Free When a Marquess Loves a Woman by Vivienne Lorret

would be far better to pretend otherwise, before Zinnia took hold of any romantic notions and then— heaven forbid —shared them with Marjorie.
    Juliet had overheard the two widows, along with their friend, the Dowager Duchess of Vale, proclaim credit for recent successful unions. Among those were Cousin Lilah to Jack Marlowe, Viscount Locke; Ivy Sutherland to North Bromley, the Duke of Vale; and Adeline Pimm to Liam Cavanaugh, the Earl of Wolford.
    The last thing Juliet wanted was to give them the smallest inkling of an idea that either she or Max were anything other than sworn enemies. She had no time to fend off matchmaking schemes from the determined trio. After all, she had a wager to win and a candidate to groom.
    â€œL ook at all these invitations, Maxwell,” Mother said as she entered the study.
    â€œHmm . . . yes, very nice, elegant script, fine paper,” he said, giving the toppling stack a cursory glance. Then he resumed making a note in his ledger—a bill of sale for a certain block of ice delivered to Hanover Street this morning. Grinning to himself, he wondered how his gift was received, having little doubt that Juliet had figured out the identity of the sender. However, his ruminations were disturbed by the clicking sound of his mother’s fingernails tapping on his desk.
    He looked up, fairly certain he’d mentioned everything he was supposed to about something as trivial as a stack of cards. “You are giving me that perturbed, impatient glower that tells me I’ve forgotten an important task. Yet, for the life of me, I do not know what it might be.”
    She gestured to the cards as if the answer were obvious. “You have yet to tell me if there is a certain debutante’s company you favor. Surely you would want to become well acquainted if you are to be betrothed by the end of the Season.”
    â€œAs of twelve hours ago, when we last had this conversation, I have not had the opportunity to meet any potential candidates, if you’ll recall. Therefore, I will agree to accept any invitation where debutantes with more than half a brain are in attendance.” There, all settled.
    He returned to his ledger, scratching out a sum. Recently, he’d hired a steward to look after Mother’s accounts and to see to the running of the estate in Max’s eventual absence. He kept his own books separate, even though he was the one responsible for providing his mother the funds she required. Her annual allotment was already spent this year, her money sent to Bram to help with the apparent repairs he needed for his country estate in Devon. Though why he’d requested the funds sent to his chalet in France, Max didn’t know. And he wouldn’t ask either.
    â€œHere is an invitation from Lord and Lady Simpkin. They have two daughters,” Mother said, shuffling through the cards. “Tell me, are you partial to fair-haired young women, or would a brunette suit?”
    An errant vision of golden spun silk and dancing blue eyes flashed through his mind before he was aware of it. The instant he was aware, however, he purposely thought of dark hair, auburn hair, and brown eyes. “I care not.”
    â€œAre you certain? Because that would help to narrow down your selection.”
    â€œYou would only ask me which shade I prefer next. Black as the ink in my pot, brown as this leather blotter, red as my chestnut mare, or blonde as golden”—as the words tumbled out of his mouth, he felt as if his mind and tongue had conspired against him—“spun silk.”
    â€œHmm . . . Strange that you would use those words, for that is exactly how I would describe Juliet’s hair. It is a most becoming shade.” She hummed to herself, looking at the cards that she’d already considered. “I do not believe there is another debutante that is her equal.”
    â€œAs a widow, she is no longer considered a debutante.” He