Julia remained frozen, unable to move.
Oh, my God. That was why she’d been called. It made sense now. She’d behaved like a wanton, pressing herself against him and pleading for his kiss, and in so doing, she’d confirmed that she was in no way the innocent and respectable Adairia. Yes, she and Adairia had lived the same life. But Adairia had been born to this world, unlike Julia who was the bastard-born daughter of a failed opera singer. These two most powerful members of the peerage could see her ended for the charade she played at.
And he had undoubtedly brought her here to call her out before the duchess, to make Julia answer for her shameful behavior. Her pulse thumped loud and hard in her ears, deafening. For it wouldn’t matter to the duchess or her godson the reasons that Julia had set out to deceive them. That if she’d stayed in East London, she’d have met the same fate Adairia had, a gruesome, not-so-quick death. All that they or the world on the whole would care about was that a street rat had invaded their ranks and—
“Julia,” the duchess prodded, and Julia jumped. “Come, come, my girl.”
The marquess, nay, Harris—it was easier to think of him as different than a powerful noble who could ruin her with a single word—had been too disgusted to look at her moments ago, but he deigned to do so now, and he stared at her from under thick, hooded lashes, his face a perfect mask.
Her mouth went dry.
For a moment, she eyed the path behind her, where two footmen remained stationed.
Oh, God.
Lifting her chin up, she began a slow, long, and painful walk over to the pair staring expectantly back.
When Julia had been a girl and a hanging had been held at the square outside of Newgate, her mother had dragged Julia and eventually Adairia to watch that public spectacle, as people of East London were wont to do.
Unlike the other spectators who’d assembled, gleefully watching as though they’d come to take in one of those Covent Garden productions she hawked flowers outside of, Julia had despised every moment of it. While many in the crowd had cheered and laughed, selling treats for people to snack on as they waited and watched the men, women, and even children meet their maker that day.
Julia had always stared on at those poor souls making their march, her heart hammering and hurting for the fear they’d been no doubt filled with. She’d imagined herself in their stead. After all, the fate of a person born to the streets was as precarious as the London day. Now, she knew precisely how those people had felt. This same terror and horror and… urgency to flee were what that final march had inspired within their chests.
At last, Julia reached the pair.
Silence met her arrival.
Interestingly, even with the elevated rank that found the woman just shy of royalty, Julia found herself preferring to focus on the duchess, as opposed to the marquess, with his penetrating stare that saw too much.
“We have a problem, Julia,” the other woman said, thumping her shears once on the table.
Julia drew in a quiet, uneven breath. “D-do we, Your Grace?”
“We do.” The duchess jabbed a long finger at Julia’s chest, and she stiffened. “It is those garments.”
Those…
Julia followed that point.
And then the significance of that statement and the truth that she hadn’t been caught out, left her breathless with relief, giddy. A silly little laugh bubbled past her lips.
The duchess sharpened her focus upon Julia, and she made herself stifle that nervous mirth. “Forgive me, Your Grace, it is simply that I’ve not worn finer garments. The quality, the color. Why, there can never be anything wrong in any way about them.”
The woman instantly softened, and guilt, the more familiar sentiment where this lady was concerned, consumed Julia once more. “Some say they’re too garish.”
From the corner of her eye, Julia caught the smile pulling at Harris’ lips.
“I’d say anyone who says that is just jealous that they cannot pull off such boldness,” Julia murmured.
“Yes, yes, well, either way, we shall be having a modiste come in, and she will fit you for a more suitable, appropriate wardrobe that’s not tailored down from this lady.”
Her heart dropped. “No!” Julia exclaimed, her slightly panicked shout echoing in the rafters of the high glass ceiling.
“No?”
“I should think you’d welcome a trousseau,” the marquess remarked.
With his suspicions and ill opinion of her, he would assume that. Because her motives would be driven only by avarice and not by the sheer need of survival that compelled people of her station.
And yet, does the end justify the means? a voice taunted at the back of her mind, where guilt dwelled and shame festered.
She ignored that voice and turned to the duchess. “I am ever so grateful for your generous offer, and yet, I must decline.”
“It’s not an offer, dear. It was me telling you what I intend to do. Tomorrow, you are to be fitted.”
“But… but…” She lifted her arms. “These garments are splendorous.” The finest she’d worn. The finest she’d ever wear. For that matter, she couldn’t take a single thing more than she already had.
The duchess laughed. “You are very much my niece.”
Julia forced a smile that felt tight and painful and harsh on her mouth. No. I’m not. I’m a liar. I’m street trash with a father who didn’t even want me.
“Isn’t she,
