Page 7 of The Rake and Lady Julia
Julia, who had never had anyone watch her so closely, had to admit than when Lord Montague described her movements she did sound fascinating. Mysterious even. He made her sound like a body of water, so still that no one would guess the endless depths beneath the surface.
For a moment, Julia wanted to float away, to allow herself to become the lady that Montague had thought she was. But the moment was short, and the practical side of Julia elbowed its way into her consciousness.
"That is quite the pretty tale, my lord," she replied, steadying herself against his gaze, "But it is merely a tale. If my eyes wandered while talking to Lord Pariseau, it is merely because I find talk of horseflesh dull. If I looked serene, it is because I am serene and content to move within such genteel circles. If I stole away from the crowd for a moment, it was only because I wanted respite—"
"And to talk to the wall," Montague finished, narrowing his gaze into a frown. "Tell me, what was it that you were thinking when I arrived?"
"I was thinking that you should not be here," Julia blustered, irritation now filling her every nerve. Why did he insist on burdening her with his presence? Her heart was skittering, and her stomach was churning in a most alarming manner, and her breath—her cursed breath—was fast disappearing.
"No," Montague shook his head, a soft smile upon his lips, "You only thought that after I arrived—and it's true, and I will leave you in peace momentarily—but before? What were you thinking before? When you said that you wanted to live? I want to know."
Julia opened her mouth to reply but found that no words came. She longed to scold him and tell him he was far too forward, but in equal measures, she found she wanted to tell him everything—all of her secret hopes and wishes.
Perhaps he was a mind reader, for his eyes softened—almost affectionately—and he dropped his head bashfully.
"I am too rash," he decided, as he lifted his gaze to hers, a boyish smile upon his face, "I have proposed marriage and asked you to reveal your inner soul, without so much as a formal introduction."
"I am glad you have seen sense, my lord," Julia conceded, exhaling with relief whilst she ignored the slight stab of disappointment deep within, "We should return to the ballroom, before our absence is noted."
"Yes," Montague nodded, "And should I approach your father straight away, or wait a few minutes so as not to arouse suspicion?"
"I—what?"
Julia, who had been brushing down her skirts in preparation for making her re-entrance into the ballroom looked up in dismay.
"Perhaps it would be best if I waited," Montague mused aloud.
"Yes," Julia agreed, as panic propelled her away from the wall and toward the curtains, "I suggest, that before you approach my father, my lord, that you wait for eternity. And once you get there, wait five minutes more—that ought to do the trick."
Thoroughly shaken, Julia made to push past Lord Montague, but before she could, he reached out for her hand.
"Tell me that you do not feel what I feel," he whispered huskily, as he gazed down into her eyes and pulled her slightly toward him, "And I will leave you alone."
"I do not feel whatever it is that you claim to feel, my lord," Julia responded, though her mouth was dry and the shake in her voice was telling.
"Say it like you mean it," he countered, though he gave a begrudging smile to acknowledge that he was, perhaps, being a tad conceited. A smile which Julia found painfully endearing.
"I do not feel what you feel, my lord," Julia replied, finally manging to steady both herself and her voice.
Despite the thunder which roared in her ears, and the crescendo of her heart, she composed herself so that she was once again the cool Lady Julia thetonknew so well.
"I will thank you to release my hand," she added primly, with a pointed nod to his hand, which was still clasping hers firmly.
At her request, Lord Montague instantly let go, though he held her gaze with his chocolate eyes.
"I don't believe you," he finally said, by way of reply, "I think that you very much feel what I feel, Lady Julia—and that it scares you."
"Are you always this impertinent?" Julia bristled, her patience—which had been stretched thin—finally breaking.
"The general rule of thumb is that if the day ends in a "y", you can usually find me being impertinent," Montague offered, with a mischievous smile.
"Oh," Julia growled, so vexed that her legendary composure fled in the face of such irritating behaviour. "You think you are so clever, my lord. You think that every lady is simply dying to throw herself into your arms—but not this lady. You are rude, you are arrogant, and when I leave, I shall not think of you again."
"I doubt that," Montague gave a smirk, "I think that you shall think of me quite often—though perhaps not in the way that I might like. Though, as the Bard says; Love me or hate me, both are in my favour. Either way, you are taking me with you when you leave, my lady; I will be either in your heart, or in your mind ."
"You will be in a coffin six feet under if you continue to annoy me, my lord," Julia harrumphed in return.
She had not once, in all her life, threatened anyone with violence, but she had the sneaking suspicion that Lord Montague was the type of man who could make a woman do things she had never done before.
