My Fair Marchioness (Scandalous Affairs Book 3) Christi Caldwell (popular books of all time txt) 📖

over to the bed, and she’d sat on the mattress, as soft and light as she imagined a cloud to be.

And she’d not told them.

She’d watched them whirl off, like the same dervishes they’d been when they’d entered, until Julia was alone, with nothing more than the hum of quiet left in their wake.

She lived in the loudest end of London, where one could always count on falling asleep to the shouts and cries of its unluckiest inhabitants. There wasn’t anything more dangerous, darker, or evil than the din to be found in East London. Life had proven to Julia that invariably coupled with that ruckus were knives and assaults and various other ruthless attacks.

That was what Julia had believed anyway.

But the moment the duchess and her not-so-small entourage had taken their collective leave, ushering in a heavy silence, Julia had discovered just how very wrong she’d been over the years. Evil didn’t spring from the noise.

It slipped forward into the quiet when one was left alone with only one’s thoughts. From there, Satan slithered in, whispering with ideas a person shouldn’t have. Dangling forth seductive gifts. Like security. And safety. And food and a warm home.

What if Julia stayed?

She didn’t have to leave. At least not right away.

Eventually, she would.

But for now, they’d mistaken her for Adairia.

It would be wrong to deceive the family that had so missed Adairia. And yet, perhaps if she remained, she could share with them how Adairia had spent these past years.

That thought did little to ease her guilt at the deception she intended to carry out, one born of desperation and rooted in a fear of a future that was far more uncertain and perilous than lying to a woman who was so determined to take her under her wing.

Restless, Julia gathered the cotton wrapper and drew it on. Belting it at the waist, she headed for the doorway.

It should be Adairia.

It should be Adairia.

With every step she took that put her farther from her borrowed chambers and through the duchess’ carpet-clad halls, those four words were an echo in her mind, a litany that played over and over.

She peered into rooms as she raced through the Grosvenor Square mansion, the brightly colored parlors passing so quickly as she flew by they were like a kaleidoscope she’d once found—and then had stolen from her on the streets.

All of these grand spaces were ones Adairia should have explored through the years. She should have been rediscovering them now. If only Julia had listened. If only she’d trusted and believed.

Guilt and shame and pain, together with the pace she’d set, robbed her lungs of their proper function. Those organs ached, strained, and threatened to burst, and she wished they would. Because then she wouldn’t have to confront all the mistakes she’d made and the lie she’d resolved to perpetuate against the family Adairia had lost.

Julia continued running and then skidded to a sudden halt, her cotton chemise whirling about her. Gasping for air, she caught a hand against the wall, bracing herself against a bold silk bird.

She immediately drew her hand back, realizing the quality of the painted wallpaper she touched.

Not the chipped and broken brick walls and plaster that had served as her and Adairia’s four walls and a roof.

It was not that magnificently peculiar bird, with its wings spread in an array of blues and purples and yellows, that held her riveted. She was drawn back to the last room she’d passed, not one of an endless sea of parlors, retracing her steps and then stopping before the open doorway.

Doused in darkness, without so much as a sconce lit, the room, done in wood flooring and wood paneling, received a natural glow from the full moon that hung in the sky outside.

I remember a music room with so very many instruments, and I was allowed to play with them all.

Wetting her lips, Julia ventured into the room. The floorboards dipped and groaned under the slight weight of her footsteps as she walked.

She passed a harpsichord of gold, so blindingly bright she had to blink to accustom her eyes to its shine.

As she went, Julia glided her fingers along the curve of that instrument that would have fed her forevermore. She continued on through the Music Room, grazing a palm over the cello and violin before coming to a stop beside the pianoforte situated between two floor-to-ceiling windows.

At the time, Julia had listened indulgently to the younger girl, whose telling of that story had persisted through the years. That myth, made up by a girl who loved song and music as she had, fit so very well with what she’d been known as—the Covent Garden songbird; a skill that had brought in coin, even during desperate times. A skill that Julia’s mother, a once-great opera singer had helped to perfect.

Only, it hadn’t been some fantasy Adairia had clung to in a bid to survive the cold, miserable world they’d been born to.

So much of it made sense now.

Adairia’s ability to read and write and her fine, cultured English tones. The same manner and speech Julia’s mother had her learn to earn more coin in the hopes that she and Julia might one day find a well-heeled protector. Yet where Julia’s was an act, Adairia was born into the life of culture and grace. Adairia had conducted herself like the finest lady, whom the grime of the London streets had never been able to erase the shine from.

Julia depressed a single key, and the high, thin echo pierced the quiet.

“It is unsurprising to find you in this of all the duchess’ rooms, my lady.”

Julia gasped and whirled around.

Heart hammering, she squinted into the dark, her gaze landing on the tall figure in the entranceway. Casually lounging as he was,