had to admit. Difficult to find such skilled musicians on Jamaica. Why, there was even a violinist. The sweet dulcet notes at the beginning of Beethoven’s Fifth caressed her ears, making her long to play her own violin in the privacy of her home.
Apparently, Lord Munthrope spared no expense for the announcement of their betrothal. Neither in the orchestra nor in the lavish display of delicacies spread across the long banquet table she now passed: banana custard, broiled fish with lemons and capers, roasted wild boar, turtle puffs, lemon cake, and her favorite, mousse au chocolat. Sweet and spicy scents stirred her stomach to life and lured her to stop and sample a bit of the mousse. But she was on a mission. In the drawing room, two jugglers entertained the crowd, while in the garden a trained monkey danced and performed tricks for a cheering mob. No expense, indeed. Whom was Munthrope trying to impress?
The sound of trickling drew her to the middle of the garden’s courtyard, where a knot of guests circled a bubbling fountain. Curious as to what drew their attention, Juliana soon discovered ’twas not water that spilled from the carved angels atop the ornate structure, but sweet Madeira, into which several people repeatedly dipped their cups. She had never seen the likes of it. What an unusual man this Munthrope was.
Back inside the house, barefooted mulattos wove expertly through a crowd that barely noticed their presence—until a tray of drinks or pastries was held before their noses.
“Have you seen Lord Munthrope?” She stopped Sir Branwell to ask.
“Nay, my dear. Not since I arrived. But if you are looking for a dance partner?” His bloodshot eyes sparkled with interest.
She declined and hurried along. Another lady had just seen him in the billiards room, but when Juliana arrived, he was gone. A gentleman told her he was upstairs in the library regaling a crowd with his tales at court as a young man. But he was not there.
“Oh, fie!” She huffed as she stood on the upstairs landing and gazed down into the parlor on one side and the ballroom on the other. Heat flooded her as her anger inflamed. How dare the man throw a betrothal celebration and then ignore the woman he planned to betroth!
A familiar face drew her gaze to Captain Nichols in the parlor below, drink in hand, conversing with one of his naval officers. Why in the blazes would Lord Munthrope invite him when the very purpose of their courtship was to keep him at bay? He lifted his eyes just then and saw her looking at him. She glanced away, seeking her friends.
She found them in the ballroom. Lady Anne, Miss Margaret, and Miss Ashton were flirting with a group of gentlemen, who seemed more than happy to indulge their whimsical silliness for a chance to dance—or mayhap more as the night progressed. She started down the grand staircase, intending to ask them whether they’d seen Munthrope, when the man himself paraded into the parlor, a horde of admirers fluttering about him like pesky summer gnats. Indeed, he captured everyone’s attention with his cocky gait and beribboned arms waving through the air he lavished an exorbitant tale on all within earshot.
“Oh, Munny, you are too much, too much I say!” one man cackled, holding his corpulent belly as Juliana descended the rest of the steps then forced her way through the crowd to stand before the pompous oaf.
“Ah, Miss Juliana. You are the vision of Helen of Troy, bringing gentlemen everywhere such joy. Why then must you be so coy?” His impromptu ballad sent the crowd into fits of laughter as he urged on their praise with one hand pressed to his bosom and the other wiping a feigned tear from his eye. From the tips of his red-heeled shoes to the top of his curled and pearled periwig, he was all silk and lace and gold embroidery. Juliana found disgust joining the anger in her belly. She merely stared at him, her face a mask of controlled civility, until his eyes met hers once again.
Apparently, Lord Munthrope spared no expense for the announcement of their betrothal. Neither in the orchestra nor in the lavish display of delicacies spread across the long banquet table she now passed: banana custard, broiled fish with lemons and capers, roasted wild boar, turtle puffs, lemon cake, and her favorite, mousse au chocolat. Sweet and spicy scents stirred her stomach to life and lured her to stop and sample a bit of the mousse. But she was on a mission. In the drawing room, two jugglers entertained the crowd, while in the garden a trained monkey danced and performed tricks for a cheering mob. No expense, indeed. Whom was Munthrope trying to impress?
The sound of trickling drew her to the middle of the garden’s courtyard, where a knot of guests circled a bubbling fountain. Curious as to what drew their attention, Juliana soon discovered ’twas not water that spilled from the carved angels atop the ornate structure, but sweet Madeira, into which several people repeatedly dipped their cups. She had never seen the likes of it. What an unusual man this Munthrope was.
Back inside the house, barefooted mulattos wove expertly through a crowd that barely noticed their presence—until a tray of drinks or pastries was held before their noses.
“Have you seen Lord Munthrope?” She stopped Sir Branwell to ask.
“Nay, my dear. Not since I arrived. But if you are looking for a dance partner?” His bloodshot eyes sparkled with interest.
She declined and hurried along. Another lady had just seen him in the billiards room, but when Juliana arrived, he was gone. A gentleman told her he was upstairs in the library regaling a crowd with his tales at court as a young man. But he was not there.
“Oh, fie!” She huffed as she stood on the upstairs landing and gazed down into the parlor on one side and the ballroom on the other. Heat flooded her as her anger inflamed. How dare the man throw a betrothal celebration and then ignore the woman he planned to betroth!
A familiar face drew her gaze to Captain Nichols in the parlor below, drink in hand, conversing with one of his naval officers. Why in the blazes would Lord Munthrope invite him when the very purpose of their courtship was to keep him at bay? He lifted his eyes just then and saw her looking at him. She glanced away, seeking her friends.
She found them in the ballroom. Lady Anne, Miss Margaret, and Miss Ashton were flirting with a group of gentlemen, who seemed more than happy to indulge their whimsical silliness for a chance to dance—or mayhap more as the night progressed. She started down the grand staircase, intending to ask them whether they’d seen Munthrope, when the man himself paraded into the parlor, a horde of admirers fluttering about him like pesky summer gnats. Indeed, he captured everyone’s attention with his cocky gait and beribboned arms waving through the air he lavished an exorbitant tale on all within earshot.
“Oh, Munny, you are too much, too much I say!” one man cackled, holding his corpulent belly as Juliana descended the rest of the steps then forced her way through the crowd to stand before the pompous oaf.
“Ah, Miss Juliana. You are the vision of Helen of Troy, bringing gentlemen everywhere such joy. Why then must you be so coy?” His impromptu ballad sent the crowd into fits of laughter as he urged on their praise with one hand pressed to his bosom and the other wiping a feigned tear from his eye. From the tips of his red-heeled shoes to the top of his curled and pearled periwig, he was all silk and lace and gold embroidery. Juliana found disgust joining the anger in her belly. She merely stared at him, her face a mask of controlled civility, until his eyes met hers once again.
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