Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart

by Sarah MacLean

  Simon stayed silent as Nick continued. “You are too careful, Leighton. Too cautious. Juliana is not part of your perfect, pristine life. She is riddled with scandal—as is our entire family. Not that we mind it much,” he added in an aside, “but that alone will prevent you from touching her.”

  Simon wanted to disagree. He wanted to scream at the irresponsibility inherent in the words. His own sister was abovestairs, living proof of what happened when men lost control. When they made mistakes.

  But before he had a chance to speak, Nick added, “Do not keep her from happiness, Simon. Perhaps you do not want it for yourself, but you know she deserves it. And she can make a good match.”

  With someone else.

  A visceral hatred coursed through Simon at the thought.

  “You say that like there is someone ready to make the offer.” He did not mean the disdain in his tone.

  Nick heard it nonetheless, and Simon saw anger flash in his friend’s eyes. “I should give you the fight you so desperately want for saying that. You think that just because you would never dare to sully your precious reputation with someone like Juliana, there are not others who would line up for a chance at her?”

  Of course there would be. She was intelligent and quick-witted and charming and mesmerizingly beautiful.

  But before he could admit it, Nick exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him with a soft click, leaving Simon to his thoughts.

  She did not want to be alone with her thoughts, so Juliana took solace in the least solitary place at Townsend Park.

  The kitchens.

  The Minerva House kitchens were precisely the way Juliana thought kitchens should be—loud and messy and filled with laughter and smells and people. They were the heart of the home that the house had become to all the women who lived there. That is to say, the Minerva House kitchens were nothing like the kitchens of other fine English manor houses.

  Which was excellent, because Juliana had had enough of fine English things that day—fine English propriety, fine English arrogance, fine English dukes.

  She wanted something real and honest.

  When she came through the door, the cluster of women gathered around the enormous table at the center of the room barely looked up, continuing their boisterous conversation as Gwen, the manor’s cook, took one look at Juliana and put her to work.

  “This is Juliana,” she said, as the other women made space for her around the oak table—long and lovely and scarred with years of meals and secrets. “Lord Nicholas’s sister.”

  And with that, she was accepted. Gwen floured the space in front of Juliana and upended a copper bowl there, depositing a lump of thick dough in need of attention.

  “Knead,” said the tiny woman, and Juliana did not think of disobeying.

  There were a half dozen other women around the table, each with her own task—chopping, cutting, mixing, pounding—a perfectly organized battalion of cooks, chattering away.

  Juliana took a deep breath, breathing in the comfort in the room. She pressed the dough out into a flat, round disk and listened. This was the distraction she needed. Here, she would not have to think about Simon.

  “. . . I will say that he is one of the handsomest visitors we’ve had in a very long time.”

  “Perhaps ever,” Gwen added, and there was a murmur of agreement from around the table.

  “He looks like an angel.”

  “A wicked one . . . fallen from heaven. Did you see the way he stormed in here and demanded to see Georgiana?”

  Juliana froze. They were talking about Simon. It appeared she would not be able to escape him after all.

  “The biggest, too,” added a tall, thin woman whom Juliana had never met.

  “I wonder if he is that big all over,” someone said, and the girls dissolved into a fit of giggles at the innuendo.

  “He’s a guest!” Gwen snapped a towel in the direction of the woman who had made the suggestive comment before smiling wide. “Not that I haven’t had that thought myself.”

  “Please, tell me you are not speaking of whom I think you are speaking.”

  Juliana’s head snapped up as the entire tableful of women laughed and cleared a space for the newcomer—Lady Georgiana.

  It had to be her. She looked just like him, all golden-haired and amber-eyed. She was nowhere near his size, however. She was petite and lovely, like a porcelain doll, with the soft, round beauty of a woman who had just given birth. She did not look seventeen. Indeed, she looked much older. Wiser.

  “If you thought we were speaking of your handsome brother, you are right,” Gwen teased. “Are you feeling up to peeling apples?”

  Gwen did not wait for an answer, placing a basketful of bright red apples in front of Georgiana. The younger girl did not protest, instead lifting a small paring knife and setting to work. A shock of surprise went through Juliana at the scene—the sister of a duke happily peeling apples in the kitchens of Minerva House—but she did not comment. “My handsome brother, is he?” Georgiana said, lifting her gaze to Juliana’s with a smile.

  Juliana went instantly back to work.

  Fold, punch, fold, punch.

  “You must admit, he is good-looking.”

  Juliana pretended not to hear.

  Turn, flour, fold, punch.

  “He has enough women in London throwing themselves at him. Do not give him the pleasure of such a reception here.”

  Pretended not to think of other women in his arms. Of Penelope in his arms.

  Flip, fold, press.

  “Nah, men like the duke are too cold, anyway.” The tall woman added, “Look at what he’s done, sending you and Caroline away for the scandal.”

  “He didn’t exactly send us away.”

  The larger woman waved a hand in dismissal. “I don’t care what happened. You’re here with us instead of there with him, and that’s enough for me. I like my men with heart.”

  “He has heart.” Juliana didn’t know she had spoken aloud until the conversation around the table went silent.

  “He does, does he?” She looked up, cheeks flaming, and met Georgiana’s curious eyes before returning to the dough. “We have not been introduced.”

  “This is Lord Nicholas’s sister,” Gwen hurried to say.

  “Miss Fiori, is it?”

  Juliana looked up again, hands wrist deep in pastry. “Juliana.”

  Georgiana nodded. “And what do you know of my brother’s heart, Juliana?”

  “I—I simply mean he must have a heart, no?” When none of the women replied, returned to the dough. “I don’t know.”

  Fold, turn, fold.

  “It sounds like you know quite a bit.”

  “I don’t.” She meant for it to sound more emphatic than it was.

  “Juliana,” Georgiana asked in a pointed way that was all too familiar, “are you . . . fond of my brother?”

  She shouldn’t be. He was everything she didn’t want. Everything she loathed about England and aristocrats and men.

  Except the parts of him that were everything she loved about them.

  But his bad far outweighed the good.

  Hadn’t he just proven it?

  Juliana slapped her hand into the dough, her hand spreading the mass flat on the table. “Your brother is not fond of me.”

  There was a long silence before she looked up to find Georgiana smiling at her. “That is not what I asked, though.”

  “No!” she burst out. “There is nothing about that man to be fond of.” Georgiana’s mouth dropped open as she continued. “All he cares about is his precious dukedom”—she collected the dough violently into a ball—“and his precious reputation.” She punched the ball, enjoying the sensation of dough pressing through her fingers. She flipped the disk over and repeated the action before she realized that she had just insulted the lady’s brother. “And you, of course, my lady.”

  “But he is handsome,” Gwen interjected, trying for levity.

  Juliana
was not amused. “I don’t care how big he is or how handsome. No, I am not fond of him.”

  There was stunned silence around the table, and Juliana blew a strand of hair from where it had come loose. She rubbed one floury hand across her cheek.

  “Of course you aren’t,” Georgiana said carefully.

  There was a chorus of agreement from around the table, and Juliana realized just how silly she must look. “I am sorry.”

  “Nonsense. He is a very difficult man to be fond of. You needn’t tell me that,” Georgiana said.

  Gwen snatched the dough from Juliana’s grip, returning it to the bowl. “I think this is kneaded very well. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” She heard the pout in her tone. Did not care for it.

  “He’s not so handsome, either,” said the tall woman.

  “I’ve seen handsomer,” chimed another.

  “Indeed,” Gwen said, handing Juliana a freshly baked biscuit, still warm from the oven.

  She nibbled on one end, amazed that this group of women whom she did not know ignored her mad behavior, returning to their tasks one by one.

  What a fool she had become.

  She stood at the thought, pushing the stool back so quickly that it tipped and barely righted itself. “I should not have . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  Only one of the two beginnings was true.

  She swore softly in Italian, and the women looked to each other, seeking for a translator in their midst. They did not find one.

  “I must go.”

  “Juliana,” Georgiana said, and she heard the plea in the girl’s voice. “Stay. Please.”

  Juliana froze at the door, back to the room, feeling instantly sorry for anyone who had or would feel the way she did at that precise moment—the combination of shame and sadness and frustration and nausea that made her want to crawl into her bed and never come out again.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I cannot stay.”

  She opened the door and hurried toward the stairs. If she could just reach the house’s center staircase—if she could just find her way upstairs—things would be better. She would be better.

  She increased her pace, eager to escape the embarrassment that seemed to be chasing her from the kitchens.

  “Juliana!”

  Embarrassment followed nonetheless, in the form of Lady Georgiana.

  She spun back around, facing the smaller woman, wishing she could eliminate the last few minutes, the last hour, the whole trip to Yorkshire. “Please.”

  Georgiana smiled, a dimple flashing in her cheek. “Would you like to take a walk with me? The gardens are quite nice.”

  “I—”

  “Please. I am told I should take air after the baby. I should like the company.”

  She made it impossible to refuse. They exited through a sitting room set off to one side of the corridor, out an unassuming doorway and down a small set of stone stairs into the vegetable garden at the side of the house.

  They walked among the perfectly organized rows of plants in silence for long moments before Juliana could not bear in any longer. “I am sorry for what I said in the kitchens.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it, I suppose. I did not mean to criticize your brother.”

  Georgiana smiled then, running her fingers along a sprig of rosemary and bringing the scent to her nose. “That is unfortunate. I rather liked that you were willing to criticize my brother. So few ever do.”

  Juliana opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, uncertain of what to say. “I suppose that he does little to deserve their criticism,” she said, finally.

  Georgiana gave her a look. “Do you?”

  The truth was far easier than attempting to say the right thing. She gave a little self-deprecating laugh. “Not entirely, no.”

  “Good. He’s infuriating, isn’t he?”

  Juliana’s eyes widened in surprise, and she nodded. “Exceedingly so.”

  Georgiana grinned. “I think I like you.”

  “I am happy to hear it.” They walked a while longer. “I have not said congratulations. On the birth of your daughter.”

  “Caroline. Thank you.” There was a long pause. “I suppose you know that I am a terrible scandal in the making.”

  Juliana offered her a smile. “Then we are destined to be friends, as I am considered by many to be a terrible scandal already made.”

  “Really?”

  Juliana nodded, pulling a sprig of thyme from a nearby shrubbery and lifting it to her nose, inhaling deep. “Indeed. I have a mother, as I’m sure you know. She is a legend.”

  “I’ve heard of her.”

  “She returned to England last week.”

  Georgiana’s eyes widened. “No.”

  “Yes. Your brother was there.” Juliana tossed the herb aside. “Everyone thinks I am made from the same clothing.” Georgiana tilted her head in the way people did when they did not entirely understand her. Juliana rephrased. “They think I am like her.”

  “Ah. Cut from the same cloth.”

  That was it. “Yes.”

  “And are you?”

  “Your brother thinks so.”

  “That was not the question.”

  Juliana considered the words. No one had ever asked her if she was like her mother. No one had ever cared. The gossips of the ton had immediately condemned her for her parentage, and Gabriel and Nick and the rest of the family had simply rejected the idea of any similarities out of hand.

  But Georgiana stood across from her on this winding garden path and asked the question no one had ever asked. So, Juliana told the truth. “I hope not.”

  And it was enough for Georgiana. The path forked ahead of them, and she threaded one hand through Juliana’s arm, leading the way back to the house. “Never fear, Juliana. When my news gets out, they will forget everything they have ever thought of you and your mother. Fallen angels make for excellent gossip.”

  “But you are the daughter of a duke,” Juliana protested. “Simon is marrying to protect you.”

  Georgiana shook her head. “I am well-and-truly ruined. Absolutely irredeemable. Perhaps he can protect our reputation, perhaps he can quiet the whispers, but they will never go away.”

  “I am sorry,” Juliana said, because she could not think of anything else.

  Georgiana squeezed her hand and smiled. “I was, too, for a while. But now I am here for as long as Nick and Isabel will have me, and Caroline is healthy, and I find it difficult to care.”

  I find it difficult to care. In all the time that she had been in England, for all the times that she had scoffed at the disdainful words and glances from the ton, Juliana had never not cared. Even when she had tried her best, she had cared.

  She had cared what Simon had thought.

  Cared that he would never think her enough.

  Even as she had known it to be true.

  And she envied this strong, spirited woman who faced her uncertain future with such confidence.

  “It may not be proper for me to say it,” Juliana said, “but they are idiots for casting you aside. The ballrooms of London could benefit from a woman with such spirit.”

  Georgiana’s eyes gleamed with wry humor. “It is not at all proper for you to say it. But we both know that the ballrooms of London can hardly bear one woman with spirit. What would they do with two of us?”

  Juliana laughed. “When you decide to return, my lady, we shall cut a wide, scandalous path together. My family has a particular fondness for children with questionable parentage, you see—” She trailed off, realizing that she had gone too far. “I am sorry. I did not mean to say that . . .”

  “Nonsense,” Georgiana said, waving one hand in the air to dismiss the apology. “Caroline is most definitely of questionable parentage.” She grinned. “So I am quite happy to know that there is at least one drawing room where we will be received.”

  “May I ask . . .”

  Georgiana met her gaze with admiration. “
You do not worry about propriety, do you, Miss Fiori?” Juliana looked away with chagrin. “It is an old tale, tiresome and devastatingly trite. I thought he loved me, and maybe he did. But sometimes love is not enough—more often than not, I think.” There was no sadness in the tone, no regret. Juliana met Georgiana’s amber gaze and saw honesty there, a clarity that belied her age.

  Sometimes love is not enough.

  They walked in silence back to the house, those words echoing over and over in Juliana’s mind.

  Words she would do well to remember.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lifelong companionship begins with softness and temerity.

  Delicate ladies do not speak freely with gentlemen.

  —A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

  The Guy is not the only one with a fiery temperament this autumn . . .

  —The Scandal Sheet, November 1823

  Most days of the year, the village of Dunscroft was a quiet place—the idyllic country life interrupted by the occasional loose bull or runaway carriage, but in the grand scheme of small English towns, there was little in the village worthy of note.

  Not so on Bonfire Night.

  All of Dunscroft had come out for the festivities, it seemed. It was just after sundown, and the village green was filled with the trappings of the celebration—lanterns had been lit around the perimeter of the greensward, bathing the stalls that lined the outside of the space in a lovely golden glow.

  Juliana stepped down from the carriage and was immediately accosted by the smells and sounds of the carnival atmosphere. There were hundreds of people on the greensward, all enjoying one part of the fair or another—children in paper masks chased through the legs of their elders before tripping upon impromptu puppet shows or smiling girls with trays of candy apples.

  There was a pig roasting several yards away, and Juliana watched as a group of young men nearby attempted to shake a living statue from his impressively rigid pose with their jesting and dancing. She laughed at the picture they made in their buffoonery, enjoying the welcome sensation.

  “You see?” Isabel said from her side. “I told you that you had nothing to worry about.”