Page 9 of The Rake and Lady Julia
"A low blow," Rob cried, struggling to suppress a smile.
"I can go lower," Penrith warned, "Don't tempt me, Montague."
With that, Penrith swept from the room, exuding wounded-ducal pride with his every step.
"He's unused to encountering a woman who is not impressed by his title," Orsino observed, as he sipped on his drink, "Pay no heed to his testiness—his whole world view has been challenged. And by a bluestocking, no less."
"If I ever paid heed to how testy you both are, then I don't think our friendship would have lasted two decades," Montague replied cheerfully. He was not in any way perturbed by Penrith's huffy exit, for he had known how his friend would react to such unmerciful teasing.
Penrith was the best of men, but at times he could take himself—and his title—a little too seriously.
"How lucky we are that you are so forgiving," Orsino replied dryly, before changing the subject, "Tell me, do you think your father will leave you alone, now that you have finally graced Almack's with your presence? Or will he expect it to be a recurring event?"
Rob sighed at the mention of his father; with all the excitement of histête-à-têtewith Lady Julia, he had forgotten his true purpose for attending Almack's—to convince his father that he was looking for a bride.
Rob briefly imagined telling the Duke of Staffordshire that he had finally found the woman he wished to marry, and that she just happened to be a Cavendish. The shock would probably kill him—though, not before he had a chance to kill Robert first.
"I do not know," Robert allowed himself a moue of distaste, "In all likelihood he will view my attendance as capitulation, and double down on his campaign to have me wed."
"He just wants to ensure that the line is secure," Orsino observed, ever tactful.
"Yes," Rob rolled his eyes, "The line is all he cares for. Not my happiness, or the happiness of the woman I shall marry."
"Perhaps he does not want you to suffer the way he has?" Orsino ventured, slightly hesitant at having brought up the sore subject of Robert's mother.
The Duchess of Staffordshire had died when Robert was but a boy; he had a few memories of her, which he treasured as though they were gold. Her blonde hair tickling his face when she hugged him, her scent of rosewater, her blue eyes which sparkled with love.
Confusingly, his memories of his mother were also inextricably intertwined with memories of his father—which were equally as bittersweet.
Fond words, delivered gruffly. Bellowing laughter as he horse-played. A swift kiss on the forehead before bed. Rob recalled these things as though they were a dream—and perhaps they had been—for his father had not shown anyone an iota of love since the day his wife died.
"Perhaps I should write him a letter of thanks, if that is the case," Rob grumbled irritably, "Dear father, thank you for being so tortured by my mother's death that you have decided that I should never know love in order to spare me a similar pain."
Rob picked up his glass of brandy, threw the remnants back, and plonked the glass back down on the table irritably.
"Should I call for another?" he asked, but Orsino shook his head.
"I have business in Whitehall in the morning," he said, as he pushed back his chair and stood up, "I will need a clear head. Goodnight, Montague, try not to worry too much about Staffordshire. I'm sure deep down he does care."
"Deep, deep, deep down," Robert muttered, as Orsino took his leave.
Robert waved for the footman to fetch him another decanter of brandy, and as he waited, he allowed his mind to drift back to earlier that evening. He had not expected to find anything except stale cake and bitter lemonade at Almack's, and he had most definitely not expected to find Lady Julia.
He had watched her all night. He had observed that she was also watching him. And when the crowds had been distracted by the sight of his two friends dancing—a rare event, for the two dukes never attended Almack's—the opportunity to be alone with Lady Julia had arisen.
Rob had oft been accused of acting without thinking—along with talking without thinking—and even now, he had to admit, that following Lady Julia into the quiet alcove had been a risky venture.
Not for his reputation, which was long gone, but for hers.
Still, fate had compelled him to follow her, if only so he could steal a glance, and what he had found had enthralled him—Lady Julia, with a lost look in her eyes, which echoed the gnawing feeling in his own heart.
For the past few years, Robert had felt somewhat out of sorts; like a dandelion clock holding on to its stem, aware that just one gust of wind could pull him apart and send him floating away in a million tiny pieces. Oh, he socialised with as much exuberance and enthusiasm as ever, but sometimes he felt as though the Marquess of Thornbrook was simply a character played by the Marquess of Thornbrook and not the real Robert at all.
The return of Orsino from the army, and the reuniting of the Upstarts had helped somewhat to ease this feeling. Robert had reined in the worst of his excesses; the drinking, the carousing, and the giving away of his heart to any woman who walked by—but still, something was missing.
And then, he had sighted Lady Julia, staring into the past with distant eyes which mirrored his own feelings of loss. Her blonde hair had caught the candle-light, her rosewater scent had filled the air, and Robert realised that he had given his heart away for the final time.
Unfortunately, the lady in question had not seemed entirely enamoured with the idea of accepting Robert's heart—but he was certain he could persuade her.
