Page 105 of A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Heirs

With another snap to the reins, Victor urged the mount faster. He needed to see Juliana, to reassure her all would be well. The memory of her silken skin, her whispered words of love, the promises they exchanged encased him in happiness.

But his cocoon of contentment shattered when, an hour earlier, Tierney had wrapped the black mourning band around Victor’s arm. “No doubt you will have to postpone the wedding until after the funeral.” Tierney’s words had splashed over Victor like ice water.

Damn.Right.

Victor’s morbid thoughts continued with the hope that the king’s long illness would have prompted advanced plans for a speedy funeral. Of course, he could whisk Juliana away to Gretna Green, but it would only provide more fodder for the rumor mills.

They would simply have to wait. The question remained—how long?

After what seemed an eternity, he pulled his curricle up to Pendrake Manor, threw the reins to a young groom waiting at the entrance, and climbed down.

Black mourning crape draped the front door and framed a black laurel wreath hanging in its center. Moments after Victor knocked, Frampton greeted him, a similar black band wrapped around his upper arm. “Mr. Pratt. Follow me.” Even Frampton’s curt instruction carried a somber weight.

More black crape draped the windows and railings of the staircase, transforming the cheerful atmosphere from the previous night’s ball to one of a house in mourning.

In the drawing room, Juliana peered up from where she sat on the sofa, her fair skin appearing even paler against the black bombazine, and her shiny, golden blond hair a stark contrast of color against the drab, unadorned gown.

Juliana sprang from the sofa. “Victor!” Hands outstretched, she raced toward him.

Oh, how he longed to pull her into his arms for a deliciously slow kiss. But alas, he’d have to wait. Juliana’s mother and the duchess rose in greeting, both dressed in the same horrible black. A black widow’s cap replaced the pretty lace one Mrs. Merrick usually wore, and even the duchess covered her lovely red hair.

He bowed. “Your Grace. Mrs. Merrick.” An incongruous smile tugged his lips. “Miss Merrick.”

Juliana took his hands in hers, the softness of them reminding him how they had played against his bare chest and teased down his abdomen. Had it truly been only hours?

He coughed, clearing his tightening throat. “Have you seenThe Muckraker?”

Juliana nodded. “I’m so sorry, Victor.”

He blinked. “Sorry? Whatever for? The person who wrote this despicable tripe is the one who should be sorry. And whenever I find out who it is?—”

Juliana placed a hand on his chest, and it calmed him. “I meant I’m so sorry for what it said about you. It was cruel and unjust.”

“That scandal sheet has never been anything but cruel and unjust,” the duchess said. “I truly believe whoever it is derives joy from hurting people.” She shook her head. “What kind of person does that?”

“Jealous, spiteful people who are unsatisfied with their own lives, no doubt,” Mrs. Merrick said.

Victor marveled at his good fortune at finding Juliana. Not only did he love her with his whole heart, and she loved him in return, but he was marrying into a family with kind, compassionate, and wise women. Unlike his own mother. “Your mother has a point. The culprit seems to have a vendetta against certain members of theton. The question is—why? What have I, you, or your family done to them?”

Juliana pulled Victor over to the sofa. “That’s exactly what The League is working on. Lady Montgomery has been analyzing—what she calls—the data.”

“It doesn’t help narrow things down when all the people we leaked information to are the biggest gossips of theton.” He shook his head.

Silence settled over them, and the clock struck half past one when the duchess broke it. “Juliana and I were discussing Lydia Whyte. I hate to speak ill of anyone, but I understand she had set her cap for you, Victor. She could harbor ill feelings toward Juliana and wish to punish you both.”

During his drive over, Victor had those very same thoughts, and after leaving Juliana, he intended to pay a call on Lydia. “Since we are all in a state of shock over the king’s death, let’s not discuss such unpleasantness, but rather turn the conversation to our upcoming wedding.”

The duke’s voice drifted into the room moments before he did. “And tell Mr. Beckham I wish to speak with him,” he called over his shoulder to Frampton. Attention fully on the drawing room, he said, “Ah, good. I’m glad you’re here, Victor. I’ve just come from Lords. The king’s funeral will be July 15.” He turned toward Juliana. “The question is, what have you decided, Juliana? Will there still be a wedding?”

Juliana gave Victor an apologetic smile. “Drake left early this morning for Lords. He’s unaware of my decision.”

The duchess tilted her head. “Which begs the question, Juliana. From Victor’s last statement, he seemed confident there would be a wedding. But according to Drake, when he left you last night in your bedroom, you were still deciding. Can you explain, Mr. Pratt?”

Everyone’s attention turned toward Victor, and the duke’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Yes, can you explain that?”

“Well—um—I?—”

“I sent Victor a note early this morning after I rose, informing him I had given it much thought and wished to proceed with our plans.” The words spilled from Juliana’s lips. Her hands twisted in her lap, the movement attracting her brother’s keen eye. Catching her in the lie, perhaps?

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