Chapter 3
Julian did not enjoy house parties, he tolerated them.
It was all entirely predictable, which he did tend to prefer, but there was such a lack of pleasurable activities that even he found himself bored.
The drawing room was full that afternoon, with everyone having at last arrived.
Guests had settled into their roles, the initial politeness giving way to something more assured, and nobody had questioned Lily’s presence there.
He was grateful for that, but then he knew that whispers would start eventually.
Then again, with what he was set to announce in regard to his intentions, Lily would be the least of their concerns.
"Lord Harrowby."
He turned his head slightly.
"Mrs Denham."
She inclined her head, her expression composed but purposeful.
"Forgive my assumptions, but I believe you are not yet engaged."
"I am not, no. I am yet to make my intentions to find a bride known, too."
"How very unfortunate," she said, as though he had made a decision that displeased her personally. "There are several young ladies who would be most disappointed to hear that, though I suspect you will be obliged to remedy it before long."
Julian regarded her without expression. He knew what she meant, but he wanted her to say it herself without him encouraging it. Frankly, he did not want to hear it at all, but that was what he resigned himself to when he refused to marry for convenience’s sake.
"You cannot expect to avoid it indefinitely."
"I have not attempted to do so."
"No?" Her brows lifted slightly. "That is not the impression one receives."
"I was not aware that I was being observed so closely."
"You are," she said. "Whether you approve of it or not."
"That is of no consequence to me."
But her meaning was clear. It had been clear for some time. Julian offered the minimal acknowledgment required, and allowed the conversation to lapse without further encouragement. Mrs Denham did not press him, though her expression suggested she had said precisely what she intended.
She moved on, and Julian’s attention returned to the room, though his thoughts did not follow quite as easily. All that he could think about was Miss Whitcombe, and the way she had stolen Lily away for that short while.
In truth, it was likely no more than half an hour, and then Lily was returned to her governess for her lessons, but it had affected Julian.
Miss Whitcombe had undermined him, and he hated that, and yet he had been the one to allow it.
Strangely, he found thinking the unmarried young ladies were less threatening.
The ladies in attendance were suitable. That was the word most often applied, and not without reason. They were well-connected, well-mannered, and entirely appropriate for the position they might one day occupy. Any one of them would satisfy expectations placed on him.
But none of them held his attention. He observed them as he observed everything else: entirely detached.
Their intentions were not difficult to discern.
A glance held a fraction too long, a conversation guided with quiet precision, a presence arranged to ensure it would be noticed, it was all very deliberate. It did not engage him.
Julian shifted his position slightly, his gaze moving across the room without settling on any one point for long. He had no intention of participating in the activities that afternoon, which thus far appeared to be talking and little else.
His thoughts returned, once more, to the morning, to the unexpected ease with which Miss Eleanor Whitcombe had inserted herself into a space that had always been carefully managed.
Lily did not take easily to strangers. She observed, she withdrew, and she required time. It was a process he understood, one he accounted for, but Miss Whitcombe had bypassed it entirely.
Children were inconsistent in their preferences. What held their attention one day might be forgotten the next. It was not a reliable measure of anything, and yet something still remained unanswered in his mind.
Julian’s gaze shifted again, more deliberately this time, until it found her. She stood near the far side of the room, engaged in conversation with another young lady, her manner as easy as it had been in the garden.
He did not believe it. She was not suited to such an event, nor to the expectations that governed it. She spoke too freely where others would have exercised restraint, and that would not bode well for her.
Either she would find it restrictive, or worse she would disregard it entirely, and neither outcome was good.
His attention lingered a fraction longer than necessary before he forced it elsewhere.
Unfortunately, he forced himself to think of the dance they had shared the night before, the way she had followed without resistance.
Asking her to dance so that he could escape another young lady was not terribly kind of him, and he knew that, but in that moment it felt as though he had no other option.
But he could not quite place why he had chosen her when any lady there would have danced with him. He ignored It. It had been a matter of proximity, nothing more. He had required assistance, and she had provided it.
There was no reason to revisit it, because Eleanor Whitcombe was entirely unsuitable. She was too inclined toward feeling, too unpredictable in ways that could not be accounted for or managed. She would disrupt order and resist expectation, and Julian did not allow for uncertainty.
Not that he was considering her, of course. He was not in search of a wife.
* * *
"You are not listening."
Eleanor blinked, her attention returning with a faint delay. Anne was looking at her as though she had been waiting for a response.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You have not heard a word I have said for the last several minutes."
"Then perhaps you should not speak for so long without interruption," Eleanor quipped. "I am an excellent listener."
"Yes, a brilliant one."
Eleanor allowed herself a small smile, and Anne did the same. Her friend was not truly angry with her at all, only very clearly confused. Eleanor did not blame her for that, because she knew as well as Anne did exactly where she had been looking.
"Do forgive me. I appear to be distracted."
"I have noticed."
They stood apart from the main body of the room, near one of the tall windows where the conversation was less likely to be overheard. Eleanor had been navigating the evening with ease, or at least, she had appeared to.
"What were you saying?" she asked.
"I was speaking of Lord Harrowby," she said. "Strangely, that was precisely where you were looking."
Eleanor’s expression did not change. Anne regarded her for a moment, as though deciding how much required explanation.
"He is under considerable pressure," she continued. "I heard two maids saying so this afternoon."
"All gentlemen in his position are. He has to protect his family and secure funds and all the other things that we could also do if we were allowed."
"Yes, but he must also care for his sister. You might say he is doing the work of a wife, too."
"Then he should have a wife. It is his own choice to do all that he does as a bachelor."
Anne looked at her knowingly then, and Eleanor felt herself pause. A part of her knew what her friend was about to say, and if that were the case then she did not know why she felt anything at all about it.
"He has determined," Anne continued, "that he will marry. Allegedly, he will say as much tonight."
"That is hardly remarkable," Eleanor said. "Gentlemen often declare such intentions."
"No," Anne replied. "But his reasons are what make it so interesting. It is not sentiment, nor any particular desire. His household requires it, his sister in particular."
Eleanor’s gaze shifted, almost without intention, toward the gentleman that had danced with her, the one that she found too proper. It made sense to her that he would make such a decision simply because it was necessary. She looked away again at once.
"That is very dutiful of him," she said. "And love does not make a difference to him, I suppose?"
"No, he does not believe in it," Anne added. "Or if he does, he does not consider it relevant to marriage. It is efficient, I suppose, though not particularly pleasant for his future wife."
"That depends on one’s expectations."
Anne’s gaze rested on her more closely now.
"And what are yours?"
Eleanor did not answer at once. Across the room, a pair of young ladies laughed too brightly at something that did not warrant it. A gentleman leaned in too far, his interest too easily read. The familiar patterns continued, uninterrupted, unremarkable.
She had known them all her life. She had understood them, she had participated in them, and she had grown very tired of them.
"When I marry, I want protection and certainty," she said at last. "Love would have been a beautiful thing, but it is rare. We will not all be so fortunate, and it is time that I accept such a thing."
There was no challenge from Anne, but there was clearly no belief either. She simply gave Eleanor a knowing look, one that she could not ignore.
"Do not look at me that way," Eleanor sighed. "It is a realization that we must all have eventually."
"You may do so if you please, but I shall have no such thing. There is a reason that you and I remain unmarried."
Eleanor sighed. It was true that there were reasons for her never having married, but it was in part for her expectations being entirely too high. She wanted to be romanced, to be desired, and that was not something that happened often.
A marriage without expectation, however, meant that there could be no disappointment. Her fingers tightened slightly against her palms before she stilled them.
It would be simple. Julian Harrowby did not want love, that much was certain. He would not offer it, and he would not expect it.