Page 54 of The Rake and Lady Julia
"—and I love him," she said simply.
"Oh," Lady Cavendish held a hand up to her mouth, while beside her Lord Cavendish turned puce with rage.
"Shall I have Maria brew you a nostrum, dear?" Lady Cavendish suggested brightly, as though that might solve everything.
"No, Mama," Julia gave her mother a withering glance, "Love cannot be cured."
"Love?" Lord Cavendish was on his feet now, and near apoplectic with rage, "I will not hear you say you love a Montague whilst you are under my roof."
"Fine," Julia shrugged, feigning bravery, though she felt far from it, "Then I shall leave."
"If you walk out that door, there will be no coming back," her father threatened, whilst her mama wailed beside him.
It took all of Julia's strength not to buckle under such a threat, but then the memory of Montague's hurt eyes reminded her that she had a debt to pay.
"If you care for your hate more than my happiness, then so be it."
Julia did not raise her voice, or scowl, or offer threats of her own. She was a woman grown, who had made her own decision and she would follow through with grace.
With a cool glance to her parents, and a short glare at Thomas, Julia took her leave of the dining room. Once out in the hallway, she kept walking, sweeping past confused servants, and the footman who leapt to open the front door for her.
Outside, she tripped down the steps of Cavendish House, not quite able to believe what she had done.
She had walked out on her parents. Defied her father. Denied her family in the name of love.
And she had not even remembered to bring a pelisse.
Shivering slightly in the early evening air, Julia made her way across the square, determined to find Montague, and beg his forgiveness. But when she reached Staffordshire House, she found it empty, and the stuffy butler was unable—or unwilling—to tell her where she might find her marquess.
"Lord Montague keeps his own hours," the man said, as he closed the door on Julia, "Perhaps try again in the morning—at a more civilised hour."
Lud.
Julia turned back to face the square, nervously aware that her parents might be watching her from the window of Cavendish House. In all her life, she had never once acted on impulse, or without a plan, and she was beginning to realise why.
Fear and dread filled her stomach, as doubt began to creep over her. What if Montague had no wish to hear her apologies? What if he denied her an audience—what then would she do?
Panic rose in her throat, and for a moment Julia felt as though she could not breathe, but then the sound of laughter drifted across to her from the square's gardens.
Charlotte!
Julia hitched up her skirt and ran, as fast as her slippers would take her, toward the gardens. She slipped through the gate, searching for her friend, and spotted Charlotte, arm in arm with Penrith, taking an evening perambulation.
"Julia," Charlotte waved as she sighted her.
Penrith, stuffy as ever, merely inclined his head in greeting, as aloof and ducal as ever.
"What are you doing out without so much as even a shawl?" Charlotte tutted, as Julia reached her, "Heavens, Shuggy, listen to me. I sound like an old, married lady."
"Not in public, dear," Penrith replied in a strained whisper, before gallantly asking Julia if she required the use of his coat.
"No," Julia stammered, before remembering to add a thank you, "I do not need your coat, what I need is your help. You see, I am hopelessly, completely, and irrevocably, in love with Lord Montague."
"I knew it," Charlotte thrilled, before falling silent as her husband did some elbow poking of his own.
"I love him, but I have hurt him greatly," Julia continued, before explaining to the pair of what had happened with the duel between Thomas and Lord Michaels.
"Oh, dear," Charlotte sighed, as Julia finished her tale.
