She was teasing him. She had to be. And yet, he felt he should answer her question. In case. “More. Of course.”
Her smile became a grin. “Ah, so then you prefer this.”
“I prefer neither!” He exploded. Then realizing that they remained on the street across from his club, he took her elbow and turned her toward her brother’s home. “Walk.”
“Why?”
“Because we cannot remain standing here. It is not done.”
She shook her head. “Leave it to the English to outlaw standing.” She began to walk, her maid trailing behind.
He resisted the urge to throttle her, taking a deep breath. “How did you even know that I was here?”
She raised a brow. “It is not as though aristocrats have much to do, Your Grace. I have something to discuss with you.”
“You cannot just decide to discuss something with me and seek me out.” Perhaps if he spoke to her as though she were a simpleton, it would settle his ire.
“Whyever not?”
Perhaps not.
“Because it is not done!”
She gave him a small smile. “I thought we had decided that I care little for what is done.” He did not respond. Did not trust himself to do so. “Besides, if you decide you want to speak to me, you are welcome to seek me out.”
“Of course I am welcome to seek you out.”
“Because you are a duke?”
“No. Because I am a man.”
“Ah,” she said, “a much better reason.”
Was that sarcasm in her tone?
He did not care.
He just wanted to get her home.
“Well, you were not planning to come to me.”
Damned right. “No. I was not.”
“And so I had to take matters into my own hand.”
He would not be amused by her charming failures in language. She was a walking scandal. And somehow, he had come to be her escort. He did not need this. “Hands,” he corrected.
“Precisely.”
He helped her cross the street to Park Lane and Ralston House before asking, quick and irritated, “I have better things to do today than to play nanny to you, Juliana. What is it you want?”
She stopped, the sound of her given name hanging between them.
“Miss Fiori.” He corrected himself too late.
She smiled then. Her blue eyes lit with more knowledge than a woman of twenty years should have. “No, Your Grace. You cannot take it back.”
Her voice was low and lilting and barely there before it was whisked away on the wind, but he heard it, and the promise it carried—a promise she could not possibly know how to deliver. The words went straight to his core, and desire shot through him, quick and intense. He lowered the brim of his hat and turned away, heading into the wind, wishing that the autumn leaves whipping around them could blow away the moment.
“What do you want?”
“What things do you have to do?”
Nothing I want to do.
He swallowed back the thought.
“It is not your concern.”
“No, but I am curious. What could an aristocrat possibly have to do that is so pressing that you cannot escort me home?”
He did not like the implication that he lived a life of idleness. “We have purpose, you know.”
“Truly?”
He cut her a look. She was grinning at him. “You are goading me.”
“Perhaps.”
She was beautiful.
Infuriating, but beautiful.
“So? What is it that you have to do today?”
Something in him resisted telling her that he had planned to visit Lady Penelope. Planned to propose. Instead, he offered her a wry look. “Nothing important.”
She laughed, the sound warm and welcome.
He was not going to see Lady Penelope today.
They walked in silence for a few long moments before they arrived at her brother’s home, and he turned to face her finally, taking her in. She was vibrant and beautiful, all rose-cheeked and bright-eyed, her scarlet cloak and bonnet turning her into the very opposite of a good English lady. She’d been outside, boldly marching through the crisp autumn air instead of inside warming herself by a fire with needlepoint and tea.
As Penelope was likely doing at that very moment.
But Juliana was different from everything he had ever known. Everything he had ever wanted. Everything he had ever been.
She was a danger to herself . . . but most of all, she was a danger to him. A beautiful, tempting danger he was coming to find increasingly irresistible.
“What do you want?” he asked, the words coming out softer than he would have liked.
“I want to win our wager,” she said, simply.
The one thing he would not give her. Could not afford to give her.
“It will not happen.”
She lifted one shoulder in a little shrug. “Perhaps not. Especially not if we do not see each other.”
“I told you I would not make it easy for you.”
“Difficult is one thing, Your Grace. But I would not have expected you to hide from me.”
His eyes widened at her bold words. “Hide from you?”
“You have been invited to dinner. And you are the only person who has not yet responded. Why not?”
“Certainly not because I am hiding from you.”
“Then why not reply?”
Because I cannot risk it. “Do you have any idea how many invitations I receive? I cannot accept them all.”
She smiled again, and he did not like the knowledge in the curve of her lips. “Then you decline?”
No.
“I have not decided.”
“It is the day after tomorrow,” she said, as though he were a small child. “I would not have thought you to be so callous with your correspondence, considering your obsession with reputation. Are you sure you are not hiding from me?”
He narrowed his gaze. “I am not hiding from you.”
“You do not fear that I might win our wager after all?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then you will come?”
“Of course.”
No!
She grinned. “Excellent. I shall tell Lady Ralston to expect you.” She started up the steps to the house, leaving him there, in the waning light.
He watched her go, standing on the street until the door closed firmly behind her, and he was consumed with the knowledge that he had been bested by an irritating Italian siren.
Chapter Nine
The hour on an invitation serves a purpose.
The refined lady is never late.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
Surely no meal is more sumptuous than one served with marriage in mind . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
He was the last to arrive to dinner. Deliberately.
Simon leapt down from his carriage and made his way up the steps of Ralston House, knowing that he was committing a grave breach of etiquette. But he was still feeling manipulated into attending the dinner at all, so he took perverse pleasure in knowing that he was several minutes late. He would, of course, make his apologies, but Juliana would know immediately that he had no interest in being managed by an impetuous female.
He was the Duke of Leighton. Let her try to forget it.
He could not help the wave of triumph that coursed through him as the door swung open, revealing the large, empty entryway of the Ralston home, proving what he had already known would be the case—they had begun dinner without him.
Entering the house, he handed his hat, cloak, and gloves to a nearby footman before heading for the wide center staircase that would lead to the second floor and the dining room. The quiet conversation coming from abovestairs grew louder as he drew closer, finally turning down the long, brightly lit hallway and entering the massive dining room, where guests were waiting for dinner to begin.
They ha
d held the meal for him.
Which made him feel like an ass.
Of course, no one seemed particularly put out by waiting for him. Indeed, everyone appeared to be having a lovely time, especially the cluster of eligible gentlemen crowded so tightly around Juliana that all Simon could see of her were the gleaming ebony curls piled on top of her head.
Instantly, the reason for the dinner became clear.
Lady Ralston was playing matchmaker.
The thought was punctuated by a loud burst of laughter from the group, her high, lovely, feminine chuckle set apart from the others—low and altogether too masculine. The collection of sounds set Simon on immediate edge. He had not expected this.
And he found that he did not like it.
“So happy you decided to join us, Leighton.”
Ralston’s sarcastic words shook Simon from his reverie. He ignored the marquess, instead turning his attention to Lady Ralston. “I do apologize, my lady.”
The marchioness was all graciousness. “No need, Your Grace. Indeed, the extra time afforded us all an opportunity to chat.”
The gentle reminder of the collection of simpering men surrounding Juliana returned his attention there, and he watched, carefully hiding his thoughts as first one man, then the next peeled away from the group to be seated—ultimately leaving only the Earl of Allendale and, on his arm, Juliana.
Dressed in the most magnificent gown Simon had ever seen.
No wonder the others had been so entranced.
The dress was a scandal in itself, silk the color of midnight that shimmered around her in candlelight, giving her the illusion of being wrapped in the night sky. It was a combination of the darkest reds and blues and purples giving the appearance that she was wearing the richest of color and simultaneously no color at all. The bodice was cut entirely too low, showing a wide expanse of her creamy white skin, pale and pristine—tempting him to come closer. To touch her.
She wore the dress with a bold confidence that no other woman in the room—in London—would have been able to affect.
She knew that wearing black would cause a scene. Knew it would make her look like a goddess. Knew it would drive men—drive him—to want nothing more than to strip her out of that glorious gown and claim her.
Simon shook off the improper thought and was flooded with an intense urge to remove his coat and shield her from the greedy glances of the other men.
Surely Ralston knew this dress was entirely improper. Surely he knew that his sister was encouraging the worst kind of attention. Simon passed a cool gaze over the marquess, seated at the head of the table, appearing to know no such thing.
And then Juliana was passing him, a whisper of silk and red currants, escorted by the Earl of Allendale, to take her own seat at the center of the long, lavish banquet, smiling at the so-called gentlemen who immediately turned their attention to her.
He wanted to take each one of the mincing men out in turn for their improper glances. He should have refused this invitation. Every moment he was with this impetuous, impossible female, he felt his control slipping.
He did not care for the sensation.
He took his seat next to the Marchioness of Ralston, the place of honor that had been held for him as the duke in attendance who was not family. He spent the first three courses in polite conversation with Lady Ralston, Rivington, and his sister, Lady Margaret Talbott. As they ate, Simon attempted to ignore the activity at the center of the table, where a collection of gentlemen—who outnumbered the ladies at the dinner—attempted to gain Juliana’s attention.
It was impossible for him to ignore Juliana, however, as she laughed and teased with the others around the table, gifting them with her wide, welcome smile and sparkling eyes. Instead, while half participating in the conversation near him, Simon silently tracked her movements. She leaned toward the men across the table—Longwood, Brearley, and West—each untitled and self-made, each lobbying harder than the last for her attention.
West, the publisher of the Gazette, was regaling her with some idiotic story about a journalist and a street carnival.
“—I will say this, at least he returned the hat!”
“The reporter’s hat?” Longwood asked, as though the two of them were in a traveling show.
“The bear’s hat!”
Juliana dissolved into laughter along with the rest of the foolish group.
Simon returned his attention to his plate.
Could they not even find aristocrats with whom to match her? It was not as though she need stoop so low as to marry a commoner.
During the fourth course, Juliana’s attention was claimed almost entirely by Lord Stanhope, who would make a terrible match, notorious for his twin loves of gambling and women. To be fair, he always won at cards, but surely Ralston did not want his sister married to an inveterate rake.
Casting a sidelong glance at the marquess, who appeared to be equally entertained by Stanhope, Simon realized the problem with his logic. Rakes enjoyed the company of rakes.
He did his best to focus on the veal throughout the fifth course, pretending not to notice the long, graceful column of Juliana’s neck and jaw. Summarily ignoring his desire to place his lips to the spot where her neck met her shoulder—that place that would smell like her, warm and soft and begging for his tongue.
He knew he should not look, but everything about her called to him. She was a siren.
If he was not careful, he would drown in her.
A burst of laughter brought him back to the moment, to the event. The conversation had shifted from the autumn season to politics to art and music, the gentlemen hanging on Juliana’s every lilting word. The Earl of Allendale was holding court, regaling the entire table with tales of Lord and Lady Ralston’s courtship.
Juliana listened with rapt attention, her sparkling gaze glued to Allendale, and a pang of discontent flared deep in Simon’s gut. What would it be like to be the source of such pleasure? To be the man who elicited such a vibrant response? Such approval?
“Suffice it to say, I had never seen two people so destined for each other,” Allendale said, his gaze lingering a touch too long on Juliana in a manner that Simon did not care for.
Juliana grinned. “It is a pity it took my brother so long to realize it.”
The earl matched her smile as the rest of the company laughed. It was the second time Simon had seen Allendale give special attention to Juliana, and it did not escape him that the topic was appropriately romantic for any budding tendre between the two.
Simon sat back in his chair.
Allendale was entirely wrong for her. Too good-natured. Too genial. She’d run roughshod over him before he knew what had hit him.
He was not man enough for her.
Simon looked to Ralston, hoping that the marquess had seen the questionable exchange between his sister and brother-in-law, but Ralston only had eyes for his wife. He lifted his glass and toasted his wife. “I am endeavoring to make up for it.”
Simon looked away, uncomfortable with the obvious affection between the marquess and the marchioness. His attention returned to Juliana, her blue eyes softening as she took in the intimate moment.
The too-intimate moment.
He did not belong here.
Not with her. Not with her family and the way they were all so comfortable—freely speaking, even at a formal dinner, somehow making all attendees so very comfortable.
So unlike his own family.
So compelling.
It was not for him.
A blush high on her cheeks, the marchioness raised her own glass. “As we are toasting, I think it only right that we toast His Grace for his role in rescuing our Juliana, don’t you agree, my lord?”
The words, projected down the table at her husband, surprised Simon; prior to her marriage, Lady Calpurnia Hartwell had been a first-rate wallflower who would never have commanded such attention. She had found her voice.
Ralston raised his glass. “A capital idea
, my darling. To Leighton. With thanks.”
Around the table, the gentlemen raised their glasses and drank to Simon, and he was torn between a keen respect for the way this family manipulated society—by making their thanks entirely public and admitting Juliana’s adventure, they had effectively removed the wind from the gossips’ sails—and a hot irritation that he had been so well-and-truly used.
The Duchess of Rivington leaned in with a knowing smile, interrupting his thoughts. “Consider yourself fairly warned, Your Grace. Now that you have saved one of us, you shan’t be able to escape!”
Everyone laughed. Everyone except Simon, who forced a polite smile and took a drink.
“I admit, I feel sorry for His Grace,” Juliana chimed in, a lightness in her tone that he did not entirely believe. “I imagine he had hoped his heroism would gain him more than our constant companionship.”
He loathed this conversation. Affecting a look of ducal boredom, he said, “There was nothing heroic about it.”
“Your modesty is putting the rest of us to shame, Leighton,” Stanhope called out, jovially. “The rest of us would happily accept the gratitude of such a beautiful lady.”
A plate was set in front of him, and he made a project of cutting a piece of lamb, ignoring Stanhope.
“Tell us the story!” West said.
“I would prefer we didn’t rehash it, Mr. West,” he said, forcing a smile. “Particularly not to a newspaperman. I’ve had enough of the tale, myself.”
The statement was met with a round of dissent from the rest of the dinner attendees, each calling for a recounting.
Simon remained silent.
“I agree with His Grace.” The raucous chatter around the table quieted at the soft statement, light with an Italian accent, and Simon, surprised, snapped his gaze to meet Juliana’s. “There is not much more to it than that he saved my life. And without him—” She paused.
He did not want her to finish the sentence.
She demurred with a smile. “Well—It is enough to say that I am very grateful that you came to the park that afternoon”—she returned her attention to the rest of the group with a light—“and even more grateful that he can swim.”
Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart Page 14
