Page 2 of The Rake and Lady Julia
The heir to the ducal seat of Staffordshire was tall, dark, and handsome—a combination that every lady agreed was most attractive in a man. As well as good looks, the marquess—for that was his courtesy title until he inherited the dukedom—was charming, genial, and a tremendous flirt. Here, society knew, was a man who loved love—even though he did not seem very lucky in it—and in the era of Byron and Keats, what better fun was there than to watch a marquess hand his heart away each week?
Though Montague quickly earned the title of rake, there was nothing dishonourable about his behaviour toward women. He dallied in thedemimonde, with actresses, opera singers, and courtesans—women who could well handle him—but he never sought to corrupt any of the young ladies who popped up each spring like daisies as they made their debuts.
In actual fact, the society mamas began to wonder if Montague—like his two close friends, the Duke of Penrith and Lord Pennelegion—might, in fact, at heart be something of a confirmed bachelor.
Still, they did not fret too much, for any party or ball with Montague in attendance, was certain to be a roaring success. How lucky it was that Lord and Lady Cavendish were still ensconced in deepest Kent, so one would not have to worry about slighting them...
All good things must of course come to an end, and when it was announced that Lady Julia was at last to make her debut, society mamas gave a sigh of displeasure as they realised that they would now have to choose between which family they wished to invite to their gatherings.
"I can't think that there will be much about Lady Julia which will make her a more attractive prospect than Montague," one lady sniffed, though she was soon to be proved wrong.
Every season, a swathe of young ladies made their debut, blossoming like daisies in white dresses. Amongst the flowers, there are always one or two weeds, a handful of wallflowers, and a rose or two—but Lady Julia was none of these.
She was a rare-bloom; a hot-house flower, cultivated to perfection. A thing of wonder which, the instant it is seen, brings a kind of madness to the beholder. Her beauty was unquestionable. Her pale blonde locks and sparkling blue eyes were set against alabaster skin which held not even a hint of a freckle. Her cheekbones were high, her face heart-shaped, and her mouth a perfect rosebud.
She was the type of girl that drove men to fling themselves at her feet. Indeed, poor Lord Byron did actually fall before her one day, when she was promenading in the park, but no one was quite sure if it was love or ale which had knocked him over.
Wherever Lady Julia went, a stream of eligible young-bloods followed, and the society hostesses were delivered a puzzle. Should one invite Lord Montague—who though dashing and single, was only one man—or Lady Julia, whose presence guaranteed the presence of at least twenty single gentlemen?
Matrimonial minded minds won out, and soon Lord Montague found himself pushed to the periphery of acceptable society as Lady Julia took his place.
Not that the marquess seemed particularly perturbed, as he gaily continued to fill up the gossip columns with rumours of new paramours and high-jinx in Carlton House with the Prince Regent.
For two seasons, Lady Julia was the toast of every ball, her refusal of a dozen marriage proposals only adding to her fame. True, she had inexplicably taken up a friendship with the shrewish Miss Drew, and the odd Miss Havisham, but her beauty was so great that it could not be tarnished by an association with two wallflowers.
It was only during her third season that thetonbegan to find themselves growing uneasy; Lady Julia was beautiful, yes, but she was also almost two-and-twenty. It would be a tragedy if one so pretty was to be left upon the shelf to grow dusty and old.
"Her parents will have to put their foot down and insist she wed," Lady Jersey commented, one evening in Almack's, to the othergrandes dames, as they watched Lady Julia waltz with an earl.
"Oh, but they have," Lady Castlereagh interrupted, in an excited whisper, "Lord Cavendish let it be known at his club that this was the year that his daughter would wed. That's why there are so many men here."
She waved a gloved hand around the assembly room, which was unusually crowded with dark-suited men. Usually the ladies outnumbered the men, but tonight white-dresses were in the minority.
"Why," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, another of the patronesses, added in surprise, as she glanced across the room. "Even Orsino has bothered to make an appearance."
Lady Castlereagh frowned as she noted this, her brow furrowed in thought. Orsino was but one part of a legendary threesome known as The Upstarts, and if he was present, then surely...
"It's Penrith," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell hissed, as a ripple went through the room, "And who's that with him? It can't be...?"
But it was. Lord Montague, who had never once set foot in the venerable halls of Almack's, came bounding into the room behind his more regal friend.
"I do hope nobody causes a scene," Lady Cowper said, in a wistful voice which rather suggested the opposite—it had been a very dull season thus far.
"No one would be foolish enough to cause a scene in Almack's," Lady Jersey drew herself up imperiously, "Even a Montague and a Cavendish can make peace when the threat of a rescinded voucher hangs over their heads. 'Tis a pity though..."
"What's a pity, Sally?" Lady Cowper asked, as she noted her friend's eyes darting betwixt Lord Montague and Lady Julia.
"I'm being fanciful," Lady Jersey smiled, "But I am of a mind to think that Lord Montague and Lady Julia would make a rather handsome couple."
The patronesses all glanced between the two and spotted what it was that Lady Jersey had seen. Given that neither a Montague nor a Cavendish had ever set foot in the same room in living memory, this was the first time that anyone had seen—up close—just how suited the offspring of both houses were to each other.
He tall and dark, with a perpetual smile upon his face; she slender and pale, with a reserved calmness which contrasted the marquess' exuberance.
It was a pity, the ladies thought, as they began to move along. But it was also an absurdity to think that a Montague and a Cavendish might fall in love.
This wasn't Shakespeare after all.
Chapter One
