My Fair Marchioness (Scandalous Affairs Book 3) by Christi Caldwell (best short books to read txt) 📗

blind he’d been to the luxuries he was afforded and the struggles Julia and so many others had known. Just like so many others, he’d ignored the suffering around him. He’d done so unknowingly; in an unwitting decision born of ease; coming from the simple fact that it was easier to remain blind than acknowledge the wealth of suffering all around.

He didn’t trust her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of self-reflection on the type of suffering she’d spoken of.

They sat there in silence for the remainder of breakfast, and then Julia took to her feet and left without so much as another glance his way.

He stared at the doorway.

He should let her go.

That would be decidedly better than any of this pathetic weakening she’d managed to inflict with a telling that had been all too real.

Prickly as she was, however, he found himself drawn to her…and her spirit.

And for reasons that had nothing to do with wheedling out her lies or secrets, he went in search of the flower-peddler woman named Julia.

Chapter 8

Seated on a gilded bench in the duchess’ sculpture room, Julia stared up at the trio in the painting—a mother, a father, and between them, a bright-eyed, golden-curled angel with the chubbiest cheeks and widest smile. That smile stood in stark contrast to the reserved pair, who’d coaxed their lips into careful lines, as though it had been ingrained into them that any show of emotion was a sin and to reveal it would cost them a place in paradise.

Julia angled her head, studying the husband and wife, the marble room a perfect place for such cool-looking figures.

Only one figure was out of place.

Adairia.

Not even the streets had managed to erase her smile.

Had she been raised as the beloved, cherished daughter of a noble pair and the niece of a duchess, she would have radiated an even greater light.

Tears pricked her lashes, and she blinked them back. One fell, making a mockery of her attempts to stifle them, reminding her of how little control she had over absolutely everything in her life. Julia swiped an angry hand across her cheek.

And yet, it wasn’t her deception that held her motionless in this space. It wasn’t a fear of being caught and called out for the impostor she was. Nay, it was a bereft feeling at the fact that Adairia, who’d carried the dream in her heart and been sustained in the darkest of times by the belief that she was, in fact, a princess, should be forever memorialized in this place among her noble ancestors.

Julia hugged herself tightly around the middle and stared blankly out. Despite the vibrant flash of light Adairia had been in the cold world they lived in, she would have hated this room. It would have been too dark and chilly and cheerless for the girl who’d managed to retain a sunny optimism and hope.

But even if she would have hated this room, she’d still belonged here. She’d deserved to be remembered the way her noble ancestors had been.

Julia sucked in a shaky breath.

“They said I might find you here.” That deep baritone echoed around the spacious room. The absence of furniture made that greeting boom all the louder.

Oh, bloody hell.

She tensed and didn’t face him.

He was… unrelenting.

He’d never come ’round to trusting her. And worse, one such as him? She’d no doubt he could pull the lies from her lips.

He was the last person she wished to see, and bloody crying, no less.

Turning her damp cheek against her satin skirts, she rubbed her face in a bid to discreetly wipe away that moisture, refusing to let him see those crystal drops and implicitly knowing if he did, he’d assume they were just more lies.

He came to a stop before her, blocking her study of that portrait, his long, breeches-encased legs directly in her line of vision. Julia lifted her gaze up his tall, powerful form until her gaze locked with his. “Is there somewhere else I should be? Did you think to find me sneaking about the silver closets and filling my pockets?” She turned her face away. She might be a liar, but her lies were based on her hungering to live. For all the opinions he carried of her, she was no thief. Or whore. She’d managed to retain some sense of self and her worth.

“May I?” he murmured.

She braced for him to take that seat anyway, taking as all men and noblemen were wont to do, and yet, he didn’t. He waited there, allowing the decision to lie with her.

Julia edged sideways on the upholstered bench, making room for him and hugging the arm of the bench. Even so, his thighs, the size of some stone pillars on the streets of London, swallowed up most of the space, bringing their legs touching.

From the corner of her eye, she caught him fishing something from his pocket, and then a slip of white cloth fell before her.

“Here,” he said, and she hesitated before taking the monogrammed handkerchief and wiping at her face.

He didn’t ask questions about her tears or call her out as deceptive once more. Instead, he just sat there, allowing her that quiet and space.

That was, an emotional space. Physically, they sat as close as two lovers.

Her belly danced wildly, his nearness, his masculinity dizzying distractions that she certainly did not need. With his dashing looks, she found herself enthralled by him. It was a distraction she could ill-afford to indulge in.

“What do you think of Her Grace’s marble room?” he asked, the casualness of his tones, ones so very conversational, at odds with her racing heart.

Unlike last evening and breakfast a short while ago, Lord Ruthven’s focus when he spoke was not trained with a detective’s intensity upon her,