The Debutante Is Mine (2 page)

Juliet stood in front of Lilah, hands clasped and eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. A slight gesture but laden with immeasurable disapproval. The women in the family possessed a skill for such looks. “Do not make the assumption that a fashionable degree of beauty will guarantee your heart’s desire.”

Lilah chose not to mention that she’d abandoned any hope of fulfilling her
heart’s desire
long ago. “But you married Lord Granworth. At the time, he was one of the wealthiest men in England.”

“And renowned for his exacting taste in what he considered
beauty
.” Juliet closed her eyes for a moment and exhaled. “Nevertheless, even though he was thirty-four years my senior, I was fortunate to gain his interest. After all, you might recall a slight . . .
scandal
regarding the events that led to my sudden marriage.”

Yes. Lilah had heard mention of it during one of her father’s rants to Mother about the embarrassment of her bloodline.

“Lord Granworth saved me from ruin,” Juliet stated, the dip in her voice hinting at a modicum of regret. “But had I been named the
Original
, my life might well have turned out quite differently.”

“You mean to say that you
weren’t
?”

Juliet averted her gaze, her attention on the slow progress of their carriage in the ever-increasing traffic. “No. In fact, the man I’d hoped to marry ended up marrying the
Original
instead.”

Shocked, Lilah’s lips parted on a gasp. “She could not have been more beautiful, of that I am certain.”

“As I said, the
Original
possesses other qualities . . . ” Juliet’s words drifted off as her eyes widened, settling on a point over Lilah’s shoulder.

Lilah pivoted on her heel and saw a handsome man on an ebony Thoroughbred, stopping on the street before them. Beneath a black hat, he wore an expression similar to Juliet’s, though his was darker and somewhat angry. Lilah recognized him as Maxwell Harwick, Marquess of Thayne—or rather, the other party involved in Juliet’s
scandal
from years before.

“You are still in London,” Thayne said, gritting his teeth.

Juliet lifted her chin, her lips tight. “As you see.”

“Hmm,”
he growled. “I’d heard a happy rumor that you’d returned to Bath.”

The air surrounding them suddenly became weighted and tense. Even the horse must have felt it because he shifted and exhaled a harsh, steamy breath from his nostrils.

“I see things have not changed, Max. You’ve fallen behind on the latest gossip.” Juliet smiled, even while her eyes narrowed. “I am living here now and staying with my cousins for a time. The townhouse where I once lived with my parents is looking for a new owner, and I plan to purchase it. This week, as a matter of fact.”

“Impossible. That house is not four doors down from my mother’s residence.”

The incredulity and unleashed outrage in his tone caused Lilah’s shoulders to stiffen. Ever loyal, she stood beside her cousin in a show of support. Not that the marquess would notice. As of yet, he had not once glanced in her direction.

Juliet squeezed her hand as she continued this heated exchange. “I have already been to see your mother, and she couldn’t be more delighted about the news.”

“She never mentioned—”

“Thayne!”
A shout interrupted the exchange. “Are you accompanying me or not?”

Lilah’s attention shifted to the commanding tone. As a coach and four ambled out of the way, she first noticed the chestnut Destrier. It towered over the bays and trotters on the street. Such a colossal horse was never seen in
town.
Hunting grounds, perhaps, but certainly not the teeming London streets. Was the rider prepared for battle? She nearly laughed at the thought. Then, tilting up her head, she wanted to see the man who would dare.

Yet when she did, something unexpected happened. She met his gaze. And, more important,
he
met hers.

Even in the shadow beneath the brim of his gray top hat, Lilah distinctly noted the uncanny brightness of his irises. His aquiline nose sloped down to a broad mouth that slowly arced upward at one corner. More smirk than smile. She tried to blink but couldn’t. Breathing proved equally difficult.

Then, he inclined his head, touching two fingers to that brim. The gesture was meant as an acknowledgement, she was sure. She’d seen gentlemen salute similarly to other young women but never to her. And that was when she realized her error.

Likely, from this distance, she was confusing the direction—or
target
, rather—of his gaze. Clearly, he was yet another man caught by her cousin’s beauty. She could not fault him for it. Even so, knowing it made her feel foolish for that single instant she’d thought otherwise.

Uncomfortable prickles of heat burned her cheeks. She couldn’t be certain, however, if it was from embarrassment or a keen sense of longing. All she knew was that a man such as he would never tip his hat to her, let alone call on her.

With that final thought, their carriage pulled up, blocking her view. The marquess and her cousin’s exchange concluded abruptly too, which was likely for the best. And now, it was time to return to Hanover Street and face the empty parlor.

At least there was a measure of comfort in knowing what to expect.

J
ack Marlowe surveyed the flower market at Covent Garden with an appreciative eye. Not for the flowers but for the enterprise itself. He admired this horde of ragtag sellers, waving bundled blossoms in his face, shouting alliterative phrases to gain his attention.
“Penny posies, ’ere. Spare a penny for pretty posies!”

Removing his hat to feel the cold morning mist on his face, Jack inhaled a potent combination of scents—the earthy, brackish stench of the gutters, the lingering odor of smoke and soot, and, rising above it all, the cloying perfume of flowers spilling from baskets in bright shades of pink, yellow, violet, red, and blue.

“Breathe it in, Thayne,” Jack said to his friend, walking beside him. “This market is the epitome of determination. The very heart and soul of survival.” He understood it well. He could even see a younger version of himself in a few of the faces of the errand boys and young hawkers scurrying about. Then, taking it all in, Jack raked a careless hand through his blond mane before donning his hat.

Beneath the black brim of a different hat, Max Harwick, the recently named Marquess of Thayne—
poor wretch
—furrowed his dark eyebrows. He’d been in a foul temper since encountering Lady Granworth and her blushing companion near Hyde Park a short while ago. “I see utter chaos.”

“Precisely. A living, breathing entity born from hunger, cold, and perspiration. There is nothing more powerful.” Jack still felt that invigorating chaos in his veins—that need for
more
. Even now, after he’d amassed a fortune through years of his own hard labor, he still craved it.

Thayne issued a grunt of acknowledgment as he scrutinized the market. Then he chuckled. “There might be one thing more powerful than chaos.”

He gestured with a nod in the direction of the opera house, where a young buck dropped to his knees in front of a young woman in a feathered turban.

“Idiocy?” Jack watched the scene with a measure of loathing when the gentleman’s signet ring fell onto the ground. Likely, the ill-fitting bauble was new to his finger from a recent death in the family. And as a holder of the title, his first order of business, clearly, was to procure a mistress.
What rot.

But Jack expected nothing more from the aristocracy.

Scrambling to pick up the ring, the sap slipped it back on his finger before thrusting an audacious bouquet into the woman’s arms. Yet she seemed not to notice. Her attention was fixed elsewhere. In fact, she appeared to be looking in
his
direction.

Jack held her gaze in return. He couldn’t help himself. He enjoyed women, and they—by all accounts—enjoyed him as well. He made sure of it.

“Either idiocy or
lust
,” Thayne amended with a scoff.

Suddenly, appearing out of the throng, a shaggy-haired errand boy rushed up, stopping just short of stomping on the toe of Jack’s well-worn Hessians.

“Mr. Marlowe, sir?” the boy said, his thick Cockney accent nipping off the ends of each word. He stood no taller than a walking stick, his face lively and eager, though perhaps in need of a good scrubbing. He’d earn more coin with a clean face—a lesson Jack had learned.

“What can I do for you, my good fellow?” Jack asked, automatically reaching into his waistcoat pocket for a coin.

Surprisingly, the boy refused it with a shake of his head before lifting a yellow boutonniere into view. “Compliments o’ Miz Raintree.” He pointed to the woman on the opera house stairs. And, in turn, she offered a smile. A somewhat familiar smile.

“An acquaintance of yours, Marlowe?” Thayne asked.

Jack started putting the pieces together. An opera house likely meant an opera girl, and he’d entertained quite a number of them this past Christmas. He seemed to recall wanting to prove the common phrase of
the more, the merrier
. “Likely.”

Jack looked down to the boy, who was still holding the flower. He knew that if he offered the coin again, the boy would be too proud to take it. So he thought of a better option. “Would you deliver this boutonniere for a half a crown?”

The boy’s eyes went wide. “Yes, sir!”

“Very good.” Jack handed him the coin and watched with pleasure as the lad bit down on it like a true entrepreneur. “Now, deliver this to the besotted fool in front of Miss Raintree, where it will be appreciated.”

Grinning, the boy stowed the coin and rushed back to the opera house. He’d just earned half a crown for running forty paces. All in all, an excellent day’s wage. After the exchange transpired, the kneeling gentleman leapt to his feet and embraced the opera miss. She, however, cast a wan smile in Jack’s direction.

“I think she expected you to renew your acquaintance,” Thayne remarked with sly amusement.

“Then, Miss”—her name was on the tip of his tongue, but he’d already forgotten it—“
she
wasn’t paying attention when I gave her my speech.”

Jack turned his attention to the flowers, wondering which blooms were the most suitable for paying a morning call. He’d never done this before, either buying flowers for a young woman or paying a call. However, a favor was a favor.

“Speech?”

“Yes, the one where a man explains that he’s not looking for a wife or even a mistress, while stating that whatever they have together will be satisfying but of a brief duration.” After paying for a handful of pink posies, Jack noted his friend’s bewildered expression. “I believe in honesty from the very beginning. Don’t you have a similar speech?”

Thayne chose not to answer. Though Jack assumed he did have one because it was too early for Thayne’s new title to have turned him into a completely dishonorable cad.

Casting that thought aside, Jack looked down at the bouquet in his hand and found it on the small side. Then again, his hands were on the large side. When he was a boy, his mother had often called his hands and feet
lion’s paws
and told him that if he finished his broth, he might grow into them. Although he doubted that the meager broth they’d supped on had helped, eventually he had grown. Even so, his mother still bade him to eat his fill whenever he visited her.

For good measure, Jack purchased two more clusters of posies and paid another woman for a blue ribbon to tie them all together.

“If you are not a romantic, then why are you buying flowers?” Thayne exhaled, seemingly impatient to end this errand as he glanced over to where their horses were tied.

“Because I promised Vale I would.” Jack always kept his promises. Like
honesty
, this was part of his code of honor. The part that made him a better man than his father. “Our friend arrived at my country estate on Christmas Eve to ask about the validity of his
Marriage Formula
.”

“The notion is ingenious,” Thayne remarked as they maneuvered their way out of the market. “The
ton
is still talking about it. Using a mathematical equation to find a bride would obliterate the need for the standard methods of courting. There’s no need to subject oneself to constant scrutiny by attending parties and balls . . . ”

As his friend continued to list the horrors of what the aristocracy willingly endured, Jack thought back to the night when Vale had arrived. He’d looked like a man half-possessed. Jack had always thought his friend had a brilliant mind but one plagued with doubt.

Then, suddenly, something had changed. Vale had become sure and confident, boldly stating that his formula worked. And before he’d left, he’d handed Jack a card with the name of a woman and her address, asking him to send her flowers.

At first, Jack had thought that the woman was a paramour of Vale’s, but his friend extinguished that immediately by stating that she was
respectable
.

Jack had wondered aloud why Vale was bothering with the flowers.

“Because I promised her friend that I would do whatever I could for her,”
Vale had said, keeping the full story to himself.

“You have me intrigued.”

“No, Marlowe, I absolutely
forbid
you to be intrigued.”

Forbid him? Oh, but there was nothing more decadent than forbidden fruit. And Jack, because he never refused a friend, agreed to the favor. Granted, that had been on Christmas Eve, and now it was March—business matters had called him out of the country. Nevertheless, he’d kept the card with him to serve as a reminder each day since.

Now that he was back in London, he was prepared to fulfill his oath. One reason was because it was the honorable thing to do, but the largest reason was because he was intrigued.

Apparently, Vale thought that sending this young woman flowers would help her in some way. But what genuine need could be remedied with such a paltry gift?

Jack had supposed that Vale could have been dangling this mystery in front of him for another purpose. Something that had to do with the
Marriage Formula
. However, Jack readily dismissed that idea. After all, Vale knew that he had no intention of marrying. He had an abundance of lovers and no desire to produce offspring; ergo, Jack had no need of a wife.