“Chaises, sofas, stools, divans—”
“Type of material, density of cushions—”
“Arms or no arms—”
“Proper height, proper depth—”
“I see,” Miss Thorne said faintly, and left the armchair alone. She pulled out her journal and jotted a note.
Julian doubted she did see.
In the thirteen years his well-meaning uncle had held the purse strings, he’d undone everything Julian’s parents and forebears had accomplished. Not out of evilness but incompetency.
Julian had learned the more he cared about someone, the more ability they had to disappoint. And if one wanted a thing done right...well, he had mastered the art of taking the reins himself.
Miss Thorne pursed her lips. “Is there any point in me asking about the wine or the cakes?”
“None.”
“What about—”
And off she went, poking at perfection all over again. Julian flexed his fingers in irritation. She wanted to change everything, just like his uncle.
No, that was unfair. Miss Thorne was unlike his uncle. She was trying to workwithhim. To talk to him, to include him, to make it a conversation, cooperation, a partnership.
She listened to him.
And... he supposed he was listening to her. As annoying as her second-guessing of his decisions might be, no one else but him had ever looked about this ballroom and wondered these same things. Whatifthe chaises longues, whatifthe pear tarts, whatifthe curtains?
“Are you always this hardheaded?” Miss Thorne groused. “Other people have ideas, too.”
This was her first time beneath this roof, and she was immediately thinking along the same path Julian had taken when he’d turned twenty-two and decided to fill the silence of his cavernous home with occasional masquerades. Wildness that he could control. Perfection he could perform.
“If I seem cold and intractable, it is because I am ruled by my brain, not by my fancy,” he replied.
“Humph,” she said. “Cold like a burning ember. You’re not hard and passionless. The reason you’re unwilling to change things is because youdocare. Far more than the average person, I’d wager.”
He glared at her, appalled. Julian had no response to such unsolicited impertinence, so he snapped his fingers toward the orchestra instead. It was nine minutes until ten. Miss Thorne was a bad influence already.
Music filled the air. Elegant music. Classic pieces.
Strings not nearly loud enough to drown out Miss Thorne’s continued questions about every aspect of Julian’s balls.
Her endless queries outlined many of the same theories and hypotheses Julian had considered as he’d refined his masquerades over the years. While today he had all of the answers, he was forced to admit that if he’d known her back then, she might indeed have saved him quite a bit of time.
But this was now. He didn’t want her advice, and he certainly didn’t need her changing things. What he wanted was...
To kiss her. To taste that mouth that never shut up, to silence her tongue by offering it a different sort of battle.
But she was not the sort of woman he was hunting.
The Duke of Lambley required a perfect wife. It was no different an endeavor than selecting the right butler or housekeeper. Just a matter of picking the right person for the job.
The post of duchess must be filled by a woman who had been raised in the highest echelons of society. Someone who took tea with Queen Charlotte and held the high regard of the patronesses of Almack’s. Someone who looked at his ballroom not with awe, but as a small part of the sort of sprawling household she’d been trained to manage. The daughter of a peer, and utterly peerless.
He needed to marry someone above reproach, because Julian... was not. And Miss Thorne was right. He wasn’t unfeeling. Julian wanted his heirs to be accepted in society. He was even prepared to turn over the proverbial new leaf if necessary to ensure his children’s success.
All he asked in return was...
