The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 15

15

J ulia sat at her writing table holding a quill, dripping blobs of ink on the paper while she rested her chin in her hand and stared out the window. For the first time in her life, she was utterly unable to focus on her work. How could she have been so naive as to accept Sophia’s invitation? Attending any ball was a disaster in the making. She’d broken her own hard and fast rule…had she not?

Yes, you dolt. I must never, ever let anyone know my true identity, and now my best friend, social butterfly, and new marchioness believes Julia St. Vincent is living in London not far from her house.

Though she had been vague about the location of the room she was supposedly renting, she’d admitted it was but a short walk from the Northampton abode, firstly so that Sophie wouldn’t insist on ordering the driver to take her home after her debacle with Mr. Skinner. She hadn’t stretched the truth either, because the duke’s enormous town house was only two streets away.

Today as she sat completely distracted and unable to focus, no matter how much she admonished herself for her errant decision to attend the masquerade, Julia could not stop thinking about the fleeting moment she’d spent in Martin’s arms. Yes, their waltz had been inexplicably erotic, his hand on her waist, and hers on his very solid, very masculine, very warm waist while they moved in tandem as if they’d partnered together for years. The dance had been akin to two swans in a balletic rendezvous upon a glassy pond.

All this time she’d been practicing opposite Modesty when little did she know the duke was undoubtedly the best dancer in the MacGalloway household. Obviously, he’d been enjoying himself at her expense, or Smallwood’s expense as it were.

Last night, not only had they danced like two matched swans, he’d actually followed her outside as if he intended to pursue her. Of course, it was only one evening, and she’d been costumed as a goddess and wearing a mask, but he appeared to be, perhaps, a tad infatuated. Their entire encounter had been like a fairy story. Martin had been so gallant, so caring and, most especially, so awfully good at kissing.

“Lord save me,” Julia groaned, her lips tingling at the mere thought of kissing him again. After setting her quill in the holder, she pushed to her feet and began to pace.

She absolutely must stop thinking about kissing the Duke of Dunscaby this instant. His Grace was her employer and her desperately needed source of income. There were people relying on her, for heaven’s sake. Without her wages, not only would her father be in dire straits, Willaby and Mrs. May would be out on their ears.

“Attending the masquerade was a horrible mistake that can never happen again.”

I must positively force myself to block the entire evening from my mind.

Julia bit down on her thumbnail. Exactly how did one forget the most erotic kiss of her life, especially when she was a spinster posing as a man and most likely would never again be kissed by the object of her affection, let alone anyone else?

“I had a severe lapse of judgment and, though I may have succumbed to a moment of enjoyment, I must lock the incident away in my heart and pretend it never happened.”

Except it had.

“Even if I admit the evening at the ball did come to pass, I must promise myself never, ever to again take such a risk.”

Satisfied, Julia thrust her fists onto her hips and took a deep breath. It had been a miracle that Martin hadn’t recognized her, and Lady Charity as well. She may have been wearing a mask, but other than looking positively female, she and Jules Smallwood were identical.

Julia stamped her foot. “And I will stop calling the duke Martin this instant!”

“Smallwood!” Dunscaby boomed, bursting through the door. “You will never believe who I met last eve.”

Oh, dear God in heaven, please let it be someone other than me. She clasped her hands together and tried to smile affably. “Who, Your Grace?”

“None other than Lady Julia St. Vincent.”

She felt the color drain from her face while a bout of dizziness nearly sent her crashing to the floorboards.

“Surely you know the lass…” Martin looked her from head to toe. “Are you certain the two of you are not related, cousins perchance?”

What ought I say? I am one and the same with the daft little tart?

She was supposed to be the son of a knight, she couldn’t be related to herself.

Julia squeezed her hands tighter while she stared at the man, her eyes wide, her mouth dry.

In truth it wouldn’t be entirely inconceivable for the two mothers to be sisters…or cousins. Mayhap she ought to admit to such a thing…mayhap doing so might help to explain how she was able to come by the position with Papa at such a young age. “Distant cousins, which helped me secure the post of steward with the Earl of Brixham in the first place,” she said, positive she was going to be struck dead within the next two minutes and catapulted directly to Hades.

“Och, what a boon!”

“Boon, sir?”

Martin rubbed his hands together. “Were you aware Her Ladyship was in Town?”

“In London? My word, I had no idea.” Pressing the palms of her hands against her temples, Julia fought the spinning of her head. How much deeper am I to dig my grave?

“The Marchioness of Northampton said she was staying nearby. Och, as the estate’s steward, I would naturally assume you would know where Lady Julia stays when in London?”

“I daresay, the last time I recall Her Ladyship visiting Town was years ago when she was introduced to society. If my memory serves, she resided in the city for one Season and then returned to Huntly Manor—and I do believe the earl still kept a town house in London at the time.”

“Her Ladyship mentioned something about being tucked away in a remote little village,” Dunscaby mused.

“Yes, well, Brixham is not a large borough by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Smallwood, we must find her.” Dunscaby covered his eyes then quickly moved his hands apart, drawing her attention to the vivid crystal blue color. “Though Her Ladyship was wearing a mask, I tell you here and now, she is the bonniest creature I’ve ever had the pleasure of setting eyes upon.”

Julia grew weak at the knees, her throat constricting so tightly, she was barely able to swallow. Martin thought her beautiful…well, bonny was the term he used, but everyone knew bonny to a Scot was beautiful to the rest of the world. Why, oh why could she not revert to being herself?

If only I didn’t have Mr. Skinner in the wings demanding payment.

“I was thinking,” Martin continued, “It might be less likely to make a stir if you were to write to her father and enquire as to her address, what with you both being in London.”

“The earl?” Positive the archangel of death would truly descend upon her at any moment, Julia placed her hand on her writing table for support. How could she convince Dunscaby to abandon this idea? “Brixham is quite ill, you are aware. I am not certain I would receive a reply.”

“Then write to a servant perchance? Does not Her Ladyship have a servant in whom she confides?”

“I believe the butler, Willaby, has always been her confidant.”

Holy macaroons, why did I volunteer Willaby? Have I completely lost my sense of reason?

“Excellent.” Dunscaby thrust his upturned palm toward her quill and ink pot. “Send the man a missive immediately.”

Julia gave a respectful bow. “Straightaway, sir.”

“Oh, and regarding other matters at hand, I’ve ordered a carriage to be readied. In twenty minutes meet me in the hall. The admiral has notified me that Lord Gibb’s ship is due to moor in the Pool of London this very afternoon.”

Before she could congratulate him on his brother’s return, the duke swept out the door as boldly as he’d made his entrance.

Julia sank into the chair at her desk, crumpled the spotty piece of paper into the smallest ball her fist could manage and threw it into the rubbish bin. She had best send Willaby something. Her opening line: “ I am an unmitigated fool and ought to be horsewhipped… ”

Martin tapped his toe on the carriage floor, feeling more like walking the four miles to the Pool of London rather than riding. If he weren’t a duke, he might waltz the entire way, dancing with every lass he passed by, imagining each one to be Lady Julia. Never in his life had he felt such bubbling effervescence. He absolutely must seize an opportunity to meet with the lass as soon as possible. Had he been affected by the mystery of the masquerade, or was the woman truly as enchanting as she’d seemed? Martin had to know. He wasn’t usually one to be driven by impulse, but he’d barely slept last night, reliving the fleeting moments he’d spent with the goddess. On top of it all, when he’d arisen this morning, his desire to find Her Ladyship had been nothing short of all-consuming.

Fortunately, Smallwood, who sat opposite in the carriage, had been a steward in the woman’s house and had already dispatched a missive to the earl’s butler. “I would imagine as Brixham’s steward you would have seen Lady Julia frequently. My sisters seem to enjoy chatting with you, I assume you were able to come to know her rather well.”

“Um…yes, sir,” Smallwood’s voice shot up like a nervous finch. Truly, the man needed to expand his horizons. “She is quite pleasant.”

“Pleasant? How can you be so dull? The woman is astounding. Not only is her figure perfectly proportioned, she dances as gracefully as a bird in flight. My God, you should have seen her at last eve’s masquerade.”

“Hmm?”

“She was dressed in the costume of Aphrodite—canary yellow, mind you, a Grecian gown with flowing skirts and a plunging neckline—oh, be still my heart, if you understand my gist.”

“But, sir,” Smallwood said as if female breasts didn’t interest him in the slightest. “Is not the reason for a masquerade to conceal one’s identity? How the devil did you uncover the lady’s name? Did she tell you?”

Martin threw up his hands. Of all the questions Smallwood could have come up with, the man is worried about how he came by Lady Julia’s name? “Of course not. I am a duke. When I ask for information it is bad form to refuse me.”

“Ah yes, there are benefits to being near the top of the proverbial pecking order.”

Placing his hands on the padded bench, Martin leaned forward. “Tell me, what is she like?”

The wee man gaped as if he’d been suddenly rendered dumb. “Lady Julia?”

“Aye, the woman whom we’ve been discussing since the carriage left Mayfair.”

“Well…” The little man drummed his slender fingers on his thigh. “She likes to read a great deal, I’d say she’s very skilled at embroidery, and is relatively accomplished on the pianoforte.”

“Is she?” Martin suddenly could see himself standing beside an ornately painted instrument while the lassie’s fingers magically danced across the keys. “I do hope she gives a recital whilst she is in London.”

Smallwood’s shoulders shook with his snort. “I doubt she will, sir.”

“Why do you say that? Why would she not if she is a proficient?”

“Ah…I think…well, ah…Her Ladyship is bashful.”

Martin deliberated for a moment. Was that why she’d seemed somewhat reticent? Not that she was standoffish, if he could judge by the way the woman had kissed him back. “I do believe it is a virtue to be a wee bit introverted.”

“Yes, indeed, sir. Lady Julia always seemed to be content to remain at home in the country. She’s quite fond of animals and…and she has a cat named Peaches.”

“A Tabby?”

Jules shrugged. “I have no idea. Peaches is somewhat of a scruffy, spotty thing. She found him as a kitten abandoned on the side of the road, not far from Huntly Manor.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed.”

Martin pulled the curtain aside and searched the faces of the passersby. “I wonder if she brought the cat to London.”

“I wouldn’t think so, sir, given cats are not fond of travel.”

Damnation, not a single pedestrian resembled Her Ladyship in the slightest. “Well, you should see her waltz. I say, Smallwood, it is a shame you did not inherit her grace.”

“Perhaps God saw fit to bestow grace upon my cousin rather than me because it is a far more important a virtue for a young woman who is bred to marry into the nobility.”

Martin dropped the curtain. “I suppose you are right. I, for one, could watch Lady Julia dance for hours.”

Smallwood cleared his throat and looked to his hands, seemingly uncomfortable.

“Do you think she would fancy a ride through Hyde Parke on my phaeton?”

The little man grinned for the first time that day. “What young lady wouldn’t enjoy riding through a park and sitting beside a duke whilst he expertly manages a matched pair?”

Now the steward was talking.

“Do you really think she’d like it?” Martin asked, not giving a whit if he sounded like a wet-eared lad.

“I cannot see why she wouldn’t, sir.” Smallwood straightened his cravat. “Pardon me for being a tad insolent, sir, but you are not entertaining the idea of marriage are you?”

“Marriage? Me? Surely you jest!” Slapping the seat, Martin threw back his head and laughed. “Only a sheltered man such as yourself would ask such a question. Dammit all, I’ve only just met the lass. I’m still as staunch a bachelor as I was before the masquerade ball.”

The carriage rolled to a stop. “The Pool of London, Your Grace,” called the coachman.

And none too soon. Good God, the idea of death until we part made Martin shiver to his bones.

Almost as soon as they disembarked, Gibb marched down the gangway of the HMS Cerberus . Though a cocksure grin stretched across his lips, Martin was taken aback at how much his brother had aged in the time he’d been at war. Gibb was broader and leaner at the same time and, as he neared, lines etched by the sea furrowed at the corners of his eyes.

Martin thrust out his hand. “By the saints, I believe the Royal Navy has turned you into a man.”

Gibb’s grip was like a vice, though Martin could have sworn his brother’s eyes misted. “Och, since we last met, you’ve turned into a bloody duke.”

Martin pulled his hand away and splayed his fingers. The last time they’d been together was at Da’s funeral. Not only were they all bereft, he’d not yet embraced the dukedom. And though he’d never admit it to anyone else, he still felt out of sorts at times as if he were only playing at dukedom rather than executing the role at a high level of efficiency.

He gestured to the wee man standing beside him. “Allow me to introduce Jules Smallwood, my steward.”

Gibb shook the fellow’s hand. “It is a pleasure, sir. I’m told you’ve been a fine addition.”

“The pleasure is mine, my lord.” Smallwood winced before glancing to Martin and back to Gibb. “My word, are all the MacGalloway men as dashing as you pair?”

“Good God, laddie, at times you come up with the most confounding drivel.” Martin turned to his brother. “I hope you have a thirst, because I certainly do.”

“Thirst?” Gibb swatted the steward on the back, making him lurch forward. “You never need to ask a sailor twice.”

Martin nodded to the footman who opened the carriage door. “Then White’s it is. Smallwood and I have something of import to discuss.”

“White’s?” Gibb asked, heading across the street. “Why drive all the way into Town when there’s a perfectly good tavern right here? Unless being a duke has placed you above rubbing elbows with common tars.”