"He is so handsome," Maria said the next day, as she tightened Julia's stays.
"And so tall," she added, as Julia obediently held her arms up, so that Maria might slip her dress over her head.
"And ever so wealthy," the lady's maid continued, as she bustled about to tie ribbons and button buttons, "It's said he owns half of Kent."
"Maria, I believe you are directing the same platitudes at Lord Montague as you did at Pariseau," Julia said, with a light laugh, "I did not think you so fickle."
"Well, where you go, I go," Maria replied with a wink, "And I'm rather partial to Kent. Did you know that's where my grandmother hails from? Horrible woman, but lovely cliffs. You can see all the way to France on a clear day, not that it's worth the glance."
"Views of France aside," Julia whispered, turning to face her maid, "What do you think of Lord Montague?"
The maid paused, and Julia waited with baited breath for her answer. Maria had been with Julia practically since birth and knew her as well as Lady Cavendish—if not better.
The difference between Maria and the marchioness, however, was that she looked at Julia without any expectation. Maria did not care a fig if Julia married a prince or a pauper—so long as she was happy, and Maria was not put out of a job.
"He fills out a coat very nicely," Maria said absently, as she began to dress Julia's hair, "There's a lot to be said for a strong pair of shoulders."
"Was it just his shoulders you liked?" Julia teased, though her cheeks were rosy. She had also noted that Lord Montague's shoulder to hip ratio was verging on the divine.
"No," Maria laid down her brush and leaned forward to look Julia in the eye, "It was the way you looked at him."
"How did I look at him?" Julia wondered, momentarily nervous that the previous night had seen her drooling, or cross eyed, in the face of Montague's handsomeness.
"The light of love was in your eyes," Maria answered, with a shrug, "While all the light goes out of you, when you look at Pariseau."
She would explain no further, but Julia did not press—as long as she had not been slobbering like a dog over a bone, little else mattered.
She hummed a little, as she made her way downstairs to the parlour, where her copy of Evelina sat, unread, upon the coffee table.
There was but an hour until the meeting of the wallflowers, an hour in which she might finish a chapter, so she might have something to discuss—
Oh!
Julia spotted that her mother had left the morning newspaper folded open on the gossip pages. Wondering if there was any mention of Lord Montague's rather strange guests at The Theatre Royal, Julia began to read, but there was no mention of the marquess—instead, all the columns detailed the Duke of Penrith's trip to Drury Lane, accompanied by a certain Miss Charlotte Drew.
"Oh, there you are, dear," Lady Cavendish cried, as she bustled into the room. She spotted what Julia was reading and gave a disappointed sigh.
"It's terrible, is it not?" Lady Cavendish groused, "So many pages dedicated to that Miss Drew, and only one line written about you."
"Well, Penrithisa duke, Mama," Julia replied lightly, "We cannot expect to upstage a man who is one step off royalty."
"He's not a royal duke, dear," Lady Cavendish sniffed, with great distaste, "It's unseemly how many pages are dedicated to him and that nabob's daughter. And is your Miss Havisham being courted by Orsino?"
Was she? Julia had spent so much time wrapped up in thoughts of Lord Montague that she had not kept abreast of her friends' love lives. Though in her defence, as a trio, the wallflowers had done their best to eschew love for the past two seasons. In usual circumstances, there would not be anything even vaguely romantic to try keep abreast of.
Lady Cavendish pointed to a smaller column, which detailed that the Duke of Orsino had taken a trip to Haymarket, for the showing of Twelfth Night, accompanied by his sister, Lady Havisham, and Lady Havisham'scompanion.
Only the most eagle eyed might have made the connection, but when it came to gossip and marriageable dukes, there was no one more tenacious than her mama.
"I cannot believe that your two little friends might make better marriages than you," Lady Cavendish grumbled, "When you are the prettiest of them all."
"Well, there are three Upstarts, Mama," Julia countered, "Perhaps if I marry Lord Montague, you might be happy then."
As a rule, Julia never snapped at her mother, but her capriciousness was grating. Why had she forced Lord Pariseau upon her, if she was only going to grumble that he was not a duke? Why was she subjecting Julia to a marriage she did not want?
What on earth would make her happy?
Julia longed to rage, and the questions were on the tip of her tongue, and she might have shouted, had the butler not knocked to announce the arrival of Thomas.
