“Well, Rivington and I haven’t much choice, as we are related, if you would remember.” She heard the teasing in his tone but did not find it very amusing. There was a beat of silence. “I assume you are referring to Leighton.”
She stiffened. She couldn’t help it. “Among others.”
“I saw the way he watched you last night. I think Leighton will align himself with you faster than you would imagine.”
The words—predicated on logic so faulty—stung. She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”
Benedick might think he had seen support in Leighton’s manner last night, but he had misread the emotion. He had seen frustration, irritation, desire perhaps. But not caring.
On the contrary, had Benedick seen the duke storm from the stables later that evening, after it was revealed that he was engaged, he would not think such things at all.
Simon was to be married.
The words had barely whispered through her mind when, as though she had conjured up his bride-to-be, Juliana caught a glimpse of the grape through the crowd, headed for the ladies’ salon.
And she could not resist.
“I shall return,” she whispered, already in motion.
She knew even as she headed for the salon that she should not follow Lady Penelope, that any conversation they might have would be more painful than no conversation at all, but she could not help herself. The grape had done what Juliana could not—she had caught Simon. And there was a perverse part of Juliana that simply had to know who this plain, perfect Englishwoman was.
What it was about her that had led the immovable Duke of Leighton to choose her for his duchess.
It was early enough that the salon was empty, save for a handful of servants, and Juliana crossed the main room of the salon to a small side chamber, where she found Penelope pouring water into a small washbasin, then setting her hands into the water, breathing deeply.
The grape appeared ill.
“You are not going to cash in your accounts, are you?”
Penelope spun toward her, the surprise in her eyes turning quickly to confusion. “Cash in my accounts?”
“It is possible I have it incorrect.” Juliana moved her hand in a rolling motion. “To be ill. In Italian, we say vomitare.” The grape’s eyes went wide with understanding before a flush rose high on her cheeks. “Ah. I see you understand.”
“Yes. I understand.” Lady Penelope shook her head. “No. I am not going to cast up my accounts. At least, I don’t think so.”
Juliana nodded. “Bene.” She indicated a chair near the basin. “May I join you?”
The grape’s brow furrowed. Evidently it was not every day that she had a conversation such as this one.
But if she wanted to refuse, she was too polite to do so. “Please.”
Juliana sat, waving one hand. “You need not stop what it is you were doing.” She paused. “What is it that you were doing?”
Penelope eyed the washbasin before meeting Juliana’s curious gaze. “It is just something that I do to calm myself.”
“Wash your hands?”
One side of Penelope’s mouth lifted in a self-deprecating smile. “It’s silly.”
Juliana shook her head. “I conjugate verbs.”
“In Italian?”
“In Latin. And in English.”
Penelope seemed to consider the idea. “And it works?”
With everything but Leighton. “Most of the time.”
“I shall have to try it.”
“Why are you in need of calming?”
Penelope lifted a long square of linen to dry her hands. “No reason.”
Juliana laughed a little at the obvious lie. “I do not mean to offend, Lady Penelope, but you are not very good at hiding your feelings.”
Penelope met Juliana’s gaze. “You say whatever you are thinking, don’t you?”
Juliana gave a little shrug. “When you have a reputation such as mine, there is little need to mince words. Is it the ball that makes you nervous?”
Penelope looked away, her eyes finding her reflection in a nearby mirror. “Among other things.”
“Well, I can certainly understand that. They are horrible events, balls. I do not understand why anyone cares for them. All torturous whispers and silly dancing.”
Penelope met Juliana’s gaze in the mirror. “Tonight’s ball shall be one for the ages.”
“You refer to the gossip about my mother?”
“My engagement is to be announced tonight.”
The words should not have been a surprise, and yet they slammed through Juliana.
He was announcing the engagement tonight.
“Your engagement to whom?” She knew she should not ask. Could not stop herself from doing so. In some perverse way, she had to hear the words from this woman—his future wife.
“The Duke of Leighton.”
Juliana knew the words were coming, but they ripped through her, nonetheless.
“You are to marry the Duke of Leighton.” Stop talking. “He has proposed to you.”
Penelope nodded, lost in her own thoughts, her golden ringlets bobbing like the hair on one of Juliana’s childhood dolls. “This morning.”
Juliana swallowed around the knot in her throat. He’d obviously left Ralston House the prior evening with complete resolve—having narrowly escaped a bad match with Juliana . . . he’d happily secured a good one with . . .
Someone else.
And in a hideous twist of fate, Juliana was attending the betrothal ball.
All while her family’s reputation was being ripped to shreds.
Belatedly, she remembered her manners. “How . . . happy . . . you must be!”
“Yes. I suppose I should be happy.”
She did not seem happy.
In fact, Penelope’s eyes had turned liquid, and she seemed very close to tears.
And, suddenly, Juliana felt sorry for the other woman.
This woman, who was to marry Simon.
“You do not wish to marry him.”
There was a long pause as Penelope appeared to collect herself. Juliana watched with amazement as the tears cleared from the other woman’s eyes, returning them to their pale, porcelain blue, and a bright, white smile appeared on her face. She took a deep breath. “The Duke of Leighton is a good man. It is a fine match.”
It did not escape Juliana’s notice that Penelope had not answered the question. Juliana raised a brow. “You sound like one of them.”
Penelope’s brows knit together. “ ‘Them’?”
Juliana waved a hand to the outer salon and the ballroom beyond. “The English.”
Penelope blinked. “I am one of the English.”
“I suppose you are.” Juliana watched Penelope for a long while. “He is a good man.”
“He will make me a fine husband.”
Juliana rolled her eyes. “I would not go so far as to say that. He’s arrogant and high-handed, and he’ll want everything his cold, calculating way.”
She should stop this now. Simon was to marry Lady Penelope. And it was not Juliana’s place to become involved.
There was a long pause as Penelope considered the words, during which Juliana began to regret her bold speech. Just as she was about to apologize, Penelope said, “That is how marriage is.”
The simple statement, spoken as though it was an irrefutable fact, was Juliana’s undoing. She rose from her chair, having no choice but to move. “What is it with you English? You speak of marriage as though it is a business arrangement.”
“It is a business arrangement,” Penelope said, simply.
“And what of love?”
“I am sure that . . . in time . . . we shall develop a certain . . . fondness for each other.”
Juliana could not stop her laugh. “I have developed a fondness for apple tarts, but I do not want to marry one.” Penelope did not smile. “And passion?”
Penelope shook her head. “There is no room for passion in a good English
marriage.”
Juliana went still at the words, an echo from another ball. Another aristocrat. “Did he say that to you?”
“No, but it is . . . the way things are done.”
The room grew instantly smaller, more cloying, and Juliana longed for air. Penelope was perfect for Simon. She would not challenge him, would breed him beautiful, golden-haired children, and host his dinner parties while he lived his quiet life, unfettered by scandal, uncomplicated by passion.
Juliana had never had a chance with him.
And only now, as the truth coiled through her, did she realize how much she had wanted one.
There is no room for passion in a good English marriage.
She turned for the door. “Well, at least in that, you are an excellent match.”
Just as Juliana reached the entryway to the larger salon, the grape found her skin. “It is not easy, you know. You think English ladies do not grow up imagining love? Of course we do. But we are not bred for love. We are bred for reputation. For loyalty. We are bred to turn our backs on passion and take the hand of security. Is it the stuff of novels? No. Do we like it? It does not matter. It is our duty.”
Juliana took in the words. Duty. Reputation. Security. She would never understand this world, this culture. She would never be one of them. And it was that which would always set her apart. Always make her worthy of their whispers.
Never make her worthy of him.
Not in the way this sturdy Englishwoman was.
The ache returned, and before she could make her excuses, Penelope offered a small, quiet smile. “We leave love to the Italians.”
“I’m not sure we want it.” The conversation was over. “My felicitations, Lady Penelope.”
She left Penelope to her washbasin and her future and passed through the main room, ignoring both the cluster of women gathered there, heads bent in the rapt pleasure of the purest essence of balls—gossip and fashion.
“I heard she’s back and swearing that she was never in Italy.” The words rose above covert whispers, meant to be heard. Meant to wound and incite.
And Juliana could not help herself.
She turned to see Lady Sparrow holding court over her minions. She smirked, an asp about to strike, meeting Juliana’s gaze, and saying, baldly, “Which means someone is not who she says she is.”
There was a collective gasp at the suggestion. To suggest someone’s illegitimacy was the highest form of insult. And to do it while the person in question was in the room . . .
No drama tonight. The family didn’t need it.
Sparrow should have been called Vulture. She was circling as though she had spied carrion. “Because it would not surprise me if she’d simply heard that there was money and station to be had here. I mean, we don’t know anything about her. She might not be Italian at all. She might be something else entirely?”
Juliana wanted to turn and prove just how Italian she was. In small, vicious words that would sear the skin from Sparrow’s ears.
But would it change anything?
It would not garner their acceptance. It would not make this night, or any to come, easier. It would not remove the scandal from their name, nor would it make her worthy in their eyes.
In his eyes.
She resisted the thought. This was not about him.
Or was it?
Wasn’t he one of them? Hadn’t he judged her just as they had? Didn’t he expect her to cause a scandal everywhere she went?
Hadn’t she proven him right?
“Something else?”
“A gypsy?”
“A Spaniard?”
If she weren’t so angry, Juliana would have laughed at the way the word had been said, as though it were synonymous with witch. What was wrong with Spaniards?
“We could ask her ourselves,” Lady Sparrow said, and the group of women turned to face her. Each face smirking a more wicked smile than the last.
This was how it would be now.
This was what it was to have scandal surround you—real scandal, not some cheap approximation of a black mark on your reputation because you were Italian, or outspoken, or clumsy, or because you resisted their silly rules.
This was what he was afraid of.
And as she stared at their wicked smiles, reading the viciousness in their eyes, she could not blame him.
She would marry the grape as well.
A flood of hot anger and embarrassment coursed through her, and Juliana wanted to scream and rant and throw things at the horrible women. Her muscles tensed with an unbearable desire to lash out. But she had been in London for eight months, and she had learned that there were more painful things than physical blows.
And she’d had enough.
Instead, she turned and checked her reflection in the mirror, making a show of tucking a curl back into her coiffure, before returning her attention to them, affecting as much boredom as she could.
“You know as well as I, Lady Sparrow, that I am whatever you and your”—she waved a lazy hand in the direction of the group—“harpies decide to make me. Italian, Spanish, gypsy, changeling. I welcome whichever mantle you choose . . . as long as you do not make me English.”
She watched as understanding dawned in their shocked faces.
“For surely there is nothing worse than being one of you.”
He had pretended not to see her arrive.
Just as he had pretended not to care when she’d laughed and danced in the arms of the Earl of Allendale.
Just as he’d pretended not to count the minutes she spent in the ladies’ salon.
Instead, he had feigned vast interest in the conversation around him—in the opinions of the men who were eager to share his thoughts on the military-spending bill, and to garner the respect and support of the Duke of Leighton.
But when she quietly exited the ballroom, heading down a long, dark corridor toward the back of the house, where God only knew who or what might be waiting for her, he could not pretend any longer.
And so he crossed the ballroom, politely dismissing those who thought to stop him in conversation, and followed Juliana into the recesses of the ancestral home of the woman to whom he was betrothed.
The second woman to whom he had proposed marriage in the past twenty-four hours.
The only one who had accepted his suit.
Juliana had refused him.
He was still unable to wrap his head around the ridiculous truth.
She hadn’t even considered the possibility of marrying him.
She’d simply turned to her brother and suggested in a tone that most people reserved for children and servants, that Simon Pearson, eleventh Duke of Leighton, knew not what he was saying.
As though he offered himself up in marriage to anyone who came along.
He should be thrilled with this turn of events . . . after all, everything was now going according to plan. He was marrying the impeccable Lady Penelope, and, within moments, would align their two families, officially shoring up his defenses in preparation for the attacks that would come when scandal hit.
He passed several closed, locked doors before the hallway curved to the right, and he stopped in complete darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. Once he could make out the doors down the long stretch of hall, he continued.
He should think himself the luckiest of men that he had avoided a terrible match with Juliana Fiori.
He should be down on his knees, thanking his Maker for a narrow miss.
Instead, he was following her into the darkness.
He did not like the metaphor.
She was a sorceress.
She’d seemed so fragile there in that small stall, brushing her horse, talking to herself in soft, self-deprecating tones.
What man could resist such a tableau?
Ralston might have thought Leighton the perpetrator, the years-older gentleman taking advantage of a barely out twenty-year-old. Certainly, Simon had played into the role . . . and he’
d accepted the fists and the accusations, and he’d proposed.
And as much as he tried to convince himself that he did it out of a sense of what was right, the truth was that in the moment, he’d done it because he’d wanted her. Wanted to brand her as his and finish what they had started.
The kiss had felt like nothing he had ever experienced. The softness of her skin, the feel of her fingers in his hair, the way she turned him inside out with a little sigh, the way he grew hard and aching with the mere memory of the way she whispered his name, the way she begged him to taste her on those soft, pink . . .
He opened a door, looking into a dark room. Pausing, listening. She was not there. He closed the door with a curse.
He’d never felt this way. Never been so consumed with frustration or desire or . . .
Passion.
He froze at the word, shaking his head.
What was he doing?
This was the final moment before his engagement to Lady Penelope was made public . . . before the gates closed and locked on all other paths save this one—down which lay his future duchess and their life together. And he was following another woman down a dark hallway.
It was time for him to remember who he was.
Penelope would make a sound wife. And an excellent duchess.
A vision flashed—not Penelope. Nothing like Penelope. Ebony curls and eyes the color of the Aegean Sea. Full, ripe lips that whispered his name like a prayer. A laugh that carried on the wind as Juliana rode away from him in Hyde Park, teased him at dinner, on the streets of London, in her stables.
She lived with passion. And she would love with it as well.
He ignored the thought.
She was not for him.
He turned around. Resolute. Saw the light in the darkness, marking the corridor returning to the ballroom. Headed for it.
Just as she spoke from the shadows.
“Simon?”
His given name, in her lilting Italian, breathy with surprise, was a siren’s call.
He turned to her.
“What are you—”
He grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her into the first room he found, and closed the door behind them, quickly, sealing them inside a conservatory.
She backed up, toward the large bay window and a pool of silver moonlight, managing only a few steps before she kicked a cello. She cursed in a whisper of Italian that was too loud to even be called a whisper, as she lunged to keep it from crashing to the ground.