When a Marquess Loves a Woman Read online

  With that thought in mind, he pivoted on his heel and instantly collided with a passerby. The gangly man had his head bent in apparent study of the papers in his grasp.

  “See here! Watch where you’re—” Lord Pembroke looked up at him with a glower, but then his eyes went round, the whites seeming to expand to three times their size as his irises shrank. Stumbling back, he lifted his free hand to his hat, clutching it with a boney hand. “Forgive me, Lord Thayne. Clearly I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I was just reading these documents about that”—he swallowed—“venture I mentioned to you . . . at Lord and Lady Simpkin’s.”

  Max held up a hand, not wanting to listen to an entire recapitulation of prior events. “This is not a killing offense, Pembroke, so you may relax and simply be on your way.”

  Surprisingly, Lord Pembroke listened and scurried off without another word. Max would have found the sudden exit out of character, or even strange, if he was not so grateful for it.

  The sound of a chuckle from the doorway of Barnaby and Pluck drew his attention to North Bromley, the Duke of Vale, who met him on the pavement outside the solicitor’s office. “I see our friend attempted to sell you shares of a silver mine too, Thayne.”

  They shared a smirk of exasperation. “What are the odds that he’s changed his conniving ways?”

  When asked a mathematical question, Vale always took the matter seriously. Even now, his dark eyes sharpened, as if he could imagine a slate before him, a stick of chalk in his hand. “Factoring in the length of time he has been alive, and analyzing the portion of when we were all at school together, I’d say nine-tenths of one percent. However, if you were merely asking theoretically, then I would say none at all.”

  Max agreed with a grin, a ready quip on his tongue. But then, the mention of calculations distracted him, suddenly reminding him of Vale’s Marriage Formula.

  Last Christmas, Vale had developed an equation designed specifically to find an ideal match. He’d even tested it on himself and had married within days of meeting his bride for the first time. By all accounts, Vale and Ivy were truly perfect for each other, two halves of one whole.

  And finding his own other half was exactly what Max needed in order to put Juliet far from his mind. “Since we are on the topic of mathematics, how fares your plans for opening a registry service for those wanting to use your Marriage Formula?”

  Vale shook his head and tugged on the lapels of his coat. “Abandoned, I’m afraid. With my first child on the way and my fellowship with the Royal Society, establishing those registries no longer seems important.”

  The news was disappointing. Yet Max was never one to give up without putting forth some sort of argument. “I’m certain there are many people who would benefit from it.”

  Vale looked at him with interest, his dark eyes sharpening. “Are you one of the ‘many people’?”

  “I have given it thought, yes,” Max admitted, always having believed in Vale’s concept from inception. In fact, he wondered why he hadn’t thought of asking Vale sooner. “As you know, I intend to leave for Lancashire at summer’s end. I would like to have the matter of a wife settled before I go.” And if there was anyone who would not balk at marrying in such a short amount of time, it was Vale, who’d married by special license.

  “As I recall, you felt it was a matter of duty. Yet now, I sense urgency more than obligation.”

  “The Season is nearly over, and I am running out of time.”

  Vale nodded, his expression one of thoughtful scrutiny, as if he were gauging Max’s reaction. “And would it offend you to learn that I have already calculated your formula?”

  “No, indeed, for I am most eager to learn the results.” Knowing Vale, this should not have surprised Max, but it did. He had to wonder why Vale wouldn’t have told him immediately.

  Vale’s gaze veered to the pedestrians stepping past them, and he bowed his head absently in greeting as a low laugh escaped him. “I think not.”

  “Truly, I cannot imagine any reason why I would not wish to know,” Max stated. “I have no qualms over marrying for lack of fortune, family connections, or even beauty. So there can be no name you could utter of which I would disapprove.”

  When Vale arched a brow without speaking a word, Max suddenly understood why his friend had not told him the name. There could only be one reason, after all.

  Because the formula had paired him with the single person whom the ton knew to be his bitterest enemy—Juliet.

  Max clenched his teeth. “If that is true, then your equation is flawed.”

  Vale merely shrugged, not taking offense. “Which is another reason why I have discontinued my endeavors regarding the marriage registry. It was Ivy who made me realize that I’d disregarded the most important of all factors—love. That deep, abiding emotion overshadows all the other criteria, rendering them meaningless.”

  And Max knew better than anyone that Juliet could not give him love. Once upon a time, he had imagined that he could win her over, but no longer. He wanted more than mere glimpses.

  A painful sense of longing pierced his heart. “Then I will simply find a suitable match on my own. There is always another way.”

  Later that week, Juliet and Zinnia dined at Harwick House.

  Juliet found that she was not only well enough to attend but eager. In the past few days, she’d had no more pink spells but had grown rather fond of her sworn enemy. And she even imagined that they were back to becoming the friends they once had been.

  She sipped her wine contentedly. The dinner was pleasant and cozy, accompanied by the patter of rain over the copper awning outside the dining room window and the crackle of a low fire in the hearth. Max sat at the head of the table to her left, Marjorie to her right, and Zinnia across from her, providing a taste of the life she’d wanted upon her return to London.

  “Maxwell has decided to become serious about finding a bride,” Marjorie said as the footmen brought in trays laden with capons, roasted potatoes, candied carrots, and also a fine aspic of pork and eggs.

  All eyes fell on Max, waiting for confirmation. Juliet felt a sudden anxious rise in her pulse, though without cause. She already knew Max wanted to marry soon and had taunted him on several occasions because of it. At the moment, however, she could think of no suitable jest to cause him embarrassment.

  “I had a recent conversation with Lord Ellery, who explained to me the logic of how hosting a party often brings to mind the ones, in particular, you wish to invite.” He looked pointedly at Juliet, making her wonder if he knew this had been her advice to Ellery. “Of course, it is a rather rudimentary notion . . . ” He let his words trail off as a smirk gave her the answer.

  “And yet you still managed to understand the concept? Bravo, Max.” She saluted him with her glass. “Have you made the list for your party?”

  “He wishes to have a ball instead,” Marjorie added, her tone shocked as she exchanged a glance with Zinnia. “As I said, he’s quite serious.”

  The cozy, warm feeling Juliet had experienced only moments ago transformed into an unpleasant churning that made her wine taste bitter. She set her glass down, even while knowing that this sensation had nothing to do with her wine and everything to do with Max’s decision. When he married, it would change everything about their dinners.

  What if he chose to marry an idiot, or a shrew who had no sense of humor? Or some self-absorbed cabbage whose idea of intelligent conversation began and ended with her most recent purchase at the milliner’s? If he made the wrong choice, these dinners would suddenly become a chore she would have to endure, rather than something she enjoyed.

  “Actually, I have begun my list,” Max said. “It is surprising how clear everything becomes, once you set ink to paper. Several young women have shown themselves to be quite intelligent, possessing varied interests and pleasing conversation.”

  Juliet clenched her fists in her lap but kept a congenial—if a bit strained—smile on her lips. “
You failed to mention your requirement of one who relishes a good argument. Of all traits, surely that is on the top of your list.”

  “I will reserve all of my arguments for Parliament and offer my bride a perfectly agreeable home life.”

  And for some reason, hearing those words sparked Juliet’s ire. Or perhaps it was the smugness in his countenance, as if he were issuing some sort of challenge, that he would make the best husband and his marriage would be the happiest in all of England. Essentially, he was promising this to a woman he hadn’t even chosen, and—drat it all—Juliet might be the teensiest bit envious of her. Because if anyone was stubborn enough to make good on his promise and keep his wife happy all the days of her life, it was Max.

  “Do you know I have never hosted a ball?” Marjorie asked, her question cutting through the sudden tension. “We’ve had parties and dinners aplenty, even with a bit of dancing in the parlor, but never a ball.”

  Zinnia lifted her serviette from her lap and delicately touched the corner of her mouth. “A ball is so much effort. And our houses are similar in the way that, to truly have enough room for dancing, we would need to use the first-floor portrait gallery.”

  “You are right, Zinnia. The gallery would be the only option, leaving room enough for a quintet in the adjoining hall.” Marjorie relaxed, reclining back in her chair. “That is a relief, as I’d feared I would be forced to demolish a wall, as Maxwell has done at his townhouse.”

  Juliet’s throat closed, and she was thankful that she hadn’t taken another sip of wine or else she would have choked. “Demolished a wall?”

  “Yes.” Max cut into his capon as if the matter were nothing of consequence.

  “A ghastly sight, to be sure,” Marjorie said with a flip of her fingers in the air before she reached for her wine goblet. “I went to visit yesterday and saw the wreckage with my own eyes. Why, it is practically unlivable. I shudder to think how long it will take to finish.”

  “Mother, are you purposely trying to pique Lady Granworth’s interest or unleash a tempest? As it is, dark clouds are forming above her head, and her stare is so cold that I am feeling chilled.”

  Only then did Juliet realize her smile had slipped. Not only that, but the flesh around her eyes felt tight and tense. She hadn’t felt this exposed and under the glass since her marriage. Of course, during those years, she had never lost her composure. But leave it to Max to set her off kilter and then to be ungentlemanly enough to make note of it.

  Drawing in a breath, she fixed an unruffled, pleasant expression in place once more.

  “Of all people, she deserves to know what is happening with a property that could very well become hers in mere weeks,” Marjorie reminded.

  “That outcome simply isn’t possible, as I am going to win the wager,” Max said with such certainty in his steady gaze that Juliet doubted her own choice. “And regardless, the house is mine by right and by deed to do with as I choose.”

  “Not if you make it unlivable for me after I win. That isn’t fair.” A rise of anger—or perhaps panic—flooded her. Why was he doing this? After the other night at Lady Haguelin’s ball, she thought there was a renewed connection between them. Yet this evening, it seemed that Max was doing everything in his power to sever that bond. It left her confused and hurt. And then—yes—decidedly angry.

  “I am still complying with the rules of our wager.” Again, he focused on his capon as if everything between them was only about the wager.

  Was there not something more for him as well? But clearly, she had her answer in the gradual withdrawal of his usual challenging nature. It was replaced by a remoteness that not only made her worry about losing her home but losing her family, friends, and even her favorite enemy.

  Until this moment, she hadn’t thought his victory was even possible.

  Max knew something had to change. He’d been falling back into the same behavior that had once left him standing in her foyer with a ring in his pocket and a crumpled missive in his hand.

  These past months had been a trial for him, though perhaps also a way for him to finally put the past to rest. At every gathering, he had an uncanny awareness of her, his gaze knowing her exact location in a room. And even when he wasn’t near her, his thoughts betrayed him by running in a constant loop of Juliet.

  For his own sanity, it had to stop.

  In fact, since the morning following the Haguelin ball, he’d nearly decided on a complete withdrawal from her company, but then Mother had surprised him with this dinner. And here Juliet was, filling his thoughts and his senses and making it impossible to forget her.

  Hadn’t she already claimed enough of his life?

  “Maxwell, if you cut any harder into that poor fowl, I will begin to fear for my plate,” Mother said with a laugh, edged with a modicum of tension.

  Looking down at the shredded capon in his plate, he abruptly set down his knife and fork, then reached for his wine. “My apologies. My thoughts were distracted.”

  “I imagine so,” Juliet chimed in, her smile brittle. “With a bride to procure, your own wedding to attend, and then your inevitable departure for Lancashire on the horizon, it is a wonder you’ll even have time to arrange repairs to the townhouse.”

  She was goading him, he knew, but that did not stop the wayward thrill rushing through him. Damn but he loved to argue with her, loved to see that blue flame in her eyes. And even though he told himself that he would remain detached, he couldn’t resist just one more row with her.

  He took a sip of wine, savoring the heated discord between them. “The work is not so extensive that it will be neglected for any amount of time. If you like, I could arrange a tour for . . . say . . . the first of June.” He paused for a moment, then feigned surprise. “Oh, but wait. You won’t be in town by then. Pity.”

  With a cool gaze and steady hand, she lifted her glass to him. “We shall see.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  After stewing all night, Juliet had come to a decision. She was going to ensure Ellery’s victory by any means necessary.

  In the beginning, her plan was simply to let Ellery’s character speak for itself. After all, she’d done nothing to ensure his favor among the ton before the wager. And other than a lost fan in the shrubbery, she had done nothing since, yet she still expected to win.

  Now, however, she would need to take more direct, even drastic, measures. While she didn’t have a fully formed plan yet, she knew that it was her only option. She wasn’t going to leave London. Her home was here, and she would fight for it.

  But first, she was going to see what sort of disaster Max had made of her house.

  Lifting the hood of her cloak to help shield her identity, she began an early morning stroll. It was not uncommon for Juliet, after all, though usually she did not leave at dawn. But since the reason for her trek was not entirely aboveboard, she required the certainty that most of the people in these houses were still fast asleep.

  After all, the last thing she wanted was for her name to be in the Standard for sneaking into a townhouse that did not belong to her. Yet. And by all accounts, Max was still living at Harwick House, so she needn’t worry about an encounter with him either.

  By the time she finally arrived, her nerves were in a dither. She wanted to stand in front of the house and simply gaze upon it, cataloging how the years had pitted a few bricks and rounded the edges of the short set of stairs leading to the door. Amidst the glossy black paint was a familiar lion’s head knocker. But as much as she wanted to linger, she was all too aware of the houses around her. Servants were typically the only ones awake at this time of day, but everyone knew that all it took was a whisper from a chambermaid, and the entire ton would learn of Juliet’s criminal act by breakfast.

  Therefore, Juliet kept walking until she rounded the corner. Then she slipped behind the house and through the garden gate.

  The garden had overgrown. What was once pruned and manicured by their gardener—or even by Juliet’s own hand—was no
w indistinguishable. It seemed as if the gentleman who’d purchased the house upon her parents’ deaths hadn’t tended the grounds at all.

  She slipped in through the servants’ door after discovering it was the only one unbolted. Inside the house, the clutter from laborers remained in the hall—various tools, pails, and brushes. The rooms were quiet, drowsing beneath dusty white sheets. Beneath the pungency of turpentine, the house still carried a familiar scent, as if she might see Father’s pipe smoldering in a dish nearby or find Mother’s lavender sachets within the drawers of the console table in the morning room.

  As she traversed the ground floor, she felt fairly certain that the laborers would not arrive for hours to come. After all, the noise of the hammering, or whatever they did, would surely cause a fuss with the neighbors if it happened before eleven.

  Of course, Max likely wouldn’t care about bothering the neighbors. He did what he pleased, as the walls around proved. He hadn’t cared about upsetting her when he bought the house out from under her nose. He’d done it to get under her skin, to make her angry enough that she would be willing to leave London. Yet with each step, she was pleased to find variegated wooden planks beneath her feet, telling her that he truly was making necessary repairs. There were also portions of the crown molding that had been replaced but not yet painted, along with fresh plaster to fill in the cracks on the walls.

  Lowering the hood of her cloak, she lifted her gaze upstairs, hesitant about what she would find. Would it be the disaster that Marjorie claimed it was, or had that been an exaggeration?

  Garnering her determination, she headed up the stairs to the first floor.

  Her thoughts drifted to the dinner last night and how much it bothered her to think about him narrowing down his choices for a bride. What if he hadn’t done any of this to get under her skin but had been sincere in the hope for a wife to live in this space with him?

  That thought bothered her even more.

  This was her house, and if anyone was going to live here, it would be her. Not Max and his new bride. Not Max and his family. She didn’t want to think about him laughing here, loving here, or kissing someone else in the library. Her library—where everything in her life had gone completely, utterly topsy-turvy because of his kiss!