Julia Marlowe worried her lip. One of the calling cards lying in tray that a footman had brought up was not one that she wanted to see. Yet to refuse that person while accepting the other was a cut direct, making it absolutely clear the him that she no longer sought the acquaintance.
Could she be that heartless? She glanced at her mother who entered the drawing room. Would she even be allowed to?
Lady Welles wandered over to where the tray was. "Who has come calling today, my dear?"
Unfortunately Julia possessed no quick fingered ability to whisk the offensive card from the tray without her mother seeing it. And so she resigned herself to the fact that she would have to see him. While in the company of others.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was a Marlowe. She possessed the mental fortitude to present a pleasant front that would be able to hide all her emotional turmoil within.
And Viscount Healey would be present. She might have an ally. Or at least another person whom she'd be able to direct her attentions towards.
Steeling herself, she marched over to one of the cupboards that held her needlework and plucked the top one. If all else fails, the needlework that she kept in this room for the specific purpose of keeping herself occupied in a socially acceptable way — the only way — would serve her well.
Just as she settled into her seat, a footman announced the visitors. "Viscount Healey, and Mr Arthur Shearing."
She leapt up immediately as the two men entered. Bows and curtseys were exchanged, and her mother directed them to take a seat. She looked the viscount and hoped he could read the message in her eyes to take the seat beside her.
Alas, she must not have been forceful or competent enough in communicating with her gaze alone for Shearing took the seat next to her.
Resigned to the fact that she was going to have to spend the next fifteen minutes with a man she very much wanted to avoid, she sighed before taking her seat on the settee. She was a little cheered by the fact that his lordship was seated to her right on the solitary chair. There still stood the possibly she would be able to escape conversation with the odious Shearing.
While they waited for tea to arrive, pleasantries were exchanged and the men introduced to one another for they hadn't been previously acquainted.
Julia busied herself with pouring the tea, happy to have something to occupy her so that she wouldn't need to make polite conversation. Or look at Shearing.
But that short reprieve soon ended. "How do you take your tea, my lord?" She looked at Healey. "Any sugar and cream for you?"
He shook his head. "I prefer my tea as it is. Thank you," he said as she handed him his cup. Their fingers brushed, but there was no tingling unlike what would happen should hers and Shearing's fingers touch again, something she wanted to avoid at all cost. She couldn't bear that her body responded to him when everything else in her loathed to be near him.
"We have something in common! How delightful!" She cringed inwardly at her high tone, aware how forced and unnatural it sounded. Plastering on a bright smile, she turned to face the man she did not want to meet, unable to avoid the inevitable."And how about you, Mr Shearing? How would you like your tea?"
"Julia, really!" Her mother's chiding tone grated on her nerves. "Arthur here has been taking tea with us regularly for years now. Surely, you remember how he likes it."
Julia struggled to keep her breathing even and her hands steady. Trying not to speak through gritted teeth, she smiled pointedly at her mother. "I didn't want to presume, Mother. Maybe Mr Shearing decided he'd rather have some sugar instead of cream today. It would be quite poorly done of me if I served him something he didn't like based on the assumption that his tastes never changed. It is always best to ask, don't you agree, my lord?"
She quickly regretted putting him in a spot and hoped that he would be able to see the plea and regret in her eyes but she couldn't undo the asking of the question any more than she could command the sun to set in the East instead. She prayed that Healey would be able to brazen it out.
He seemed to take forever to swallow the tea he'd sipped. She supposed it was his way of stalling for time so that he could formulate a diplomatic answer. If she were him, that was what she'd do too.
Healey cleared his throat before speaking. "Mmm. Though certain assumptions can also be made, depending on the situation, there is some merit to what you have said, Miss Marlowe. However, in this case of Mr Shearing's tea preference, as Lady Welles has pointed out, due to your longstanding relationship, it probably wasn't terribly necessary to ask."
"We do not have a relationship." Julia immediately regretted the sharpness of her tone, but to term what was between her and Shearing as a 'relationship' was a gross mistake. "We-"
"Merely tolerate one another." The deep bass from behind her caught her off guard and her knee bumped into the table as she jumped slightly.
Her mother tittered at that. "The pair of you are quite the jesters today." She shook at her. "Please forgive their...warped sense of humour, my lord. Our estate is adjacent to Arthur's back in Nottingham. We have been neighbours for almost a decade now. And with Arthur having completed his studies and back now after his Grand Tour, we are able to enjoy more of his company."
Julia couldn't quite read Healey's expression. Was he intrigued? Puzzled? Feigning politeness but secretly disinterested in whatever had just transpired?
Frankly, she hoped it was the last one. She very much would like to encourage the viscount's attention. Of all the men who'd paid court to her, he has been by far the most intriguing and interesting man. And someone she could certainly see herself as marrying.
Contrary to what some of her friends profess to want, she had no use for love. Look at what love did. It turned rational people insane. The Bard had it right when he wrote 'Romeo and Juliet'. A better example he couldn't have presented of the perils of love. No, she was perfectly content to marry someone who inspired no longing in the deep recesses of her heart or tingling in her fingertips and other body parts.
And the man that fit the bill was Lord Healey.
Certainly any man — except Shearing — would fit the bill but she also wasn't about to martyr herself and marry just anyone simply because she rejected the notion of a love marriage.
She had standards after all. It had to be someone who could carry on an intelligent conversation and wasn't appalled by a woman's intellect. A man who possessed a sense of humour. If he was pleasant-looking too, that would be her good fortune.
For many women, physical appearance was a criterion. But not for her. She didn't trust a handsome face. And while she had heard many a woman become all aflutter at the mere mention of Lord Healey, he hardly inspired any feeling in her.
The man's face was pleasant looking enough, but his eyes were not an emerald green or a rich dark chocolate — two things which she adored more than anything in the world. He certainly did possess a good bone structure but he didn't have the high cheekbones she liked on a man.
And Byron-esque curls were definitely in vogue now — something Healey had in abundance — but she was more partial to a shorter hairstyle that was more closely cropped to one's head, much like those seen on the Roman men busts. Maybe if she and Healey married, she could persuade him to cut his hair the way she liked it.
If Garrett had heard any of Miss Marlowe's thoughts, he'd have commented that she'd just described Shearing — who was likely a year or two younger than him — judging by Lady Welles's explanation. Even though he wasn't privy to her inner monologue, he could plainly see some of it on her face. It was quite fascinating to see shadows of emotion flit across her face, this woman who had been flirtatious and plain-speaking and seemed not to care very much what others thought of her was now quite obvious in her attempt to ignore the man seated next to her and actually not care for him.
What was more fascinating was that Shearing was doing the same.
The tension between the two of them was indeed quite palpable. Yet it seemed everyone in the room — including Lady Welles — was ignoring that fact. Lady Welles was carrying on about something or other even though it seemed no one was paying her any mind. Was this her poor attempt to distract everyone from the tense atmosphere?
He took another sip of his tea. This morning call was turning out to be far more entertaining than he'd thought it'd be. Like watching a badly put-together play, where everyone was playing a role they didn't want, in a place they didn't want to be.
He wondered why Shearing was even here. If the man wasn't partial to being present, why come for tea at all?
"My lord," Miss Marlowe's voice pulled him from his thoughts, "you have not as yet seen the garden, have you?" He shook his head. "Mother, may I show him around? It would be a pity to not make use of such fine weather to take a turn around and show off the beautiful flowers you planted."
Lady Welles gave her consent with the instruction that her daughter's abigail served as a chaperone. After the curtsies and bows were made, because Miss Marlowe was in front of him, she didn't see Shearing's steady glance at her disappearing back. But Garrett did. He couldn't read the emotion in the man's eyes, though there was definitely a wealth of history between the two of them. That much was evident.
As they made their way to the back of the house, Garrett gave all appearance of paying attention to whatever Miss Marlowe was saying about the garden, nodding at the appropriate moments but he was only listening with half an ear. He hardly could blame her for using him as a ploy to leave the room. However, he was unsure if that was the only reason. Making use of him was a far cry from being partial to him.
They did a turn around the garden, which was fairly sizeable for a London townhouse. As she blathered on about the sweetbriers and the cornflowers and other names he didn't catch, he found himself watching her. He noted the way the breeze lifted stray blonde hairs that looked like spun gold in the daylight, and the way her pink lips moved animatedly and her eyes bright like the sky on a summer's day as she spoke about how each flower in this garden started off as an experiment on mother's part but eventually became a hobby that she also partook in.
And when she rubbed the little button that was her nose, her face scrunching up a little, the gesture was charming enough for him to smile. At least he could be fairly certain that it wouldn't be a hardship to sit across from her during meals or be in the same carriage as her when they travelled to house parties or assemblies.
Marrying her would provide him with a way to gain some foothold in the Commons and aid in pushing through some of the reforms he wanted.
It was not a romantic reason at all, and if Miss Marlowe was operating under that assumption that theirs might be some sort of love marriage, then he was going to have to rethink his strategy.
It was too early to tell if she were that sort, however. He would have to call upon her more frequently to ascertain if that was a wish she harboured.
The lady's maid stood near the doorway, idly brushing her fingertips against the petals of the nearby cornflowers, a ways away from them, giving them some measure of privacy if they spoke in low enough tones.
"Miss Marlowe," he said when the lady finally stopped to take a breath. It seemed she had talked for a good long while without realising it. Was it nerves that had sent her on a long-winded, wandering road that was never-ending? "Will we not drop all pretence of being in polite company and not indulge in a bit of candour like last night?"
She blinked in surprise and then smiled brightly at him, a genuine one since the start of his visit. It pleased him that he was able to understand her well enough. "I am nothing if not accommodating, my lord."
He chuckled at her cheeky tone. "Indeed. I believe we will get along well enough, do you not think, Miss Marlowe?"
"Are we not already getting along well enough for your liking, my lord?"
Her arched tone had his smile widening. "Well enough for marriage?"
She huffed out a breath and he could see her barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes heavenwards. "Is this how you will make me change my mind about you? By plying me endlessly with marriage proposals in the hopes that I will eventually give in and marry you just to make you stop?"
"Is it working?"
"This is only the second time, my lord. It hardly counts as endless."
"But it might work?"
She made a Gallic gesture. "You will just have to try it out for yourself to know the results."
He nodded. "And the duration?"
She tapped her chin. "Half a year? Though I doubt you would be able to carry on for so long."
"Is that a challenge, Miss Marlowe?"
"Have it what you will, my lord."
"Shall we shake on it?"
"Shall we shake on it?"
"You do love to turn your nose up at propriety, don't you, Miss Blackmore?"
"And what precisely will we be shaking on?" Her suspicious tone pulled him back from treading on that well-trodden memory path.
"That I will be able to ply you with enough marriage proposals such that within half a year, you will actually want to marry me and not just to make me stop."
"And if I do not?"
"Then you would bemoan the fact that you'd be lacking a tenacious husband."
"My, my. Aren't we self-assured."
"My, my. Aren't we arrogant?"
"It isn't arrogance if it is the truth."
He gritted his teeth. It wouldn't do to think of a married woman while he was trying to propose. He forced a smile. "Do not all of the fairer sex like their men to be confident?"
She grudgingly replied, "I suppose you have the right of it." Then a breath later. "But it seems to me as if this is a wager that is disadvantageous for me. If you win, you will have me as a wife. Yet, if I win, I will get nothing."
The echo of a long ago wager sounded in his mind and the words were out before he could stop them. "A favour from me. To be collected at any time you wish." When there was time, he would ask himself why he was putting himself and Miss Marlowe in almost the same situation as he was in with Miss Blackmore.
It certainly couldn't be because he wanted to recapture the same feeling of anticipation and heightened awareness.
Nor could it be because he wanted to relive the moment he fell into lust and infatuation with Miss Blackmore.
No, he would tell himself later, it was simply coincidence. There's nothing more to it.
After many breaths in which he was unsure if he'd gone too far with this, she slid her bare palm against his. The back of his head tingled in remembrance, but not his hand. And he was glad about that.
He smiled at her impishly and watched her watching him as he lifted her hand to press his lips to her knuckles. Her coquettish smile matched his own but there was no flare of desire within the blue depths of her eyes, nor a quickening of her breath.
In this courtship that was as much a game to him as it was to her, she was as unmoved as he was.
Something he was grateful for.