Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (22 page)

Which, of course, she could not do. “I must go.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No!” She heard the panic in her voice. Took a breath, tried to keep it from rising again. “No. I am . . . you must stay.”

Mariana did not like being told what to do. Juliana saw her hesitate, watched her consider denying the request.
Please, Mari.
“Fine. But you will take our carriage.”

Juliana paused for a moment, considering. “I—yes. All right. I shall take your carriage. Mari—” She heard the crack in her voice. Loathed it. “I have to leave. Now. Before.”

Before she had to watch the announcement of the betrothal unfold in a horrible, perverse tableau.

Mariana nodded once. “Of course. I’ll see you out. You’re obviously not feeling well. You’ve got a headache, clearly.”

Juliana would have laughed if it had seemed at all amusing.

Mariana began to push through the crowd at the edge of the ballroom, Juliana following close behind. They had barely gone a dozen steps when the orchestra stopped playing, and there was a commotion on the dais where they sat. Conversation stopped as the Marquess of Needham and Dolby, a portly man who obviously liked his drink, boomed, “Attention!”

Juliana made the mistake of looking toward the dais. Saw Simon there, tall and unbearably handsome—the perfect duke. The perfect husband.

Perfect.

Mariana turned back to her, eyes wide, and Juliana squeezed her hand. “Faster.”

“We can’t . . .” Mariana shook her head. “Everyone will see.”

Panic rose, and the ballroom tilted horribly, sending a wave of nausea through her. Of course they couldn’t leave. Escape would only make them the subject of more talk. Not now. Not when the betrothal was taking some of the attention from their scandal. She hated her mother in that moment, more than ever before. Juliana closed her eyes, knowing what was to come. Not knowing how she would survive it.

She turned to the dais, and Mariana took her hand, squeezing tightly, a rock in a maelstrom of dread.

And Juliana listened quietly as the only man she’d ever wanted pledged himself to another.

It was over blessedly quickly, footmen passing champagne among the revelers, who raised their glasses and voices in toast to the happy couple. No one noticed that Mariana and Juliana politely refused the drink, nor did they realize that the moment the Duke of Leighton raised the hand of his future duchess to his lips, the two were headed for the exit.

It was an eternity until they dashed up the steps from the dance floor; once there, Juliana made the mistake of looking back—of taking one final glance at Simon and his bride.

He was watching her.

And she was unable to resist drinking him in—his golden curls, strong jaw, and full lips, and that serious amber gaze that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world.

Of course she wasn’t.

Because his future bride stood next to him.

She turned and fled into the foyer, afraid that she would be sick if she stayed in the wretched house any longer. Thankfully, the servants at Dolby House were the best of the best, and a footman was already opening the door as she rushed for it, tears blurring her vision, Mariana on her heels.

She felt the cool air of the October night beyond and gave a little prayer of thanks. She was safe.

Or, she would have been . . .

If she had only remembered the vegetables.

Too late, she realized that the staircase remained smothered in fruits of the harvest, and by that time it was too late to stop. She’d already set one slippered foot on a large, round pompion, and sent the entire pyramid into collapse.

She heard Mariana call her name in alarm as she tumbled, riding a wave of gourds and onions and marrow down the dozen or so steps to the base of the staircase, landing in a heap. When she opened her eyes to ensure that she had survived the fall, she was surrounded by vegetables—many smashed open, their innards splattered across the cobblestone street.

Juliana watched as a turnip, barely the size of her fist, rolled past and came to a rest beneath a waiting carriage—one final, fallen soldier in her massacre.

“Oh, my . . .”

She looked up to find Mariana at the top of the steps, looking down at her, eyes wide, one hand to her open mouth. Two footmen stood just behind her, looking utterly uncertain of the protocol in this particular situation.

Juliana could not stop herself.

She began to laugh.

Not soft, quiet chuckles, either. Loud, raucous laughter that she could not hold in. Laughter that threatened her ability to breathe. Laughter that held all her sadness and frustration and anger and irritation.

Wiping a tear from her cheek, she looked up at Mariana and found that her friend’s shoulders were shaking with laughter as well. And the footmen, too—they couldn’t help it.

Their laughter sent another wave of emotion through her.

She cleared a space for her to stand, and her movements shook the others free. They all picked their way down the stairs, one footman bending to assist Juliana to her feet as she realized the full extent of the damage.

She had laid waste to Lady Needham’s centerpiece.

The steps would have to be cleared before anyone could leave the ball.

And Juliana’s lovely rose silk was covered in seeds and great gobs of pulp, entirely ruined.

She stood, thanking the footman and facing Mariana, who was still laughing—the response certainly as much horror as amusement.

“You’ve got . . .” She shook her head and waved one hand to indicate Juliana’s entire body. “Everywhere.”

Juliana pulled a long piece of wheat from her hair. “I suppose it is too much to ask that one of these carriages is yours?”

Mariana inspected the waiting vehicles. “Actually, it isn’t at all. That one is ours.”

Juliana headed for it. “Finally, something goes right.”

Mariana opened her reticule and extracted a ransom in gold coins for the footmen. “If you could forget who, precisely, destroyed your mistress’s décor . . .” She pressed the coins into their palms before dashing for the carriage and following Juliana inside.

“Do you think they will stay quiet?” Juliana asked as the coach lurched into motion.

“One can hope that they’ll take pity on you.”

Juliana sighed, leaning her head back on the smooth black upholstery. She let the motion of the carriage calm her for long minutes before she said, “Well, you must give me some credit.”

Mariana snickered. “For?”

“I cannot be accused of going quietly into the night.”

Chapter Thirteen

Unhappiness is for those who lack culture.

The exquisite lady faces all obstacles with grace.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

The harvest bounty is shockingly lacking this year . . .

—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823

H
er horrendous evening was not over.

Bennett, the ancient butler who had served the Marquesses of Ralston for what Juliana suspected was forever, was awake when she arrived home—a rare occurrence as he was somewhat weathered, and there were plenty of younger servants who were more than capable of waiting for the master of the house to return.

Years of experience kept Bennett from responding to Juliana’s state, without her cloak, which she’d left in her hurry to escape the ball—she would have to work out a way to recover it at some point, she supposed—and covered in marrow innards, among other things.

In fact, he gave her a little bow when she entered the house—one she would have teased him for if she weren’t exhausted and desperate for a bath and a bed.

“Bennett, please have a bath sent up. As you can see, I need it,” she said, moving directly for the wide marble center staircase of the town house.

“Miss Fiori, you will excuse me,” he hesitated and she turned to face him, waiting. “You have a visitor.”

Excitement flared, brief and breathtaking, as her instant thought was that Simon had called. But, no . . . there was no way he had beaten her to Ralston House—not unless he’d fled the scene of his engagement upon the announcement. As lovely as that would have been, she knew better than even to think it. Simon would never do anything so scandalous.

She ignored the fact that earlier in the evening, they’d engaged in a rather shockingly scandalous interlude.

“A visitor? For me?”

The butler’s face grew dark, betraying an emotion that Juliana did not like. “Yes, milady. Your mother.”

Dread settled, heavy and cold. Juliana shook her head. “No. I am too tired to deal with her tonight. She can wait for Gabriel.”

“She says she is here for you.”

“Well, I am not receiving. She will have to try again.”

“I am impressed. You have grown into quite the strong-willed young lady.”

Juliana froze at the words, spoken in perfect, calm Italian behind her. She met Bennett’s gaze, filled with regret, and waved him off with what she hoped was a reassuring smile before she turned to face her mother.

Whom she had not spoken to for a decade.

Her mother’s gaze scanned over her, taking in her destroyed coiffure, ruined gown, and the clumps of unidentifiable muck sticking to her, and Juliana was instantly reminded of what it was like to be Louisa Hathbourne’s daughter—when not the recipient of cool disinterest, one was showered with distaste. She’d never been good enough for her mother. All those times she’d tried to prove herself worthy of Louisa’s love . . . of her pride . . . she’d never received it.

“Do not for a moment think that you had anything to do with my character.”

“I would not dream of it, Juli.”

The diminutive—a favorite of her father’s—sent a shock of sorrow and anger through Juliana. “Don’t call me that.”

Her mother moved from the doorway to the receiving room, extending one arm to Juliana. “Will you join me? I would like to speak with you. I have been waiting for quite a long while.”

“And how does it feel to be the one waiting for someone to return? I imagine it is quite a novelty.”

Louisa’s smile was small and secret. “I deserved that.”

“And much more, I assure you.”

She considered ignoring her mother’s request. Considered finding her bedchamber and letting the older woman stew in the receiving room until she got bored and went away.

But somewhere, deep inside, Juliana was still that ten-year-old girl. The one who rushed to do her mother’s bidding in the hope that, today, she would be worthy of her attention.

She hated herself as she followed her mother into the receiving room. Hated herself as she took a seat across from her. Hated herself as she waited for this woman who had taken so much from her took more.

Time she did not want to give.

“I am sorry about Sergio. I did not know that he had passed away.”

Juliana wanted to scream at her father’s name on this viper’s tongue. Instead she matched her mother’s calm, and said, “How could you? You never looked back once you left.”

Louisa dipped her head once, acknowledging the hit. “You are right, of course.”

Apologize.
Juliana thought, the words a scream in her mind.
Don’t you regret it?

They sat in silence for a long moment, until Juliana was ready to leave. If Louisa thought she would carry the conversation, she was horribly wrong. She was just about to stand when her mother spoke again.

“I am happy you found Gabriel and Nick.”

“So am I.”

“Ah, so you see, something good did come of having me as a mother.” There was self-satisfaction in the words. Of course there was. Louisa had never shied away from pointing out the good things about herself.

Perhaps because there were so few of them.

“Is this the moment when I am to tell you how grateful I am that you left me? That you left them?”

At least she knew not to respond to that. “What would you like me to say, Juli?”

Her voice turned to steel. “First, I would like you to stop using that name.”

“Why? I had a part in naming you. We both called you that.”

“Only one of you deserved to.”

A look of boredom crossed Louisa’s face. “Nonsense. I gave you life. That gives me as much right as anyone to call you whatever I like. But, very well,
Juliana,
answer the question.” She switched to English. “What would you like from me?”

I want you to explain it. I want you to tell me why you would leave me. Why you would leave us. Why you would return.

Juliana gave a little humorless laugh, then answered in English. “The very idea that you would ask that of me is ridiculous.”

“You want me to apologize?”

“It would be an excellent beginning.”

Louisa’s cool blue gaze, so like her own, seemed to look through her. “We will be here a very long time if that is what you want.”

Juliana shrugged one shoulder. “Excellent. Then we are done.” She stood.

“Your father used to do that, too. The shrug. I am surprised that England has not beaten it out of you. It is not the most polite of mannerisms.”

“England does not have a hold on me.”

Suddenly, the words did not seem so true.

“No? Your English is very good for someone who does not care for the culture. I will be honest; I was surprised when Gabriel told me you were here. I cannot imagine it is easy for you to survive.” Juliana stayed silent, refusing to give Louisa the pleasure of knowing she was right. Her mother pressed on. “I imagine it is just the same as it was for me. Difficult. You see, daughter, we are not so different.”

We are not so different
. They were the words she dreaded. The words she prayed were not true. “We are nothing like each other.”

“You can say it over and over. It will not change the truth.” Louisa leaned back in her seat. “Look at you. Just back from a ball, perhaps, but covered in something that indicates that you have not had the most respectable of evenings. What have you been doing?”

Juliana looked down at herself. Resisted the urge to pick at the fast-drying pulp that clung to her. “It is not your business.”

“It doesn’t matter. The point is that you are unable to resist adventure. You are unwilling to close yourself off to whatever pleasure happens to tempt you at any given time. My taste for excitement has been in you since you took your first breath. Resist all you like, but I am your
mother.
I am in you. The sooner you stop fighting it, the happier you will be.”

No.

It was not true. It had been a decade since Louisa had seen Juliana last . . . ten years during which Juliana had had the opportunity to grow and change and
resist
the parts of her mother that lay dormant within.

She did not seek out adventure or scandal or ruin.

Did she?

Memories flashed: chasing through a darkened garden; hiding in a strange carriage; riding through Hyde Park in men’s clothing; climbing out onto a log to fetch a replaceable bonnet; toppling a pyramid of harvest vegetables; waiting for Simon outside his club; kissing Simon in the barn; kissing Simon in the conservatory of his betrothed’s home.

Kissing Simon.

She had virtually gone out of her way to cause scandal in the last week—and before that, since she arrived in London, she might not have sought out adventure, but she certainly had not resisted it when it came calling.

Dear God.

She looked to her mother, meeting those blue eyes that were so much like her own, the eyes that gleamed with a knowledge that Juliana at once feared and loathed.

She was right.

“What do you want from us?” She heard the tremor in her voice. Wished it was not there.

Louisa was quiet for a long time, unmoving, her cool gaze taking Juliana in. After several minutes, Juliana had had enough. “I’ve spent too much of my life waiting for you.” She stood. “I am going to bed.”

“I want my life back.”

There was no sorrow in the words, no regret, either. There wouldn’t be. This was the closest her mother would ever come to either of those emotions. Regret was for people with a capacity for feeling.

Unable to stop herself, Juliana sat once more, on the edge of her chair, and took a long look at the woman who had given her life. Her beauty—the gift she had given all three of her children—was showing her age. There were strands of silver in her sable hair, her blue eyes were clouded with her years. There were a handful of lines on her face and neck, a blemish on one temple. A beauty mark just above one dark-winged eyebrow that Juliana remembered being less faded, more perfect.

The years had been kind to Louisa Hathbourne, but in a weathered, aged way that made the most beautiful of women think that she had lost everything.

Not that she gave any impression of feeling that way.

“You must know . . .” Juliana said, “. . . you cannot erase the past.”

Irritation flared on her mother’s face. “Of course I know that. I did not come back for my title. Or for the house. Or for Gabriel and Nicholas.”

And certainly not for me,
Juliana thought.

“But there comes a point when it is no longer easy to live the life I have lived.”

Understanding flared. “And you think Gabriel will help you live a different life.”

“He was raised to be marquess. Raised to protect his family at all costs. Why do you think I told your father to send you here if anything happened to him?”

Juliana shook her head. “You deserted him.”

“Yes.” Again, she was struck by the lack of regret in the answer.

“He would never support you . . .”

“We shall see.” There was something in her eyes—a keen awareness born of years of self-interest and manipulation.

And then it all became clear.

This was London society, where reputation trumped all—even for the Marquess of Ralston. Especially for the new Marquess of Ralston, who had a wife and sister and unborn child to protect.

Juliana narrowed her gaze. “You knew. You knew you would cause a scandal. You knew he would do whatever it took to mitigate its damage. Not the damage to you . . . the damage to us. You think he’ll give you a settlement. Something to keep you in the manner in which you are accustomed.”

One side of her mother’s mouth lifted in a half smile, and she brushed a speck from her gown—a design from several years ago. “You divined my strategy quite quickly. As I said, we are not so different, you and I.”

“I would not be so certain of that, Mother.” Ralston spoke from the doorway, and Juliana turned her attention to him and Callie, who was hurrying toward her. “Which part of, ‘You are not to come near Ralston House again,’ did you have difficulty understanding?”

Louisa looked up with a smile. “Well, it has been nearly two decades since I have been in England, darling. Meanings are troublesome at times.” She raised a hand to Callie. “You must be the marchioness. I am sorry, I was so quickly escorted from the room last night that we were not properly introduced.”

“No. You weren’t,” Ralston drawled.