Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (19 page)

One side of Juliana’s mouth kicked up. Her brother had not answered the question. She imagined it hurt very much.

“I’m sorry for that, as well.”

He met her gaze, blue eyes glittering with anger. “I don’t know how long the two of you—”

“We—”

He sliced a hand through the air, staying her words. “And, frankly, I don’t want to know.” He sighed, long and tired. “But stay away from him, Juliana. When we said we wanted to make you a good match, Leighton was not who we imagined.”

Even her brother thought Simon too good for her.

“Because he is a duke?”

“What? No,” Ralston said, truly perplexed by her instant defensive response. “Because he’s an ass.”

She smiled. She couldn’t help it. He said it in such an obvious, matter-of-fact way. “Why do you think that?”

“Suffice it to say, the duke and I have had our fair share of altercations. He’s arrogant and supercilious and utterly impossible. He takes his name far too seriously and his title even more seriously than that. I can’t stand him, frankly, and I should have remembered that over the last few weeks, but he’s seemed so concerned about your reputation that I was willing to ignore my prejudice.” He gave her a wry look. “Now I see I should have known better.”

“You were not the only one who was fooled,” she said, more to herself than to him.

He stood. “On the bright side, I have been waiting to hit him for twenty years. So that was one thing that went right today.” He flexed his hand. “Do you think he has a bruise to match mine?”

The masculine pride in his tone made her laugh, and she stood, as well. “I’m sure it’s much larger. And uglier. And far more painful. I hope so, at least.”

He came around the desk and chucked her on the chin. “Correct answer.”

“I am a quick lesson.”

He laughed this time. “A quick study.”

She tilted her head. “Truly?”

“Truly. Now. A favor?”

“Yes?”

“Stay the hell away from him.”

The ache in her chest returned at the words. She ignored it. “I want nothing to do with the difficult man.”

“Excellent.” He believed her.

Now, she simply had to believe herself.

Chapter Eleven

Even at balls, one must be wary of the vulgar.

Elegant ladies steer clear of dark corners.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

Fluttering sparrows and their companions recently received their due . . .

—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823

T
he steps leading up to Dolby House were covered in vegetables.

The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby had taken her harvest ball more than seriously, covering the front of the house with onions, potatoes, what looked like several different kinds of wheat, and gourds of every conceivable size and color. A path had been created for guests, not a straight shot up the steps and into the house, but a meandering, curving, walkway flanked with spoils of the harvest that made seven steps feel like seventy, and those following it feel utterly ridiculous.

Juliana alighted from the carriage and eyed the squash- and wheat-strewn pathway skeptically. Callie followed her down and gave a little chuckle at the exhibition. “Oh, my.”

Ralston took his wife’s arm and led the way through the extravagant labyrinth. “This is all your doing, you know,” he whispered at her ear, and Juliana could hear the humor in his tone. “I hope you’re happy.”

Callie laughed. “I have never had the opportunity to meander through a vegetable patch, my lord,” she teased. “So yes, I am quite happy.”

Ralston rolled his eyes heavenward. “There will be no meandering, Empress. Let’s get this over with.” He turned toward Juliana, indicating that she should precede him up the steps. “Sister?”

Juliana pasted a bright smile on her face and stepped up alongside him. He leaned down, and said quietly, “Keep the smile on your face, and they shan’t know how to respond.”

There was no question that by now, a full day since the return of their mother, the
ton
would be buzzing with the news. There had been a brief discussion that afternoon of not attending this particular ball, hosted at the home of Lady Penelope—the future Duchess of Leighton—but Callie had insisted that if they were to weather this storm, they had to attend any events to which they received invitations, whether Leighton was going to be in attendance or not. Soon, after all, there would be markedly fewer to accept.

And tonight, at least, the full narrative of the prior evening’s events at Ralston House would be hazy at best.

She increased the brightness of her smile and trod along the path between turnips and marrows, squash and courgettes, into what was destined to be one of the longest nights of her life.

Once divested of her cloak, Juliana turned to face the pit of vipers that waited inside the ballroom of Dolby House.

The first thing she noticed were the stares. The entrance to the ballroom was from above, down a short flight of stairs almost certainly designed for the best—and least innocuous—entrance. As she hovered there at the top of the stairs, Juliana felt scores of eyes raking over her. Looking out across the room, she refused to allow her smile to fade even as she saw the telltale signs of gossip: bowed heads, fluttering fans, and brightly lit eyes, eager for a glimpse at whatever sordid drama might unfold.

Callie turned back to her, and she recognized a similarly-too-bright smile on her sister-in-law’s face. “You’re doing wonderfully. Once we’re in the crush, everything will settle.”

She wanted to believe that the words were true. She looked out over the crowd, desperate to appear as though something had captured her attention. And then something did.

Simon.

She caught her breath as hot memory flooded through her.

He stood at the far end of the ballroom, tall and handsome, in perfect formalwear and a linen cravat with lines so crisp it could have sliced butter. High on one cheek she noticed a red welt—it appeared that at least one of Ralston’s blows from the evening prior had struck true—but the mark only made Simon more handsome. More devastating.

It only made her want him more.

He had not seen her, and still she resisted the simultaneous urges to smooth her skirts and turn and run for the exit. Instead, she focused on descending to the ballroom floor, where she could not see him.

Perhaps if she could not see him, she would stop thinking so much about him—about his kisses and his strong arms, and the way his lips had felt against her bare skin.

And the way he had proposed to Lady Penelope before he had come for Juliana in the stables.

Lady Penelope, in whose home Juliana stood.

She pushed the thoughts to the side as her brother came to her elbow and leaned low into her ear. “Remember what we discussed.”

She nodded. “I shall be the belle of the ball.”

He grinned. “As usual.” She snorted her laughter, and he added, “Well, do attempt to do as little of
that
as possible.”

“I live to do your bidding, my lord.”

He gave a short bark of laughter. “If only that were true.” His gaze grew serious. “Try to enjoy yourself. Dance as much as you can.”

She nodded.
If anyone would ask her.

“Miss Fiori?” The deep, warm request came from behind her, and she spun to face Callie’s brother, the Earl of Allendale. He smiled, kindness in his brown eyes. He held out one hand. “Would you do me the honor?”

It had been planned, she knew it. Planned that she would have someone with whom to dance the moment she entered the ballroom. Planned that that someone would be an earl.

She accepted, and they danced a lively quadrille, and Benedick was the perfect gentleman, promenading her around the perimeter of the room after the dance, not leaving her side. “You do not have to be so careful with me, you know,” she finally said, softly. “They cannot do much to me in a ballroom.”

He gave a half smile. “They can do plenty to you in a ballroom. And besides, I have nowhere better to go.”

They reached a quiet spot on the edge of the room and stood silently beside each other, watching other dancers trip across the floor in a country reel. “Don’t you have other ladies to court?” she teased.

He shook his head in mock sadness. “Not a single one. I am relieved of my duties as bachelor earl this evening.”

“Ah,” she said, “so something good has come of the trouble at Ralston House.”

He flashed her a grin. “For me, at least.” They fell back to watching the dancers for a while before Benedick said quietly, “It shall be all right, you know.”

She did not look to him for fear of losing her mask of serenity. “I do not know that, but thank you very much for saying so.”

“Ralston will do what needs to be done to make it all right. He shall have the full support of Rivington and me . . . and dozens of others.”

But not the one man I hoped would stand with us.

She turned at the soft certainty in his warm tone, meeting his kind eyes and wondering, fleetingly, why it could not be this man who set her aflame. “I don’t know why you would all risk so much.”

He gave a little sound of refusal. “Risk,” he said, as though it were a silly word. “It is not a risk for us. We are young, handsome aristocrats with plenty of land and plenty of money. What risk?”

She was surprised by his candor. “Not all of you seem to think so lightly of the damage to your reputation that an association with us might do.”

“Well, Rivington and I haven’t much choice, as we are related, if you would remember.” She heard the teasing in his tone but did not find it very amusing. There was a beat of silence. “I assume you are referring to Leighton.”

She stiffened. She couldn’t help it. “Among others.”

“I saw the way he watched you last night. I think Leighton will align himself with you faster than you would imagine.”

The words—predicated on logic so faulty—stung. She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

Benedick might think he had seen support in Leighton’s manner last night, but he had misread the emotion. He had seen frustration, irritation, desire perhaps. But not caring.

On the contrary, had Benedick seen the duke storm from the stables later that evening, after it was revealed that he was engaged, he would not think such things at all.

Simon was to be married.

The words had barely whispered through her mind when, as though she had conjured up his bride-to-be, Juliana caught a glimpse of the grape through the crowd, headed for the ladies’ salon.

And she could not resist.

“I shall return,” she whispered, already in motion.

She knew even as she headed for the salon that she should not follow Lady Penelope, that any conversation they might have would be more painful than no conversation at all, but she could not help herself. The grape had done what Juliana could not—she had caught Simon. And there was a perverse part of Juliana that simply had to know who this plain, perfect Englishwoman was.

What it was about her that had led the immovable Duke of Leighton to choose her for his duchess.

It was early enough that the salon was empty, save for a handful of servants, and Juliana crossed the main room of the salon to a small side chamber, where she found Penelope pouring water into a small washbasin, then setting her hands into the water, breathing deeply.

The grape appeared ill.

“You are not going to cash in your accounts, are you?”

Penelope spun toward her, the surprise in her eyes turning quickly to confusion. “Cash in my accounts?”

“It is possible I have it incorrect.” Juliana moved her hand in a rolling motion. “To be ill. In Italian, we say
vomitare.
” The grape’s eyes went wide with understanding before a flush rose high on her cheeks. “Ah. I see you understand.”

“Yes. I understand.” Lady Penelope shook her head. “No. I am not going to cast up my accounts. At least, I don’t think so.”

Juliana nodded. “
Bene.
” She indicated a chair near the basin. “May I join you?”

The grape’s brow furrowed. Evidently it was not every day that she had a conversation such as this one.

But if she wanted to refuse, she was too polite to do so. “Please.”

Juliana sat, waving one hand. “You need not stop what it is you were doing.” She paused. “What is it that you were doing?”

Penelope eyed the washbasin before meeting Juliana’s curious gaze. “It is just something that I do to calm myself.”

“Wash your hands?”

One side of Penelope’s mouth lifted in a self-deprecating smile. “It’s silly.”

Juliana shook her head. “I conjugate verbs.”

“In Italian?”

“In Latin. And in English.”

Penelope seemed to consider the idea. “And it works?”

With everything but Leighton.
“Most of the time.”

“I shall have to try it.”

“Why are you in need of calming?”

Penelope lifted a long square of linen to dry her hands. “No reason.”

Juliana laughed a little at the obvious lie. “I do not mean to offend, Lady Penelope, but you are not very good at hiding your feelings.”

Penelope met Juliana’s gaze. “You say whatever you are thinking, don’t you?”

Juliana gave a little shrug. “When you have a reputation such as mine, there is little need to mince words. Is it the ball that makes you nervous?”

Penelope looked away, her eyes finding her reflection in a nearby mirror. “Among other things.”

“Well, I can certainly understand that. They are horrible events, balls. I do not understand why anyone cares for them. All torturous whispers and silly dancing.”

Penelope met Juliana’s gaze in the mirror. “Tonight’s ball shall be one for the ages.”

“You refer to the gossip about my mother?”

“My engagement is to be announced tonight.”

The words should not have been a surprise, and yet they slammed through Juliana.

He was announcing the engagement tonight.

“Your engagement to whom?” She knew she should not ask. Could not stop herself from doing so. In some perverse way, she had to hear the words from this woman—his future wife.

“The Duke of Leighton.”

Juliana knew the words were coming, but they ripped through her, nonetheless.

“You are to marry the Duke of Leighton.”
Stop talking.
“He has proposed to you.”

Penelope nodded, lost in her own thoughts, her golden ringlets bobbing like the hair on one of Juliana’s childhood dolls. “This morning.”

Juliana swallowed around the knot in her throat. He’d obviously left Ralston House the prior evening with complete resolve—having narrowly escaped a bad match with Juliana . . . he’d happily secured a good one with . . .