He was awaiting her in the hall when she came down just within the half hour, carrying her gloves and fan. She paused on the bottom step, tilting her head to one side inquiringly as she invited his inspection.
Tarquin solemnly ran his eyes from the top of her head to the toe of her kid slippers. Then he described a circle with his forefinger. Juliana stepped to the hall and slowly turned around.
"Yes, much better," he pronounced. "Let us go. The phaeton is at the door."
He handed her up and took his seat beside her. "It won't be necessary to spend more than fifteen minutes with Lady Melton. If she's unavailable, you may leave your card."
"But I don't have a card."
"Yes, you do." He reached into his breast pocket and handed her a crisp white card on which, in an elegant hand, was inscribed, "Viscountess, Lady Edgecombe." "My secretary took the task upon himself. He has a good hand, I'm sure you'll agree."
"Better than mine," Juliana responded, turning the card between her fingers. It seemed to give her a sense of permanence, as if she could really begin to see herself as Lady Edgecombe. As if nothing could now dislodge her from this extraordinary peak.
At the Melton residence Tarquin handed the reins to his groom, who leaped from the back ledge to take them, and stepped to the street. Juliana gathered her skirts around her and prepared to alight, holding prudently on to the side of the carriage as she gingerly put her foot on the top step.
"I think it might be safer all round if I lift you down," Tarquin said, observing these wise precautions. Taking her around the waist, he swung her to the ground and remained holding her waist until he was certain she was firmly lodged on her two feet.
His hands at her waist were hard and warm, and he held her for a fraction longer than strictly necessary. Juliana felt the old confusion rushing back, but then he was ushering her up the steps through the door held by a bowing footman, and into the hall. He handed the footman his card and gestured to Juliana that she should do the same. The footman bowed them into the salon.
Once more in possession of her senses, Juliana looked around with interest. The furnishings were old-fashioned and heavy, for the most part draped in dark holland covers. The curtains were pulled halfway over the long windows, plunging the room into gloom.
"Lady Melton observes the most strict mourning," Tarquin answered her unspoken question. He took a pinch of snuff and leaned against the mantel, his eyes, suddenly inscrutable, resting on Juliana.
"Lucy received a letter from her friends this morning?"
Juliana jumped, guilt flying flags in her cheeks. Had he read the note in its entirety? He couldn't have had time, surely. But if he had, he would know of the projected meeting on Wednesday forenoon. And he would know she was intending to be there. "Do you object?" She took refuge in challenge, hoping annoyance would explain her sudden flush.
"Not at all. Should I?" He continued to regard her in that unreadable fashion.
"I can't imagine why you would. But since you won't permit her friends to visit her in person, I wasn't sure whether a sullied piece of paper could be allowed through your door."
Tarquin's response died at birth with the return of the footman. Her Ladyship and Lady Lydia would be happy to receive them in the family's parlor.
The family parlor was not much less gloomy than the salon, despite its air of being lived in. The curtains and chair covers were dark and heavy, the pictures all carried a black border, and there were no flowers in the vases.
Lady Melton held out her hand to Juliana with a gracious nod and greeted the duke with a complacent smile. Lydia rose and gave Juliana her hand with a warm smile before offering her reverence to the duke with downcast eyes. He drew her to her feet with a pleasant word of greeting, raising her hand to his lips.
Quentin, who had been seated beside Lydia on the sofa, stood up to greet Juliana with a brotherly kiss on the cheek.
"Quentin, I was unaware you intended to call upon Lady Melton this morning," Tarquin said.
Juliana was immediately aware of a slight stiffening from Lady Lydia beside her, but Quentin said easily that he had been passing the door and thought he would discuss a sermon with Lady Melton, but he was about to take his leave. He bowed to Her Ladyship before kissing Lydia's hand. "I must remember to bring the book of gardens to show you, Lydia, next time I'm passing. The fourteenth-century herb garden is most interesting."
"Thank you, Lord Quentin. I look forward to it." She left her hand in his for a moment, then very slowly withdrew it, her fingers lightly brushing his as she did so.
Juliana glanced at Tarquin. He appeared to notice nothing, devoting his attention to his hostess. Juliana quirked an eyebrow at this, remembering her old nursemaid's frequent mutter that there's none so blind as those who won't see. But, of course, it wouldn't occur to the Duke of Redmayne that something as frivolous and inconvenient as misplaced love could upset his plans.
"Do sit by me, Juliana," Lydia invited with her soft smile, patting the sofa beside her before picking up her embroidery frame. Juliana took the seat and settled down to observe, maintaining an easy conversation with Lydia with half her mind. The duke remained beside Lady Melton, deep in some discussion. He'd barely exchanged two words with his betrothed, beyond the courtesies, and Lydia showed no sign of feeling neglected. Presumably a marriage of convenience didn't require close attention between the partners.
The arrival of two other somewhat formidable ladies prevented Juliana's making any further observations of the betrothed couple. She was introduced, questioned as to her husband's whereabouts.
"You reside under His Grace's roof at present, I understand," declared the dowager Duchess of Mowbray.
"My husband's house is in need of repair," Juliana replied. "His Grace has kindly offered his hospitality until it's ready to receive us."
"I see. So Edgecombe's residing at Albermarle Street also. Redmayne?"
"My cousin is occupied with the renovations to his house," Tarquin said smoothly. "He finds it more convenient to live there while he supervises the work."
Juliana swallowed a laugh at this astonishing fabrication. Surely no one who knew Lucien would believe it. She glanced covertly around the room, gauging their reactions.
"What's that you say?" demanded the dowager's companion, Lady Briscow, leaning forward and cupping her ear.
The dowager took a speaking trumpet from the lady's hand and bellowed, "Redmayne says Edgecombe is livin' in his own house. The gal's sheltered under Redmayne's roof."
Lady Briscow seemed to take a minute to absorb this, while the boomed words echoed around the room. "Ah," she pronounced finally. "Well, I daresay that's for the best." She turned to examine Juliana. "Very young, isn't she?"
"I am past seventeen, ma'am." Juliana decided it was time to speak up for herself.
"Too young for Edgecombe," declared the lady loudly. "Besides, I thought he didn't care for women."
"Now, Cornelia, that's not a fit subject in front of the young ladies," the duchess protested.
"What's that you say? Thought the man only liked little boys."
"Cornelia!" pleaded the duchess through the ear trumpet. "That's not for the ears of the young ladies."
"Pshaw!" declared Lady Briscow. "Innocence isn't going to do the gal much good with that husband of hers."
"We must take our leave, Lady Melton." Tarquin rose to his feet, his expression as bland as if he'd heard nothing of the preceding exchange. Juliana jumped up hastily, too hastily, and a dish of tea resting on the chair arm crashed to the floor. Dregs of tea splattered on the carpet, and the delicate cup rolled against a chair leg and shattered.