Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
Page 11

“The food?” Juliana wrinkled her nose.
Mariana nodded. “It was awful. Everything was carrot-colored. A feast fit for rabbits. Be grateful you were not feeling well.”
Juliana wondered what Lady Davis—a particularly opinionated doyenne of the ton—would have thought if she had attended, covered in scratches from her adventure with Grabeham the week prior.
She gave a little smile at the thought and moved to restore half a dozen loose curls to their rightful places. “I thought that now you are a duchess, you do not have to suffer these events?”
“I thought so, too. But Rivington tells me differently. Or, more appropriately, the Dowager Duchess tells me differently.” She sighed. “If I never see another cornucopia, it will be too soon.”
Juliana laughed. “Yes, it must be very difficult being one of the most-sought-after guests of the year, Mariana. What with being madly in love with your handsome young duke and having all of London spread before you.”
Her friend’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, it’s a wicked trial. Just wait. Someday you’ll discover it for yourself.”
Juliana doubted it.
Nicknamed the Allendale Angel, Mariana had made quick work of meeting and marrying her husband, the Duke of Rivington, in her first season. It had been the talk of the year, an almost instant love match that had resulted in a lavish wedding and a whirlwind of social engagements for the young couple.
Mariana was the kind of woman whom people adored. Everyone wanted to be close to her, and she never lacked for companionship. She had been the first friend that Juliana had made in London; both she and her duke had made it a priority to show the ton that they accepted Juliana—no matter what her pedigree.
At Juliana’s first ball, it had been Rivington who had claimed her first dance, instantly stamping her with the approval of his venerable dukedom.
So different from the other duke who had been in attendance that evening.
Leighton had shown no emotion that night, not when she’d met his cool honeyed gaze across the ballroom, not when she’d passed close to him on the way to the refreshment table, not when he’d stumbled upon her in a private room set apart from the ball.
That wasn’t precisely true. He had shown emotion there. Just not the kind she had wished.
He’d been furious.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Which part? That my mother is the fallen Marchioness of Ralston? That my father was a hardworking merchant? That I haven’t a title?”
“All of it matters.”
She had been warned about him—the Duke of Disdain, keenly aware of his station in society, who held no interest for those whom he considered beneath him. He was known for his aloof presence, for his cool contempt. She had heard that he selected his servants for their discretion, his mistresses for their lack of emotion, and his friends—well, there was no indication that he would stoop to something so common as friendship.
But until that moment, when he discovered her identity, she had not believed the gossip. Not until she had felt the sting of his infamous disdain.
It had hurt. Far more than the judgment of all the others.
And then she had kissed him. Like a fool. And it had been remarkable. Until he had pulled away with a violence that embarrassed her still.
“You are a danger to yourself and others. You should return to Italy. If you stay, your instincts will find you utterly ruined. With extraordinary speed.”
“You enjoyed it,” Juliana said, accusation in her tone keeping the pain at bay.
He leveled her with a cool, calculated look. “Of course I did. But unless you are angling for a position as my mistress—and you’d make a fine mistress—” She gasped, and he drove his point home like a knife to her chest. “You would do well to remember your station.”
That had been the moment that she decided to remain in London. To prove to him and all the others who judged her behind their fluttering lace fans and their cool English glances that she was more than what they saw.
She ran a fingertip over the barely noticeable pink mark at her temple—the last vestige of the night when she’d landed herself in Leighton’s carriage, bringing back all the painful memories of those early weeks in London, when she was young and alone and still hoped that she could become one of them—these aristocrats.
She should have known better, of course.
They would never accept her.
The maid finished Mariana’s hem, and Juliana watched as her friend shook out her skirts before twirling toward her. “Shall we?”
Juliana slouched dramatically. “Must we?”
The duchess laughed, and they moved to reenter the main room of the salon.
“I heard that she was spied in a torrid embrace in the gardens the night of the Ralston autumn ball.”
Juliana froze, immediately recognizing the high, nasal tone of Lady Sparrow, one of the ton’s worst gossips.
“In her brother’s gardens?” The disbelieving gasp made it clear that Juliana was the object of their conversation.
Her gaze flew to a clearly furious Mariana, who appeared ready to storm the room—and its gossiping inhabitants. Which Juliana could not allow her to do. She placed one hand on her friend’s arm, staying her movement, and waited, listening.
“She is only a half sibling.”
“And we all know what that half was like.” A chorus of laughter punctuated the barb, which struck with painful accuracy.
“It’s amazing that so many invite her to events,” one nearly drawled. “Tonight, for example . . . I had thought Lady Weston a better judge of character.”