Her cousin strode into the parlour as though he owned it, which he would one day when he inherited. Lady Cavendish leapt to her feet, all smiles and laughter at the sight of her prodigal nephew.
"Thomas, you have been neglecting us of late," the marchioness scolded, though she spoke with affection rather than ire.
Julia bristled with irritation; it had been ever thus. Thomas was allowed to do as he pleased whilst he marched under the banner of "boys will be boys", whilst Julia had to leap through hoops to please her parents.
"And what has happened to your face?" Lady Cavendish tutted.
Thomas wore a shiner upon his eye, which was turning a mottled purple and lent him a rakish air.
Indeed, Thomas seemed proud as he touched hand to brow, his handsome face creased into a smile.
"A gift from a Montague," he said with a grumble, as he threw himself down upon thechaise longue.
"Lord Montague did this?" Julia gasped, "Were you entangled in a brawl?"
"Not exactly," Thomas cleared his throat, "A bout of fisticuffs at Gentleman Jackson's, and it was not Lord Montague, but his cousin. Still, I delivered a few prime blows myself, and the chap was knocked out cold."
Thomas beamed proudly, as he subtly flexed his muscles beneath the sleeves of his merino-wool coat. He oozed so much male pride, that Julia was worried Maria might slip in it, as she returned with a tray of tea and cakes.
Stifling a sigh, Julia sat down to chat with her cousin, but Thomas was fixated on talking about his bout of fisticuffs with the Honourable Mr. Benjamin Montague.
"All show, with little substance," Thomas continued, unaware that neither Julia nor her mama were in anyway interested in talk of pugilism, "Like every other Montague who has ever walked this earth. If I saw Lord Montague now, I would fell him with a blow so strong that he might be knocked into next week."
Julia bit her lip; Thomas had been absent for so long that she had forgotten how deep his hatred of the Montagues ran. Over his shoulder, she could see Maria frowning with worry. The lady's maid had also nursed Thomas as a boy, and she was particularly fond of him, given that he had lost his mother in childbirth, and his father shortly after.
"Peace, cousin," Julia urged, inflecting her words with a light laugh to hide her discomfort, "No talk of fighting, not when there are French Fancies to be had."
Julia proffered the plate of cakes toward Thomas, who took one with a surly nod of thanks.
"Peace," he grumbled, as he took a bite of his cake, "I hate the word, as I hate all Montagues."
Lud. Julia winced; there really was no tearing him away from his favourite subject.
"Well," Lady Cavendish said brightly, "If you want to discuss how much you hate the Montagues, your Uncle is in his library and he'd only be too happy to join in. Staffordshire is trying to outbid him on some Hogarth painting, and he is fit to burst!"
Maria gave a little moan at this news, which she hastily converted to a cough at Julia's quelling glare.
"And I had best be off," Julia said brightly, "I have a meeting arranged with Charlotte and Violet."
"The wilting wallflowers," Thomas said with a sneer, "Though I hear you are soon to depart from their ranks. Lord Pariseau is a bang up cove; I shall be happy to welcome him into the family."
Julia smiled brightly in reply, trying to quell the anxiety in her breast. She left the room, uttering a hasty goodbye, with Maria hot on her heels.
"Don't say anything," Julia whispered, as the footmen assisted them into the carriage.
Maria nodded in agreement, but as soon as the carriage door was shut, she was off.
"I think you'd best give up on Lord Montague," Maria said with a sigh, as the carriage took off for Jermyn St, "He is a dishcloth in comparison to Pariseau."
"Just this morning you were waxing lyrical about his sturdy shoulders," Julia objected, as anxiety roiled in her stomach. She did not wish to hear her own doubts about Montague voiced by Maria, for it would only confirm them as true.
"Your cousin does not like him, and as well as being a true and honest gentleman, Thomas is your kin," Maria said firmly, "You cannot cast aside your family for the sake of rake who fills out a pair of breeches nicely."
"You said he filled out his coat nicely," Julia was mutinous, hurt by Maria's suddenvolte-face.
"That too," the lady's maid snipped, "But neither shoulders nor thighs are enough to sacrifice your family for."
Julia was silent; she had allowed herself to be swept away on a dream. The dream of a handsome marquess and a life filled with laughter and fun. But she was practical, sensible, Lady Julia Cavendish, and she should have known better than to dare to dream.
