Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart

Ralston smirked. “Clear the air.”

That did make more sense. She narrowed her gaze. “I am about to apologize, and you mock me?”

He half smiled. “Go on.”

“Thank you.” She paused. “I am sorry.”

“For what?” He looked honestly confused.

She gave a little laugh. “There is a great deal, no?” She thought for a moment. “I suppose I am sorry that everything falls to you.”

He did not reply.

“Where is she?”

The glass sphere rolled between his fingers. “Gone.”

Juliana paused, a ripple of emotion shooting through her. She did not pause to inspect it. She was not certain that she wanted to. “Forever?”

He bowed his head, and she thought she heard him laugh. “No. If only it were that easy. I didn’t want her in this house.”

She watched him, her strong, sturdy brother, who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Where did you send her?”

He turned to face her then, the orb spinning. “She did not know you were here, you know. She did not expect you. That is why she did not look for you in the room. At dinner.”

She nodded. It did not make her mother’s dismissal any easier. “Does she know I am here now?”

“I told her.” The words were soft, laced with something that might have been an apology. She nodded, and silence fell again. He returned to the desk and took the seat across from her. “You are my sister. You take precedence.”

Was he reminding her or himself?

She met his eyes. “What does she want?”

He leaned forward on his elbows. “She says she doesn’t want anything.”

“Except her position as dowager marchioness.” Juliana could not keep the sarcasm from her tone.

“She’ll never have that.”

She couldn’t. The ton would never accept her. The gossipmongers would feed on this scandal for years. When Juliana had arrived in London six months ago, they had swarmed, and the sordid tale of their mother’s desertion had been dredged from the bottom of the great river of drama that nourished society. Even now, with connections to some of the most powerful families in London, Juliana existed on the fringes of polite society—accepted by association rather than on her own merit.

It would all start over again. Worse than before.

“You don’t believe her, do you?” she asked. “That she wants nothing.”

“No.”

“Then what?”

He shook his head. “Money, family . . .”

“Forgiveness?”

He thought for a long moment, then lifted one shoulder in the shrug they all used when they did not have an answer. “It is a powerful motivator. Who knows?”

A rush of heat flared, and she leaned forward, shaking her head. “She can’t have it. She can’t . . . what she did to you . . . to Nick . . . to our fathers . . .”

One side of his mouth rose almost imperceptibly. “To you . . .”

To me.

He leaned back in his chair, shifting the glass weight from one hand to the other. “I never thought she would return.”

She shook her head. “One would think the scandal alone would have kept her away.”

He gave a little laugh at that. “You forget that she is our mother—a woman who has always lived as though scandal was for others. And, in fairness, it always has been.”

Our mother.

Juliana was reminded of the conversation in the stables with Simon. How much of this woman was in Juliana? How much of her lack of caring and complete disregard for others lurked deep within her daughter?

Juliana stiffened.

“You are not like her.” Her attention snapped to her brother, his fiery blue gaze firmly upon her.

Tears pricked at his honesty. “How do you know that?”

“I know. And someday, you will as well.”

The words were so simple, their sentiment so certain, that Juliana wanted to scream. How could he know? How could he be so certain that she was not precisely the woman their mother was? That, along with her height and her hair and her blue eyes, she had not inherited a complete and utter disregard for those around her, whom she was supposed to love?

Blood will out.

Instead, she said, “The scandal . . . when they hear . . . that she’s back . . .”

“It will be enormous.” She met his serious blue gaze. “The way I see it, we have two options. We either pack up and head for the country—her in tow—and hope that the gossip fades.”

If wishing would make it so . . .

She wrinkled her nose. “Or?”

“Or we square our shoulders and face it head-on.”

It was not a choice. Not for her. Not for him either.

One side of her mouth lifted in a half smile. “Well, let it not be said that Ralston House does not keep London happily in gossip.”

There was a pause, and he started to laugh, a rumbling sound that came from deep in his chest. And soon, she was laughing, too.

Because at that moment, it was either laugh or cry.

As the laughter died down, Ralston leaned back in his seat and looked to the ceiling. “Nick must be told.”

Of course. Their brother and his new wife lived in Yorkshire, but this was news that he must hear as soon as possible. She nodded. “Will he come?”

His brows rose, as though he had not considered the possibility. “I don’t know. Nick and she . . . they . . .” He trailed off and they sat in silence again, each lost in thought.

She was back.

And with her, decades of long-buried questions.

She met her brother’s gaze. “Gabriel,” she whispered, “what if she is here to stay?”

Something flared in his blue eyes, a combination of anger and concern. He took a deep breath, as though collecting his thoughts. “Don’t for a minute imagine she’s here for good, Juliana. If there is one thing I know about that woman, it is that she is unable to stomach constancy. She wants something. And when she’s obtained it, she’ll leave.” He set the crystal sphere down on the table. “She will go. She will go, and everything will return to normal.”

In the six months since she had arrived in London, Juliana had had many opportunities to see the man beneath the Marquess of Ralston’s devil-may-care façade. Enough opportunities to know that he did not believe his words.

Couldn’t believe them.

It was an understatement to say that their mother’s return changed everything. It was not simply that she would unearth a scandal twenty-five years in the making. It was not simply that she seemed to have little concern for the impact she had on society and even less remorse for her actions. It was not simply that she had marched into Ralston House as though she had never left.

Even if all that could be erased—if Gabriel tossed her out and shipped her off to the Outer Hebrides, never to be heard from again—nothing would ever be the same.

For, before tonight, they could have pretended—had pretended—that she was gone for good. Certainly, Juliana had always wondered if her mother was still alive, where she was, what she was doing, whom she was with. But somewhere in a deep, quiet part of her, she’d always assumed that her mother was gone forever.

And she’d begun to come to terms with it when she arrived in London, met her brothers, been given a chance at a new life. A life in which her mother’s specter continued to loom, but less heavy and foreboding than before.

No longer.

“You don’t really believe that,” she said.

There was a long pause, then, “She wants to speak with you.”

She noticed the change in topic but made no move to correct it. She picked an invisible piece of lint from the sleeve of her dressing gown. “I’m sure she does.”

“You may deal with her as you wish.”

She watched him carefully. “What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should make the decision for yours

elf.”

She pulled her knees up to her chin again, setting her heels on the smooth leather seat. “I don’t think I want to speak to her. Not yet.”

Someday, maybe. Yes. But not now.

He nodded once. “Fair.” Silence fell, and he organized several piles of correspondence, the bruise on his jaw shimmering in the candlelight.

“Does it hurt?”

One hand went to the side of his face, exploring the lesion with tentative fingertips. “Leighton has always been able to throw a punch. It’s a side benefit to his being enormous.”

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

The 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 beh

ind 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.”