Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (27 page)

And he wanted Juliana.

He stopped at the last, her name whispering through his mind.

But instead of bringing clarity, it served only to bring frustration.

He could not have her.

Not now, not ever.

And so he asked for what he could have.

“I want Georgiana to be safe. And Caroline—the child—I want them both to be safe.”

Nick nodded. “They are safe here.”

“Tell me how much you need.”

Nick slashed one hand through the air. “No, Leighton. You’ve given us enough over the past six months. More than necessary.”

“More than you expected.”

“Well, you must admit . . . with the way you stormed out of here after discovering your sister’s situation, we hardly expected you to become a benefactor of Minerva House.”

He’d done it out of guilt.

Georgiana had been terrified of telling him the truth about her situation—that she was with child—that the father’s identity would remain her secret. She’d been in tears, had virtually begged him to forgive her. To protect her.

And he’d walked away, angry and unsettled.

He’d returned to London, desperate to shore up their reputation.

Pretending that she was an inconvenience rather than his sister, and the only member of his family who had ever felt like family.

And so he had done the only thing he could do.

He had sent money.

A great deal of it.

“They are my responsibility. I will continue to care for them.”

Nick watched him for a long moment, and Simon held his friend’s gaze. He would not be denied this—the only way he could even begin to rectify his mistakes.

Nick nodded once. “You do what you feel needs to be done.”

“You will let me know if anything . . . if she needs anything.”

“I will.”

“You are a good friend.” It was the first time he’d ever said the words. To Nick . . . to anyone. The first time he had acknowledged a friendship that was more than a drink at the club or a fencing match. He surprised himself with the sentiment.

Nick’s eyes widened at the words. “You would do the same.”

The simple truth shook Simon to the core.
He would. Now.
But until recently, he might not have.

What had changed?

The answer was clear.

But he could not admit it. Not to himself. Certainly not to Nick.

“Now that that’s settled,” Nick said, reaching for a bottle of brandy and pouring two snifters’ worth of the rich liquid, “shall we return to the topic of Juliana?”

No. She is too much on my mind as it is.

Simon took the offered glass, trying to keep from betraying his thoughts. “There is not much to say.”

Nick drank, savoring the liquid and drawing out the moment. “Come, Leighton. You forget to whom you speak. Why not tell me the truth this time? I know my brother hit you. I know my sister flew into a near rage when she thought you might be here with your own child. Do you really want me to draw my own conclusions?”

They could not be any worse than the truth.

Simon remained silent.

Nick sat back, hands clasped together over his navy blue waistcoat—a portrait of calm. Simon loathed him for it. And then his friend spoke. “Fair enough. I shall tell you what I think. I think that you are beside yourself with discomfort at the situation your sister is in. I think you’ve proposed to Lady Penelope in some mad belief that
your
marriage can offset
Georgiana’s
scandal. I think you are marrying for all the wrong reasons. And I think that my sister is proving it to you.”

Simon had an instant desire to put his fist through Nick, who noticed the flash of anger with a wry smile. “You’re welcome to hit me, old friend, but I can tell you it will not make this any easier. Or my words any less true.”

Simon supposed he should have been impressed by Nick’s astuteness, but when he really considered it, how difficult was it to see the truth?

He was foolish around her. She made him a fool.

She made him more than that.

She made him ache. And want.

And more.

He did not follow the thought. Would not.

Nick need not know such things.

Instead, he faced his friend in silence, and they sat like that, unmoving, not speaking, for long moments before one side of Nick’s mouth rose in a small smile. “You realize you won’t be able to avoid it.”

Simon made a show of brushing an invisible speck from his coat sleeve, pretending to be bored, pretending not to care even as his mind and heart raced.

“Avoid what?”

“Avoid the way she makes you feel.”

“And who is to say she makes me feel anything but irritation?”

Nick laughed. “The fact that you know precisely of whom I am speaking is enough. And you will discover that, in this family, irritation is a precursor to far more dangerous sentiments.”

“I have discovered far too much about this family as it is,” he said, hoping that years of practiced haughtiness would cover the other emotions roiling within.

“You can play the part of the disdainful duke all you like, Leighton. It won’t change anything.” Nick set his snifter down and stood, heading for the door, turning back before he opened it. “I suppose it is too much to ask that you stay away from her?”

Yes.

The idea of staying away from Juliana was incomprehensible.

And yet, he must.

What an ass he was. What a fool.

“Not at all.”

Liar.

Nick made a little sound that spoke volumes.

“You do not believe me?”

Not that he should. Lord Nicholas St. John should remove him bodily from the house—for his sister’s protection.

For Simon’s.

“No, Leighton. I don’t believe you. Not in the slightest.” Nick opened the door.

“If you think I am a risk to her—to her reputation—why let me stay here?”

Nick turned to face him then, and Simon saw something in the other man’s blue eyes—eyes so like Juliana’s.

Sympathy.

“You are not a risk to her.”

Nick did not know the way desire raged through him when she was near.

Simon stayed silent as Nick continued. “You are too careful, Leighton. Too cautious. Juliana is not part of your perfect, pristine life. She is riddled with scandal—as is our entire family. Not that we mind it much,” he added in an aside, “but that alone will prevent you from touching her.”

Simon wanted to disagree. He wanted to scream at the irresponsibility inherent in the words. His own sister was abovestairs, living proof of what happened when men lost control. When they made mistakes.

But before he had a chance to speak, Nick added, “Do not keep her from happiness, Simon. Perhaps you do not want it for yourself, but you know she deserves it. And she can make a good match.”

With someone else.

A visceral hatred coursed through Simon at the thought.

“You say that like there is someone ready to make the offer.” He did not mean the disdain in his tone.

Nick heard it nonetheless, and Simon saw anger flash in his friend’s eyes. “I should give you the fight you so desperately want for saying that. You think that just because you would never dare to sully your precious reputation with someone like Juliana, there are not others who would line up for a chance at her?”

Of course there would be. She was intelligent and quick-witted and charming and mesmerizingly beautiful.

But before he could admit it, Nick exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him with a soft click, leaving Simon to his thoughts.

S
he did not want to be alone with her thoughts, so Juliana took solace in the least solitary place at Townsend Park.

The kitchens.

The Minerva House kitchens were precisely the way Juliana thought kitchens should be—loud and messy and filled with laughter and smells and people. They were the heart of the home that the house had become to all the women who lived there. That is to say, the Minerva House kitchens were nothing like the kitchens of other fine English manor houses.

Which was excellent, because Juliana had had enough of fine English things that day—fine English propriety, fine English arrogance, fine English dukes.

She wanted something real and honest.

When she came through the door, the cluster of women gathered around the enormous table at the center of the room barely looked up, continuing their boisterous conversation as Gwen, the manor’s cook, took one look at Juliana and put her to work.

“This is Juliana,” she said, as the other women made space for her around the oak table—long and lovely and scarred with years of meals and secrets. “Lord Nicholas’s sister.”

And with that, she was accepted. Gwen floured the space in front of Juliana and upended a copper bowl there, depositing a lump of thick dough in need of attention.

“Knead,” said the tiny woman, and Juliana did not think of disobeying.

There were a half dozen other women around the table, each with her own task—chopping, cutting, mixing, pounding—a perfectly organized battalion of cooks, chattering away.

Juliana took a deep breath, breathing in the comfort in the room. She pressed the dough out into a flat, round disk and listened. This was the distraction she needed. Here, she would not have to think about Simon.

“. . . I will say that he is one of the handsomest visitors we’ve had in a very long time.”

“Perhaps ever,” Gwen added, and there was a murmur of agreement from around the table.

“He looks like an angel.”

“A wicked one . . . fallen from heaven. Did you see the way he stormed in here and demanded to see Georgiana?”

Juliana froze.
They were talking about Simon.
It appeared she would not be able to escape him after all.

“The biggest, too,” added a tall, thin woman whom Juliana had never met.

“I wonder if he is that big all over,” someone said, and the girls dissolved into a fit of giggles at the innuendo.

“He’s a guest!” Gwen snapped a towel in the direction of the woman who had made the suggestive comment before smiling wide. “Not that I haven’t had that thought myself.”

“Please, tell me you are not speaking of whom I think you are speaking.”

Juliana’s head snapped up as the entire tableful of women laughed and cleared a space for the newcomer—Lady Georgiana.

It had to be her. She looked just like him, all golden-haired and amber-eyed. She was nowhere near his size, however. She was petite and lovely, like a porcelain doll, with the soft, round beauty of a woman who had just given birth. She did not look seventeen. Indeed, she looked much older. Wiser.

“If you thought we were speaking of your handsome brother, you are right,” Gwen teased. “Are you feeling up to peeling apples?”

Gwen did not wait for an answer, placing a basketful of bright red apples in front of Georgiana. The younger girl did not protest, instead lifting a small paring knife and setting to work. A shock of surprise went through Juliana at the scene—the sister of a duke happily peeling apples in the kitchens of Minerva House—but she did not comment. “My handsome brother, is he?” Georgiana said, lifting her gaze to Juliana’s with a smile.

Juliana went instantly back to work.

Fold, punch, fold, punch.

“You must admit, he is good-looking.”

Juliana pretended not to hear.

Turn, flour, fold, punch.

“He has enough women in London throwing themselves at him. Do not give him the pleasure of such a reception here.”

Pretended not to think of other women in his arms. Of Penelope in his arms.

Flip, fold, press.

“Nah, men like the duke are too cold, anyway.” The tall woman added, “Look at what he’s done, sending you and Caroline away for the scandal.”

“He didn’t exactly send us away.”

The larger woman waved a hand in dismissal. “I don’t care what happened. You’re here with us instead of there with him, and that’s enough for me. I like my men with heart.”

“He has heart.” Juliana didn’t know she had spoken aloud until the conversation around the table went silent.

“He does, does he?” She looked up, cheeks flaming, and met Georgiana’s curious eyes before returning to the dough. “We have not been introduced.”

“This is Lord Nicholas’s sister,” Gwen hurried to say.