Ladies’ salons are hotbeds of imperfection.
Exquisite ladies need not linger within.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
Surely there is no place more interesting in all of London than the balcony beyond a ballroom . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
“I thought that your season was over and we were through with balls!”
Juliana collapsed onto a settee in a small antechamber off the ladies’ salon of Weston House and let out a long sigh, reaching down to massage the ball of her foot through her thin slipper.
“We should be,” her closest friend Mariana, the newly minted Duchess of Rivington, lifted the edge of her elaborate blue gown and inspected the place where her hem had fallen. “But as long as Parliament remains in session, seasonal balls will be all the rage. Every hostess wants her autumnal festivity to be more impressive than the last. You only have yourself to blame,” Mariana said wryly.
“How was I to know that Callie would start a revolution in entertaining on my behalf?” Calpurnia, Mariana’s sister and Juliana’s sister-in-law, had been charged with smoothing Juliana’s introduction to London society upon her arrival that spring. Once summer had arrived, the marchioness had recommitted herself to her goal. A wave of summer balls and activities had kept Juliana in the public eye and kept the other hostesses of the ton in town after the season was long finished.
Callie’s goal was a smart marriage.
Which made Juliana’s goal survival.
Waving a young maid over, Mariana pulled a thimble of thread from her reticule and handed it to the girl, who was already crouching down to repair the damage. Meeting Juliana’s gaze in the mirror, she said, “You are very lucky that you could cry off Lady Davis’s Orange Extravaganza last week.”
“She did not really call it that.”
“She did! You should have seen the place, Juliana . . . it was an explosion of color, and not in a good way. Everything was orange—the clothes . . . the floral arrangements . . . the servants had new livery, for heaven’s sake . . . the food—”
“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.”
So had Juliana.
“It is somewhat difficult to invite Lord and Lady Ralston without extending the invitation to Miss Fiori,” a new voice pointed out.
A snort of derision followed. “Not that they are much better . . . with the marquess’s scandalous past and the marchioness—so very uninteresting. I still wonder what she did to win him.”
“And let’s not even discuss Lord Nicholas, marrying a country bumpkin. Can you imagine!”
“Never doubt what poor stock can do to good English blood. It’s clear that the mother has . . . left her mark.”
The last came on a high-pitched cackle, and Juliana’s fury began to rise. It was one thing for the vicious harridans to insult her, but it was an entirely different thing for them to go after her family. Those she loved.
“I do not understand why Ralston doesn’t just give the sister a settlement and send her back to Italy.”
Neither did Juliana.
She’d expected that to happen any number of times since she arrived, unbidden, on the steps of Ralston House. Her brother had never once even suggested it.
But she still had trouble believing that he didn’t want her gone.
“Don’t listen to them,” Mariana whispered. “They’re horrible, hateful women who live to loathe.”
“All it will take is for one person of quality to find her doing something base, and she’ll be exiled from society forever.”
“That shouldn’t take long. Everyone knows Italians have loose morals.”
Juliana had had enough.
She pushed past Mariana and into the ladies’ salon, where the threesome were retouching their maquillage at the large mirror on one wall of the room. Tossing a broad smile in the direction of the women, she took perverse pleasure in their stillness—a combination of shock and chagrin.
Still laughing at her own joke was the coolly beautiful and utterly malicious Lady Sparrow, who had married a viscount, rich as Croesus and twice as old, three months before the man had died, leaving her with a fortune to do with as she wished. The viscountess was joined by Lady Davis, who apparently had not had her fill of the legendary orange extravaganza, as she was wearing an atrocious gown that accentuated her waist in such a way as to turn the woman into a perfect, round gourd.
There was a young woman with them whom Juliana did not know. Petite and blond, with a plain round face and wide, surprised eyes, Juliana fleetingly wondered how this little thing had found herself in with the vipers. She would either be killed, or be transformed.
Not that it mattered to Juliana.
“My ladies,” she said, keeping her voice light, “a wiser group might have made certain they were alone before indulging in a conversation that eviscerates so many.”
Lady Davis’s mouth opened and closed in an approximation of a trout before she looked away. The plain woman blushed, clasping her hands tightly in front of her in a gesture easily identified as regret.
Not so Lady Sparrow. “Perhaps we were perfectly aware of our company,” she sneered. “We simply were not in fear of offending it.”
With perfect timing, Mariana exited the antechamber, and there was a collective intake of breath as the other ladies registered the presence of the Duchess of Rivington. “Well, that is a pity,” she said, her tone clear and imperious, entirely befitting of her title. “As I find myself much offended.”
Mariana swept from the room, and Juliana swallowed a smile at her friend’s impeccable performance, rife with entitlement. Returning her attention to the group of women, she moved closer, enjoying the way they shifted their discomfort. When she was close enough to smell their cloying perfume, she said, “Do not fret, ladies. Unlike my sister-in-law, I take no offense.”
She paused, turning her head to each side, making a show of inspecting herself before tucking an errant curl back into her coiffure. When she was certain that she held their collective attention, she said, “You have issued your challenge. I shall meet it with pleasure.”
She did not breathe until she exited the ladies’ salon, anger and frustration and hurt rushing through her to dizzying effect.
It should not have surprised her that they gossiped about her. They’d gossiped about her since the day she’d arrived in London.
She’d simply thought they would have stopped by now.
But they had not. They would not.
This was her life.
She bore the mark of her mother, who remained a scandal even now, twenty-five years after she had deserted her husband, the Marquess of Ralston, and her twin sons, fleeing this glittering, aristocratic life for the Continent. She’d landed in Italy, where she’d bewitched Juliana’s father, a hardworking merchant who swore he had never wanted anything in his life more than he wanted her—the raven-haired Englishwoman with bright eyes and a brilliant smile.
She’d married him, in a decision that Juliana had come to identify as precisely the kind of reckless, impulsive behavior that her mother had been known for.
Behavior that threatened to surge in her.
Juliana grimaced at the thought.
When she behaved impulsively, it was to protect herself. Her mother had been an entitled aristocrat with a childish penchant for drama. Even as she’d aged, she had not matured.
Juliana supposed she should have been grateful that the marchioness deserted them when she had, or think of the scars they would all have borne.
Juliana’s father had done his best to raise a daughter. He had taught her to tie an excellent knot, to spot a bad shipment of goods, and to haggle with the best and worst of merchants . . . but he’d never shared his most important bit of knowledge.
He’d never told her that she had a family.
She’d only learned about her half brothers, born of the mother she’d barely known, after her father had died—when she’d discovered that her funds had been placed in a trust, and that an unknown British marquess was to be her guardian.
Within weeks, everything had changed.
She had been dropped, summarily, on the doorstep of Ralston House, with three trunks of possessions and her maid.
All thanks to a mother without a thimbleful of maternal instinct.
Was it any surprise that people questioned the character of her daughter?
That the daughter questioned it, as well?
No.
She was nothing like her mother.
She’d never given them a reason to think she was.
Not on purpose, at least.
But it didn’t seem to matter. These aristocrats drew strength from insulting her, from looking down their long, straight noses at her and seeing nothing but her mother’s face, her mother’s scandal, her mother’s reputation.
They did not care who she was.
They cared only that she was not like them.
And how tempted she was to show them how very unlike them she really was . . . these unmoving, uninteresting, passionless creatures.
She took a deep, stabilizing breath, looking over the ballroom to the faraway doors leading to the gardens beyond. Even as she began to move, she knew that she should not head for them.
But in all the emotions flooding her, she could not find the room to care about what she should not do.
Mariana came from nowhere, placing a delicate gloved hand on Juliana’s elbow. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine.” She did not look at her friend. Could not face her.
“They’re horrid.”
“They’re also right.”
Mariana pulled up short at the words, but Juliana kept moving, focused singularly on the open French doors . . . on the salvation they promised. The young duchess caught up quickly. “They are not right.”
“No?” Juliana sliced a look at her friend, registering the wide blue eyes that made her such a perfect specimen of English femininity. “Of course they are. I am not one of you. I never will be.”
“And thank God for that,” Mariana said. “There are more than enough of us to go around. I, for one, am very happy to have someone unique in my life. Finally.”
Juliana paused at the edge of the dance floor, turning to face her friend. “Thank you.” Even though it isn’t true.
Mariana smiled as though everything had been repaired. “You’re very welcome.”
“Now, why don’t you go find your handsome husband and dance with him. You would not like tongues to begin wagging about the state of your marriage.”
“Let them wag.”
Juliana’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Spoken like a duchess.”
“The position does have a few perks.”
Juliana forced a laugh. “Go.”
Mariana’s brow furrowed with worry. “Are you sure you are all right?”
“Indeed. I am just heading for some fresh air. You know how I cannot bear the heat in these rooms.”
“Be careful,” Mariana said with a nervous look toward the doors. “Don’t get yourself lost.”
“Shall I leave a trail of petits fours?”
“It might not be a bad idea.”
“Good-bye, Mari.”
Mariana was off then, her shimmering blue gown swallowed up by the crowd almost instantly, as though they could not wait for her to join their masses.
They would not absorb Juliana in the same way. She imagined the crowd sending her back, like an olive pit spit from the Ponte Pietra.
Except, this was not as simple as falling from a bridge.
Not as safe, either.
Juliana took a few moments to watch the dancers, dozens of couples swirling and dipping in a quick country dance. She could not resist comparing herself to the women twirling before her, all in their pretty pastel frocks, with their perfectly positioned bodies and their tepid personalities. They were the result of perfect English breeding—raised and cultivated like grapevines to ensure identical fruit and inoffensive, uninteresting wine.
She noticed the girl from the salon taking her place on one side of the long line of dancers, the flush on her cheeks making her more alive than she had first seemed. Her lips were tilted up in what Juliana could only assume was a long-practiced smile—not too bright as to seem forward, not too dim as to indicate disinterest. She appeared a plump grape, ready for picking. Ripe for inclusion in this simple, English vintage.
The grape reached the end of the line, and she and her partner came together.
Her partner was the Duke of Leighton.
The two were weaving and spinning straight toward her, down the long line of revelers, and there was only one thought in Juliana’s head.
They were mismatched.
It was not merely the way they looked, everything but their similarly too-golden hair ill suited. She was somewhat plain—her face just a touch too round, her blue eyes a touch too pale, her lips something less than a perfect pink bow—and he was . . . well . . . he was Leighton. The difference in their statures was immense—he towered well over six feet, and she was small and slight, barely reaching his chest.
Juliana rolled her eyes at the look of them. He probably liked the idea of such a small female, something he could set in motion with the flick of a finger.
But they were mismatched in other ways, too. The grape enjoyed the dance, it was obvious from the twinkle in her eyes as she met the gazes of the other women in line. He did not smile as he danced, despite the fact that he clearly knew the steps to the reel. He did not enjoy himself. Of course, this was not a man who would take pleasure in country dances. This was not a man who took pleasure anywhere.
It was surprising that he had been willing to stoop to such a common activity as dancing in the first place.
The two had reached the end of the revelers and were mere feet from Juliana when Leighton met her gaze. It was fleeting, a second or two at the most, but as she met his honey brown eyes, awareness twisted deep in her stomach. It was a feeling she should have been used to by then, but it never failed to surprise her.
She always hoped that he would not affect her. That someday, those few, fleeting moments of the past would be just that—the past.
Instead of a reminder of how out of place she was in this world.
She spun away from the dance, heading for the wide glass doors and the dark night with newfound urgency. Without hesitation, she stepped through to the stone balcony beyond. Even as she exited the room, she knew she should not. She knew that her brother and the rest of London would judge her for the action. Balconies were hothouses of sin in their eyes.
Which would be ridiculous, of course. Surely, nothing bad could come of a stolen moment on the balcony. It was gardens that she must avoid.
It was cold outside, the air biting and welcome. She looked up into the clear October sky, taking in the stars above.
At least something was the same.
“You should not be out here.”
She did not turn at the words. The duke had joined her. She was not entirely surprised.
“Why not?”
“Anything could happen to you.”
She lifted one shoulder. “My father used to say that women have a dozen lives. Like your cats.”
“Cats only have nine lives here.”
She smiled over her shoulder at him. “And women?”
“Far fewer. It is not wise for you to be here alone.”
“It was perfectly wise until you arrived.”
“This is why you are . . .” He trailed off.
“This is why I am always in trouble.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you here, Your Grace? Don’t you risk your own reputation by being so near to me?” She turned to find him several yards away and gave a short laugh. “Well. I don’t suppose you could possibly be ruined from such a distance. You are safe.”
“I promised your brother that I would shield you from scandal.”
She was so very tired of everyone thinking she was one step from scandal.
She narrowed her gaze on him. “There is an irony in that, don’t you find? There was a time when you were the biggest threat to my reputation. Or do you not remember?”
The words were out before she could stop them, and his countenance grew stony in the shadows. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss such things.”
“It never is, is it?”
He changed the subject. “You are fortunate that it was I who found you.”
“Good fortune? Is that what this is?” Juliana met his eyes, searching for the warmth she had once seen there. She found nothing but his strong patrician gaze, unwavering.
How could he be so different now?
She turned back to the sky, anger flaring. “I think it best for you to leave.”
“I think it best for you to return to the ball.”
“Why? You think that if I dance a reel, they will open their arms and accept me into the fold?”
“I think they will never accept you if you do not try.”
She turned her head to meet his eyes. “You think I want them to accept me.”
He watched her for a long moment. “I think you should want us to accept you.”
Us.
She squared her shoulders. “Why should I? You are a rigid, passionless group, more concerned with the proper distance between dance partners than in the world in which you live. You think your traditions and your manners and your silly rules make your life desirable. They don’t. They make you snobs.”
“You are a child who knows not the game that she plays.”
The words stung. Not that she would show him that.
She stepped closer, testing his willingness to stand his ground. He did not move. “You think I consider this a game?”
“I think it is impossible for you to consider it otherwise. Look at you. The entire ton is mere feet away, and here you are, a hairsbreadth from ruin.” His words were steel, the strong planes of his face shadowed and beautiful in the moonlight.
“I told you. I don’t care what they think.”
“Of course you do. Or you wouldn’t still be here. You would have returned to Italy and been done with us.”
There was a long pause.
He was wrong.
She did not care what they thought.
She cared what he thought.
And that only served to frustrate her more.
She turned back to face the gardens, gripping the wide stone railing on the balcony and wondering what would happen if she ran for the darkness.
She would be found.
“I trust your hands have healed.”
They were back to being polite. Unmoved.
“Yes. Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “You seemed to enjoy the dancing.”
There was a beat as he considered the statement. “It was tolerable.”
She laughed a little. “What a compliment, Your Grace.” She paused. “Your partner appeared to enjoy your company.”
“Lady Penelope is an excellent dancer.”
The grape had a name.
“Yes, well, I had the good fortune of meeting her earlier this evening. I can tell you she does not have excellent choice in friends.”
“I will not have you insulting her.”
“You will not have me? How are you in a position to make demands of me?”
“I am quite serious. Lady Penelope is to be my bride. You will treat her with the respect she is due.”
He was going to marry the ordinary creature.
Her mouth dropped in surprise. “You are engaged?”
“Not yet. But it is a mere matter of formality at this point.”
She supposed it was right that he be matched with such a perfect English bride.
Except it seemed so wrong.
“I confess, I have never heard anyone speak so blandly about marriage.”
He crossed his arms against the cold, the wool of his black formal coat pulling taut across his shoulders, emphasizing his broadness. “What is there to say? We suit well enough.”
She blinked. “Well enough.”
He nodded once. “Quite.”
“How very impassioned.”
He did not rise to her sarcasm. “It’s a matter of business. There is no room for passion in a good English marriage.”
It was a joke. It must be.
“How do you expect to live your life without passion?”
He sniffed, and she wondered if he could smell his pompousness. “The emotion is overrated.”
She gave a little laugh. “Well, that might possibly be the most British thing I have ever heard anyone say.”
“It is a bad thing to be British?”
She smiled slowly. “Your words, not mine.” She continued, knowing she was irritating him. “We all need passion. You could do with a heavy dose of it in all areas of your life.”
He raised a brow. “I am to take this advice from you?” When she nodded, he pressed on. “So, let me be clear. You think my life requires passion—an emotion that propels you into darkened gardens and into strange carriages and onto balconies and forces you to risk your reputation with alarming frequency.”
She lifted her chin. “I do.”
“That may work for you, Miss Fiori, but I am different. I have a title, a family, and a reputation to protect. Not to mention the fact that I am far above such base and . . . common desires.”
The arrogance that poured off of him was suffocating.
“You are a duke,” she said, sarcasm in her tone.
He ignored it. “Precisely. And you are . . .”
“I am far less than that.”
He raised one golden eyebrow. “Your words, not mine.”
Her breath whooshed out of her as though she had been struck.
He deserved a powerful, wicked set down. The kind that would ruin a man for good. The kind only a woman could give.
The kind she desperately wanted to give him.
“You . . . asino.” His lips pressed into a thin line at the insult, and she dropped into a deep, mocking curtsy. “I apologize, Your Grace, for the use of such base language.” She looked up at him through dark lashes. “You will permit me to repeat it in your superior English. You are an ass.”
He spoke to her through his teeth. “Rise.”
She did, swallowing back her anger as he reached for her, his strong fingers digging into her elbow, turning her back to the ballroom. When he continued, his voice was low and graveled at her ear. “You think your precious passion shows that you are better than us, when all it shows is your selfishness. You have a family who is endeavoring to garner society’s acceptance for you, and still nothing matters to you but your own excitement.”
She hated him then. “It is not true. I care deeply for them. I would never do anything to—” She stopped. I would never do anything to damage them.
The words were not precisely true. Here she was, after all, on a darkened terrace with him.
He seemed to understand her thoughts. “Your recklessness will ruin you . . . and likely them. If you cared even a little, you would attempt to behave in the manner of a lady and not a common—”
He stopped before the insult was spoken.
She heard it anyway.
A calm settled deep within her.
She wanted this perfect, arrogant man brought to his knees.
If he imagined her reckless, that’s what she would be.
Slowly, she removed her arm from his grasp. “You think you are above passion? You think your perfect world needs nothing more than rigid rules and emotionless experience?”
He stepped back at the challenge in her soft words. “I do not think it. I know it.”
She nodded once. “Prove it.” His brows drew together, but he did not speak. “Let me show you that not even a frigid duke can live without heat.”
He did not move. “No.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Disinterested.”
“I doubt that.”
“You really give no thought to reputations, do you?”
“If you are concerned for your reputation, Your Grace, by all means, bring a chaperone.”
“And if I resist your tempestuous life?”
“Then you marry the grape and all is well.”
He blinked. “The grape?”
“Lady Penelope.” There was a long pause. “But . . . if you cannot resist . . .” She stepped close, his warmth a temptation in the crisp October air.
“Then what?” he asked, his voice low and dark.
She had him now. She would bring him down.
And his perfect world with him.
She smiled. “Then your reputation is in serious danger.”
He was silent, the only movement the slow twitch of a muscle in his jaw. After several moments, she thought he might leave her there, her threat hovering in the cold air.
And then he spoke.
“I shall give you two weeks.” She did not have time to revel in her victory. “But it shall be you who learns the lesson, Miss Fiori.”
Suspicion flared. “What lesson?”
“Reputation always triumphs.”