Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (34 page)

“I beg your pardon?”

The servant backed up a step. “They are not . . .” He cleared his throat. “Receiving.”

Simon turned to look at the stream of people dressed in their very finest, moving up the center staircase of the house, headed for the ballroom. “And so I suppose all these people are . . .” He trailed off, waiting for the footman to complete the sentence.

“. . . Family?” The footman finished, uncertain.

Simon supposed he should sympathize for the poor man, who had likely never turned away a duke before, but he could not muster the emotion. He was too irritated. “And the music from above. It is part of a . . . family gathering?”

The servant cleared his throat. “Erm. Yes?”

He was being turned away from Northumberland House because his sister had borne a child. Out of wedlock. The Leighton name was now synonymous with scandal. It had taken less than a day, and all invitations he had received for events to be held in the coming weeks had been politely revoked—it seemed a rash of cancellations had taken place across London.

Perhaps, had it been another day—another ball—he would have done what was expected and left, but Juliana was inside that ballroom. And he had a plan to win her. One that relied heavily on this, the last ball of the season.

Simon had had enough. “Well, I suppose we’re lucky that Northumberland is a distant cousin.” He pushed past the servant and started up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time as the servant followed along behind.

“Your Grace, you cannot!”

On the landing, he turned and faced the footman. “And how do you plan to stop me?”

“Your Grace . . .” The servant apparently planned to appeal to Simon’s better judgment.

Little did he know that Simon’s better judgment was already engaged in an alternate purpose that evening—to find Juliana and make her his.

He ducked around a cluster of revelers and pushed into the ballroom, finding her in the crowd the moment he entered; he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

He had missed her with a powerful intensity, and seeing her filled him with acute pleasure. She was his drug. He craved her nearness, her laugh, her courage, the way she moved her hands when she spoke, that little shrug that had driven him mad when he had first met her and that he ached for now.

She waltzed across the room on Allendale’s arm, dressed in a lovely gown of the palest pink, and for a fleeting moment, Simon was distracted by the fact that she wore such an uninteresting color—a color that made her blend in with the rest of the young, unmarried women in the room—until a turn in the dance gave him a view of her beautiful face, and it no longer mattered what she was wearing.

The only thing that mattered was the sadness in her eyes. The longing in them. For him.

Thank God.

For he could not bear it if she belonged to someone else.

The thought came on a wicked wave of desire—desire to march up to her, pull her from the earl’s arms, and steal her away.

Which, as luck would have it, was precisely the plan.

He had not removed his cloak when he had entered, and as he moved through the crowd, clusters of revelers stopped, first to stare, then deliberately to turn away from him. He knew what they were doing—had done it himself dozens of times before—and he would be lying if he said that the cuts were not painful.

But the embarrassment and shame that he should be feeling as each of these people who, mere days ago, were desperate for his approval, turned their backs to show him their disapproval paled in comparison to the pleasure he felt at the way they eased his passage to his single, undeniable goal: Juliana.

His Juliana.

He took a deep breath and, defying all convention and everything he had ever been trained to do or be, crossed directly into the center of the room, stopping dancers in their tracks.

Proving, once and for all, that she had been right all along—and that reputation was nothing when compared to love.

Allendale saw him coming. The earl’s friendly smile faded into a look of shock, and he slowed Juliana to a stop. The orchestra played on as Simon drew nearer to them, and he heard the confusion in Juliana’s voice when she said, “What has happened?”

Her voice was a benediction—that lilting Italian accent that he craved, the way she drew out her syllables and let them linger on her tongue. She turned to him, and her eyes widened—at his nearness or his attire or both—her lush mouth fell open, and the entire room disappeared. It was only her. Only them. Only now.

“Your Grace?”

He did not trust himself to speak to her. Not when he wanted to say a hundred things that were for her and her alone. So he turned to the earl instead, saying with a lifetime of ducal imperiousness, “Allendale, I am taking your partner.”

Benedick’s mouth opened, then closed, as if he were trying to recall the exact protocol for this situation. Finally, the earl turned to Juliana, allowing her the choice.

Simon did the same, holding out one gloved hand, palm up. “Juliana?” he asked, adoring the way her sapphire eyes darkened and her lips parted at the word. “I should very much like to cause a scandal.”

She stared at the hand for a long moment, then met his gaze.

And there was an unbearable sadness in her eyes.

Suddenly, he knew what she was going to do.

And he could not stop her.

She shook her head. “No.”

He stood there like a fool, arm extended, not understanding.

She shook her head again and whispered, “I won’t be your scandal. Not this time.” The words crashed around him, and he watched as her eyes went liquid with unshed tears. “No,” she repeated, and she hurried past, heading for the exit.

It took him a moment to realize what had happened—that she was leaving him. That she had rejected him. He met Allendale’s gaze, blood roaring in his ears, shame and confusion and something else flooding through him, hot and furious.

“How could you do such a thing to her?”

The words barely registered before Allendale was pushing past him as well, following Juliana through the crowd.

He turned to watch them, to watch her rush through the room, their massive audience moving aside to let her pass, and he did the only thing he could think to do; he called after her. “Juliana!”

A collective gasp rippled through the room at the sound, a booming shout that was entirely out of place in a ballroom, or anywhere a cultured gentleman happened to be. But he did not care. He took a step toward her, following, and an arm came across his chest.

Ralston held him back.

He fought against the grip, calling out again, her name tearing through the room, echoing up into the rafters, silencing everyone in the room, including the orchestra. “Juliana!”

She turned back. He met her gaze—the color of Ceylon sapphires—and said the only thing he could think to say. The only thing he could imagine would keep her there. With him. The only thing that mattered. “I love you.”

Her face—her beautiful, perfect face—crumbled at the words, and the tears that she had held at bay spilled over.

She ran from the room, Allendale on her heels.

Simon tore himself from Ralston’s grip, followed, determined to reach her. Determined to fix it.

And damned if the
ton
didn’t protect her from him.

The orchestra resumed its playing, and there were suddenly throngs of people in his way. Everywhere he turned, there was a waltzing couple trapping him on the dance floor, and when he reached the edge of the ballroom, a constant stream of guests simply happened into his path.

Not one of them met his eyes; not one spoke to him. But they made it impossible for him to catch her.

When he had fought his way through the crowd, down the stairs, and out the door, she was gone, and there was nothing but a drenching London rain to greet him.

And at that moment, as he stared into the fog, replaying the events of the last few minutes over and over, he recognized the emotion coursing through him.

It was fear.

Fear that he had lost the only thing he had ever really wanted.

Chapter Twenty

Society does not forgive scandalous behavior.

Such is the delicate lady’s maxim.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

With the spectacle playing out in the Beau Monde this year, the theatre seems unnecessary . . .

—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823

T
he entire family was back at Ralston House within the hour.

They congregated in the library, Benedick and Rivington sitting in the high-backed chairs near the enormous fireplace, in front of which Ralston paced. Juliana sat on a low chaise, flanked by Mariana and Callie.

Amo, amas, amat.

I love, you love, he loves.

He loves.

He loves me.

She took a deep breath, a hitch catching in her throat.

Callie stood and headed for the door. “I think I shall call for tea.”

“I think we need something slightly stronger than that,” Ralston said, heading for a decanter of whiskey on the sideboard. He poured three glasses for the men, then, after a long moment, a fourth. He walked it over to Juliana. “Drink this. It will settle you.”

“Gabriel!” Callie reprimanded.

“Well, it will.”

Juliana took a sip of the fiery liquid, enjoying the burn it sent down her throat. At least when she was feeling that, she was not feeling the devastating ache that Simon had left with his profession of love.

“Perhaps you could explain to me how it is that Leighton came to profess his love to you in the middle of a crowded ballroom?”

The ache returned.

“He was in Yorkshire,” she whispered, hating the sound of the words. Hating the weakness.

Ralston nodded. “And tell me, did he lose his mind there?”

“Gabriel,” Callie said, warning in her tone. “Have a care.”

“Did he touch you?” Everyone stiffened. “Don’t answer. There’s no need. No man behaves in such a way without . . .”

“Ralston.” Benedick interrupted. “Enough.”

“He wants to marry me.”

Mariana squeezed her hand. “But, Juliana, that is good, is it not?”

“Well, after tonight, I am not certain that he would make a very good match,” Ralston said wryly.

Tears welled in Juliana’s eyes, and she took a sip of scotch to force them away.

She’d been trying so hard—so hard to be something more than a scandal. She’d worn a dress that was the required color, she’d danced appropriately with only the most gentlemanly of men, she’d convinced herself that she could be the kind of woman who was known for propriety. Who was known for reputation.

The kind of woman he would want by his side.

And still, she’d been nothing more to him than a scandal. Nothing more than what he’d seen in her since the beginning. And when he had professed his love there, in front of the entire
ton,
that dark, scandalous part of her had sung with happiness. And she ached for wanting him. For loving him.

And still she wanted more.

He made her a perfect match.

“If he seduced you, I have the right to tear him limb from limb.”

“That’s enough,” Callie said, standing. “Out.”

“You cannot exile me from my own library, Calpurnia.”

“I can and will. In fact, I have. Out!”

He gave a harsh laugh that did not hold much humor. “I am not going anywhere.” He turned to Juliana. “Do you want to marry him?”

Yes.

But it was not so simple.

The room was suddenly too small. She stood, heading for the exit. “I need . . .
un momento
,” she paused. “
Per favore
.”

As she reached the door, her brother called out to her, “Juliana.” When she turned back, he added, “Think about what you want. Whatever it is, you can have it.”

She left, closing the door behind her, allowing the hallway to cloak her in darkness.

She wanted Simon.

She wanted his love, yes. But she also wanted his respect and admiration. She wanted him to consider her his equal. She deserved as much, did she not? Deserved what she saw in Callie and Ralston, in Isabel and Nick, in Mariana and Rivington.

She wanted that.

And she did not have it.

Did she?

She took a deep breath, and another, replaying the events of the evening over and over in her mind.

He’d broken every rule he had—he’d ignored protocol and attended an event from which he had been uninvited, he’d allowed all of London to turn their backs on him, he’d
stopped a ball.

He’d stopped a ball—bringing even more scandal down upon him—even as all of London turned their backs on him.

And he’d done it for her.

Because he cared for her.

Because he wanted to show her that she was more important than anything else. Than everything else.

And she’d refused him.

She’d refused his love.

She wrapped her arms around her middle, the realization coming like a blow to the stomach, and the door to the library opened.

Benedick stepped out into the hallway, a kind smile on his face. He closed the door behind him, shutting Callie and Ralston’s argument inside, and coming toward her.

She forced a smile. “Are they still arguing about me?”

He grinned. “No. Now they are discussing whether Callie should be riding still now that she is with child.”

She gave a little huff of laughter. “I imagine she will win.”

“I would not be so certain.” They were silent for a moment. “There is something I should like to discuss with you.”

“Is it about the duke? Because I would prefer not to discuss him, honestly.”

“Not exactly.”

“What, then?”

He hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Juliana, if you would like, I would have you. To wife.”

As proposals went, it was not the most eloquent, but it was honest, and her eyes went wide at the words. She shook her head. “Benedick—”

“Just hear me. We enjoy each other’s company, we are friends. And I think we would have a good time of it. You do not have to answer me now, but should you . . . have need of a husband . . .”

“No,” she said, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you very much, Benedick, but you deserve more than a wife in need of a husband.” She smiled. “And I deserve more than a husband who will simply have me to wife.”

He nodded once. “That much, at least, is true.” He paused. “For what it is worth, I think Leighton loves you very much.”

The words sent a sad little thrill through her. “I think so, too.”

“Then why not marry me?”

She snapped to attention at the words. Simon stood at the top of the stairs, soaked to the skin, face etched with lines of exhaustion. He had removed his hat, but his hair was plastered to his head and his coat hung wet and ragged from his shoulders. He looked terrible.

He looked wonderful.

“How did you . . . how did you get in here?” she asked.

“This is not the first house into which I have stormed this evening. I’m making quite a career of it.”

She smiled. She could not help it.

He let out a long sigh. “I had hoped to make you smile, Siren. I hated making you cry.”

She heard the truth in the words, and tears returned, unbidden.

He cursed in the darkness, “Allendale, I’m going to forgive your proposing to the woman I love. In return, do you think you could give us a moment?”

“I’m not certain I should.”

“I’m not going to ravish her on the landing.”

Benedick turned to Juliana for approval. After a long moment, she nodded. “Five minutes.” The earl met Simon’s gaze. “And I’m coming back.”

He returned to the library, and the second the door closed, Simon took a step toward her, reaching for her even as he stopped several feet away. He dropped his arms, raked one hand through his drenched hair, and shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to win you.”

You’ve already won me,
she wanted to say.
You’ve already ruined me for all others.

He continued. “So I shall simply tell you the truth. I have spent my entire life preparing for a cold, unfeeling, unimpassioned life—a life filled with pleasantries and simplicity. And then you came into it . . . you . . . the opposite of all that. You are beautiful and brilliant and bold and so very passionate about life and love and those things that you believe in. And you taught me that everything I believed, everything I thought I wanted, everything I had spent my life espousing—all of it . . . it is wrong. I want your version of life . . . vivid and emotional and messy and wonderful and filled with happiness. But I cannot have it without you.

“I love you, Juliana. I love the way you have turned my entire life upside down, and I am not certain I could live without you now that I have lived with you.”

He moved again, and she caught her breath as her great, proud duke lowered himself to his knees before her. “You once told me that you would bring me to my knees in the name of passion.”

“Simon . . .” She was crying freely now, and she stepped forward, placing her hands on his head, running her fingers through his hair. “
Amore
, no, please.”

“I am here. On my knees. But not in the name of passion,” He took her hands in both of his and brought them to his lips, kissing her, worshipping her. “I am here in the name of love.”

He looked up at her, his countenance so very stark and serious in the dimly lit hallway. “Juliana . . . please, be my wife. I swear I will spend the rest of my days proving that I am worthy of you. Of your love.”

He kissed her hands again, and whispered, “Please.”

And then she was on her knees as well, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Yes.” She pressed her lips to his. “Yes, Simon, yes.”

He returned the kiss, his tongue sliding into her hot, silken heat, stroking until they both required air. “I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered against her lips, pulling her to him, as though he could bring her close enough that they would never be apart again.

“No, I am sorry. I should not . . . I left you there . . . at the ball. I didn’t see until now . . . how much it meant.”

He kissed her again. “I deserved it.”

“No . . . Simon, I love you.”

They stayed there for long minutes, wrapped in each other, whispering their love, making promises for the future, touching, reveling, celebrating in one another.

And that was how Ralston found them.

He opened the door to the library, the lush golden glow from the candles beyond flooding the hallway and illuminating the lovers.

“You had better get a special license, Leighton.”

Simon smiled, bold and brash, and Juliana caught her breath at him—her angel—the handsomest man in England. In all of Europe. “I already have one.”

Ralston raised a black brow. “Excellent. You have two minutes to compose yourself before we go downstairs and discuss this.” Juliana smiled at the words, and Ralston caught her gaze. “You, sister, are not invited.”

He closed the door to Simon and Juliana’s laughter.

A
n hour later, Simon exited Ralston House, having made all the appropriate arrangements with his—he winced—future brother-in-law. He supposed it was only right that he was finally tied to this raucous family, the only people in England who did not care that he was a duke. Rather, the only people who had never cared. Now most of London would happily turn their backs on the House of Leighton for fear of being touched by its scandal.

And he found he did not care much about it.

He had a healthy niece and a woman who loved him, and suddenly those things seemed like more than enough.

He had wanted desperately to say good night to Juliana, but she had been nowhere to be found as he was leaving, and Ralston seemed disinclined to allow Simon abovestairs to seek her out. He supposed he could not blame the marquess; after all, he was not exactly good at keeping his hands off of his soon-to-be wife.

But they were to be married in less than a week, and he would bear the loss of her tonight, even if it brought with it an all-too-familiar and utterly unpleasant ache.

He waved the coachman off his duty and opened the door to his carriage—the one where it had all begun weeks ago. Lifting himself up and in, he took his seat and swung the door closed, rapping the roof quickly to set the coach in motion.