Corinna eyed her skeptically, rather as if she were a very bad painting. "He's engaged to marry Amanda. Why would he send flowers to Aunt Frances? What would make him think she'd be receptive to receiving them?"
"The love letters he received from her."
"What love letters?"
"The ones I sent," Juliana said, exasperated that she would have to explain such an obvious thing. "It wouldn't do to have Aunt Frances be the only one getting mail. A true love must be two-sided."
She'd never written so many sappy letters in her life. In a week of incessant activity, Aunt Frances's romance had proved to be her most exhausting project.
Besides writing all the letters, she'd had to take Frances shopping for shoes, bonnets, and accessories to match all of her new dresses; buy cosmetics and practice applying them; and hire a dancing master to teach Frances all the new steps. And Frances's hair—oh, her hair! Madame Bellefleur had had to visit not once, but twice—the first time to dye Frances's hair with henna and walnuts, and the second to trim it and tinker with various styles.
But it was all worth it. Aunt Frances was going to look beautiful tomorrow night. And Lord Malmsey was already in love with her.
He'd sent red roses.
"You sent fake letters to both of them?" Corinna pointed the paintbrush she was still holding at her. "What do you think will happen when they compare notes?"
"They won't," Juliana said confidently. "Neither of them will be willing to question their good fortune." The knocker sounded again. "Excuse me. That will be James."
She returned to the foyer, but it wasn't James at the door. It was another deliveryman with flowers. White roses, and there were only a dozen, but they were in a beautiful crystal vase.
"What does the card say?" Corinna asked behind her.
Not assuming anything this time, Juliana pulled it from the arrangement. "The Duke of Castleton," she read with some relief.
And happiness, of course.
"That's it? No message?"
"The flowers say it all, do they not?" She gestured grandly toward the arrangement, which, in truth, looked rather paltry next to the extravagant one Lord Malmsey had sent. But the duke wasn't an extravagant man. He was restrained and refined and everything that was good and proper. "I don't need a written message," she said. "I know perfectly well how he feels."
"How who feels?" James asked, walking in the still-open door.
"The Duke of Castleton," Corinna informed him. "He sent flowers to Juliana."
"Did he?" James scanned the foyer, blinking as his gaze landed on the hall table. "That's a lot of roses. Red roses."
His tone implied he found something objectionable about the roses, although Juliana wasn't sure whether it was the amount of them or their color. Or both. And why would he care, anyway?
Frances's hand was still over her heart. "They're mine," she said, sounding awed.
Corinna nodded. "The other arrangement is from the duke."
"White," James said with a raised brow. He turned to Juliana. "He must think you're very pure."
What on earth did he mean by that? She was pure. Not that that was entirely by choice. The only man she had an interest in respected her too much to touch her.
Which was more than she could say for James.
She swept the little basket off the table and thrust it at him. "Here," she said rather ungraciously. "I baked macaroons for you."
"Why?" he asked, looking nonplussed.
She hadn't anticipated that question. She didn't want him to think she'd made them as a gift, because he might take that the wrong way. But she couldn't very well tell him she hoped they'd make him amorous toward Amanda.
Or that they'd make his eyes sparkle.
"I thought you'd want to eat them tomorrow. They're reputed to give a man stamina."
That brow went up again. "Stamina of what sort?"
How many sorts were there? "Extra strength and endurance."
"I see." His lips quirked, as though he were trying not to laugh. "But pray tell, why should I need extra endurance tomorrow?"
"For the dancing," she said. "At the ball. You're not accustomed to hours on your feet."
"Ah," he said. Just ah. But something about the way he said it told her he was well aware she was making all of this up as she went along. "In all my years in medicine," he drawled, "I've never heard macaroons prescribed to improve stamina. I shall have to pass this wisdom along to my colleagues."
He wouldn't, of course; she was sure of it. He'd be laughed out of the Royal College of Physicians. "You do that," she said, snatching up her parasol and turning to Frances. "Are you ready to leave, Auntie?"
SEVENTEEN
AS JAMES'S carriage crawled toward the Egyptian Hall through the miserable London traffic, he smiled to himself. Juliana couldn't fool him. Although she claimed these outings were meant only to give him practice so he could court Lady Amanda, she enjoyed his company. She liked him, whether she was willing to say so out loud or not.
The proof? She'd baked him macaroons.
Feeling much more pleased about that than he probably should, he lifted the froufrou doily and pulled one out.
"No!" Juliana cried. "You're supposed to save them for tomorrow."
"There are plenty of them," he said, popping the little macaroon into his mouth. It was so light and toothsome it all but melted on his tongue. He'd never heard of a lady of the ton making sweets—or anything else that required entering a kitchen—but given Juliana's talents, he found her unusual hobby charming. "These are delicious," he told her and pulled out another.
"Please don't eat them," she pleaded, sounding concerned.
Quite concerned. Certainly much more concerned than the occasion warranted. They were just macaroons, after all. Since he hadn't believed for a moment that she really thought they lent a man stamina, why should it possibly matter whether he ate them today or tomorrow?
He reached for a third.
"I'd prefer you save them," she said firmly, taking the basket right out of his hands. She set it on the
