It had been Juliana.
He had been keenly aware of her departure; he’d watched out of the corner of his eye as she and the Duchess of Rivington had made their way through the crowd, weaving in and out of the throngs of revelers until they reached the exit. Had she been moving any faster, she would have been running.
Not that he blamed her.
He wished he could have run from that ballroom as well. As it was, he had left as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself.
And then she’d turned, and looked at him . . . into him.
And there had been something in her eyes that had terrified and taunted and tempted him.
Something that had stolen his breath and made him want to run after her.
He drank again, closing his eyes against the evening. But closing his eyes only served to heighten the memory of her. Her hair, her eyes, her skin, the way she had moved against him like a sorceress.
He had not meant to make things worse. Had not meant to touch her. Had not wanted to bring her any closer to ruin than he already had. He was not that man, for God’s sake! He wasn’t a rake. Yes, he’d kept a mistress now and then, and he’d had his fair share of dalliances, but he’d never ruined a girl. Never even come close.
He’d always prided himself on being a gentleman.
Until he’d met the one woman who made him want to throw gentlemanliness to the wind and drag her down to the floor and have his way with her.
Before announcing his engagement to someone else.
What had he become?
She’d been right to refuse his suit last night. Ralston, too.
But, God he wanted her.
And at another time, as another man, he would have had her. Without hesitation. As lover . . . as more.
As wife.
He cursed, loud and harsh in the silence, drawing the attention of the dog.
“Oh, I’m sorry, am I disturbing your rest?”
Leopold gave a long-suffering sigh and went back to sleep.
Simon poured himself another drink.
“You don’t need that.”
He laughed, the sound ragged in the silence of the room.
His mother had followed him home.
It appeared his horrendous evening had not ended.
“It is two o’clock in the morning.”
She ignored him. “You left the ball early.”
“It is not early. In fact, it is altogether too late for you to be making calls, don’t you think?”
“I came to tell you that you did the right thing.”
No, I did not. But I am happy you think so.
“It could not wait for a more reasonable hour?”
“No.” She glided across the room to perch on the edge of the seat opposite him. She gave his chair a disapproving look. “That chair needs reupholstering.”
“I shall take your opinion under advisement.” He took a drink, ignoring her obvious distaste for the action.
He wondered how long he had to sit here before she would leave.
“Leighton—” she began, and he cut her off.
“You never use my name.”
Her brow furrowed just barely, and he took perverse pleasure in his ability to throw her off track. “I beg your pardon?”
“Simon. You’ve never called me that.”
“Why would I call you that?”
“It is my name.”
She shook her head. “You have a title. Responsibilities. You are due the respect they demand.”
“You didn’t call me Simon as a child.”
“You had a title then, too. Marquess of Hastings,” she added, as though he were an imbecile. “What is this about, Leighton?”
He heard the irritation in her voice. “Nothing.”
“Good.” She nodded once before changing the subject. “The marchioness and I plan to begin arrangements for the wedding tomorrow. You, of course, must be certain to escort Lady Penelope in public as much as possible over the next month. And no more invitations to Ralston House. I really don’t know what has happened to you; you’ve never associated with such . . . questionable stock before, and now that our name must remain unimpeachable, you’re gallivanting about with Ralston and his . . . cheap family.”
His gaze snapped to her. “Ralston is married to the sister of the Earl of Allendale and the Duchess of Rivington.”
His mother waved a hand dismissively. “None of that matters now that the mother is back. And the sister.” Her upper lip curled as though she had inhaled something offensive. “She is a disgrace.”
He went still under the wave of anger that coursed through him at the sneering, disdainful words. There was nothing disgraceful about Juliana. She was beautiful and brilliant and, yes, perhaps too bold at times, but she was marvelous. And he wanted to toss his mother out for saying otherwise.
His knuckles whitened around the crystal tumbler. “I will not hear you speak so about the lady.”
The duchess’s eyes narrowed on him. “I had not known that you held Miss Fiori in such high regard.” He did not miss the correction to Juliana’s title. When he remained quiet, she added, a wealth of cool understanding in her tone, “Do not tell me you want the girl.”
He did not speak. Did not look to his mother. “I see you do.” There was a long pause, then, “She is nothing, Leighton. No name, no breeding, nothing to recommend her except a thread of a relation to Ralston, who is barely respectable himself now that their scandalous mother has returned. My goodness, we’re not even certain that she is who she says! The rumors have begun again that she is illegitimate. Not even a connection to Allendale and Rivington will save that family’s reputation now . . .” The duchess leaned forward and steeled her tone. “She is so far beneath you, she’s barely good enough to take to mistress.”
Rage coursed through him. Yes, there had been a time when he had suggested Juliana would make a good mistress himself, but it was long ago, long before he had come to see . . .
How remarkable she was.
The duchess continued, boredom in her tone. “Look elsewhere to warm your bed, Leighton. You can find someone with increased . . . worth.”
He took in the hateful words, let them wash over him.
And realized that he would never find anyone with such worth as Juliana.
He would never have her. But, by God, he would not allow her be maligned.
“Get out.” The words were reserved, and he was impressed with his control.
Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?” There was a thread of outrage in her tone.
“You heard me.”
She did not move. “Leighton. Really. There’s no need for such dramatics. Since when have you become so pedestrian?”
“There’s nothing pedestrian about it. I’ve had enough of you tonight, Mother. You have received what you want. I am marrying Lady Penelope—she of impeccable reputation and immense worth. I’ve had enough of doing your bidding for the time being.”
The duchess stood, pulling herself up to her full, stoic height. “You will remember that I am your mother, Leighton, and due the respect of the station.”
“And you will remember that I am duke, Mother, and the time is long past during which I took my marching orders from you. Go home, before I say something I will regret.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither backing down until there was a soft knock on the door to the library.
Was this night never to end?
Simon spun away from his mother. “Damnation! What?”
Boggs entered, trepidation on his face. “Your Graces, my apologies. There is an urgent message for the duke. From Yorkshire.”
Simon went cold, taking the note and dismissing the butler.
He broke the wax seal, and unfolded the paper, knowing that this was the note he had been dreading—the one that would change everything.
He read it quickly, then refolded it, placing it in his pocket. All this time, he’d been waiting . . . preparing for the message and, with it, any number of emotions—anger, fear, nervousness, irritation.
But what he felt was calm.
He stood, heading for the door.
“Leighton—” his mother called out, and he paused, back to her. Had that been a tremor in her voice? He looked over his shoulder, noticing her skin like parchment, her gray eyes set deep in her face, the hollow of her cheeks.
She looked weary.
And resigned.
“Is there news?”
The news they had been waiting for.
“You are a grandmother.”
Chapter Fourteen
The country is where rumors go to hide.
Elegant ladies do not rusticate.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
Tragedy! Our favorite item from the Continent has gone missing . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823
After traveling for five days on the hard, unforgiving roads of the English countryside, Juliana had never been so happy as she was to see Townsend Park.
If only she could get there.
The carriage had been stopped as soon as it had turned off the post road and down the long drive leading to the great stone house that loomed, stately and beautiful from the vast Yorkshire moors. When she had explained to the two enormous guards that her brother was the master of the house, and she was simply here for a visit, one of the men had leapt on a horse and was off like a shot to the great house—presumably to announce her arrival.
After a quarter of an hour, Juliana had descended from the carriage to stretch her legs by the side of the road while she waited to be approved for entry into the Park.
Security was serious business in this little corner of England.
On the surface, Townsend Park was the primary residence the Earl of Reddich, overseen by Juliana’s half brother and Ralston’s twin, Lord Nicholas St. John, and his wife Isabel, the earl’s sister. But the manor was also known as Minerva House, a safe place for young women from across England who needed sanctuary from difficult circumstances. Until Nick had discovered Isabel and the house several months ago, the safety of its residents had been under constant threat.
No longer, thought Juliana as she looked up at the massive guard with whom she had been left. These gentlemen seem ready to take on anything that comes their way.
She could not deny that there was something comforting in knowing that once inside the confines of the Park, she would be protected from the world beyond its borders.
She kicked a stone, watching it disappear into the rushes that grew along the side of the drive, golden with the glow of the afternoon sun.
Perhaps she’d never leave.
She wondered if anyone would even notice.
Wondered if Simon would notice.
She knew better than to think about him—about the last time she had seen him, just over a week ago, looking every inch the happy bridegroom. But she couldn’t help it. She’d spent five long days in the carriage from London, with little to do but play Briscola with Carla and think about him . . . and the way he touched her . . . the way he spoke her name . . . the way his gaze heated when he looked at her, until his eyes turned the color of honey straight from the comb.
She took a deep breath.
He was not for her.
And it was time she realized it and put him out of her mind.
By the time she returned to London, he would be married. And she would have no choice but to pretend their clandestine meetings had never happened. No choice but to play as though she and the Duke of Leighton had nothing more than a passing acquaintance.
That she did not know the way his voice deepened to velvet just before he kissed her.
She sighed and turned back to the house, to see her brother, high upon a horse, wide grin on his face, galloping toward her.
Meeting his smile with one of her own, she waved and called out to him. “My most handsome brother!”
He was off his horse before it stopped, scooping her into an exuberant hug, laughter in his voice. “I shall tell Gabriel you said so, you know.”
She waved one hand as he set her on her feet. “As though it would be a surprise! He pales dreadfully in comparison. I am still not certain that you are twins at all.”
Gabriel and Nick were identical in every way save one—a dreadful scar that curved down the side of Nick’s face, narrowly missing his eye. The scar did nothing to mar his handsomeness, however; instead giving his open, friendly countenance a hint of mystery that drew women like moths to flame.
He nodded his thanks to the guard at the gate, then indicated the carriage. “Shall we get you to the house?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Must I return to my prison? Can’t we walk instead?”
Waving the carriage past, he took up the reins of his horse and they began the half-mile walk to the manor house. Nick asked a handful of polite questions about her journey before Juliana stopped him with, “I assume you have heard the news.”
He nodded, lips set in a firm line. “Gabriel sent a messenger the evening she arrived.” He paused. “How is she?”
“The same.”
They walked for a moment in silence before he asked, “And how are you?”
She looked down at her feet, watching the tips of her boots peep out from beneath the hem of her wine-colored traveling cloak. “I am . . .” She turned to him, taking in his clear blue gaze, filled with interest and not a little concern, and then past him to the wide-open heath that stretched for miles in every direction. “I am happy to be here,” she said. And it was the truth.
He smiled, offering her an arm, which she took with pleasure. Nick had always been the easier of her brothers—where Gabriel’s temper ran hot, Nick was patient and understanding. He would not press her to discuss their mother, or anything else. But he would listen when she was ready to talk.