Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
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It was more than she could bear.
She loved him.
Sometimes, love was not enough.
His sister’s words echoed in her ears. “I cannot marry you, Simon.”
He smiled at first, before the meaning of her words registered. “What did you say?”
She took a deep breath and met his gaze, that rich, amber gaze that she had come to love so much. “I cannot marry you.”
“Why not?” There was confusion and disbelief in the words, then something close to anger.
“If tonight had not happened, would we even be discussing it?”
“I—” He stopped. Started again. “Tonight did happen, Juliana.”
“You’re engaged to another.”
“I shall end it,” he said simply, as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing to do.
“What of Lady Penelope? What of her reputation? And what of yours? And your plans to secure your family, your sister, your niece? What of your duty?”
He reached for her as she backed away. “Juliana, I compromised you. We shall marry.”
Not out of love. Not out of respect. Not out of admiration.
“Because this is the way things are done,” she whispered.
“Among other reasons, yes,” he said simply, as though it were obvious.
“I am not what you envisioned in a wife.” He stilled at the words, and she pressed on. “You’ve said it yourself. I am too reckless. Too impulsive. Too much of a scandal. Before tonight, you’d never even considered marrying me.”
“I proposed to you a week ago!” She heard the frustration in his tone as he spun away to fetch his dressing gown.
“Only after Gabriel discovered us in the stables. You proposed out of duty. Just as you do everything. You would have married me, but it would have been beneath you. Just as it would be now.”
He shoved his arms into the silk brocade and turned back to her, eyes dark. When he spoke, his voice was hard as steel. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?” she asked, gently. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
He did not reply.
“I’ll never be enough for you. Never good enough, never respectable enough, never proper enough—even if I tried, my past, my family, my blood would all make it impossible for us to be equal. What would they say? What would your mother say?”
“Hang them. Especially my mother.”
She stepped toward him, lifting her hand and touching his square jaw for a fleeting moment before he pulled away from her touch and stepped back, refusing to meet her gaze.
Tears welled as she considered his beautiful, stony countenance, knowing that this was the last time they would be together like this, alone and honest.
One of them, at least, was honest.
“You once accused me of never considering the consequences,” she said, willing him to understand. To see. “Of never thinking of what comes next.”
“What comes next is, we marry.”
She shook her head. “Now you are not considering the consequences. I shall always be your scandal, Simon. Never entirely worthy.”
“That is ridiculous. Of course you would be.” She was struck by how imperious he could sound in that moment as he stood before her clad in nothing but a dressing gown. So ducal, even now.
“No, I wouldn’t be. Not in your eyes. And there would come a day when I was not worthy in my own.” As she spoke the words, she was struck by the realization that she finally understood what it was she wanted from her life. From her future. “I deserve better. I deserve more.”
“You cannot do much better than me. I am a duke.” There was a slight tremor in his voice. Anger.
She brushed away a tear before it could spill over. “That may well be true, Simon. But if it is, it has nothing to do with your being a duke.”
He ignored the words, and they stood there for long moments before she started to leave the room, and he finally spoke. “This is not over, Juliana.”
“Yes, it is.”
She was proud of the strength in the words.
A strength she was not sure she had.
Chapter Eighteen
Matters of the heart are a challenge indeed.
The elegant lady follows the gentleman’s lead.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
By day, late night visits are made more exciting . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823
She’d left him.
It wasn’t possible.
Simon had woken and gone to saddle their horses, wanting to take Juliana riding, wanting to get her away from this house so that he could talk some sense into her, and he’d instead discovered that Lucrezia was missing. A few questions in the stables had revealed that she’d left Townsend Park that morning, under cover of darkness.
Like a coward.
How dare she leave him?
He was not some pup who sought her approval. He was the damned Duke of Leighton! He had half of London falling over itself to do his bidding, and he could not secure the obedience of a single, Italian female.
A single, Italian madwoman, more like it.
She accused him of not thinking she was enough for him? The woman was entirely too much for him! She made him want to bellow with rage and hit things, then lock her in a room and kiss her senseless, until she gave in.
Until they gave in to each other.
Except, she had refused him.
Twice.
She’d left him!
And damned if it didn’t make him desire her all the more.
So much that his hands itched with it. He wanted to touch her, to tame her, to take her in his arms and make love to her until they were both exhausted and unable to think of anything beyond their embrace. He wanted to sink into her rich ebony curls, her beautiful eyes, her infinite softness and never return.