Page 11 of A Marriage for the Marquess (Barrington’s Brigade #1)

April 17, 1820

I n the solitude of her chamber, Juliet sat before her dressing table, the soft bristles of her hairbrush gliding through her hair. The reflection of the woman who stared back at her was between two worlds—the glittering facade of the ton and the stark reality of her family’s dire situation. It had been three weeks, and the memory of Lady Gladstone’s Gala and Marquess Glenraven were still vivid.

She opened the dressing table drawer and saw the ace of hearts that had been among her brother’s effects.

She glanced at the card, now a mocking omen, especially after Glenraven mentioned a shadow quest. Could there be a connection? She toyed with the idea, the corners of her mouth lifting in a wry smile. It was a fanciful notion that belonged to the stories her brother adored.

Three weeks since Lady Gladstone’s Gala, and while she attended the season’s social events, she had only fleeting encounters with Lord Glenraven. She and Aunt Geraldine had made their daily calls and listened as others spoke of Glenraven’s visits, yet he had not once come to Fairmont Abbey. As she sat combing her hair, the image of Lord Glenraven refused to fade—a man who had stirred something deep within her. The gentle pull of her brush was rhythmic and soothing, but it did little to calm the storm in her heart.

The Saturday after they’d met, she attended Lady Worthington’s garden tea and stood by the bough, admiring her roses.

“They’re lovely this time of year.” His voice was warm and familiar. She smiled, relieved that Glenraven was beside her. Had his words concealed a hidden meaning? Though their conversation was brief, his presence lingered with her long after the tea had ended. What if she was mistaken about his interest? The thought left her feeling foolish and vulnerable.

She and Aunt Geraldine made afternoon calls and in the distance saw him leaving before they arrived. The following Wednesday evening at the Bishop’s soiree, Juliet was seated across from Glenraven. He was charming, conversational, yet there was a restraint in his manner. His eyes, though kind, held a shadow of something unspoken. As they exchanged pleasantries and discussed lighter topics, Juliet couldn’t shake the feeling that he was holding something back, keeping a part of himself at bay. Or was she allowing her own emotions to cloud her judgment?

Their most significant encounter occurred the day after the Bishop’s soiree, during a walk in Hyde Park. He approached her, tipping his hat with a warm smile. “May I join you, Miss Hayward?” Unlike the garden tea and the soiree, here they had a secluded moment away from prying eyes and the constraints of social formalities. They strolled together along the path, the cool breeze carrying with it the scent of spring. Their conversation was easy, filled with anecdotes of the previous evening and soft laughter. Yet, there was an unspoken tension between them.

Each encounter with Glenraven left her hopeful one minute and uncertain the next. Her heart fluttered with every kind word and gentle gesture. Yet, the distance between them gnawed at her. She found herself questioning her own feelings and actions.

Slowly, a painful realization began to settle over her—perhaps their budding affection was all in her head. The storm in her heart raged on, but now it was tainted with the bitter taste of doubt.

She closed her eyes. “Bradley, I wish you were here. You’d see this clearly. You always had a way of understanding the heart of the matter.”

She placed the brush down and looked at her reflection in the mirror. “Ewan,” she said softly, allowing herself to speak his given name. It was a name that felt like a promise, a whisper of potential happiness amidst the tragedy around her.

Her heart ached with the possibility of what might be. As the afternoon sun played across the garden, she conceded the coming days would be difficult.

“’Till it be morrow, Ewan,” she murmured, his name a silent vow on her lips as she turned from the window, the new day waiting to begin. She finished dressing and was ready to face the afternoon.

Juliet went downstairs and was drawn to a note addressed to her amidst the correspondence on the salver. It was a stark, plain envelope that stood out against the usual array of letters and invitations. She unfolded the note. Her eyes scanned words that ignited a flare of anger and a tremor of fear. With a swift motion, she tucked the message into her pocket as Mrs. Murthy came down the hall.

“There you are. I was about to go upstairs. You have guests. I’ve put them in the drawing room.”

The Fairmont drawing room was awash with the delicate fragrance of fresh blooms as Mr. Hargrove and Viscount Mandeville presented their floral offerings to Juliet. Mr. Hargrove’s bouquet was as predictable as his conversation—neat, orderly, and entirely composed of white roses, much like his views on the weather.

“Miss Hayward, I trust you find the climate agreeable today?” Mr. Hargrove’s voice carried the same tone one might use in discussing the prospects of rain.

Juliet accepted the flowers with a practiced smile. “Quite agreeable, Mr. Hargrove. Though, one does long for a breeze of change now and again.” Her words included a subtle plea for a new topic.

Viscount Mandeville, not to be outdone, presented a vibrant array of wildflowers, their arrangement as haphazard as his thoughts. “A token of nature’s beauty, much like yourself, Miss Hayward,” he declared with a flourish that was meant to be charming.

“Thank you, Viscount. They are… quite spirited.” Juliet’s gaze flickered to the window, where she half-hoped to see Glenraven approaching.

Ever the gracious hostess, Lady Fairmont directed the gentlemen to their seats. “Tea will be served shortly. Mrs. Murthy, do ensure Mr. Hargrove has his usual spot by the window. He does so enjoy the sunlight,” she instructed, her voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement.

Juliet found comfort in the familiar rhythm of afternoon tea, yet her thoughts drifted to Glenraven. Her desk remained barren of letters from him, and despite his attendance at various teas, he had notably avoided hers. His absence was underscored by society’s speculative buzz of who had seen him and where they had seen him, all lending a bittersweet note to the otherwise sophisticated clinking of china and polite murmurs that filled the room.

She was putting much into their brief encounter, but it was a welcome diversion from the note she received in the morning post that now haunted her thoughts.

She couldn’t help but wonder if whispers of her brother’s debts had reached his ears. Such news traveled swiftly through the ton’s circles, easily tainting reputations. A shiver of apprehension traced her spine as she considered a more disheartening possibility—that the precarious state of her family’s finances had come to light.

With these thoughts chilling her heart, she sipped her tea, finding little comfort in its warmth. It was a feeble substitute for her vibrant conversations and undeniable connection with Glenraven. The tea’s flavor, once soothing, now seemed as lackluster as the empty chair across from her.

“Miss Hayward, you seem distant. Pray tell, what occupies your thoughts?” Viscount Mandeville asked, his brow furrowed in a rare moment of perception.

Juliet met his inquiry with a diplomatic tilt of her head. “Merely pondering the complexities of the heart, Viscount. A puzzle, wouldn’t you agree?”

The gentlemen exchanged puzzled glances. Their understanding of such matters were as clear as a foggy London morning. Juliet concealed her disappointment with another sip of tea, the delicate china cup hiding her wistful smile. As the afternoon grew late, his absence was felt, but she would not let it cloud the day’s pleasantries.

*

That evening, across Hyde Park in Belgravia, Ewan sat alone at the head of the long dining table, the silverware gleaning in the soft candlelight. The room was silent save for the quiet rustling of papers as he reviewed the estate accounts, something that would never happen at his parent’s home. Everything seemed to be in order, a small comfort in the absence of his father’s guiding hand.

Duncan entered the room, his steps measured and sure. “Dinner is served,” he announced, laying out the dishes with an efficiency born of years of service.

Ewan nodded, his appetite minimal. “Thank you, Duncan. How was the market today?” he asked, more for something to say than genuine interest.

Duncan began to pour the wine, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, the usual hustle and bustle. But I did chance upon Mary Murthy, the Fairmont’s housekeeper. She was quite the chatterbox about the comings and goings at their townhouse.”

Ewan’s hand stilled, the crystal glass catching the light as he set it down a bit too sharply. “And what of Miss Hayward?” he inquired, trying to keep his tone casual.

“Seems she’s had quite the parade of suitors since the gala. Mr. Hargrove and Viscount Mandeville have been particularly persistent,” Duncan relayed, oblivious to the tightening of Ewan’s jaw.

A swell of irritation touched with jealousy, flooded his senses. “Is that so?” he said, his voice colder than he intended.

Duncan met his gaze, unflinching. “Aye, it is. And what of it? If you’ve a mind to court the lass, sitting here brooding won’t do you any good. For weeks, you’ve made social calls and returned fretting.”

Ewan’s eyes narrowed, the truth in Duncan’s words stinging. “And what would you have me do, Duncan? Declare my intentions in the middle of the market?”

Duncan chuckled, the sound rich and knowing. “No, but perhaps a call wouldn’t go amiss. Or, at the very least, a letter. The lady won’t wait forever, and nor will her suitors. It doesn’t appear that you or the lady have found anyone in which you’re interested. I wonder why that is? If the lass chooses and marries one of those gentlemen, it would serve you right.”

Ewan pushed his plate away, his appetite now entirely gone. “You don’t understand. It’s not that simple.” He stood, pacing to the window, the night sky a vast expanse of possibilities. Duncan’s words echoed in his mind, a call to action he couldn’t ignore.

“What’s not simple? You’ve been moping about like a lost pup. The few, and I mean very few, times you’ve encountered her, you barely say a word. If you fancy her, do something about it.” Duncan’s tone took on a serious tone.

His shoulders sagged, the full impact of his fears overwhelming him. “It’s not just that. I’ve gone over that scene in Paris hundreds of times. I was well planted in front of the duke. If I hadn’t moved to help the duchess, the bullet would have struck me.” He turned to Duncan. “The shooting felt wrong, the bullet was meant for me. How can you put her in jeopardy?”

Duncan’s expression softened, realizing the depth of Ewan’s turmoil. “Ah, so that’s it. You’re letting the ghosts of Paris haunt you now, those ghosts, as well as the shades of this criminal order. Remember what the shooter shouted that night? ‘For the Duke!’ They were targeting Duke Berry, not you.”

“I remember what he said, but I looked into the eyes of that assassin. They were not the eyes of a zealot fighting for a cause.” Maybe Duncan was correct. Was he seeing ghosts where there were none?

“The ton knows you feel strongly for Lady Hayward. To protect her, you need to be with her, not apart. You’re stronger than you think. Pushing Juliet away won’t protect her or you. As for the Order, we’ll face them as we have faced other assignments, head-on.”

“And if my father’s accident was indeed planned. How can I bring her into all this?”

“You’d rather leave the lass on her own, without any protection?”

Ewan stared out into the night, Duncan’s words sinking in. He had been running from his fears, letting them control him. Maybe it was time to stop running.

“Have the carriage ready in the afternoon,” Ewan said as he returned to his seat. He lifted his glass of wine, his decision settling over him like a cloak. “I’ll call at Fairmont Abbey tomorrow.”

Duncan nodded a look of approval in his eyes. “Very good. It’s high time you played your hand.” Duncan paused, his expression serious. “I haven’t wanted to press you, but remember, the weeks are dwindling. Your birthday—and the deadline—is two weeks from today.”

The glass paused in mid-air, a symbol of the moment’s gravity. Ewan’s course of action was clear, even as the significance of Duncan’s reminder settled upon him. “I am well aware,” he said, his voice steady. “I cannot get her out of my mind. Tomorrow, I shall visit Juliet. It’s time I spoke with Baron Fairmont and asked for her hand.” He glanced at his close friend. “I haven’t come to this conclusion lightly.”

Duncan regarded him. “It’s a bold move. Are you certain this is the course you wish to take?”

Ewan set the glass down, the clink of crystal against wood punctuating his decision. “I’ve never been more certain of anything. Juliet is… she’s unlike any other, Duncan. Her grace under pressure, her strength—she’s the partner I desire.”

Duncan nodded. “I understand. I’ll make sure everything is in order for your call. And Ewan,” he added, “I believe the Baron and his wife will see the honor in your intentions.”

After Duncan departed, Ewan remained at the table, sipping his wine, his thoughts as turbulent as the North Sea storm. The prospect of seeing Juliet again sent a thrill through him, along with a healthy dose of concern. After barely speaking to her these weeks, would she decline his offer? Setting that fear aside, he was determined he would not lose her.