Page 16 of The Rake and Lady Julia
What harm was there to dream, she thought; especially when Lord Montague was the stuff that dreams were made of.
Chapter Four
Robert's morning ablutions took every bit as long as those of Beau Brummel, though unlike the famed dandy, Robert did not have a cohort of hangers-on watch him dress.
No, the reason for Robert's lengthy morning rituals, was that his valet, Balthazar, read the papers to him while he bathed. Balthazar likely thought it a grand affectation on Robert's part, or that the marquess thought himself too top-lofty to read himself, but the truth was rather different.
Printed word was something of a mystery to Robert. Letters seemed to jump around upon the page, running into each other, or disappearing altogether. He could read the same word a dozen times, yet each time it would appear as new to him.
In Eton, he had been beaten mercilessly by the schoolmasters for his stupidity, then beaten again by his father when he returned home with letters denouncing him as a dunce.
But Robert knew he was not a simpleton.
If he concentrated and gave himself time, he could eventually wade his way through a text, but during his schooldays time had not exactly been in surplus—so after a spell, Robert had learned to improvise. Or bribe, if one was being a pedant.
He cajoled other classmates to write his essays, affected a squint to excuse his poor reading, and learned quite quickly that if one was charming, one could talk oneself out of almost anything. And should anyone question him, or think that they might tease him, Montague had the greatest remedy—two friends who would defend him to the end.
At Oxford, the tuft-hunters had gladly obliged Montague by writing out the essays he dictated to them, and given his rank, his tutors had been at pains to accommodate him, often reading aloud works at his request. In university, Robert had discovered a love for poetry, literature, and plays, and he would have gladly read every book in the Bodleian had he been able. As his final exam had loomed, Robert had been filled with anxiety that he would finally be found out for the oddity he was. Thankfully, however, having tried to assuage his anxiety with mead, he had broken his wrist by vaulting a billiards table, meaning a transcriber had been required, and Robert had achieved a first.
Though he had affected disinterest, his result had been a secret triumph; he had overcome the adversity of his eyes—for he was certain what he suffered was some ocular affliction—and had finally proved himself as capable as his peers.
Not that his father had thought much of his achievement.
"A first?" Staffordshire had grunted, when Robert had ridden down to Kent to share the news, "Are you expecting a pat on the head for that, dear boy? Any man with money might buy himself an education —I'm certain they awarded you that in expectation that you might bestow on them some of your funds, once you come into the title. Ah-you are still a fool if you believe you actually earned that."
Staffordshire had descended into raucous laughter, whilst Robert had felt himself deflate before him.
"You think yourself an intellect," the duke had continued, snorting a little with laughter, "But no intelligent man would send missives like yours—with a 'b' for a 'p' and a 'd' for a 'q'. You are a fool Robert; that you always have been, and that you always shall be."
"If you say it," Robert had shrugged, "So be it. I shall show myself out, Father ."
And so, Robert had set forth for London, with his father's paternal words ringing in his ears. He had spent the best part of a decade seeking to prove Staffordshire right; he had relished in cultivating the persona of the Marquess of Thornbrook, rakehell extraordinaire, until he realised, too late, how difficult it was to shrug off the yoke he had created.
"This columnist has it on good authority, that a certain Lord P and a certain Lady J, are expected to make a spectacular union."
Balthazar's voice broke through Rob's reminiscing, his words startling Rob so much that he dropped his bar of Pear's Transparent Soap into the tub.
Balthazar tried not to wince as he watched Robert fish about for the expensive bar—soap was considered a luxury item and was heavily taxed—before he continued on at Rob's impatient bidding.
"In fact," Balthazar read, as Robert feigned interest in lathering his toes, "This columnist has it on good authority that Lord P is expected to call on the lucky lady this very day."
"Who on earth is Lord P?" Robert grumbled, as he wracked his brains to try and think which peer the paper was alluding to. He knew very well that "Lady J" referred to Julia, but for the life of him he could not think of who hid behind the moniker of Lord P.
"Let's see," Balthazar said, as he carefully folded the paper—which would be passed around the servants by descending rank—and put it safely aside, "There is Lord Postlewaithe, Lord Powers, Lord Pennelegion—no, he is Orsino now—Lord Pomfrey, Lord Pairiseau—"
"Pariseau."
Rob hissed, as Balthazar began to pour a jug of warm water over his head, to rinse away the suds, as an image of the earl he had seen conversing with Julia danced in his mind. "It is he; I know it. A blackguard of the highest order!"
"I did not know you were acquainted with the earl," Balthazar frowned.
"I am not," Robert admitted, as he rose to a stand, slopping bathwater all over the tiled floor, "He was a few years ahead of me at Eton—but he is a blackguard, I know it."
"As you wish," Balthazar murmured, as he discreetly covered Rob's nakedness with a warm towel.
The valet then set about shaving Rob, cutting his hair, and finally dressing him in a white shirt, worn under a waistcoat of burgundy silk.
"You are done," Balthazar pronounced, once he had finished tying Robert's cravat, "And your father is expecting you in his library at noon."
