Page 14 of The Rake and Lady Julia
"And what of love?"
"Love is but a fairytale," Julia said firmly, unable to meet his dark brown eyes.
She was practical. She was sensible. She did not believe in love.
Oh, but how she wanted to.
Lord Montague's handsome face was a picture of concern, as though he believed Julia was suffering from terrible malady. She had expected him to be annoyed, or even angry, but she had not expected to see pity in his eyes.
"Love is everything," Montague said firmly, after a pause, "And it makes anything possible. Tell me, my lady, what have you always wished for? If I make it so, will you then believe in love?"
He was, Julia realised, a hopeless romantic; like Byron, but less syphilitic. Montague would not give up his pursuit of her, she realised, unless she made it impossible for him. Unless she proved to him that love was not the panacea for all life's ills.
"I have always wanted to fly," Julia answered, allowing herself a mischievous smile—that ought to slow the marquess down.
Indeed, Montague's face fell somewhat at hearing her wish, but within a second, he wore a smile again.
"With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls. For stony limits cannot hold love out," he quoted, with a wink. "Your wish is my command, my lady. I shall teach you to fly in a sennight, and should I fail, I will leave you off to marry whatever dull, wealthy lord your parents deem worthy."
"Thank you," Julia bowed her head graciously.
A small part of her was thrilled that he had accepted her challenge so readily. Her mind excitedly tried to guess just how Lord Montague might make flying possible. But then a noise from outside brought Julia back down from her lofty heights, and she recalled that she had set him an impossible task, so that he might fail, and not succeed.
"You must leave," she said firmly.
"Indeed, I have work to do," Montague agreed, his brow creased in thought, "I bid you good-day, my lady. Our paths will cross soon."
"I will see you when you have discovered a way to fly," Julia agreed, allowing herself to feel a little relief that she would not again have to suffer the strange pangs of longing she experienced in his presence.
"Oh, no," the marquess grinned, "We agreed that if I cannot make you fly in a sennight, then I will leave you alone. Until then, I intend that our paths will cross quite often. Good-day, my lady."
Montague reached out, took Julia's hand, and kissed it lightly.
As she had not yet put on her gloves, his lips touched her skin and she shivered. He too seemed rather affected by it, though it was a more chaste act than their embrace upon the balcony.
"You will wear my ring upon this hand," he said, his eyes burning with the same desire that Julia felt in the pit of her stomach, "I swear it."
With that, Montague let go of her hand, turned on the heel of his Hessian boot, and marched back out the door he had come through.
Though Julia was sensible, practical, and did not believe in love, she had to admit that Lord Montague had the look of a man who might indeed make her wish come true.
That evening, after dinner, Julia retired to the parlour room with her mother. It was unusual for them to stay in for an evening during the season, but Lady Cavendish had cried off attending a musicale in Lady Engleby's, citing fatigue.
"We shall spend the evening trimming our bonnets, dear," she suggested, far more bright eyed than a woman claiming tiredness ought to be.
Julia, who was glad of the respite from the endless whirl of social calls, readily agreed.
The parlour room of Cavendish House looked out onto the square, and while Lady Cavendish and Maria bustled about, searching for needles and thread, Julia stood by the window, surreptitiously surveying Staffordshire House.
The house was in darkness, save for a few lights which shone from the topmost windows—the servant's quarters—and Julia assumed that Lord Montague was out and about. His reputation was such that even she—who before Wednesday night in Almack's had never met him—knew of Lord Montague's sociability, for want of a better word.
The gossip columns were often filled of tales of his escapades in Carlton House, the curricle races in Hyde Park, the ladies of thedemimondehe was rumoured to be linked to. If one had never met Lord Montague, it would be easy to believe that he was a rakehell of the worst kind, but Julia now suspected his reputation was all smoke and no fire.
There was a vulnerability to the marquess that touched at Julia's soul. He had placed his trust in her hands as easily as a child. He was lost; it was clear to see when one looked in his deep brown eyes—but was Julia the lady who could help rescue him?
She gave a small laugh at the idea that she, the girl who once believed she might dissolve into mist in Almack's, might help anyone who was lost. Though, she had to admit, there was some poetry in the idea of two broken souls making a whole together.
"What are you giggling at?" Lady Cavendish queried, coming to stand beside her daughter by the window.
