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.”
The table gave a collective chuckle at the words, but he barely heard it. In that moment, there was nothing he would not give to be alone with her—a fact that shook him to his core.
“Hear hear,” said Allendale, raising his glass. “To the Duke of Leighton.”
Around the table, glasses rose, and he avoided Juliana’s eyes lest he betray too much of his thoughts.
“Even I shall have to rethink my opinion of you, Leighton,” Ralston said wryly. “Thank you.”