Page 6 of The Rake and Lady Julia
"I'd rather like you to live too," the alcove answered back, in a voice which was deep, melodic, and Etonian in its origin. "Preferably with me, preferably as my wife, and preferably until the day I die."
Julia blinked, as a warm flush stained her cheeks. Someone had heard her! They would think her fit for Bedlam, she thought, as she whipped her head around to see who it was who had spoken.
"I—" Julia began apologetically, before trailing off as she saw just who it was who had interrupted her contemplation, "Oh."
It was Lord Montague; he had silently stolen through the curtains and was watching her with eyes that were both amused and possessive. His handsome face wore a lazy smile that sent Julia's heart skittering, and she struggled to retain her composure in the face of being confronted with the man she had been ogling all night. The man who also just happened to be the son of her family's arch-nemesis .
The flatness of her tone was quite obvious, but it did not appear to have any effect on Lord Montague, who grinned across at her, his dark eyes paradoxically bright and sparkling.
"An 'oh' is not a no," he smiled, as he took a step closer, "I shall take heart from that."
"I would really rather if you did not take anything from me, my lord," Julia sniffed, making to take a step backwards before recalling that she was standing with her back against the wall, "And I would rather that you leave. It is not proper for you to be here with me, alone."
"My intentions are honourable, my lady," Lord Montague replied, taking a theatrical step backwards and holding up his hands in a sign of peace, "I would never seek to besmirch the reputation of my future wife—or any woman, for that matter."
"If you are so concerned about reputations," Julia sniped, "Perhaps you should pay some care to your own, my lord."
"I am wounded," Montague replied, clutching a gloved hand to his—rather broad, Julia had to admit—chest. "My lady does not think well of me."
"My lady does not think of you at all," Julia shrugged, as she struggled to control the hammering of her heart.
Montague, being tall and muscular, seemed to command all the space in the small alcove, and his very presence had sucked all the air out of Julia's lungs. It was alarming to the sensible, practical Julia to find herself feeling so scattered by the mere presence of a man.
Though he was devilishly handsome, she admitted reluctantly.
"If you do not think of me," Montague questioned, raising a laconic brow, "Then why have your eyes been following me around the assembly rooms all evening?"
Julia flushed; her spying had not been as skillful as she had thought.
"One must keep tabs on one's enemies, should one not?" she countered, when she finally found her voice.
"Am I your enemy?"
Either Montague was a very gifted actor, or her words had actually hurt him. Julia paused, as she thought on the rivalry between their two houses. Her father detested the Duke of Staffordshire and nurtured his hate as diligently as her mother nursed the blooms in her hot-house. Thomas, likewise, was driven into a rage anytime that he read about Staffordshire or his son in the papers—though one might forgive him his anger, given that a Montague had killed his father.
But Julia? No, she had never much been moved by the enmity betwixt their two houses. The need to shed the blood of enemies was a need felt only by the males of her line.
Though she did have some familial loyalty.
"I have no quarrel with you," Julia admitted, "But my father and your father, and my father's father and your father's father, and so on and so forth, have had plenty of quarrels. And should my father think that I was speaking to you—given who your father is—then he shall have a rather big quarrel with me."
"You might need to run that by me again," Montague winced, as Julia finished rambling, "Though I did catch that you have no quarrel with me—which is fortunate. I should hate for my future wife to dislike me before we are even wed."
Julia blinked; was he quite the full shilling? She knew that Lord Montague had a reputation for being the wildest of London's young-bloods. Perhaps he had hit his head during a Phaeton race on Rotten Row? Or maybe he had supped tainted wine during one of Prinny's infamously sordid parties at Carlton House.
"Are you always this ridiculous?" she asked, valiantly attempting to suppress a smile. It would be impossible, Julia realised, to be much in low spirits around Lord Montague. His eyes seemed to dance with constant laughter, and even his posture was ebullient—as though he knew that his next step would take him on a grand adventure.
"The rule of thumb with me, my lady," Montague replied, most earnestly, "Is that if the day ends in a "y", then I can generally be found doing something ridiculous. Though do not take that to mean that I am not sincere when I say that you are the most—"
Julia stilled, as she steeled herself to hear Lord Montague tell her that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Hundreds of men had said this to her over the years, and each one had expected to be awarded with gratitude for their observation that Julia's face was decidedly symmetrical. Each one had expected her to fall into their arms when they waxed lyrical about her hair, or her smile, or—in the case of the less desirable men—her figure.
None had said anything about her intelligence, her spirit, or her humour—the things which truly made her her . No, they had commented on her looks, something which she had no part in making, and commented on them as though they were what made her whole. Julia knew she was lucky to be beautiful, but beauty could also be a curse, when people were content to think that was all you were.
"—the most fascinating woman I have ever seen," Montague continued, happily, "I watched as you talked with Lord Pariseau—who, I feel you should know, wet his bed in Eton for the whole of his first year—and you looked so composed and polite, but then when I looked harder, I saw that you were not there at all. Lady Julia had left the room, and I wanted to follow you to whatever distant land it was to which you had travelled."
"I—what?" Julia frowned; what was he babbling about? Montague did not heed her question, instead he barrelled on.
"You were somewhere else, altogether, in a different land. Then, you moved through the room, and you were serene, and you were pretending not to watch me—though I knew it pretence—and you looked so straight-laced; the perfect society miss. Then, I stumbled through the curtains to find you here, looking into the distance—though, I really think you were looking into the past—and telling the wall that you wanted to live—not so straight-laced, after all. My interest is piqued."
