Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart

And why.

She pushed him back, away from her. “I must return.” She stood, wondering how long she would be able to suffer this interminable evening.

The worst was yet to come.

“Juliana,” he said, and she heard the plea in his voice, for what, she did not know. She waited, eager for him to say something that would make it better. That would make it right.

When he did not, she spoke. “You are to be married.”

He lifted his hands. Paused. Dropped them in frustration. “I am sorry. I should not have—I should have—”

She flinched at the words—she couldn’t help it. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t apologize.” She moved to the door, had one hand on the handle when he spoke again.

“Juliana. I cannot—” He halted. Rethought. “I am marrying Lady Penelope. I have no choice.”

There it was again, his cool, masterful tone.

She let her forehead rest on the cool mahogany of the door, so close that she could smell the rich stain on the wood.

He spoke again. “There are things you cannot understand. I must.”

She laid her palm flat against the door, resisting the horrible temptation to throw herself at his feet and beg him to have her. No. She had more pride than that. There was only one way to survive this. With dignity intact.

“Of course you must,” she whispered.

“You don’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But it is not important. Thank you for the lesson.”

“The lesson?”

This was her chance to have the last word.

To at least feel like she had won.

“Passion is not everything, is it?” She was proud of the lightness in her tone, the way she tossed the words at him as though they did not matter. As though he had not just thrown her world into upheaval.

Again.

But she did not trust herself to look at him. That would have been too challenging a part to play.

Instead, she opened the door and slipped into the hallway, not feeling at all like she’d won.

Feeling like she’d lost terribly.

She had, after all, broken the most important of her rules.

She had wanted more than she could have.

She had wanted him, and more . . . she had wanted him to want her.

In the name of something bigger than tradition, bolder than reputation, more important than a silly title.

She hovered at the entrance to the ballroom, watching the swirling silks, the way the men walked, danced, spoke with the undeniable sense of entitlement and purpose, the long, graceful lines of the women, who knew without question that they belonged.

Here, nothing trumped the holy trinity of tradition, reputation, and title.

And for someone like her—who laid claim to none of the three—someone like him—who held all three with a casual right—was utterly, undeniably, out of reach.

And she had been wrong to even pretend to reach for him.

She could not have him.

She took a deep, stabilizing breath.

She could not have him.

“Oh, good. I found you. We must talk,” Mariana whispered from her elbow, where she had materialized. “Apparently ours is not the only gossip to be had today.”

Juliana blinked. “Our gossip?”

Mariana cut her a quick, irritated look. “Really, Juliana. You shall have to get past the idea that you own all the trouble in our family. We’re a family. It’s our burden to bear as well.” Juliana did not have time to appreciate the sentiment as Mariana was already pressing on. “Apparently, there is another major event taking place tonight. One you will not like. Leighton is to be—”

“I know.” Juliana cut off her friend. She didn’t think she could bear hearing it again. Not even from Mariana.

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

Mariana’s brows snapped together. “When?”

She shrugged one shoulder, hoping it would be enough for her sister-in-law’s sister.

Apparently not. “Juliana Fiori! When did he tell you?”

She should have told her that Ralston told her. Or that she’d overheard it in the ladies’ salon. Usually, she was quicker.

Usually, she hadn’t just had her heart broken.

Her heart was not broken, was it?

It certainly felt that way.

“Earlier.”

“Earlier, when?”

“Earlier tonight.”

Mariana squeaked. Actually squeaked.

Juliana winced. She should have said last night.

Juliana turned to face her. “Please don’t make this an issue.”

“Why were you with Leighton earlier tonight?”

No reason, only that I was very nearly ruined in the conservatory belonging to his future bride.

She shrugged again.

“Juliana, you know that might very well be your most annoying habit.”

“Really? But I have so many.”

“Are you all right?”

“You mean the shoulder? Yes. Fine.”

Mariana’s eyes narrowed. “You are being deliberately difficult.”

“Possibly.”

Mariana looked at her then. Really looked at her. And Juliana got instantly nervous. The young duchess’s gaze softened almost instantly. “Oh, Juliana,” she whispered. “You are not all right at all, are you?”

The soft, kind words proved to be Juliana’s undoing. It was suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to swallow, all her energy instantly devoted to resisting the urge to throw herself into her friend’s arms and cry.

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 refus

ed 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

Her 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 y

ou.”

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?”