But he wasn't ready to marry anyone. He wasn't mentally prepared yet to marry without love. And he couldn't fall in love with anyone besides Anne—not even if she was a treasure.
"Good night, Mother," he said, suddenly even wearier than he'd been earlier. But he resumed his climb, taking the steps two at a time so he could escape before Cornelia said anything more. "Sleep well," he called on the landing. Then he made his way down the corridor, ducked into his study, closed the door behind him, and dropped to the long leather sofa that sat before his father's big oak desk.
And there, without undressing, he slept.
Not in the elegant brown-and-plum bedchamber his grandfather had hired the venerable Henry Holland to decorate.
Not in the brown-and-plum-curtained tester bed he'd been born in…the same bed he'd later shared with Anne.
TWENTY-FOUR
"I CANNOT believe you didn't tell me you'd talked to Lord Stafford," Amanda said the next afternoon. "What did he say, then?"
The day had dawned bright and sunny for a change, and if it wasn't exactly warm, at least it wasn't freezing. Following Juliana's rescheduled sewing party—after which, despite everyone's help, Emily had calculated that Juliana still needed a hundred and seventy-eight items of baby clothes—she'd taken Amanda across the street into Berkeley Square, where they sat on a bench beneath a plane tree, eating ices from Gunter's Tea Shop.
Or at least Juliana was eating hers.
"Do you know," she said, "this is the first ice I've had all summer." She scooped up the last of the frosty treat and spooned it into her mouth, savoring the heavenly flavor. "Delicious. White currant is the best."
Amanda's strawberry ice sat in her dish untouched. "What did he say?" she repeated. "When does he think we should carry out our plan?"
Juliana sighed and licked her spoon. "He doesn't think we should carry out our plan at all. He called it underhanded."
"Underhanded?"
"Yes. He wants to ask for your hand outright. He says there's no reason your father shouldn't agree."
"He doesn't know my father, then," Amanda said dejectedly. She poked her spoon at her melty pink ice, staring at the statue of King George in the middle of the square. "What did he say when you told him Father is too stubborn to break the agreement with Lord Malmsey?"
"I didn't tell him that. James—I mean, Lord Stafford—would never pursue marriage if he knew you're already engaged. He's entirely too honorable."
"Like my father, putting his honor before my happiness."
"Lord Stafford isn't selfish, just principled. It's not the same."
"Maybe not." Amanda slowly stirred what was now strawberry soup. "Why didn't you tell me this last night? On the way home in Lord Stafford's carriage?"
"I don't know," Juliana admitted. She shifted her gaze from Amanda's disappointed face to the likeness of their monarch. His Majesty was mounted on a horse, wearing some sort of drapey garment she supposed was intended to be Greek or Roman but instead made the poor man look like he was bundled against the cold. "I guess I was trying to figure out how to fix this."
"And what did you come up with?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" Amanda set the dish on the bench beside her. "You always have a plan."
"No, I don't." Juliana sighed. "I don't have a plan this time."
"Well, I do," Amanda declared.
Juliana couldn't have been more surprised if the statue of King George had suddenly come to life and galloped off. "You have a plan?"
"Yes. We shall trick Lord Stafford into compromising me."
"We shall do no such thing." Juliana wasn't sure which shocked her more: prissy Amanda suggesting such a plan or the thought of tricking a man who'd become her friend. "That would be reprehensible. Unethical. Completely disgraceful."
"Why? You said he wanted to marry me. If his supposed honor is standing in the way, we'd be doing him a favor, wouldn't we?"
"No," Juliana said, and then, "Well, maybe."
Amanda had a point. James did want to marry her. He'd said as much, hadn't he? He'd said Amanda was lovely—many times—and he'd said her father would accept his suit. He wouldn't have a suit if he wasn't wanting to marry her. Why else would he be courting her? He'd bought her gifts, and he'd asked her to dance. More than once. At every ball, as a matter of fact. And he'd invited Amanda to his home.
Well, technically his mother had done the inviting. But it was his home, and most certainly he'd approved. "Do you enjoy playing whist?" she suddenly asked.
"Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?"
Amanda liked whist, as did James. And chess. And she wasn't sickened by blood. No wonder James loved her and wished to marry her. And the only way to make his wish come true was to—
"I think we should do it this Saturday," Amanda said, interrupting Juliana's line of reasoning. "At the Billingsgate ball."
Apparently Amanda had destroyed Juliana's line of reasoning, not just interrupted it. Because suddenly she wasn't sure everything quite made sense. "I don't know," she said. "It just seems wrong somehow to plot behind Lord Stafford's back. It makes me feel guilty."
"Guilty? I think not." Juliana couldn't remember Amanda ever sounding so sure of herself. "I told you, we'll be doing him a favor."
There it was, that we again. That guilty-making we. "Maybe you should do this alone, Amanda."
"Why?" Amanda shifted to face her on the bench, her eyes not sparkling but pleading. "I cannot plan this alone. I need your help, Juliana—you're the bright one of us, after all."
Well, Amanda had that right. The girl might be bookish, but that wasn't the same as bright.
"You cannot really feel guilty," Amanda added.
"Maybe just a
