Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (11 page)

“Must we do so in front of half of London?”

Callie laughed. “ ‘Half of London,’ really, Juliana. No more than a dozen others.”

Juliana knew Callie well enough to understand that there was no point in arguing.

“As an added benefit, it will not hurt to have the Duke of Leighton on our side, you know. His friendship can only make you more attractive to other men of the
ton.
”

“And if I do not want to attract other men of the
ton
?”

Callie smiled. “Are you saying you want to attract the duke?”

It was a deliberate misunderstanding, Juliana knew. But she felt the wash of color on her cheeks nonetheless. Hoping to escape notice, she gave her sister-in-law a long-suffering look. “No.”

Callie took a deep breath. “Juliana, it is not as though we are planning to force you into marriage, but it would not hurt for you to meet a man or two. Whom you like. Company you enjoy.”

“You’ve been attempting this for months. To no avail.”

“At some point, you will meet someone to whom you are drawn.”

“Perhaps. But he will likely not be drawn to me.”

He will likely find me troublesome.

“Of course he will be drawn to you. You’re beautiful and entertaining and wonderful. I am inviting Benedick as well.”

The Earl of Allendale was Callie’s older brother. Juliana allowed her surprise to show. “Why do you say that in such a manner?”

Callie’s smile was too bright. “No reason. Don’t you like him?”

“I do . . .” Juliana’s gaze narrowed. “Callie, please do not play matchmaker. I am not right for men like Benedick. Or any of the others either.”

“I am not matchmaking!” The protest was loud. And false. “I simply thought you would like a familiar face. Or two.”

“I suppose that would not be so bad.”

Callie turned worried. “Juliana, has someone been rude?”

She shook her head. “No. They’re all extraordinarily polite. Very gracious. Impeccably British. But they also make it more than clear that I am not . . . what they seek. In a companion.”

“In a
wife,
” Callie corrected quickly. “A companion is a different thing altogether.”

Companion was likely the precise role that all of London—save her family—was expecting her to assume. They considered her too much of a scandal to be a wife
.
And Juliana did not like the word, anyway. She shook her head. “Callie, I’ve said from the beginning . . . from the day I arrived here in England . . . marriage is not for me.”

And it was not.

“Nonsense,” Callie said, dismissing the idea. “Why would you think such a thing?”

Because the daughter of the Marchioness of Ralston is not exactly the wife of whom every man dreams.

Of course, she could not say that.

She was saved from having to reply by the opening of the library door.

Ralston entered, his eyes finding them on the window seat, and Juliana watched as he drank in his wife, his features softening, his love clear.

She did not deny that it would be wonderful to have such a thing.

She simply did not waste her time wishing for it.

Ralston approached, taking Callie’s hand in his, lifting the fingers to his lips for a brief kiss. “I’ve been looking for you.” He turned to Juliana. “Both of you.”

Callie looked to Ralston. “Tell your sister she’s beautiful.”

He looked surprised. “Of course she’s beautiful. If only she were a touch taller, she’d be perfect.”

She laughed at the feeble joke. She was taller than half the men in London. “A common complaint.”

“Gabriel, I’m serious,” Callie was not going to let either sibling off the hook. “She thinks that she cannot land a husband.”

Her brother’s brows knitted together. “Why not?” he asked his wife.

“I don’t know! Because obstinacy runs in your blood?”

He pretended to consider the frustrated statement. “It’s possible. I am not certain that I could land a husband either.”

Juliana grinned. “It is because you are too tall.”

One side of his mouth kicked up. “Very likely.”

Callie gave a little aggravated sound. “You are both impossible! I have dinner to oversee. You”—she pointed a finger at her husband, then indicated Juliana—“talk some sense into her.”

When the door had closed behind Callie, Ralston turned to Juliana.

“Please do not make me discuss it.”

He nodded once. “You realize that she’s going to be relentless about this. You’ll have to come up with an excellent reason why you don’t want to marry, or you’ll be having this conversation for the rest of your life.”

“I have a good reason.”

“No doubt you think you do.”

She scowled at the insinuation that she did not
actually
have a good reason not to marry.

“You shall be happy to learn that I have decided against locking you in the attic for the rest of your days to keep you from more adventures,” he said, changing the subject. “But you are not far from such a fate. Do have a care, Juliana.” His dimple flashed. “I find I quite like having a sister.”

His words warmed her. She quite liked having a brother. “I do not mean to make trouble.”

He raised a brow.

“Not
all
the time. Not this afternoon.”
Except she had meant to make trouble. Just not the kind he need know about.
“Not the kind that ends at the bottom of a lake,” she qualified.

He moved to a sideboard and poured himself a scotch, then sat by the fireplace, indicating that she should join him.

When she took the chair opposite his, he said, “No, you mean to make the kind of trouble that ends in setting down half of London society.”

She opened her mouth to refute the point, and he continued. “There’s no use in telling me otherwise, Juliana. You think it is only our dark hair and blue eyes that make us siblings? You think I do not know what it is like to have them watch your every move? To have them wait for you to prove that you are every inch what they expect you to be?”

There was a long pause. “It’s different.”

“It’s not.”

“They didn’t think you were going to be like her.”

He did not pretend to misunderstand. “You’re nothing like her.”

How could he know that?

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his blue eyes unwavering. “I know it. I know what she was like. She was indifferent. Uncaring. She made a cuckold of her husband. She left her children . . . twice. That is not you.”

She wanted to believe him.

“She was also a scandal.”

He gave a little huff of laughter. “It’s not the same thing at all. You are unexpected and exciting and charming. Yes. You’re willful and irritating as hell when you want to be, but you’re not a scandal.”

She had been in Hyde Park that morning. She had been on the balcony the night before. If Ralston knew that she had wagered two weeks of passion with the duke, he’d have a fit.

Yes, she was a scandal.

Her brother simply didn’t know it.

“I fell in the Serpentine today.”

“Yes, well, that doesn’t usually happen to women in London. But it’s not so much of a scandal as it is a challenge. And if you’d stop nearly getting yourself killed . . .” He trailed off, and silence stretched between them. “She was real scandal. The kind from which families do not recover. You are not like her. Not at all.”

“Leighton thinks I am.”

Ralston’s eyes darkened. “Leighton compared you to our mother?”

She shook her head. “Not in so many words. But he thinks I’m a danger to the reputations around me.”

Ralston waved a dismissive hand. “First, Leighton is an ass, and has been since he was in short pants.” Juliana could not help her giggle, and Ralston smiled at the sound. “Second, he is too conservative. He always has been. And third”—he gave a wry smile—“I have suffered more than my fair share of blows to my reputation, and we are still invited to parties, are we not?”

“Perhaps everyone is just waiting for us to cause a scene.”

He settled back in his chair. “It’s possible.”

“Why is he so cautious?”

The question was out before she could stop it, and she immediately regretted it. She did not want Ralston to sense her interest in the duke.

Not that it was anything more than a passing interest.

Not at all.

Ralston seemed not to notice. “He has always been so. Since we were boys. At school, he couldn’t speak a sentence without mentioning that he was heir to a dukedom. Always stiff and proper and all about the title. I’ve always thought his behavior ridiculous. Why assume the responsibilities of a title if you’re not willing to enjoy the benefits?”

He met her eyes, honestly confounded by the idea of feeling responsible to a title, and Juliana could not help but grin. Her brother had a rake inside him. A tame one, now that he was married, but a rake nonetheless.

Silence fell, and Juliana had to bite her tongue to keep from pressing her brother for more.

“Callie wants to have him to dinner. To thank him. Publicly.”

He thought for a moment. “That seems to be sound logic.”

“Along with a half a dozen other eligible bachelors.”

He offered her a sympathetic look. “You do not actually believe that I can alter her from this course?”

“No, I suppose I do not.” She paused. “She thinks proximity to the duke will help my reputation.”

“She’s probably right. I can’t say I like the man, but he does hold a certain sway over society.” One side of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “A trait I’ve never been able to claim.” Silence fell, and they were both lost to their thoughts. Finally, Ralston said, “I won’t pretend their opinions don’t matter, Juliana. I wish to hell they didn’t; of course they do. But I promise you. You are nothing like her.”

She closed her eyes against his words. “I want to believe you.”

“But you find yourself believing them.”

Her gaze widened. How did he know that?

A wry smile crossed his face. “You forget, sister. I have been in your position. I have wanted to show them all that I was above them, all the while fearing that I was precisely what they thought.”

That was it.
That was how she felt.

“It is different for you,” Juliana said, and she hated the pout in her voice.

He took a drink. “It is. Now.”

Because he was the marquess.

Because he was English.

Because he was male.

“Because you are one of them.”

“Bite your tongue!” he said. “What an insult!”

She did not find it amusing. She found it infuriating.

“Ah, Juliana. It’s different for me because I now know what it is to have someone expect me to be more than what I am. Now I know what it is to
want
to be more.”

The meaning of his words sank in. “Callie.”

He nodded. “I no longer focus on meeting their expectations because I am too focused on outdoing hers.”

She could not help but smile. “The wicked Marquess of Ralston, inveterate libertine, laid low by love.”

He met her gaze, all seriousness. “I am not saying that you must marry, Juliana. On the contrary, if you prefer a life free of marriage, God knows you have enough money to live it. But you must ask yourself what you think your life should be.”

She opened her mouth to answer him, only to realize that she had no answer. She’d never given it much thought—not since her father had died and everything had changed. In Italy, marriage and family had not been out of the question, she supposed . . . but they had been so far off that she’d never really given them much thought. But here, in England . . .

Who would want her?

Unaware of her thoughts, Ralston stood, ending the conversation with one final thought. “I never thought I would say it, but love is not as bad as I thought it would be. Should it come for you, I hope you will not turn it away out of hand.”

She shook her head. “I hope it will not come for me.”

A smile flashed. “I have heard that before, you know. I’ve said it . . . Nick has said it . . . but, be warned. St. Johns do not seem to be able to avoid it.”

But I am not a St. John. Not really.

She did not speak the words.

She liked the illusion.

Chapter Seven

Amusement is expressed in delicate smiles.

Laughter is too coarse for the elegant lady.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

The age-old question is answered: In battle, marble trumps gold.

—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823

J
uliana looked over the edge of the Duke of Rivington’s box at the Theatre Royale, considering the mass of silk and satin below. Half of the
ton
appeared to be in attendance at this special presentation of
The Lady of Livorno,
and the other half was surely put out that they could not secure a ticket.

“My word,” Mariana said, joining her to watch the tableau spread out before them, “I thought autumn was for country houses and hunting trips!”

“Yes, well, whoever decreed such apparently neglected to tell London society this year.”

“This is what happens when Parliament convenes special sessions. We all go mad from the autumn air. Is that
wheat
in Lady Davis’s hair?” Mariana lifted her opera glasses, inspecting the unfortunate coiffure with a shake of her head before surveying the rest of the boxes in the theatre before the performance began and she would be forced to pretend she did not care for the audience as much as for the company of actors. “Ah. Densmore is here with a woman I’ve never seen before. One can assume she’s a lightskirt.”

“Mari!” She might not have been in London for long, but even Juliana knew that discussion of courtesans was not appropriate conversation for the theatre.

Mariana looked up, eyes twinkling. “Well, it’s true!”

“What is true?” The Duke of Rivington had made his way through the throngs of visitors in search of a moment of his time and ran the back of one finger down his wife’s arm.

Juliana felt a pang of envy at the absentminded affection, barely noticed by husband or wife, and ignored it. Mariana turned to her duke with a brilliant, happy smile. “I was just saying that Densmore must be here with a lady of the evening. I’ve never seen her before.”

Rivington was used to his wife’s boldness, and instead of chastising her he sought the Densmore box, taking a long look at the viscount’s companion. “I think you may be right, sweeting.”

“You see?” Mariana nearly preened with satisfaction. “I’m an excellent judge of character.”

“Either that, or you’re becoming an excellent gossip,” Juliana said wryly.

Rivington laughed loudly. “Much more likely. Miss Fiori, I am afraid I must steal her away for a moment.” He turned back to Mari. “Come and say hello to Lady Allen, would you? I need you to entertain her for a bit while I discuss a matter with her husband.”

Mariana looked over Rivington’s shoulder at the couple in question, a somewhat staid pair, each with pursed lips and unfortunate jowls. Rolling her eyes, she handed her opera glasses to Juliana. “See what else you can discover while I’m gone. I expect a full report when I return.”

She was gone then, through a crowd of people, to do her duty as wife of one of the most revered men in the realm. Juliana watched in wonder as her friend approached the baroness and engaged the woman in conversation. Within moments, Lady Allen was smiling up at Mariana, obviously satisfied with her company.

As much as people talked about Mariana’s marriage as that most rare of things—the love match—it was undeniable that the relationship was as much a brilliant political partnership as it was a romance. Mariana was the very best of ducal wives; that her duke happened to be mad about her was a happy coincidence.

Lasting love was not something with which Juliana was familiar. She was the product of a match devised from fleeting infatuation. Her mother had bewitched her father, from what Juliana could tell, and had deserted them both when she became tired of domesticity. Juliana’s father had never remarried, though he’d had several opportunities to do so—she had always thought that he’d made the most sensible choice. After all, why risk loving again when history suggested that such behavior would end in pain and anger and loss?

In the last several months, she had come to see that love was not a myth—she’d stood happily by as her half brothers had found it. Gabriel and Callie’s love blossomed just as Juliana arrived in England, and she had watched as they resisted it—futilely. When they had succumbed to the emotion, all of London had been surprised, and Juliana had hoped only that
their
love would not end in sadness. Within months, Nick had found his Isabel, and it was impossible to deny their devotion to each other.

But all love began this way—fiery and passionate and devoted. What happened when fire waned and devotion became tiresome?

She watched as Callie stretched to whisper into Ralston’s ear on the opposite side of the box. Her brother smiled broadly—something he had rarely done when Juliana had arrived in the spring—placing his hand on the small of his wife’s back and leaning down to reply.

From the pink wash that spread over Callie’s cheeks, Juliana imagined her brother’s words were not entirely fit for the theatre.

Something coiled deep within Juliana . . . something that she might have identified as envy if she spent too much time considering it.

But she knew better than to be envious of their love. It was a vague, ephemeral emotion that, within months—years, if one were lucky—would ultimately fade.

And then what?

No, Juliana did not want love.

But passion . . . the kind that made her brother say wicked things to his wife at the theatre . . . that was another thing entirely.

She wouldn’t mind that.

She thought back to the morning two days earlier, to the moment in Hyde Park when the Duke of Leighton had leapt from his horse, eyes flashing with anger and frustration, and kissed her. Thoroughly.

With passion.

And he’d made her want, damn him.

She wanted that of which he’d given her a taste.

Desire. Lust. Sensuality. Even the conflict was compelling.

But not him.

She refused to want him.

She lifted the binoculars and scanned the theatre, searching for something that would serve to redirect her attention. Several boxes away, Viscount Densmore appeared to be leering down the amply filled, alarmingly low-cut bodice of his companion—it appeared Mari had been right about her. A few yards farther, Lady Davis and Lady Sparrow were at risk of falling out of their box as they craned their necks toward some distant point before huddling behind fluttering fans held in the universal position for scandalous conversation. While Juliana had no love for either of the horrible women, she had to admit that they were expert gossips. Tracking their line of sight, she hoped for a welcome distraction.

When she arrived at the reason for their frenzied whispers, she vowed never to gossip again.

There, in the box directly opposite, stood the Duke of Leighton and the grape, in quiet, private conversation. In full view of half of London.

Several feet away from the perfect, poised couple, rounding out the portrait of aristocratic bliss—and very likely sending the rest of the theatre into convulsions of excitement over what was most definitely a sign of impeding marriage—were the Duchess of Leighton and a plump lady and portly gentleman who Juliana could only imagine were the grape’s parents.

Lady Penelope.

She had better start thinking of her as Lady Penelope.

Why? Soon enough she’ll be the Duchess of Leighton.

She ignored the wave of distaste that flooded her at the thought.

What did she care whom he married?

She didn’t.

Why did she care that he had selected someone who was everything Juliana was not? Poised perfection, absolutely no trouble, not even a bit scandalous?

She
didn’t.

No? Then why not put down the opera glasses?

She could put down the opera glasses anytime she wanted.

She
meant
to put down the opera glasses.

He looked up and stared directly at her.

If they had burst into flame, she could not have lowered the opera glasses more quickly.

Or with more carelessness.

The binoculars hit the marble balustrade with a wicked crack, and the gold eyepiece fell to the carpeted floor.

It was dreadfully quiet in the box all of a sudden, as the collected visitors and family turned at the sound, finding Juliana openmouthed, staring at the long enamel handle that remained in her hand.

An enormous wave of embarrassment coursed through her, and Juliana took the first avenue of escape, falling to her knees on the floor of the at once too-dark and utterly not-dark-enough box to retrieve the glasses which . . . devil take them . . . must have bounced under a chair, because they were nowhere to be seen.

Searching blindly under the chairs, it took her a moment to realize that by crawling on the floor of the Duke of Rivington’s theatre box, she’d just made a bad situation much,
much
worse. Ladies Sparrow and Davis were very likely watching
her
now, waiting to see how she would extricate herself from this mortifying situation.

And she would not even think about
him.

Certainly he had seen it all. And she imagined him lifting one imperious, golden brow in her direction as if to say,
Thank goodness it is Ralston who must deal with you and not I.

She cursed under her breath, deciding that this particular situation could not be made worse by a few choice words in Italian.

Her fingers brushed against something cool and smooth, and she grasped the fallen glasses. She lifted her head, to find herself staring at the shins of Callie’s brother, the Earl of Allendale. A gentleman of the highest caliber, Benedick was almost certainly there to help her to her feet.

She was not ready.

He seemed to sense that, instead crouching down beside her. “Shall I pretend to help with the search until you are ready to face them?” he whispered, and the lighthearted amusement in his tone helped to steady her pulse.

She met his clear brown gaze, so like Callie’s, and matched his whisper with her own. “Do you think I might stay here, my lord?”

“For how long?”

“Forever is too long, is it?”

He pretended to consider the question. “Well, as a gentleman, I would be required to remain by your side . . . and I
was
hoping to see the performance,” he teased. When she smiled, he offered her a hand and some quiet advice. “Keep smiling. If they see that you are embarrassed, you’ll hate yourself for it.”

With a deep breath, she allowed him to lift her to her feet. She could feel hundreds of eyes on her, but she refused to look.

Refused to check to see if one set of those eyes belonged to the arrogant duke opposite them. Through her forced smile, she said, “I’ve caused a scene, haven’t I?”

One side of Lord Allendale’s mouth rose in amusement. “Yes. But it’s a theatre. So take comfort in the fact that you are not the first to do so here.”

“The first to do so from so far above the stage, however.”

He leaned in close, as if to share a secret. “Nonsense. I once saw a viscountess lose her wig because she was leaning too far over the edge.” He gave a mock shudder. “Horrifying.”

She laughed, the sound equal parts amusement and relief. Benedick was handsome and charming and so much kinder than—

Than no one.

“First the Serpentine and now this.”

“You are an adventuress, it would seem,” he teased. “At least in this case, you are in no danger.”

“Really? Why does it feel so much more terrifying?”

Benedick smiled down at her. “Would you like to take a bow?”

Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t!”

“No?”

“It would be—”

“It would make for a far more interesting evening, that is certain.”

And Leighton would hate it.

The thought brought a grin to her face. A real one.

She shook her head. “I think I have caused enough trouble for one evening,” she said to the earl, turning to face the rest of the box. She held up the glasses triumphantly, announcing, “I found them!”

Mariana laughed, clapping her hands twice in a sign that she was thoroughly entertained. Ralston’s smirk indicated that his irritation at her scene was overpowered by his pride that she would not cower in fear of the rest of the
ton
. Her brother had never cared much for society, and Juliana had that for which to be thankful.