Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (12 page)

As for the visitors to the box, they seemed to be attempting to recall the proper etiquette for the moment when the sister of a marquess reappeared after spending entirely too long on the floor of a theatre box—not that Juliana believed there was an appropriate amount of time to spend on the floor of a theatre box—the lights in the theatre began to dim, and it was time for the
real
performance to begin.

Thank God.

Juliana was soon seated at the end of the first row of seats, next to Mariana, who had no doubt returned to Juliana’s side to protect her from further embarrassment. The lights came up on stage, and the play began.

It was impossible for Juliana to focus on the play. It was a farce, and a good one if the audience’s laughter was any indication, but she was struggling with residual nerves, a lingering impulse to flee the theatre, and an unbearable desire to look at the Duke of Leighton’s box.

An unbearable desire that, by the end of the first scene, proved irresistible.

She stole a glance from the corner of her eye and saw him.

Watching the play with avid interest.

Her fingers tightened around the delicate gold binoculars in her hands, reminding her of their existence.
Of the ease with which she could see him clearly.

It was entirely reasonable for her to check the state of the most important component of the opera glasses, she reasoned. While the handle was broken, it would certainly be a tragedy if the glasses themselves were ruined as well. Any halfway-decent friend would replace them if they were broken.

Of course she would test the glasses.

She
should
test the glasses.

It was altogether expected.

She lifted the eyepiece and peered at the stage. No cracked lenses—Juliana could see the brilliant scarlet satin of the lead actress, she could almost make out the individual strands of the thick black moustache worn by the lead actor.

Perfect working order.

But there was no assurance that the glasses had not been broken in some other way.

Perhaps they were now affected by light?

Altogether possible. She would do well to find out.

In the name of friendship.

She swung the glasses as casually as possible in a wide arc from the stage, stopping only when she found his gleaming golden curls. Something on the stage made the audience laugh. He did not laugh . . . did not even smile, until the grape turned to him, as if to check to see that he was enjoying himself. Juliana watched as he forced a smile, leaning close to speak softly in her ear. Her smile grew broader, more natural, and she all of a sudden did not seem so very grapelike.

She seemed quite lovely.

Juliana felt ill.

“Do you see anything of interest?”

She inhaled sharply, nearly dropping the glasses at the whispered question.

She turned to meet Mariana’s gaze. “I—I was merely testing the opera glasses. I wanted to be certain that they were in working condition.”

“Ah.” A small smile played across her friend’s lips. “Because I could have sworn you were looking at the Duke of Leighton.”

“Why would I be doing that?” Juliana said, and the question came out at a near-inhuman pitch. She thrust the broken glasses into Mariana’s lap. “Here. They work.”

Mariana lifted the glasses, making absolutely no attempt to hide that she
was
looking at the Duke of Leighton. “I wonder why he is with Penelope Marbury?”

“He’s going to marry her,” Juliana grumbled.

Mariana gave Juliana a quick look of surprise. “Really. Well. She’s made the catch of a lifetime.”

The cod served at luncheon must have been off. It was the only reason why she would feel so very . . . queasy.

Mariana returned to her inspection. “Callie tells me that you’ve had several run-ins with him.”

Juliana shook her head, and whispered, “I don’t know what she is talking about. We haven’t run at all. There was a riding incident, but I didn’t think Callie knew about it . . .” She stopped talking as she noted that Mariana had lowered the glasses and was staring at her in shock. “I think I have misunderstood.”

Mariana recovered and said with a triumphant grin. “Indeed you have. How I adore that you still have not mastered English turns of phrase!”

Juliana clasped her friend’s hand. “Mari! You must not repeat it!”

“Oh, I won’t. On one condition.”

Juliana looked to the ceiling for salvation. “What?”

“You must tell me everything! A ‘riding incident’ sounds so very scandalous!”

Juliana did not reply, instead turning resolutely to the stage. She tried to pay attention to the action on the stage but the story—of two lovers avoiding discovery of their clandestine affair—was rather too familiar. She was in the midst of her own farce . . . broken opera glasses and scandalous meetings and all, and she’d just been discovered.

And she was not amused.

“He’s looking at you,” Mariana whispered.

“He is not looking at me,” she replied out of the corner of her mouth.

But she could not help but turn her head.

He was not looking at her.

“He
was
looking at you.”

“Well, I am not looking at
him.
”

And she did not look at him.

She did not look during the whole of the first act, as the lovers slammed in and out of doors and the audience howled with laughter, not as the curtain fell on them locked in a passionate embrace, in full view of her husband and his sister . . . who for some reason cared a bit too much about the skirts her brother was chasing.

She did not look as the candles were lit around the theatre, throwing London society back into view, and not as the stream of visitors to the Rivington box began once more and she had the opportunity to look without scrutiny.

She did not look while the Earl of Allendale entertained her during intermission, nor when Mariana suggested they go to the ladies’ salon to repair themselves—a thinly veiled ruse to get Juliana talking—nor after she declared that no, she did not have reason to attend the salon, and Mariana was forced to go alone.

She did not look until the lights had dimmed once more and the audience was settling in for the second act.

And then she wished she hadn’t.

Because he was guiding the grape into her seat, his large hand lingering at her elbow, sliding down her arm as he took his seat beside her.

And she found she could not look away.

The caress was over quickly—although it seemed to Juliana that it stretched out interminably—and Lady Penelope, unmoved, turned to the stage, immediately absorbed in the next act.

The duke, however, looked at Juliana, fully meeting her gaze. Distance and dim lights should have made her somewhat uncertain but, no . . . he was looking at her.

There was no other explanation for the shiver of awareness that shot down her spine.

He knew she had seen the caress.

Had wanted her to see it.

And suddenly there was not enough air in the box.

She stood abruptly, drawing Ralston’s attention as she headed for the exit. She leaned down to speak quietly in his ear, “I find I have something of a headache. I am going into the hallway for some air.”

His gaze narrowed. “Shall I take you home?”

“No no . . . I shall be fine. I will be just outside the box.” She smiled feebly. “Back before you realize that I am gone.”

Ralston hesitated, debating whether he should allow her to leave. “Do not go far. I don’t want you wandering through the theatre.”

She shook her head. “Of course not.”

He stayed her movement with one firm hand on her wrist. “I mean it, sister. I am well aware of the trouble you can find in a theatre during a performance.”

She raised a dark brow in a gesture they shared. “I look forward to hearing more about that soon.”

His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “You’ll have to ask Callie.”

She smiled. “You can be sure that I will.”

And then she was in the hallway, which was empty save a handful of footmen, and she could breathe once more.

There was a cool breeze blowing through the corridor, and she headed instinctively for its source, a large window on the back end of the theatre where the hallway ended abruptly above what must have been the stage. The window had been left open to the October evening, a chair beneath it, as though waiting for her arrival. It was likely too far from the box for Ralston’s taste, but it was a perfectly public place nonetheless.

She sat, leaning on the sill and looking out over the rooftops of London. Candlelight flickered in the windows of the buildings below, and she could just make out a young woman sewing several floors down. Juliana wondered, fleetingly, whether the girl had ever been to the theatre . . . whether she’d ever even
dreamed
of the theatre.

Juliana certainly hadn’t . . . not like this, with a family of aristocrats that she’d never known existed. Not with jewels and silks and satins and marquesses and earls and . . . dukes.

Dukes who infuriated her and consumed her thoughts and kissed her like she was the last woman on earth.

She sighed, watching as the light from the waxing moon reflected on the tile roofs, still wet from a brief rain that afternoon.

She had started something that she could not finish.

She’d wanted to tempt him with passion—to punish his arrogance by bringing him to his knees—but after the embarrassing episode at the lake, when he’d all but told her that she was the very last thing he would ever find tempting . . .

There were ten days left in their agreement, and he was courting Lady Penelope, planning a lifetime of proper, perfect marriage with a woman who had been reared to be a duchess.

The wager was supposed to end in Leighton’s triumphant set down; so why did it feel like it was Juliana who would be the losing party?

“Why aren’t you in your seat?”

She gave a little start at the words, laced with irritation.

He had followed her.

She should not care that he had sought her out.

Of course, she did.

She turned, attempting to appear calm. “Why aren’t
you
in
your
seat?”

He scowled at that. “I saw you leave the box without escort.”

“My brother knows where I am.”

“Your brother has never in his life accepted an ounce of responsibility.” He came closer. “Anything could happen to you out here.”

Juliana made a show of looking down the long, quiet hallway. “Yes. It’s very threatening.”

“Someone should be looking out for your reputation. You could be accosted.”

“By whom?”

He paused at that. “By anyone! By an actor! Or a footman!”

“Or a duke?”

His brows knitted together, and there was a pause. “I suppose I deserve that.”

He did not deserve it. Not really. She turned back to the window. “I did not ask you to come after me.”

There was a long moment of silence, and she was expecting him to leave when he said, softly, “No. You didn’t.”

She snapped her head around at the admission. “Then why are you here?”

He ran a hand through his golden curls and Juliana’s eyes widened at the movement, so uncontrolled and unlike him, a mark of his disquiet.

“It was a mistake.”

Disappointment flared, and she did her best to hide it, instead making a wide sweep of the corridor with one hand. “One easily corrected, Your Grace. I believe your box is on the opposite side of the theatre. Shall I ask a footman to escort you back? Or are you afraid of being accosted?”

His lips pressed into a straight line, the only indication that he had registered the sarcasm in her words. “I don’t mean coming after you, although Lord knows that was likely a mistake as well, albeit an unavoidable one.” He stopped, considering his next words. “I mean all of it. The wager, the two weeks, the morning in Hyde Park . . .”

“The afternoon in Hyde Park,” she added softly, and his gaze flew to hers.

“I would have preferred not to have given the gossipmongers something to discuss, but of course I do not regret saving you.” There was something in the words, irritation mixed with an emotion that Juliana could not quite identify, but it was gone when he continued, coolly, “The rest, though, it cannot continue. I should never have agreed to it to begin with. That was the mistake. I’m beginning to see that you are virtually incapable of behaving with decorum. I should never have humored you.”

Humored her.

The meaning of the words echoed even as he danced around what he was really trying to say.