In the solitudeof 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 thetonand 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 swiftlythrough theton’scircles, 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.
*
