Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
And how tempted she was to show them how very unlike them she really was . . . these unmoving, uninteresting, passionless creatures.
She took a deep, stabilizing breath, looking over the ballroom to the faraway doors leading to the gardens beyond. Even as she began to move, she knew that she should not head for them.
But in all the emotions flooding her, she could not find the room to care about what she should not do.
Mariana came from nowhere, placing a delicate gloved hand on Juliana’s elbow. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine.” She did not look at her friend. Could not face her.
“They’re horrid.”
“They’re also right.”
Mariana pulled up short at the words, but Juliana kept moving, focused singularly on the open French doors . . . on the salvation they promised. The young duchess caught up quickly. “They are not right.”
“No?” Juliana sliced a look at her friend, registering the wide blue eyes that made her such a perfect specimen of English femininity. “Of course they are. I am not one of you. I never will be.”
“And thank God for that,” Mariana said. “There are more than enough of us to go around. I, for one, am very happy to have someone unique in my life. Finally.”
Juliana paused at the edge of the dance floor, turning to face her friend. “Thank you.” Even though it isn’t true.
Mariana smiled as though everything had been repaired. “You’re very welcome.”
“Now, why don’t you go find your handsome husband and dance with him. You would not like tongues to begin wagging about the state of your marriage.”
“Let them wag.”
Juliana’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Spoken like a duchess.”
“The position does have a few perks.”
Juliana forced a laugh. “Go.”
Mariana’s brow furrowed with worry. “Are you sure you are all right?”
“Indeed. I am just heading for some fresh air. You know how I cannot bear the heat in these rooms.”
“Be careful,” Mariana said with a nervous look toward the doors. “Don’t get yourself lost.”
“Shall I leave a trail of petits fours?”
“It might not be a bad idea.”
“Good-bye, Mari.”
Mariana was off then, her shimmering blue gown swallowed up by the crowd almost instantly, as though they could not wait for her to join their masses.
They would not absorb Juliana in the same way. She imagined the crowd sending her back, like an olive pit spit from the Ponte Pietra.
Except, this was not as simple as falling from a bridge.
Not as safe, either.
Juliana took a few moments to watch the dancers, dozens of couples swirling and dipping in a quick country dance. She could not resist comparing herself to the women twirling before her, all in their pretty pastel frocks, with their perfectly positioned bodies and their tepid personalities. They were the result of perfect English breeding—raised and cultivated like grapevines to ensure identical fruit and inoffensive, uninteresting wine.
She noticed the girl from the salon taking her place on one side of the long line of dancers, the flush on her cheeks making her more alive than she had first seemed. Her lips were tilted up in what Juliana could only assume was a long-practiced smile—not too bright as to seem forward, not too dim as to indicate disinterest. She appeared a plump grape, ready for picking. Ripe for inclusion in this simple, English vintage.
The grape reached the end of the line, and she and her partner came together.
Her partner was the Duke of Leighton.
The two were weaving and spinning straight toward her, down the long line of revelers, and there was only one thought in Juliana’s head.
They were mismatched.
It was not merely the way they looked, everything but their similarly too-golden hair ill suited. She was somewhat plain—her face just a touch too round, her blue eyes a touch too pale, her lips something less than a perfect pink bow—and he was . . . well . . . he was Leighton. The difference in their statures was immense—he towered well over six feet, and she was small and slight, barely reaching his chest.
Juliana rolled her eyes at the look of them. He probably liked the idea of such a small female, something he could set in motion with the flick of a finger.
But they were mismatched in other ways, too. The grape enjoyed the dance, it was obvious from the twinkle in her eyes as she met the gazes of the other women in line. He did not smile as he danced, despite the fact that he clearly knew the steps to the reel. He did not enjoy himself. Of course, this was not a man who would take pleasure in country dances. This was not a man who took pleasure anywhere.
It was surprising that he had been willing to stoop to such a common activity as dancing in the first place.
The two had reached the end of the revelers and were mere feet from Juliana when Leighton met her gaze. It was fleeting, a second or two at the most, but as she met his honey brown eyes, awareness twisted deep in her stomach. It was a feeling she should have been used to by then, but it never failed to surprise her.
She always hoped that he would not affect her. That someday, those few, fleeting moments of the past would be just that—the past.
Instead of a reminder of how out of place she was in this world.
She spun away from the dance, heading for the wide glass doors and the dark night with newfound urgency. Without hesitation, she stepped through to the stone balcony beyond. Even as she exited the room, she knew she should not. She knew that her brother and the rest of London would judge her for the action. Balconies were hothouses of sin in their eyes.
Which would be ridiculous, of course. Surely, nothing bad could come of a stolen moment on the balcony. It was gardens that she must avoid.
It was cold outside, the air biting and welcome. She looked up into the clear October sky, taking in the stars above.
At least something was the same.
“You should not be out here.”
She did not turn at the words. The duke had joined her. She was not entirely surprised.
“Why not?”
“Anything could happen to you.”
She lifted one shoulder. “My father used to say that women have a dozen lives. Like your cats.”
“Cats only have nine lives here.”
She smiled over her shoulder at him. “And women?”
“Far fewer. It is not wise for you to be here alone.”
“It was perfectly wise until you arrived.”
“This is why you are . . .” He trailed off.
“This is why I am always in trouble.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you here, Your Grace? Don’t you risk your own reputation by being so near to me?” She turned to find him several yards away and gave a short laugh. “Well. I don’t suppose you could possibly be ruined from such a distance. You are safe.”
“I promised your brother that I would shield you from scandal.”
She was so very tired of everyone thinking she was one step from scandal.
She narrowed her gaze on him. “There is an irony in that, don’t you find? There was a time when you were the biggest threat to my reputation. Or do you not remember?”
The words were out before she could stop them, and his countenance grew stony in the shadows. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss such things.”
“It never is, is it?”
He changed the subject. “You are fortunate that it was I who found you.”
“Good fortune? Is that what this is?” Juliana met his eyes, searching for the warmth she had once seen there. She found nothing but his strong patrician gaze, unwavering.
How could he be so different now?
She turned back to the sky, anger flaring. “I think it best for you to leave.”
“I think it best for you to return to the ball.”
“Why? You think that if I dance a reel, they w
ill open their arms and accept me into the fold?”
“I think they will never accept you if you do not try.”
She turned her head to meet his eyes. “You think I want them to accept me.”
He watched her for a long moment. “I think you should want us to accept you.”
Us.
She squared her shoulders. “Why should I? You are a rigid, passionless group, more concerned with the proper distance between dance partners than in the world in which you live. You think your traditions and your manners and your silly rules make your life desirable. They don’t. They make you snobs.”
“You are a child who knows not the game that she plays.”
The words stung. Not that she would show him that.
She stepped closer, testing his willingness to stand his ground. He did not move. “You think I consider this a game?”
“I think it is impossible for you to consider it otherwise. Look at you. The entire ton is mere feet away, and here you are, a hairsbreadth from ruin.” His words were steel, the strong planes of his face shadowed and beautiful in the moonlight.
“I told you. I don’t care what they think.”
“Of course you do. Or you wouldn’t still be here. You would have returned to Italy and been done with us.”
There was a long pause.
He was wrong.
She did not care what they thought.
She cared what he thought.
And that only served to frustrate her more.
She turned back to face the gardens, gripping the wide stone railing on the balcony and wondering what would happen if she ran for the darkness.
She would be found.
“I trust your hands have healed.”
They were back to being polite. Unmoved.
“Yes. Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “You seemed to enjoy the dancing.”
There was a beat as he considered the statement. “It was tolerable.”
She laughed a little. “What a compliment, Your Grace.” She paused. “Your partner appeared to enjoy your company.”
“Lady Penelope is an excellent dancer.”
The grape had a name.
“Yes, well, I had the good fortune of meeting her earlier this evening. I can tell you she does not have excellent choice in friends.”
“I will not have you insulting her.”
“You will not have me? How are you in a position to make demands of me?”
“I am quite serious. Lady Penelope is to be my bride. You will treat her with the respect she is due.”
He was going to marry the ordinary creature.
Her mouth dropped in surprise. “You are engaged?”
“Not yet. But it is a mere matter of formality at this point.”
She supposed it was right that he be matched with such a perfect English bride.
Except it seemed so wrong.
“I confess, I have never heard anyone speak so blandly about marriage.”
He crossed his arms against the cold, the wool of his black formal coat pulling taut across his shoulders, emphasizing his broadness. “What is there to say? We suit well enough.”
She blinked. “Well enough.”
He nodded once. “Quite.”
“How very impassioned.”
He did not rise to her sarcasm. “It’s a matter of business. There is no room for passion in a good English marriage.”
It was a joke. It must be.
“How do you expect to live your life without passion?”
He sniffed, and she wondered if he could smell his pompousness. “The emotion is overrated.”
She gave a little laugh. “Well, that might possibly be the most British thing I have ever heard anyone say.”
“It is a bad thing to be British?”
She smiled slowly. “Your words, not mine.” She continued, knowing she was irritating him. “We all need passion. You could do with a heavy dose of it in all areas of your life.”
He raised a brow. “I am to take this advice from you?” When she nodded, he pressed on. “So, let me be clear. You think my life requires passion—an emotion that propels you into darkened gardens and into strange carriages and onto balconies and forces you to risk your reputation with alarming frequency.”
She lifted her chin. “I do.”
“That may work for you, Miss Fiori, but I am different. I have a title, a family, and a reputation to protect. Not to mention the fact that I am far above such base and . . . common desires.”
The arrogance that poured off of him was suffocating.
“You are a duke,” she said, sarcasm in her tone.
He ignored it. “Precisely. And you are . . .”
“I am far less than that.”
He raised one golden eyebrow. “Your words, not mine.”
Her breath whooshed out of her as though she had been struck.
He deserved a powerful, wicked set down. The kind that would ruin a man for good. The kind only a woman could give.
The kind she desperately wanted to give him.
“You . . . asino.” His lips pressed into a thin line at the insult, and she dropped into a deep, mocking curtsy. “I apologize, Your Grace, for the use of such base language.” She looked up at him through dark lashes. “You will permit me to repeat it in your superior English. You are an ass.”
He spoke to her through his teeth. “Rise.”
She did, swallowing back her anger as he reached for her, his strong fingers digging into her elbow, turning her back to the ballroom. When he continued, his voice was low and graveled at her ear. “You think your precious passion shows that you are better than us, when all it shows is your selfishness. You have a family who is endeavoring to garner society’s acceptance for you, and still nothing matters to you but your own excitement.”
She hated him then. “It is not true. I care deeply for them. I would never do anything to—” She stopped. I would never do anything to damage them.
The words were not precisely true. Here she was, after all, on a darkened terrace with him.
He seemed to understand her thoughts. “Your recklessness will ruin you . . . and likely them. If you cared even a little, you would attempt to behave in the manner of a lady and not a common—”
He stopped before the insult was spoken.
She heard it anyway.
A calm settled deep within her.
She wanted this perfect, arrogant man brought to his knees.
If he imagined her reckless, that’s what she would be.
Slowly, she removed her arm from his grasp. “You think you are above passion? You think your perfect world needs nothing more than rigid rules and emotionless experience?”
He stepped back at the challenge in her soft words. “I do not think it. I know it.”
She nodded once. “Prove it.” His brows drew together, but he did not speak. “Let me show you that not even a frigid duke can live without heat.”
He did not move. “No.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Disinterested.”
“I doubt that.”
“You really give no thought to reputations, do you?”
“If you are concerned for your reputation, Your Grace, by all means, bring a chaperone.”
“And if I resist your tempestuous life?”
“Then you marry the grape and all is well.”
He blinked. “The grape?”
“Lady Penelope.” There was a long pause. “But . . . if you cannot resist . . .” She stepped close, his warmth a temptation in the crisp October air.
“Then what?” he asked, his voice low and dark.
She had him now. She would bring him down.
And his perfect world with him.
She smiled. “Then your reputation is in serious danger.”
He was silent, the only movement the slow twitch of a muscle in his jaw. After several moments, she thought he might leave her there, her threat hovering in the cold air.
And then he spoke.
“I shall give you two weeks.” She did not have time to revel in her victory. “But it shall be you who learns the lesson, Miss Fiori.”
Suspicion flared. “What lesson?”
“Reputation always triumphs.”
Chapter Four
The walk or trot will do.
Delicate ladies never gallop.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
The Fashionable Hour comes earlier and earlier . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
The next morning, the Duke of Leighton rose with the sun.
He washed, dressed in crisp linen and smooth buckskin, pulled on his riding boots, tied his cravat, and called for his mount.
In less than a quarter of an hour, he crossed the great foyer of his town house, accepting a pair of riding gloves and a crop from Boggs, his ever-prepared butler, and exited the house.
Breathing in the morning air, crisp with the scent of autumn, the duke lifted himself into the saddle, just as he had every morning since the day he assumed the dukedom, fifteen years earlier.
In town or in the country, rain or shine, cold or heat, the ritual was sacrosanct.
Hyde Park was virtually empty in the hour just after dawn—few were interested in riding without the chance of being seen, and even fewer were interested in leaving their homes at such an early hour. This was precisely why Leighton so enjoyed his morning rides—the quiet punctuated only by hoofbeats, by the sound of his horse’s breath mingled with his own as they cantered through the long, deserted paths that only hours later would be packed with those still in town, eager to feed on the latest gossip.
The ton traded on information, and Hyde Park on a beautiful day was the ideal place for the exchange of such a commodity.
It was only a matter of time until his family was made the commodity of the day.
Leighton leaned into his horse, driving the animal forward, faster, as though he could outrun the tattle.
When they heard about his sister, the gossips would swarm, and his family would be left with little to protect their name and reputation. The Dukes of Leighton went back eleven generations. They had fought alongside William the Conqueror. And those who held the title and the venerable position so far above the rest of society were raised with one unimpeachable rule: Let nothing besmirch the name.