Chapter 26 #2
“Good night, Julia. You really do look quite delicious.” I blew him a kiss and slipped out, thinking about Edward as a youth, cavorting in the garden with some innocent maid, and wondering why he had never asked me to step outside with him.
Probably because he knew from the first he wanted to marry me, I thought reasonably.
Gentlemen do not propose to girls who lift their skirts, Aunt Hermia had warned me, and in this case, she appeared to be correct.
Edward had had trysts before me, but had not touched me until our wedding night.
Although, if he had ever seen me in this scarlet, he might not have kept his hands so politely to himself, I thought wickedly, with one final glance at the glass.
Wrapping my black cloak tightly around me, I collected the Ghoul and we set off, arriving at March House punctually—no one ever had the courage to do otherwise.
Aunt Hermia was legendary for her insistence upon promptness.
Most people thought she was a stickler for manners, but the truth was, she had a horror of leathery meat.
Rather than hold the meal to accommodate tardy guests, she simply struck the unpunctual from her guest list and harangued the rest of us into promptness.
We were greeted at the door by Hoots, Father’s butler. There was no sign of Aunt Hermia.
Hoots reached to help me off with my cloak and I asked after her.
“She is attending to Cook, my lady. Some accident concerning a knife and a sprout.”
His eyes fell to my exposed bosom and he averted them quickly.
“It is very good to see you out and about again, my lady,” he said without a trace of irony. I looked at him suspiciously, but his face was perfectly correct.
“Hmm. Yes, thank you, Hoots.”
I turned and Aunt Ursula got her first unimpeded view of my gown. She blanched and reached for her salts, but said nothing. There was a commotion behind me as Portia and her companion, Jane, appeared from the drawing room.
“Portia, Jane, good evening,” I greeted, going to kiss them.
“Julia, dearest, I am so glad you are here!” Portia exclaimed, returning my kiss with enthusiasm.
“All of you,” she murmured with a lift of the brow toward my gown.
She was dressed in blue, a delicious cerulean shade that flattered her wide eyes.
“Father is just now gone to change and Aunt Hermia is bandaging up Cook in the stillroom. Jane and I were simply aching for conversation. Oh, good evening, Aunt Ursula.” Portia went to make polite noises at the Ghoul and I turned to Jane.
As usual, she looked as though she had been dragged through a bush backward.
She was wearing one of her favorite shapeless dresses.
Usually they were made up in heavy cottons, but she had a few in thick, unattractive fabrics for evening.
She wore them with heavy ropes of dull, lumpy beads that could not hope to match the sparkle of her fine eyes or the exquisite colour of her complexion.
She put a hand to her untidy red hair. “I know,” she said mournfully.
“I look a fright. I had put my hair up, I promise. But I seem to have lost the pins.”
I smiled at her. “Nonsense. I was just thinking that you look like Daphne, the moment she metamorphosed into a laurel bush.”
She looked very happy at the allusion, and I tucked my arm through hers. “Now, what shall you play for us tonight? I am quite out of practice, so I shall not perform, but I always look forward to hearing you.”
This was entirely true. Jane was a gifted musician with a remarkably sweet, clear singing voice and a talent with three different instruments.
This was perhaps the most significant reason behind why we loved Jane so.
The family, and occasionally, friends, were pressed into performing at Aunt Hermia’s evenings, usually something we had all heard a hundred times before, and usually done quite badly.
We had our gifts, we Marches, but I do not think we numbered music among them.
Having Jane with us was rather like having Sarah Siddons stride into the midst of an amateur theatrical.
“The harp,” Jane said promptly. “I have a new Irish air I have been practicing. It is very melancholy, very atmospheric. You will smell the peat fires and damp wool, I promise.”
Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm, and I shivered playfully. “Sounds quite intriguing. What of you, Portia?” I called over my shoulder. “Will you play, or is simply giving us all something beautiful to look at contribution enough?”
She raised a brow at me. “Good Lord, Julia, what has come over you? You are positively giddy. Well, I am glad you are in high spirits, because if I am not mistaken, that is a footstep upon the walk.”
A moment later Hoots opened the door. The thing I remember most clearly from that moment are Portia’s eyes, dancing with amusement, and Father appearing just at that second, still straightening his necktie.
He, too, was looking highly amused, and I wondered if that is how the gods of Olympus looked when they were meddling with people’s lives, for they were certainly meddling with mine.
There upon the doorstep stood Brisbane, beautifully dressed in evening clothes, and with him was an elderly gentleman I had never seen before. They were returning Hoots’ very civil greeting, and I took the opportunity to hiss at Portia. “What do you think you are doing?”
She smiled back, dazzlingly. “Stirring the pot, darling. But it isn’t my hand on the spoon. Father invited them. Mind you speak up, the Duke of Aberdour is rather deaf.”
Father had moved forward and was welcoming the pair of them. According to precedence, he presented us to the duke.
“You remember my daughter, Lady Bettiscombe, your Grace.” He motioned to Portia.
The duke murmured something, but his old eyes were sharp, noting Portia’s beauty, I had little doubt.
“Your Grace,” she said loudly, dropping an elegant curtsey as she dimpled up at him. “I am so pleased you could come.”
The duke patted her hand and seemed reluctant to let it go.
Portia stepped back and Father waved at me. “I don’t believe you know my youngest daughter, Lady Julia Grey.”
I made a proper curtsey, and his Grace reached for my hand, taking in an eyeful of my displayed bosom.
“Enchanting. Why have I never met you before?” he asked in an accent slightly blurred with Scottish vowels. He was as perfectly turned out as Brisbane, but with much better jewels. I nearly goggled at the size of the ruby in his cravat.
“I have been in mourning this past year for my husband, your Grace,” I said. He was still holding my hand, his eyes wandering over my décolletage in an openly appraising manner. I should have been insulted by such treatment from anyone else, but from him it was merely amusing.
“You have my condolences, my dear, but your husband is more deserving of them. I cannot imagine what a loss he suffered at leaving you behind.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “You are too kind, your Grace.”
“Not at all. I simply like good-looking women.” He tucked my hand through his arm.
“You will help me in to greet my hostess, won’t you?
I do not need the help, but I will pretend to in order to keep you close to me.
” He finished this with an exaggerated leer and I laughed.
Father and Brisbane had greeted each other quietly as Hoots closed the door, and now they stood, watching my exchange with the duke.
“I would be honoured to escort you, your Grace, but I must warn you, your reputation precedes you. I shall be on my guard with you.”
He cackled and motioned toward Brisbane. “She is clever as well. I like this one. Say hello, boy. I believe you know the lady.”
Brisbane smiled thinly and did his duty. I would have thought it impossible for anyone to speak to him in such a fashion and emerge unscathed, but the duke apparently had the gift of charm. It was clear that Portia thought him adorable.
The duke turned back to me. “I do like you. I might make you an offer of marriage before the evening is over. What do you think of that? Would you like to be a duchess? I’m very rich, you know.”
“I do know it. But I am entirely unworthy to be your wife, I assure you, your Grace. Perhaps, if it is not too presumptuous of me, we could just be very good friends.”
“How good?” he asked, edging his elbow into my ribs.
“Not quite that good,” I replied, patting his arm.
He roared with laughter and allowed me to introduce him to Aunt Ursula and Jane.
He greeted them in a perfunctory fashion, dismissing one of them as plain and the other as older than Moses, no doubt.
He clung to my arm and I led him into the drawing room, where Aunt Hermia had just arrived, breathless and patting her hair.
I flashed Father a smile to let him know he was forgiven.
He might have broadsided me by inviting Brisbane without my knowledge, but he had ensured my good will with his Grace.
It was not every day that I received a proposal of marriage from a duke, even if he was more than eighty years old.
For her part, Aunt Hermia was delighted with her unexpected guests.
“Your Grace! How lovely that you could join us this evening,” she said. “It is only a family party, though, and I am certain you will be quite bored with our feeble entertainments.”
“Not at all, dear lady,” he said, bowing over her hand. “The reputation of the beauteous March women is as widespread as it is accurate. I shall simply admire the view. I believe you have met Nicholas?”
Brisbane stepped forward. “Lady Hermia. How good of you to include me.”