Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (26 page)

She moved toward him.

He spoke before she could. “I only came to decide what to do next. To make her tell me who the man is. To make arrangements to hide the child. To hide my sister. Do you still think me a hero?”

Her brow furrowed. “Do you still plan to do those things?”

He turned back to her. “I don’t know. Perhaps. That was certainly an option when I was on my way here . . . but now . . .”

He trailed off.

She could not remain quiet. “Now?”

“I don’t know!” The words echoed around the room, frustration and anger surprising them both. He thrust both hands through his hair. “Now, my well-laid plans seem completely unreasonable. Now, my sister won’t speak to me. Now . . . now, I’ve held the damned child.”

They were inches from each other and when he looked at her, she could see the anguish in his eyes. He reached toward her, the backs of his fingers trailing along her cheek, the movement so soft and lovely that she closed her eyes against the feeling. “You have made everything more complicated.”

Her eyes flew open at the accusation. “What does that mean?”

“Only that when you are near, I forget everything that I am meant to remember—everything I am meant to be. And all I want is this.”

He settled his lips to hers, the softness of the kiss enhancing the ache that had settled deep in her heart during their conversation. She let him guide the way, his lips moving against hers, desperate and gentle all at once. His tongue brushed against her and she opened for him, allowing him entrance, giving herself up to the slide of the caress.

This was not a kiss of celebration, but of devastation. It was a kiss that laid them both bare, and it tasted of regret as much as it did of desire. And even as she hated the emotion in it, she could not resist it.

Did not want to.

Her arms came up, fingers slid into the soft curls at the nape of his neck, and she kissed him back with everything in her, passion and emotion and longing. She met him stroke for stroke in the hopes that she could somehow convince him, with movement instead of words, that things could be different. That things could change.

And then they did.

He broke away with a curse, and she grew cold even before he stepped back from her, putting several feet between them—feet that felt like miles. They stood there for a long moment in the dimly lit space, breath coming in twin, harsh bursts.

He wiped the back of one hand across his mouth as if to erase the memory of her, and she winced at the movement. “I have to protect my family, Juliana. I have to do what I can to protect our name. To protect my sister. From them.”

“I understand.”

“No. You don’t.” His beautiful eyes betrayed his emotion. She could not look away from the emotion there, so rare, so tempting. “You can’t. This cannot happen. I am the duke. It is my duty.”

“You say it like I have asked you to deny that duty.”

He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. “You haven’t.”

“No,” she protested. “I haven’t.”

“I know. But you make me want to deny it. You make me want to throw it all away. You make me think that it could all be different. But . . .” He trailed off.

This is how things are done.

She heard the words even though he did not speak them.

She wanted to rail at him. Wanted to scream that it could be different. That he could change the way things were done. That he was a duke, and the rest of his silly world would forgive him most anything—and who cared what the horrible lot of them thought anyway?

But she knew better. She had said as much to him before, countless times. And they meant nothing. They were mist on cold marble.

He pressed on. “I am not free to do as I please. I cannot simply turn my back on the world in which we live.”

“The world in which
you
live, Simon,” she corrected. “And yes, I think you are free to do as you please. You are not a god, not even a king, but just a man, just flesh and blood like the rest of us.” She knew she should stop, but she was down this road now, unable to turn back. “This isn’t about your sister, or your niece, or about what is right for them. This is about you. And your fears. You are not trapped by society. Your prison is of your own making.”

He stiffened, and the emotion was instantly gone from his eyes—the cool, aloof Duke of Leighton returned. “You do not understand that of which you speak.”

She had expected it; nonetheless, the words stung, and she moved away from him, to the cradle. She ran one finger down the soft, mottled skin of the sleeping baby’s cheek. “Some things are more powerful than scandal, Simon.”

He did not speak as she crossed the room, brushing past him to the door, where she turned back, and said, “I only hope you see that before it is too late for her.”

She left the room, back straight, head high, determined not to show him how much she ached for him. The moment the door closed behind her, she sagged against it, the truth hitting her, hard and fast and cruel.

She loved him.

It changed nothing. He was still engaged to another, still obsessed with propriety and reputation. Still the Duke of Disdain. She would do well to remember it.

Perhaps, if she remembered it, she would love him less.

Because she did not think she could love him more.

She took a deep breath, a tiny sound catching in her throat.

They had lied, those who had extolled the virtues of love—its pleasures, its sublimity—those who had told her that it was beautiful and worthwhile.

There was nothing beautiful about it.

It was awful
.

A battle raged in him, propriety and passion. Reputation and reward. And Juliana knew now, with sickening clarity, that it was this battle that she loved the most about him.

But now he was hurting her.

And she could not bear it.

Could not bear another moment of not being good enough for him.

And so she stood straight, coming away from the wall, and she did the only thing she could do.

She walked away.

Chapter Fifteen

Too-familiar servants are the worst kind of offense.

Refined ladies do not abide gossip in the kitchens.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

At long last, the appeal of the country has returned . . .

—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823

S
imon wanted to put a fist through the wall of the nursery.

He’d left for Yorkshire the moment he’d received word that Georgiana’s baby had come; he’d told himself he was coming for his sister and his niece and to ensure that the family’s secrets remained just that—secret. And he had come for those things.

But he had also come to escape Juliana.

He should have known that once he arrived here, in this house filled with women, that he would be reminded of her. Should have known that when he drank scotch with Nick, he would see Juliana in Nick’s eyes, in the way he laughed. Should have known that near her family, he would think of her constantly.

But what he had not expected was how much he thought of her when he was near his own family: when his mother had left the house, with barely a word of farewell; when his sister had refused to see him upon his arrival to Townsend Park; when he held his niece in his arms, consumed with how her slight weight could seem so heavy. He’d thought of Juliana at all those moments.

He’d wanted her by his side. Her strength. Her willingness to face down any foe. Her commitment to those for whom she cared.

For those she loved.

When she’d burst into the nursery to take him on, to champion the infant Caroline at all costs, it had been as though he had conjured her up. And somehow, in her railing, he had found comfort for the first time since arriving in Yorkshire.

She had faced him with a fierce commitment to what she believed was right. No one had ever fought him the way she had. The way she did. No one had ever held his feet to the flame the way she did.

She was everything he had never been—emotion and passion and excitement and desire. She cared nothing for his name or his title or his reputation.

She cared only for the man he might be.

She made him want to be that man.

But it was impossible.

He had proposed to Penelope, thinking she could save them all, and only now did he realize that, with that final act, he had ruined everything.

Simon stared at the door through which Juliana had fled, knowing that the best he could do for her—for both of them—was to keep away from her.

He owed her at least that.

She deserved better than ruin at his hands.

A flood of remorse coursed through him—for what he had done and what he would never do. He tried not to think on it as noise came, loud and welcome, from the cradle; Caroline was waking. He moved instinctively toward her, wanting to hold the little creature who did not know enough to see his flaws.

He was beside her in seconds, thankful for the odd lack of servants at the Park. In any other house, the niece of a duke would be surrounded by nurses and nannies, but here, she was alone at times, giving her uncle a chance to be near her without an audience.

He lifted her once more into his arms, hoping that the contact was enough for her to settle and return to sleep. Caroline had other plans, her little cries getting louder.

“Don’t cry, sweeting,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “Don’t make me have to find a servant . . . or your mother—I’ve made a hash of things with her, as well.”

The infant took no pity on him, squirming in his hands. He moved her against his chest, her head on his shoulder, one large hand spread over her back. “I am not enough to make you happy, am I? Of course, there’s no reason to believe I should begin making the ladies in my life happy now.”

“You could try a touch harder.”

He turned at the words. His sister was crossing the nursery toward him, arms outstretched. He relinquished the baby and watched as Georgiana cradled her daughter. The child instantly settled into the arms of her mother, her cries becoming little whimpers. “She knows you.”

Georgiana gave a little smile, not looking away from the infant. “We’ve had several months to get acquainted.”

Several months during which he had been absent.

He was an ass.

“I hear you are to be married.”

“News travels fast in this house,” Simon said.

“It is a house populated entirely with women. What did you think would happen to the information?” She paused. “Are congratulations in order?”

“Lady Penelope will make a fine wife. Her family is ancient, her reputation, impeccable.”

“As ours used to be?”

“As it still is.”

She lifted her gaze to his, amber eyes—so like his own—seeing more than he would like. “Not for long, though.”

He did not want to discuss his marriage to Penelope. He did not want to discuss their family name, their reputation. He wanted to discuss his sister. He wanted to start fresh.

Not that it would ever be possible.

“Georgiana . . .” he began, stopping when she turned away, ignoring him and crossing the room to a high table where she set Caroline down and began fussing about with her.

“You shan’t want to stay for this bit, I don’t imagine.”

His brow furrowed at the words, and he moved closer, curious. “For what bit?” He peeked over his sister’s shoulder, took note of her actions and instantly turned his back to the scene. “Oh! Yes. Ah—No.” In all his ducal training, he had never been trained on the care and—cleaning—of infants. “Isn’t there . . .” he cleared his throat. “Someone who can . . . do that . . . for you?”

He could not be certain, but he thought he heard his sister chuckle. “Children do not arrive with nurse in tow, Simon.”

He did not like the mocking in her tone. “I know that. Of course I do. But you are—” He stopped. There were a dozen ways to end that sentence.

A
duke’s daughter . . . my sister . . . barely out of diapers yourself in my mind. . .

“I am a mother.” She came around to face him, Caroline now quiet in her arms. His sister, whom he’d always considered fragile, now calm and strong, with a voice like steel. “Whatever you were about to say. It is of no import. I am her mother. And she is first. There isn’t anything you can say that will change my mind.”

His sister was no longer a delicate girl, but Juno, fully grown and protecting her young.

From him.

He, who should be doing the protecting, dammit.

“I don’t want to change your mind.”

She blinked. “You don’t.”

“No.”

It was true.

She let out a long breath. “You’ll let me stay with Caroline. You won’t make me fight you.”

For the last six months, he had been certain that sending the child away would be for the best. Even on the journey up, he’d toyed with the possibility, played over potential destinations in his mind, unwilling to release the hope that all could return to normal.

He now understood how ridiculous such an idea had been.

He could not bear the idea of sending Caroline away.

I know what it is like to grow up knowing that a parent does not want you, Simon
. He’d seen the sadness in Juliana’s eyes as she’d spoken the words. He wanted to take his fists to the people who had made her feel such devastation. And he never wanted his niece to feel that pain.

“Of course you shall stay with Caroline.”

Georgiana’s relief was clear. “Thank you, Simon.”

He turned away, less than deserving of his sister’s words of gratitude after his poor treatment during the past few months. He deserved her anger and her fury and her loathing, not her thanks.

For, even as she held her daughter in a loving embrace, he thought of the damage that would be wrought upon the family name.

The scandal would come. And they would weather it. He was prepared. Or would be once he married Lady Penelope. “I shall be married in a month. It will help defray the interest in your situation.”

She laughed at that, and the sound grated. “Simon, a royal wedding itself would not defray the interest in my situation.”

He ignored the words, heading for the door, wanting nothing but to be free of this room that had seemed so welcoming and turned so cloying. Georgiana spoke before he could exit. “You don’t have to do it, you know. Nowhere is it written that you must shoulder the burden of our reputation. You don’t have to marry her.”

Of course he did.

He was the Duke of Leighton—one of the most powerful men in England, born to bear the weight of one of the most venerable titles in the aristocracy. He had spent his whole life preparing for this moment, when honor and duty came before all else.

Where was the honor in what he had done to Juliana? In the stables? In the park? In this room?

Shame coursed through him, his skin growing hot.

“It is not a question. I will marry the lady.”

He would do what needed to be done.

H
e found St. John in the Earl of Reddich’s study.

The door stood open, and he knocked once, firmly on the jamb, waiting for St. John to wave him into the room before assuming the ample leather chair on the far side of the great mahogany desk.

“One might almost think you were titled for how well you look behind that desk,” he said.

Nick finished annotating a long column of numbers in the estate ledger and looked up. “Considering that the earl is ten and at school, I don’t think he will mind if I keep the chair warm until he is ready for it.” He leaned back. “It is the mistress of the house that we have to be worried about. She gets irritated when I use her desk.”

“Why not get your own, then?”

St. John grinned. “I rather enjoy her when she’s irritated.”

Simon pretended not to hear the inappropriate comment. “I should like to talk about my sister.”

“Excellent. I should like to talk about mine.” Simon froze at the words, and St. John’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Isabel thinks there is something between the two of you. And she is always right. It’s infuriating, really.”

“There is nothing between us.”

“No?”

Yes.

“No.” He attempted to sound emphatic. Hoped he succeeded.

“Mmm.” Nick removed his spectacles and tossed them on the desk. “Well then. By all means, let’s discuss Lady Georgiana.”

Simon’s relief came out on a wave of irritation. “I am happy that someone in this house remembers my sister’s station.”

Nick’s brows rose. “I would exercise more care if I were you, Leighton.”

Simon swore quietly, his hands balling in fists.

“Try again,” Nick said.

Nicholas St. John was, very possibly, Simon’s oldest friend, if he were to lay claim to one. The two, along with Ralston, had been the same year at Eton, and Simon, young and entitled, had spent too much time reminding the brothers—and the rest of the class—that the sons of the House of Ralston had come from questionable stock indeed. One day, he had pushed the easygoing Nick too far and suffered the consequences. Nick had bloodied his nose, and their friendship had begun.

It had waned in the years following their departure from school—Simon had become the Duke of Leighton, the head of the family, one of the most powerful men in England—and Nick had left for the Continent, disappearing into the East as a war raged. Leighton money had funded Nick’s activities, but that was as close as Simon had come to his friend during those years.

When Juliana had arrived in London, Simon had done nothing to support the house of St. John. And still, when Georgiana arrived on the doorstep of Townsend Park, with child and little else, Nick and Isabel had taken her in. Protected her as though she were their own. And as Simon had railed against them, threatening this house, their names, even their lives, Nick had stood firm, protecting Georgiana at all costs.

A friend.

Perhaps his only friend.

And Simon owed Nick more than he could ever repay.

And now he was going to ask for more.

“She wants to remain here. With the child.”

Nick leaned back in his chair. “And what do you want?”

What did he want?

He wanted it all to go back to the way it was. He wanted Georgiana safe in her bed at his country estate, preparing for autumn harvests and winter holidays. He wanted to be free of the burden that had been his since he had ascended to the dukedom . . . since before that.