undoubtedly, discreet. And as for that pompous little bastard, Neff, it was no less than what he deserved for all but abandoning his wife at Julia's ball, while he went off chasing after another woman.

  "So, Mr. Lowell?" With one finger Lady Emma turned Jamie's chin even more to her direction. "What say you?"

  What say he, indeed.

  Jamie smiled and took Lady Emma's hand from his face, cupping it between both his palms. He opened his mouth, meaning to say a great many things, among which would be cleverly, but not indecipherably, hidden the word, yes.

  But then, a most fantastic event took place.

  Instead of uttering a single syllable of what he had planned, Jamie, as if in a trance, heard his own tongue and lips most distinctively form the solitary reply. "No."

  Julia's uncle, the duke himself, made his appearance at the ball a good three hours beyond the time invited. By then, the dining room table previously loaded with tureens of mulligatawny and turtle soups, plates of roast beef, salmon, beef tongue, sausages, saddle of mutton, and a host of vegetables in accompanying sauces, stood all but empty. In Jamie's book, that sort of behavior long passed the fashionably late stage, and sledded downward into simple rudeness.

  But, of course, he didn't dare say so to the duke of Alamain. Although, considering how his tongue had behaved earlier, Jamie no longer felt certain that he possessed any control over what came out of his mouth.

  As the duke handed his top hat and coat to Moses, he told Jamie, "Rather irregular, isn't it, hosting a ball before receiving permission to marry?"

  "It was Julia's wish, sir."

  "Uncle Collin." The lady in question swept past the other dancers to greet him, embracing him as warmly as if her fury at the duke were merely a figment of Jamie's imagination.

  Before her uncle even had a chance to say hello, Julia was escorting him to the dining room, insisting that he sample what was left of Cook's buffet, and urging him to join in the dancing. Then, she promptly excused herself and disappeared, thus saving herself the discomfort of having to answer any awkward questions.

  She swept past Jamie on her way to rejoining Neff, but Jamie grabbed Julia by one arm, pulling her back.

  Under the cover of music and contented guests chattering away, Jamie told Julia, "So kind of you to tear yourself away from His Lordship for a few moments."

  "I am merely acting the proper hostess." Julia jerked out of his grasp, smoothing down her hair with one hand, and her dress with the other.

  "Really? How interesting, when I could swear that there must be entire families of guests at this affair who have yet to see you. It isn't very polite to spend all your time exclusively entertaining a single gentleman. Especially when he is someone else's husband."

  "The only thing you know of politeness, Mr. Lowell, is what I've taught you. So I would hesitate before deciding to instruct me in proper etiquette."

  "Touché, Miss Highsmith. And may I compliment you, as one actor to another, on that splendid performance of perceived affection for your uncle."

  Despite her anger at him, she beamed. "I was good, wasn't I?"

  "You are learning. A little more practice, and you might actually prove as adept at hiding your obvious a
ffection for one certain gentleman, as you are at counterfeiting it for another."

  Now that neither Julia nor Lady Emma were speaking to him, Jamie was finding the entire party rather dull. And exhausting. Never having been faced with charming such a huge mass of people at one time, Jamie had failed to take into account how tiring it would prove. Traditionally, it wasn't unusual for Jamie to spend weeks, sometimes months, charming a single young lady. With such a schedule, Jamie not only had the time to learn enough information about his mark to render the complete seduction easier, but he also had at least a few hours a day to himself.

  It was one thing to play his role for the space of a summer afternoon, quite another to live the lie around the clock. For nearly six hours now, he'd been Jeremy Lowell. Not Jamie, but Jeremy. Six hours without a single reprieve.

  And, even more peculiar, it had been Jeremy Lowell whom Lady Emma Neff had propositioned so coquettishly. But it had been Jamie Lowell who inexplicably turned her down.

  Growing tired of the monotonous music and conversation, Jamie escaped for a few moments into the garden, his mind still obsessed with figuring out just what it was that had come over him with Lady Emma. Why had he turned a woman as beautiful as Mrs. Neff away?

  The obvious answer, of course, was simply that Jamie didn't dare risk damaging his bargain with Julia. After all, she had warned him that a single impropriety would be grounds enough to send him back to Newgate. Swinging.

  But somehow, Jamie didn't believe that to be the exclusive reason. Because he hadn't been thinking about Julia's money as he refused Lady Emma. He had been thinking simply about Julia.

  Julia and the way she looked when she thought he'd been shot.

  If Jamie hadn't known better, he might have thought the look in her eyes to be one of true concern. And not merely the sort of concern that accompanied guilt, but the kind of feeling that only bloomed when there was sincere—dare he think it?—affection involved.