Chapter 3
The following evening, Lady Chantwood’s ballroom shimmered with chandeliers and restless silks, with every surface polished to a gleam and every guest postured for display.
Juliana stood at her mother’s side with her gloved hands folded too neatly before her.
Arabella, radiant in a blush-pink gown, whispered a nervous hope that Captain Greaves might attend, though her smile faded each time their father glanced her way. Juliana did not speak.
She remained alert, glancing around the room for danger.
Not danger in the common sense, as she knew they were perfectly safe.
She looked for the kind of danger that would be dressed in satin, danger reeking of privilege, danger presented with the forced charm of an older man whom no one dared refuse.
She found him near the refreshment table.
Baron George Pembrooke wore plum-coloured velvet, his cravat a fussy arrangement better suited to a younger man.
His expression suggested permanent disappointment with everyone but himself.
She had overheard Lady Denning call him “distinguished.” He had been a widower for six years.
His reputation was unblemished, his fortune secure.
His manners were the kind that required constant defence from other men.
He meant no harm, they always said. He was only being kind, even when his gaze lingered a little too long in places it did not belong on proper ladies.
And her father was speaking with him, pointing in their direction with a satisfied smile.
Not in our direction, she realized with horror. In my direction.
Her stomach turned as she watched Sir Lionel Harcourt approach at last, his chest inflated with paternal pride and expectation.
“There you are, Daughter,” he said, as if he had been searching for her all night, instead of arriving with her only moments before. “Stand up straight.”
Juliana obeyed, her spine stiffening.
“I have secured the introduction,” he said, giving her a horribly pointed look. “You must not waste it.”
Juliana swallowed the bile rising in her throat.
“Of course, Papa,” she said.
The baronet looked her over, his smile steadfast, even as his eyes scrutinized her.
“Smile,” he said, through clenched teeth. “A young lady does not scowl in company. Certainly not in public.”
Juliana tried until her cheeks ached to comply with her father.
“I am smiling,” she said, even though it felt more like a grimace to her.
He gave her a hard look, which told her that he agreed. She took a slow breath, willing her face to relax and appear more natural. It was not for her sake, or for her father’s. It was for the sake of Arabella and the future she deserved to have.
Lord Pembrooke reached them with the air of one doing a charitable deed. He bowed and kissed her gloved hand with a flourish that made her fingers curl in protest. Her father paid her discomfort no heed as he made the formal introductions.
“Miss Harcourt,” Lord Pembrooke said. “Your father speaks most highly of your accomplishments. He tells me you are fond of books.”
Juliana curtsied, still struggling with her unnatural smile.
“Yes, My Lord,” she said.
The baron gave a nod, his eyes already filling with the contempt she had seen in many other potential suitors.
“I have an excellent collection at my estate in Berkshire,” he said. “Though I confess, I rarely open them. I prefer conversation. As I am certain that a proper young lady such as yourself would.”
Juliana’s grimace trembled, threatening a scowl.
“I am sure you find it more enlightening,” she said with unmistakable scathing.
He chuckled, though she had meant no humour.
“Your father tells me you read French,” he said.
Juliana nodded, her heart beating wildly.
“I do,” she said, wondering at her father’s choice of words. Why would he speak so much of her reading and interests if he were ashamed of them?
The baron gave another nod, his eyes assessing everything below hers.
“Ah, Molière and Rousseau, no doubt,” he said. “I believe young ladies are fond of sentiment.”
Juliana bristled.
“I prefer Voltaire, My Lord,” she said coldly.
He raised his brows.
“How spirited,” he said. “One does not often find such opinions in a ballroom.”
Juliana shuddered with the effort it took to keep from turning and walking away from the loathsome gentleman.
“No, My Lord,” she said. “They often remain unread on a gentleman’s shelf.”
Her father cleared his throat, but she did not meet his gaze. Lord Pembrooke’s smile faltered, then returned with forced benevolence.
“You must allow me the honour of the next dance,” he said. “I find your views most invigorating.”
She looked to her mother, who gave the barest nod of approval. It seemed as though even her mother was ignoring the obvious nature of the baron. But Arabella’s hopeful, fearful eyes gave her refreshed determination.
“Of course, My Lord,” Juliana said stiffly.
He led her to the floor with exaggerated courtesy.
His hand at her back pressed lower than propriety allowed, and his fingers splayed as if he meant to claim what he touched.
The scent of brandy clung to him like a second coat.
Juliana fixed her eyes on the far wall, refusing to meet his gaze any longer than she must.
The music began. She moved through the steps with practiced precision, her expression composed, if not quite pleasant. Lord Pembrooke talked without pause.
“I do think the country is far preferable to London, do you not?” he asked, the bite of his words hardly concealed.
“The air is cleaner, the lanes are quiet, and there is none of this modern nonsense about women’s opinions.
” He smirked, looking her over once more.
“You would find my library charming. My late wife never went near it. She said it smelled of old vellum.”
Juliana lifted her chin, still avoiding his eyes.
“I should find that most agreeable,” she said, remaining coolly detached.
“Of course,” he said with apparent distaste. “Your father says you are not too forward with your cleverness. That is a relief.”
Juliana did not miss the irony with which he spoke.
“Indeed,” she said flatly.
He leaned in.
“Though a clever woman, if properly managed, can be very pleasing,” he said. His breath soured the air between them.
She pulled back, but the dance held her in place. She could keep her discomfort from showing or continue with her sharp tongue. She could no longer do both.
“You are trembling,” he said.
Juliana forced a still expression.
“It must be the heat,” she said, summoning all the calmness she could muster.
The baron smiled again.
“You will grow accustomed to it,” he said. “The nervousness of youth fades once one is married. I have always believed a young wife ought to be instructed gently.”
Juliana looked at him, barely hiding her repulsion.
“Instructed?” she asked.
He gave her hand a tight squeeze, but he did not reply. Her mind catalogued each point of discomfort, like the hand that lingered too long at her waist, the cloying mixture of brandy and perfume, and the way he spoke as if marriage were a classroom and she the unruly pupil.
He intended to make his bride bend to his every whim, and who knew what he would do to one who did not. And from the way her father was acting, he knew exactly what the baron had in mind.
The music ended. However, he did not release her.
“Perhaps you will favour me with another,” he said, clear that he did not intend to grant her the freedom of choice.
She drew breath to firmly reject the demand, but her father’s eyes were upon her.
The last thing she expected was to find salvation. Yet it approached in green satin with cream trim and silver cufflinks. An unruly strand of dark hair fell onto the forehead of Lord Loxley, dancing just above his dark hazel eyes. His gaze was politely curious, but his smile was warm and intent.
“I believe this next dance is mine,” he said, offering his hand.
Juliana’s heart leapt into her throat, even as she gave him a bland curtsy.
Lord Pembrooke looked displeased.
“I was not aware the lady had made an engagement,” he said.
The earl gave a tight smile.
“I asked only moments ago,” Nathaniel said, still offering her his arm. “Miss Harcourt, shall we?”
Juliana took his arm without hesitation and before the baron had the opportunity to argue about the impossibility of Lord Loxley’s claim regarding when he asked for his dance.
“Thank you, My Lord,” she said with deliberate gratitude.
As they walked to their place, her breath steadied. The music began anew at a brisk pace. She met the earl’s eyes.
“I am indebted to you,” she said.
Lord Loxley shook his head. His expression was warm, but largely unreadable.
“No,” he said. “I was merely aware that I should ask you for a dance.”
She gave a dry glance towards Lord Pembrooke, who had returned to the wall with the expression of a man denied a prize.
“One would think the baron was just denied a valuable prize,” she muttered, unable to hide her bitterness.
The earl gave a curt nod.
“Or that he was a child denied a puppy,” he said.
She laughed despite herself.
“He smells of brandy,” she said, her nose wrinkling.
Lord Loxley nodded, mimicking her disgust.
“Indeed, he did,” he said.
Juliana shuddered, speaking again before she intended to.
“He believes he might train a clever wife into obedience,” she said.
She stared at the earl with horror, wondering at her incapability to mind her words, especially with someone of the earl’s status. But yet again, he surprised her as he smirked.
“Then he ought to marry a pony,” he said with a low chortle.
Her laughter spilled over, bright and unguarded. She was uncertain why the earl had taken a sudden interest in dancing with her, especially after the strain of their first meeting, but relief overwhelmed her in the moment, and all she could be was grateful.