Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (13 page)

She was not good enough for him.

She never had been.

And she would never be good enough for the world in which he lived.

As much as she had sworn that she would change his view of her, that she would prove him wrong and make him beg for her forgiveness . . . for her attention . . . the resolve in his tone gave her pause.

She refused to be hurt by him; it would give him too much power over her. Would give them
all
too much power over her. There were others who did not think her somehow less because she had been born in Italy, because she had been born common, because she struggled with the rules and restrictions of this new world.

She would not be hurt.

She would be angry.

Anger, at least, was an emotion she could master.

And as long as she was angry, he would not win.

“Humored me?” she asked, standing and turning so that they were face-to-face. “You may be accustomed to others simply accepting your view of a situation, Your Grace, but I am not one of your adoring minions.”

His jaw steeled at the words, and she pressed on. “You did not appear to be merely humoring me when you agreed to two weeks; and you most definitely were not merely humoring me in Hyde Park several mornings ago.” Her chin lifted, light and firm with a mix of anger and conviction. “You gave me two weeks. By my count, I still have ten days.”

She stepped closer to him, until they were nearly touching, and heard the shift in his breathing—the tension that would have been imperceptible were she not so close.

Were she not so angry.

Were she not so drawn to him.

“I mean to use them,” she whispered, knowing that she tempted fate and that, with a word of refusal, he could end it all.

The moment stretched into an eternity, until she could no longer meet his unreadable gaze. She lowered her attention to his lips—to their firm, strong lines.

A mistake.

Suddenly, the open window did nothing for the stifling air in the theatre. The memory of his kisses was cloying in the dim hallway . . . the desire for more of them overwhelmed all else.

Her eyes skidded back to his, their amber darkened to a rich oak.

He wants me, too.

The thought sent a shiver of fire through her.

He stepped closer. They were touching now, just barely, the swell of her breasts brushing his wide chest. Her breath caught.

“You don’t need me for your scandals. You’ve got an earl in the palm of your hand.”

Confusion flared at the words and his nearness. “An earl?”

“I saw you with Allendale, laughing and . . . cozy.” The last came out like gravel.

“Allendale?” She repeated like an imbecile, willing her mind clear.
What was he talking about?
Understanding dawned. “Oh. Benedick.”

Something not altogether safe flashed in his eyes. “You should not refer to him with such familiarity.”

A thread of excitement weaved its way through her. He looked angry. No . . . he looked livid.
He looked jealous.

The look was gone before she could savor it, shuttered behind his careful gaze, but courage surged nonetheless, and she gave him a small, teasing smile. “You mean I should not refer to him by his name?”

“Not by
that
name.”

“You did not ascribe to such rules when we met . . . Simon.” She said his name on a whisper, and the breath of it curled between them like temptation.

He inhaled sharply. “I should have.”

“But you wanted me to think you something you were not.”

“I think we were both guilty of hiding our true identities.”

Sadness flared, mixed with anger. “I did not hide.”

“No? Then why did I believe you were—”

More.
She heard the word. Loathed it.

“You seemed to think me enough then.” She lifted her chin, her lips a hairsbreadth from his.

Desire was coming off him in waves. He might not
want
to want her—but he did. She could feel it.

He leaned in, and she held her breath, waiting for the feel of those unforgiving lips—wanting them with a desperation to which she would never admit.

The world faded away, and there was nothing but this moment, the two of them in a quiet darkness, his golden gaze on hers, his warmth consuming her. His mouth hovered above hers; she could feel his soft breath on her skin and she wanted to scream with the anticipation . . .

“You are a scandal waiting to happen.”

The words were a kiss of breath, their feel running counter to their message. And then he was gone, stepping back, away from her—leaving her alone and unsatisfied and utterly wanting.

“One I cannot afford,” he added.

“You want me.” She winced at the desperation in the accusation; wished, instantly, that she could take it back.

He was stone. “Of course I want you. I would have to be dead not to want you. You’re bright and beautiful, and you respond to me in a way that makes me want to throw you down and bend you to my will.” He stopped, meeting her wide eyes. “But actions have consequences, Miss Fiori. A fact you would do well to remember before running headlong into your childish games.”

She narrowed her gaze. “I am not a child.”

“No? You haven’t any idea what you’re doing. What if you were to teach me about your precious passion, Juliana? What then? What next?”

The question whipped through her. She had no answer.

“You’ve never in your life considered the future, have you? You’ve never imagined what came next, after whatever you are experiencing in the here and now.” He paused, then cut deeper. “If that does not speak to your childishness, nothing does.”

She hated him then. Hated the way he stripped her bare. The way he knew her failings before she knew them herself.

He continued. “I am removing myself from our wager. I should never have agreed to it in the first place. You are a danger to yourself. And to me. And I haven’t the luxury to teach you the lesson you so richly deserve.”

She knew she should acquiesce. Knew she should release him—release them both—from the stupid, damaging agreement that threatened their reputations, their feelings, their reason.

But he made her so irate, she could not let him win.

“You say removing, I say
reneging.
” The word was a taunt.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I should tell Ralston everything.”

She raised a brow. “And you think that will
help
your cause?” They faced off in the dimly lit hallway, and Juliana could feel the fury pouring out of him. Reveled in it—it was so rare to see his emotion. She could not resist poking the lion. “Take heart. I should not need so very long to bring you to your knees.”

His eyes grew instantly dark, and she knew that she had gone too far. She thought for a moment that he might shake her, recognized the barely controlled anger in his corded muscles.

“I have bested far worse threats to my reputation than you, Miss Fiori. Do not think for a moment that you will prevail. Temptation is no match for reputation.” He paused. “You want your ten days? Keep them. Do your best.”

“I intend to.”

“Do not expect me to make it easy for you.”

She should have taken pleasure in the way he turned on one heel and left—in the way she had damaged his cool façade.

But as she watched him return to his box—and to the perfect English bride he had selected—it was not triumph that flared.

It was something suspiciously like longing.

Chapter Eight

Rudeness is the ultimate test of perfection.

The delicate lady holds her tongue.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

The most exciting finds at the
modiste
are not wisps of silk, but whispers of scandal . . .

—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823

“E
nglishwomen spend more time buying clothes than anyone in all of Europe.”

Juliana leaned back on the divan in the dressmaker’s fitting room. She had spent more hours than she would care to admit on that particular piece of furniture, upholstered in a fine, scarlet brocade that was just expensive enough and just bold enough to echo the proprietress of the shop.

“You must never have seen the French shop,” Madame Hebert said drily as she artfully pinned the waist of the lovely cranberry twill she was fitting to Callie.

Mariana laughed as she inspected an evergreen velvet. “Well, we cannot allow the French to best us at such an important activity, can we?” Hebert replied with a pointed grunt, and Mariana hastened to reassure her. “After all, we have already won their very best seamstress to our side of the Channel.”

Juliana grinned as her friend narrowly avoided a diplomatic disaster.

“And besides,” Mariana continued, “Callie spent far too long in horrible clothing. She has much to make up for. We just come along for the excitement . . .” She paused. “And perhaps a winter cloak in this green?”

“Your Grace would look beautiful in the velvet.” Hebert did not look up from her work. “May I suggest a new gown in the dupioni to match? It will make you the belle of a winter ball.”

Mariana’s eyes lit up as Valerie spread out the stunning green silk—heavier than most with a dozen different greens shimmering through it. “Oh, yes . . .” she whispered. “You may certainly make such a suggestion.”

Juliana laughed at the reverence in her friend’s tone. “And with that, we are here for another hour,” she announced, as Mariana headed behind a nearby screen to be measured, poked, and pinned.

“Not too tight,” Callie said quietly to the dressmaker before smiling at Juliana. “If autumn remains as social as it has been, I cannot imagine what will come of winter. You’re going to need new dresses as well, you know. In fact, we have not discussed what you shall wear to your dinner.”

“Not my dinner.” Juliana laughed. “And I am sure I have something suitable.”

“Callie’s selected an excellent crop of London’s lords, Juliana,” Mariana sang from behind the screen. “Each one more eligible than the last.”

“So I have heard.”

Callie inspected the waist of her gown in the mirror. “And all but Leighton have accepted.” She met Juliana’s eyes in the mirror. “Including Benedick.”

Juliana ignored the reference to the Earl of Allendale, knowing she should not press Callie further on the event. Nevertheless, “Leighton is not coming?”

Callie shook her head. “It is unclear. He simply has not responded.” Juliana held her tongue, knowing that she should not press the issue any more. If he did not wish to attend the dinner, what business was it of hers? “I am trying to find the good in him . . . but it is not easy. Ah, well. We shall have a lovely time without him.”

“Would you like me to have Valerie show you some fabrics, Mademoiselle Fiori?” Hebert interjected, as excellent a businesswoman as she was a dressmaker.

“No.” Juliana shook her head. “I have plenty of dresses. My brother need not be bankrupted today.”

Callie met Juliana’s gaze in a large looking glass. “Don’t think I don’t know about your little secret gifts with Gabriel. You know he loves to buy you clothes and whatever else you want. And I know where all his new books and pieces of music come from.”

Juliana smiled. When she had first come to England, feeling entirely disconnected from this new world and her new family, she had been convinced that her daunting half brothers would hate her because of who she represented—the mother who had deserted them without looking back when they were boys. It did not matter that that same mother deserted Juliana, as well.

Except it had mattered. Gabriel and Nick had accepted her. Without question. And while their relationship as siblings continued to evolve, Juliana was learning—later than most—what it was to be a sister. And as part of that immensely pleasurable lesson, she and her eldest brother had begun a game of sorts, exchanging gifts often.

She smiled at her sister-in-law, who had been so instrumental in building the relationship between her brother and her, and said, “No gifts today. I am still reserving hope that the season will come to an end before I require a formal winter wardrobe.”

“Don’t say such things!” called Mariana from behind her screen. “I want a reason to wear this gown!”

They all laughed, and Juliana watched as Madame Hebert artfully draped the fabric of Callie’s gown over her midsection. Callie considered the folds of fabric in the mirror before saying, “It’s perfect.”

And it was. Callie looked lovely.
Gabriel would not be able to keep his eyes off her,
Juliana thought wryly.

“Not too tight,” Callie said.

It was the second time she had whispered the words.

Their meaning dawned.

“Callie?” Juliana said, meeting her sister-in-law’s guilty gaze in the mirror. Juliana tilted her head in a silent question, and Callie’s wide, lovely grin was all the answer that she needed.

Callie was with child.

Juliana leapt from her seat, joy bursting through her. “
Maraviglioso!
” She approached the other woman and pulled her into an enormous embrace. “No wonder we are shopping for more gowns!”

Their shared laughter attracted Mariana’s attention from behind the dressing screen. “What is
maraviglioso
?” She poked her blond head around the edge of the divider. “Why are you laughing?” She narrowed her gaze on Juliana. “Why are you
crying
?” She disappeared for a heartbeat, then hobbled out, clutching a length of half-pinned green satin to her, poor Valerie following behind. “What did I miss?” She pouted. “I always miss everything!”

Callie and Juliana laughed again at Mariana’s pique, then Juliana said, “Well, you’ll have to tell her.”

“Tell me what?”

Callie’s cheeks were on fire, and she was certainly wishing that they weren’t all in the middle of a fitting room with one of London’s best dressmakers standing a foot away.

Juliana could not stop herself. “It appears my brother has done his duty.”

“Juliana!” Callie whispered, scandalized.

“What? It is true!” Juliana said simply, with a little shrug.

Callie grinned. “You are just like him, you know.”

There were worse insults coming from a woman who madly loved the
him
in question.

Mariana was still catching up. “Done his—Oh! Oh, my! Oh, Callie!” She began to hop with excitement, and the long-suffering Valerie had to run for a handkerchief to protect the silk from Mariana’s tears.

Hebert quit the room—either to escape smothering in a wayward embrace or being caught in the emotional fray as the two sisters clutched each other and laughed and cried and laughed and chattered and cried and laughed.

Juliana smiled at the picture the Hartwell sisters made—now each so happily married and still so deeply connected to each other—even as she realized that there was no place for her in this moment of celebration. She did not begrudge them their happiness or their connection.

She simply wished that she, too, had such an unbridled, uncontested sense of belonging.

She slipped from the fitting room to the front room of the shop, where Madame Hebert had escaped moments earlier. The Frenchwoman was standing at the entrance to a small antechamber, blocking the view to another customer. Juliana headed for a wall of accents—buttons and ribbons, frills and laces. She ran her fingers along the haberdashery, brushing a smooth gold button here, a scalloped lace there, consumed with Callie’s news.

There would be two new additions to the family in the spring—Nick’s wife, Isabel, was also with child.

Her brothers had overcome their pasts and their fears of repeating the sins of their father, and they had taken that unfathomable leap—marrying for love. And now they had families. Mothers and fathers and children who would grow old in a happy, caring fold.

You’ve never in your life considered the future, have you? You’ve never imagined what came next?

Leighton’s words from the theatre echoed through her mind.

Juliana swallowed around a strange lump in her throat. She no longer had the luxury of thinking of her future. Her father had died, and she had been upended, shipped to England and delivered into a strange family and a stranger culture that would never accept her. There was no future for her in England. And it was easier—less painful—not to fool herself into imagining one.

But when she saw Callie and Mariana looking happily toward their idyllic futures, filled with love and children and family and friends, it was impossible not to envy them.

They had what she could never have. What she would never be offered.

Because they belonged here, in this aristocratic world where money and title and history and breeding all mattered more than anything else.

She lifted a long feather from a bowl, one that must have been dyed; she’d never seen such inky blackness in a plume so large. She could not imagine the bird that would produce such a thing. But as she ran her fingers through its softness, the feather caught the sunlight streaming into the shop, and she knew immediately that it was natural. It was
stunning.
In the bright afternoon light, the feather was not black at all. It was a shimmering mass of blues and purples and reds so dark that it merely gave the illusion of blackness. It was alive with color.

“
Aigrette.
”

The dressmaker’s word brought Juliana out of her reverie. “I beg your pardon?”

Madame Hebert raised a black brow. “So polite and British,” she said, continuing when Juliana gave her a half smile. “The feather you hold. It is from the egret.”

Juliana shook her head. “Egrets are white, I thought.”

“Not the black ones.”

Juliana looked down at the feather. “The colors are stunning.”

“The rarest of things are usually that way,” the dressmaker replied, lifting a large wooden frame filled with lace. “Excuse me. I have a duchess who requires an inspection of my lace.” The distaste in her tone surprised Juliana. Surely the Frenchwoman would not speak ill of Mariana in front of her . . .

“Perhaps if the French had moved more quickly, Napoleon would have won the war.” Disdain oozed across the shop, and Juliana turned quickly toward the voice.

The Duchess of Leighton stood not ten feet from her.

It was hard to believe that this woman, petite and pale, had spawned the enormous, golden Leighton. Juliana struggled to find something of him in his mother. It was neither in her pallid coloring nor in her parchment skin, so thin as to be nearly translucent, nor was it in the eyes, the color of a winter sea.

But those eyes, they seemed to see everything. Juliana held her breath as the duchess’s cool gaze tracked her from head to toe. She resisted the urge to fidget under the silent examination, refused to allow the woman’s obvious judgment to rattle her.

Of course, it did rattle her.

And suddenly, she saw the similarities in crystal clarity. The stiff chin, the haughty posture, the cold perusal, the ability to shake a person to her core.

She was his mother—him in all the very worst of ways.

But she did not have his heat.

There was nothing in her but an unwavering stoicism that spoke of a lifetime of entitlement and lack of emotion.

What turned a woman to stone?

No wonder he did not believe in passion.

The duchess was waiting for Juliana to look away. Just like her son, she wanted to prove that her ancient name and her straight nose made her better than all others. Certainly, her unwavering gaze seemed to say, it made her better than Juliana.

Ignoring her rioting nerves, Juliana remained steadfast.

“Your Grace,” Madame Hebert said, unaware of the battle of wills taking place in her front parlor, “my apologies for the delay. Would you care to look at the lace now?”

The duchess did not look away from Juliana. “We have not been introduced,” she said, the words sharp and designed to startle. They were a cut direct, aimed to remind Juliana of her impertinence.
Of her place.

Juliana did not respond. Did not move. Refused to look away.