Authors: Unknown
Frances had never had a care for her figure before. “Corinna will want some, then,” Juliana said, piling them onto her handkerchief. She couldn’t leave all the macaroons for James. She needed some for the duke, and besides, the mere thought of James eating nine macaroons made her cringe. Nine! If three had made him so amorous, nine would likely bring on behavior Amanda would never forgive.
James took the basket and peeked inside. “One? You cannot leave me with just one.”
Maybe he was right. She
did
want him to act warmly toward Amanda tomorrow night—just not as warmly as in the museum. “Two, then.” She put one back in the basket and folded the handkerchief around the remaining seven. “But don’t eat them until right before the ball tomorrow,” she instructed as she slipped the bundle into her reticule. “You’re going to need extra stamina, so you mustn’t forget.”
“I cannot see,” Frances complained. “I should never have let you talk me into taking off my spectacles.”
“But you look beautiful, Auntie.” Juliana patted her on the arm. “Just wait until Lord Malmsey gazes into your big blue eyes. You won’t be sorry then.” Having just arrived at Lady Partridge’s ball, she looked around for the man in question, smiling when she spotted him across the room. “There he is.”
“Where?” Frances glanced around wildly. “I cannot see him.”
“Right there, Auntie. Leaning on the mantel.” Since it was quite cold for June, Lady Partridge had ordered the fireplaces lit on both ends of her impressive ballroom. “Come along. I’ll take you to him.”
Frances drew a deep breath and smoothed her soft peach dress down her sides, eyeing her lower-than-usual décolletage—although it wasn’t very low compared to what most of the ladies were wearing tonight. “Do I look all right?”
“You look perfect,” Juliana assured her, taking her arm as they started across the room. It was true. Frances looked much younger in the fashionable dress with her hair dyed and styled, and Juliana’s skillful hand with the cosmetics had completed her transformation. She
seemed to be trembling, but there was nothing Juliana could do to help that.
Standing in the glow of the fire, Lord Malmsey also looked nervous. Well, he should be. Not only was he falling in love for the first time in his life, but he was doing so while betrothed to another lady—and while Juliana knew that would soon cease to be a problem, he didn’t.
It was unfortunate a gentleman couldn’t call off a wedding, because that would solve everything. He’d be free to marry Aunt Frances, and Amanda’s father would have no grounds to disinherit her, leaving
her
free to find another suitor without so much pressure. But it just wasn’t done. Although a woman could back out of an engagement—assuming she was willing to be labeled a jilt—a gentleman had no honorable way to withdraw an offer of marriage.
As Lord Malmsey noticed them approaching, a tentative smile spread on his face. While it didn’t quite transform him—it didn’t, after all, smooth his creased forehead or improve his unfortunate receding hairline—he did seem more attractive than Juliana remembered. Perhaps it was his stylish suit, which was obviously brand-new, or perhaps it was because what was left of his hair had been neatly trimmed. Or perhaps it was a glow that came from simply knowing someone of the opposite sex actually cared about him.
Love could change a person.
When they reached him, his anxious gaze met her aunt’s. “Good evening, Lady Frances,” he said shyly.
A youthful blush suddenly tinted Frances’s cheeks, making her even more alluring. “Good evening, Lord Malmsey.”
“Please,” he said, gazing into her big blue eyes, “call me Theodore.”
Juliana had never heard the man’s given name—in fact, she felt somewhat surprised to hear he even had one. But Aunt Frances stopped shaking, and her lips curved in a timid smile. “Call me Frances, then, please.”
Lord Malmsey held out his arm. “Would you honor me with a dance…Frances?”
“My goodness, I’d love nothing more,” she gushed,
which sounded nothing like the formal words of acceptance she’d practiced with Juliana. But it sounded better, more genuine, and made Lord Malmsey grin in response. Shooting Juliana a disbelieving—and myopic—glance, Frances took his arm and sailed off with him.
Juliana sighed as she watched them drift toward the dance floor. Love was so inspiring.
“Did the macaroons work? Are my eyes sparkling?”
She turned to find Amanda standing beside her, wearing the dress Juliana had chosen because its gray-blue hue intensified the color of her eyes. Alas, those eyes weren’t noticeably sparkling, but Juliana wouldn’t tell her so. “You look lovely,” she said instead. Amanda did look lovely, actually, whether her eyes sparkled or not. Juliana’s hard work with her had definitely paid off. “Are you carrying your new fan?”
Amanda held it up. “And I’m wearing the gloves, like you told me to.”
“Excellent. Have you seen James—I mean, Lord Stafford—yet?”
“No. I don’t think he’s arrived.” Amanda’s not-sparkling eyes looked apprehensive. “His gifts are wonderful, but what if I still don’t like him particularly?”
“You will.” How could anyone not like James? He was warm, intelligent, kind, and caring, and even though he didn’t have time to go out much in society, Amanda shouldn’t care a fig about that. It wasn’t as though she was a social butterfly herself.
If anything, Juliana was more concerned about James liking Amanda, mostly because he seemed much more affectionate than Amanda. But soon he would discover they had interests in common—chess and antiquities—and hopefully the macaroons would work to make Amanda warmer than usual. Or at least more receptive to
his
warmth.
Amanda frowned toward the dance floor. “Is Lord Malmsey waltzing with your aunt?”
“Yes. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“He’s engaged to
me
,” she said.
It was Juliana’s turn to frown. “You’re planning to break that engagement, are you not? Under the circumstances, I should think you’d be happy to see him show
ing interest in another woman. It’s not your goal to devastate him, is it? Besides,
you’ve
spent the last week dancing with other men.”
In fact, two other men were approaching now. As Rachael had said, Amanda looked to be this Season’s Incomparable—at least until her novelty wore off.
“Smile, Amanda,” Juliana instructed through a fixed smile of her own. “You’re not engaged to Lord Stafford yet, so you might need one of these gentlemen.”
Before she turned her new, practiced smile on the potential suitors, Amanda had the good grace to look chagrined. Which was a good thing, because given her earlier attitude, Juliana had been tempted to call the whole plan off. Except then Lord Malmsey would have to marry Amanda, which would hardly be fair to either him or Aunt Frances.
Having multiple projects was proving to be complicated.
As Amanda went off to dance with the luckier of the two men, Juliana sensed a presence behind her and turned to see the Duke of Castleton. “Lady Juliana,” he said, his tone cultured and reserved as always, “may I beg the honor of your company for a dance?”
“By all means, your grace.” She loved calling him “your grace” and thinking that someday—maybe someday soon—other people would say that to
her
. She took the duke’s arm and headed toward the dance floor. “A waltz,” she said happily, shooting him a smile. “Now you’ll have an excuse to touch me.”
She’d uttered the words in a flirtatious manner, but although she was a very accomplished flirt, the duke didn’t seem to take her hint. “You’re looking beautiful tonight, my dear,” he said, and then he held her at a respectable distance throughout the entirety of the dance, and he didn’t touch her anywhere that wasn’t strictly necessary.
None of that meant he wasn’t enamored. He’d sent her flowers, after all. And he’d called her “my dear.” But all the same, Juliana had enjoyed the affection she’d received from James, and she wished the duke would loosen up a bit and show a little physical affection, too. Even a smidgen would be encouraging.
Luckily, she’d transferred the handkerchief-wrapped macaroons into the pretty yellow reticule that matched her dress. As they came off the dance floor, she slid the beaded purse off her wrist and opened it.
“Thank you for the waltz, my dear,” the duke said very formally.
“It was my pleasure.” She pulled out the bundle and handed it to him. “I baked macaroons for you.”
He looked startled. “In the kitchen?” he asked, as though there were somewhere else—someplace more acceptable—a proper lady of the
ton
might bake.
“Yes, in the kitchen. Chase ladies are known for making all sorts of sweets.” Since he wasn’t moving to do so, she unwrapped the macaroons for him. “Won’t you try one?”
Looking discomfited, he selected an especially small one and surreptitiously slipped it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing thoroughly before stating his opinion. “They are absolutely delicious,” he said. “I can see why the Chase ladies are known for their sweets.” He held forth the handkerchief with the rest of them.
She didn’t take it. “I’m so glad they meet with your approval. I hope you will enjoy
all
of them.” Seven macaroons might seem a bit much, considering three had made James overly affectionate, but she suspected it could take at least that many to ease a manner as reserved as the duke’s. “Thank you for the dance,” she added, with a very proper curtsy. Then she took her leave, before he could try to hand them to her again.
Men didn’t carry reticules—and the duke was entirely too fastidious to put a bundle of macaroons in his pocket.
He’d have no choice but to eat them.
The weather was always a popular topic of conversation, but it seemed even more so this year. In fact, James reflected as he stood in a circle of men at Lady Partridge’s ball, it seemed that lately people talked of little else.
“The sunspots are responsible for the cold,” Lord Cravenhurst was saying. “Clearly there is something amiss with the universe.”
Lord Davenport inclined his head sagely. “Nine groups of sunspots have been counted, plus several single ones scattered from the eastern to the western side of the sun. I fear they portend the end of the world. The sun is cooling off.”
“I think not.” James found himself half-amused by these absurd theories, but his other half was rather disturbed to think the country was being run by the crackpots expounding them. “Sunspots are hardly new. Galileo noted them more than two hundred years ago. If you’ll but examine the temperature records, you’ll find Britain has seen both uncommonly cold and uncommonly warm summers since then, and such periods have nothing to do with sunspots.”
Lord Hawkridge nodded. “Stafford is right.”
James gave the man a subtle nod in return, glad to have another non-crackpot in the discussion. He knew
Hawkridge from his Oxford days, although not terribly well—the man had been a much closer friend of Griffin’s. A newcomer to Parliament and a fellow Whig, Hawkridge had impressed James so far on the floor. He seemed a true gentleman, with a clear head and a keen sense of honor.
“I agree with Hawkridge and Stafford,” Lord Haversham announced. “Sunspots are not responsible for the cold. The moon is to blame.”
Hawkridge rolled his eyes at James before asking, “And how is that?”
Apparently not scientifically minded, Haversham shrugged. “It’s common knowledge that the cycles of the moon affect everything.”
“Nonsense.” Everyone turned to Lord Occlestone, a man who sadly—or fittingly, depending on one’s estimation of the fellow—resembled nothing so much as a pink-faced porker. “It’s not the moon
or
sunspots,” he declared loudly, spewing sputum on everyone else in the process. “It’s the fault of those upstart Americans.”
James wiped his face. “How the devil can you blame this on the Americans?” Occlestone had been another classmate at Oxford—one James hadn’t liked then and liked even less now. A staunch Tory, generally against any progress or reform, Occlestone was doing everything he could to block James’s bill to make smallpox vaccinations government-funded and mandatory for infants.
“North America is suffering even colder weather than ours,” Hawkridge said. “Their newspapers have been predicting famine in the coming months due to crop failure.”
“That’s not only a concern in North America,” Davenport put in. “I’ve seen reports of famine in Switzerland as well.”
“Famine or not,” Occlestone said, plainly disinterested in something so unlikely to affect him personally, “we can lay the blame at the feet of an American. Benjamin Franklin, to be precise.”
“At the feet of Benjamin Franklin?” Incredulous, James blinked. “I expect Mr. Franklin’s feet are decomposed by now. He’s been dead more than twenty-five years.”
The others laughed, but Occlestone’s porcine eyes narrowed. “Dead or not, he invented the lightning rod, did he not? I’ll have you know that the interior of the earth is hot due to electrical fluids circulating about beneath the surface. That heat is usually discharged into the air around us, but because of Franklin’s lightning rods—which are now being installed all over not only his country but ours as well—the earth’s process of releasing heat into the atmosphere has been interrupted.”
“That’s not how I’ve heard it explained,” Cravenhurst said. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Since lightning is heat, the lightning rods have taken the heat from the air. Hence we shall never again see summer.”
Davenport rubbed his balding pate. “Either way, Franklin would be responsible. But I still blame the sunspots.”
James decided that, Hawkridge excepted, they all had more hair than sense—even shiny-headed Davenport. Still, it wouldn’t do to call them idiots to their faces.
“Like all of you,” he said carefully, “I’ve given this much thought. And that, coupled with keen observation, has led me to dismiss these predictions of doom. There’s been a haze overhead the last months. I believe that haze is temporarily blocking the sun.”
Occlestone crossed his arms. “A haze?”
“Yes, a haze. Or a fog, if you will, or perhaps it is some sort of dust, since it appears to be dry. The rays of the sun seem to have little effect toward dissipating it, as they easily do to a moist fog arising from the water. Since the sun does not seem to be penetrating this haze, it logically follows that its rays are not reaching the earth and warming it as usual.”
“And to what do you attribute this haze?” Occlestone demanded.
“That I couldn’t tell you. I’m a physician, not a meteorologist. But I see no reason to jump to the conclusion that the condition will continue indefinitely.”
“Do you expect there’s a haze above America as well? I think not.” Occlestone’s pinkish face was turning rather purple. “I was forced to listen to your damned two-hour speech in Parliament, Stafford, but I don’t have to listen to you here.” And with that, he walked
off, muttering so loudly James suspected he was audible halfway across the ballroom.
“Good evening, Tristan,” James heard a familiar feminine voice say behind him.
He turned to see Juliana, dressed in such a cheerful bright yellow she seemed to make up for all the missing sunshine. But he didn’t like hearing her address Hawkridge by his given name, and he liked even less seeing her smile when the man walked closer, raised her hand, and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “You’re looking lovely tonight, Juliana.”
James didn’t hear what they said next. He was too busy telling himself he had no business caring who courted Juliana, and she was entitled to have genuine suitors, and at least Hawkridge wasn’t a prig and an ass. The next thing he knew, Hawkridge was gone—and Juliana was looking at him with a puzzled expression on her face.
“Are you all right, James?”
He blinked. “Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You just looked…odd.”
He shrugged. “Hawkridge is a fine fellow, isn’t he?”
“Yes. It’s a shame he was shunned by society for so long. I’m so glad Alexandra managed to clear his name.”
“Alexandra?”
“My older sister. His wife.”
“Oh.” Whatever scandal had afflicted Hawkridge, it must have happened while James was preoccupied by grief. Feeling an absurd rush of relief, it was all he could do to hold back a grin. Hawkridge wasn’t Juliana’s suitor—he was her
brother-in-law
. “I didn’t realize he was married to your sister.”
“I forgot you’ve met only Corinna. I shall have to introduce you to Alexandra.” She caught sight of someone and frowned. “That man doesn’t like you much, does he?”
Awestruck once again at her lightning-fast change of subject, James followed her gaze. “Occlestone?” He hadn’t realized she’d overheard their conversation. “He doesn’t like any of the bills I propose in Parliament. But I don’t like him much, either, so we’re even.”
“Two hours,” she said, looking impressed. “How was
your speech received? Other than by Lord Occlestone, I mean.”
He sighed. “I don’t think the House of Lords is prepared to expend more money fighting smallpox. They awarded two grants to fund Edward Jenner’s research—in 1802 and again in 1806—and they consider that enough. In addition, there are those who feel that making immunization obligatory would be a problem in itself. A matter of civil liberty. They believe imposing vaccinations is not acceptable in a country with a tradition of freedom.”
“They have a point,” she said thoughtfully.
He nodded. “When it comes to weighing personal freedom against the greater good, I admit to some ambivalence.” Very little in this world was black and white. “But I do wish there was more support for public funding of the effort to eradicate the disease.”
“Has your bill come to a vote?”
“Not yet, but I fear I know the outcome already.” His two-hour speech had been followed by four hours of debate—mostly not in his favor. “I shall try again next year. Perhaps for funding alone, given the resistance to making vaccination compulsory.”
“You’re a reasonable man, James.”
He shrugged. “Merely pragmatic. No matter how strongly I feel about conquering smallpox, I’m coming to believe there is nothing I can say that will override others’ desire to protect individual rights. And I’m not even sure their position isn’t legitimate.”
“But will money alone help? You’re already paying for other people’s vaccinations.”
“Only here in London. After all, my income, though not insubstantial, is limited. But government funds would go toward more than doctors and supplies—they would also pay for education. If everyone learned the importance of immunization and therefore decided to have their children vaccinated, the end result would be the same as if it were required.” Thinking this was quite a serious discussion for a young lady at a social event, he smiled and changed the subject. “Are you enjoying Lady Partridge’s ball?”
“Of course. I didn’t see you arrive.”
“That’s because you were dancing with Castleton.” The ass had looked as stuffy as ever, even with Juliana in his arms, which had cheered James tremendously. “Can I convince you to dance with me instead?”
“You’re here to dance with Amanda,” she reminded him. “Did you eat the macaroons before you came?”
“Absolutely. I assure you, I shall have enough stamina to dance with you both.”
“Very well,” she said with a laugh. “We can talk about your strategy as we dance.”
James didn’t want to talk about strategy. But he did want to get his hands on Juliana, with the intention of making more progress toward eventually kissing her, so he mumbled something that sounded like consent and drew her toward the dance floor.