She was beginning to think it would never happen. Or maybe she was beginning to hope it would never happen. Because James would have to kiss Amanda before he proposed to her, and even though Juliana couldn't marry him, the thought of James kissing anyone but herself—let alone touching anyone the way he'd touched her—made her stomach hurt.
She leaned closer. "I have an idea," she whispered in desperation. She knew her friend would refuse. But she'd feel much better about abandoning the duke if she could offer a replacement, and Amanda didn't seem to want to kiss James anyway. "Would you like to marry the duke?"
"No!" Amanda looked horrified. "I told you I would never marry a by-blow!"
Whispers broke out behind them, and a few more people hissed "Shh!"
Juliana wished Amanda hadn't said by-blow quite so loud. "Whyever do you keep going off with the duke, then?" she pressed. "Why have you begun calling him David?"
"Well, he's very nice. I think we're becoming friends. But there's a big difference between a friend and a husband."
Juliana was disappointed but not surprised. She'd known all along that Amanda was going off with the duke only to avoid kissing James. "Maybe you should choose another man," she suggested. Plenty of gentlemen were still asking Amanda to dance at every ball. "At the Teddington ball on Saturday—"
"I want Lord Stafford. Besides, there isn't enough time to choose another man and expect him to propose."
"We have a little more than a week—"
"No, we don't. My father will be here Sunday, and for all I know he may not let me out of the house after that."
Drat. Her friend was right. Lord Malmsey could marry Aunt Frances only if Juliana saw to it that James kissed Amanda—and not as part of a plot.
That wouldn't be easy, because Amanda feared kissing. Her reserved nature caused her to cling to people she felt safe with, allowing her to avoid intimacy. If James was to have a prayer of kissing Amanda, Juliana would have to make sure there was no one besides him for her to cling to. Not herself, not Frances, and not the duke.
Especially not the duke.
Amanda gravitated toward him, knowing instinctively he would never try to kiss her, thereby averting the closeness she feared. If James managed to kiss Amanda even once, however, all of that would change. His kisses were so wonderful, Amanda would surely want more. Then one thing would lead to another, and before Juliana knew it, James would unbutton and propose.
Her stomach hurt like the very dickens.
She would have to get Amanda alone with James. It was the only solution. Exactly how she would accomplish this, she couldn't imagine. Amanda wouldn't agree to see a man without a chaperone, but perhaps Juliana could plan another group outing and then claim Aunt Frances felt ill. And she felt ill. And the duke felt ill.
Oh, bother. That would never work. It felt like there was a dagger lodged in her stomach. She'd figure out something tomorrow. Right after she figured out how she would finish eighty-three more items of baby clothes with only three sewing parties instead of four.
"Are you all right?" Amanda asked.
"Shh!"
Amanda lowered her voice. "Why are you clutching your middle?"
Juliana unfolded her arms and tried to draw a calming breath. Another moment and she'd have found herself curled up on Lady Pevensey's exquisite Turkey carpet.
"I'm fine," she gritted out, ignoring another chorus of Shh! "Just fine."
But although she normally loved music and the Misses Kent were more than proficient performers, Mozart didn't prove enjoyable tonight. And neither did the Handel or Beethoven that came after. She almost envied all the men who had gone to Parliament instead of to the Pevenseys'.
She should have stayed home. She needed to sew; she should have spent these hours stitching rather than listening to music. Even more important, she needed to discourage James's attentions so he'd turn to Amanda instead. And for that, she needed a few hours in the kitchen.
It was time to bring out her secret weapon: Miss Rebecca Chase's lemon slices.
THIRTY-SEVEN
LEMON SLICES
Take a measure of Butter and one of Sugar and mixe them together with the grated rinde of two Lemons. Put in two Eggs and then Flower, a spoon of leavening, and a little Milk. Put in a loaf tin and Bake until it rises and turns golde. Make holes with a skewer and pour in the juice of two Lemons. Leave the cake until colde and then turn from the tin and cut it into slices.
The sour lemons will turn a man sour to your charms. I thwarted my grandmother's matchmaking scheme twice by serving these slices to the dratted suitors.
—Miss Rebecca Chase, 1695
FOR FIVE DAYS—ever since she'd come to his house and offered to volunteer—James had been thinking about getting Juliana alone in one of his treatment rooms.
One would have expected the interludes at the Panorama and the Physic Garden to have slaked his passions, but the opposite was true. He'd spent yesterday's session in Parliament woolgathering instead of listening. Overnight, he'd dreamed impossible dreams. This morning, as he'd shaved and dressed, he'd concocted a fantasy so lurid he knew it would never happen. But he'd been looking forward to trying.
Unfortunately, life was conspiring against him.
Juliana rushed in as the clock struck one. Juggling two baskets while she folded her umbrella, she made her way through his crowded reception room. "I'm sorry, but I cannot stay long. I've instructed the driver to come back in three hours. I've too much sewing to do." She paused and blinked. "What are you doing behind the counter?"
"Playing assistant while I interview for a new one," he said, frowning at the front of her dress. For the first time ever—in his experience, anyway—she'd filled in her low neckline with some sort of froufrou scarf, which
