Water is for boiling and cleansing—never for amusement.
Refined ladies take care not to splash in their bath.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
We’re told of exciting discoveries in our very own Serpentine . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
Simon ignored the thickness in his tone, the anger that he could barely contain.
The girl had nearly killed herself, and she thought this was over?
She was very likely cold and exhausted and in some kind of shock, but she was more addlepated than he imagined if she thought he would allow her to trot home without a single explanation for her unreasonable, irrational, life-threatening behavior. He saw the combination of fear and desperation in her gaze. Good. Perhaps she would think twice before repeating today’s actions.
“You are not going to tell Ralston, are you?”
“Of course I am going to tell Ralston.”
She took a step toward him, switching to English. She was skilled at pleading in her second language. “But why? It shall only upset him. Needlessly.”
Disbelief took his breath. “Needlessly? On the contrary, Miss Fiori. Your brother most definitely needs to know that you require a chaperone who will prevent you from behaving with reckless abandon.”
She threw up her hands. “I was not behaving recklessly!”
She was mad. “Oh, no? How would you describe it?”
Silence fell, and Juliana considered the question. She nibbled the corner of her lower lip as she thought and, against his will, he was drawn to the movement. He watched the way her lips pursed, the crisp white edge of her teeth as she worried the soft pink flesh. Desire slammed through him hard and fast, and he stiffened at the blinding emotion. He did not want her. She was a madwoman.
A stunning, goddess of a madwoman.
He cleared his throat.
Nevertheless.
“It was entirely reasonable behavior.”
He blinked. “You climbed out onto a tree trunk,” he paused, irritation flaring again with the words.
She was unable to keep her gaze from the tree trunk in question. “It seemed perfectly sturdy.”
“You fell into a lake.” He heard the fury in his voice.
“I didn’t expect it to be so deep!”
“No, I don’t imagine you did.”
She clung to her defense. “I mean, it did not seem to be like any lake I’ve ever encountered.”
“That’s because it’s not like any lake you’ve ever encountered.”
She looked back at him. “It’s not?”
“No.” He said, barely able to contain his irritation. “It isn’t a real lake. It is man-made.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
Did it matter?
“As I was not alive for the event, I could not hazard a guess.”
“Leave it to the English to fabricate a lake,” she tossed over her shoulder to Carla, who snickered.
“And leave it to the Italians to fall into it!”
“I was retrieving my hat!”
“Ah . . . that makes it all much more logical. Do you even know how to swim?”
“Do I know how to swim?” she asked, and he took more than a little pleasure in her offense. “I was raised on the banks of the Adige! Which happens to be a real river.”
“Impressive,” he said, not at all impressed. “And tell me, did you ever swim in said river?”
“Of course! But I wasn’t wearing”—she waved a hand to indicate her dress—“sixteen layers of fabric!”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t swim in sixteen layers of fabric!”
“No?”
“No!”
“Why not?” He had her now.
“Because you will drown!”
“Ah,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “Well, at least we’ve learned something today.”
Her eyes narrowed, and he had the distinct impression that she wanted to kick him. Good. Knowing that she was furious made him feel slightly more stable.
Dear God. She’d nearly drowned.
He’d never been so terrified in all his life as when he’d come over the ridge—berating himself for allowing this fiery, emotional Italian to direct his afternoon, knowing that he should be at home, living his orderly life—and seen the horrifying tableau below: the maid, shrieking for help; the unmistakable ripples on the surface of the lake; and the billows of sapphire fabric marking the spot where Juliana was sinking.
He’d been certain that he was too late.
“I told you.” Her words stopped the direction of his thoughts. “I had every good reason to go out there. If not for the wind and these heavy clothes, I would have been just fine.”
As if to underscore her point, the wind picked up then, and her teeth began to chatter. She wrapped her arms around herself and suddenly she looked so . . . small. And fragile. The utter opposite of how he thought of her, bright and bold and indestructible. And in that moment, his anger was thoroughly overpowered by a basic, primal urge to wrap himself around her and hold her until she was warm again.
Which of course, he could not do.
They had an audience—and the chatter would be loud enough without his adding fuel to its fire.
He cursed softly, and the sound was lost on the wind as he moved toward her, unable to stop himself from closing the gap between them. He turned her to ensure that he caught the full force of the gale—protecting her from the cold gust.
If only he could protect himself from her.
When he spoke, he knew the words were too rough. Knew they would sting. “Why must you constantly test me?”
“I do care, you know. I do care what you think.”
“Then why?”
“Because you expect me to fail. You expect me to do wrong. To be reckless. To ruin myself.”
“Why not work to prove me wrong?”
“But don’t you see? I am proving you wrong. If I choose recklessness, where is the failure? If I choose it for myself, you cannot force it upon me.”
There was a long pause. “Perversely, that makes sense.”
She smiled, small and sad. “If only I actually wanted it this way.”
The words settled, and a hundred questions ran through his mind before she shivered in his arms. “You’re freezing.”
She looked up at him, and he caught his breath at her brilliant blue eyes. “H-how are you n-not?”
He was not even close to cold. He was on fire. Her clothes were soaking wet and ruined, her hair had come loose from its fastenings, and she should have looked like a bedraggled child. Instead, she looked stunning. The clothes molded to her shape, revealing her lush curves, the water only emphasizing her stunning features—high cheekbones, long, spiked lashes framing enormous blue eyes, porcelain skin. He tracked one drop of water down the curve of her neck to the hollow of her collarbone, and he had an intense desire to taste the droplet on his tongue.
She was alive.
And he wanted her.
Thankfully, she shivered again before he could act on the unacceptable desire.
He had to get her home before she caught pneumonia.
Or before he went entirely mad.
He turned to her maid. “Did you come by carriage?” he asked in quick Italian.
“No, Your Grace.”
“It will be faster if I take your mistress home in my curricle. Meet us at Ralston House.” He clasped Juliana’s elbow and began to steer her toward a nearby rise.
“You j-just assume that she will follow your orders?” Juliana asked, her tone suggesting the very idea was ridiculous. He ignored her, instead meeting the maid’s gaze.
“Yes, Your Grace.” She dropped into a quick curtsy and hurried away.
He returned his attention to Juliana, who scowled.
Her irritation returned some of his sense. And some of his anger. Last night and this morning, her impulsive behavior had risked her reputation. This afternoon, it had risked her life.
And he would not have it.
They walked several yards in silence before he spoke, “You could have died.”
She gave the briefest of hesitations, and he thought perhaps she would apologize again. It would not be entirely unwarranted.
He sensed the tensing of her shoulders, the straightening of her spine. “But I did not.” She tried for a smirk. Failed. “Twelve lives, remember?”
The words were rife with defiance—of him, of nature, of fate itself. And if they had not made him so irate, he might have found room to admire her tenacity of spirit.
Instead, he wanted to shake her.
He resisted the impulse. Barely.
They reached his curricle, and he lifted her, shivering, into the vehicle, then climbed in beside her.
“I shall ruin your seat.”
Her words, so ridiculous in light of everything that had happened in the past few minutes, set him off. He paused in the act of lifting the reins and turned an incredulous gaze toward her. “It is a wonder that you are able to find concern for my upholstery when you seem to care so little for things of much more import.”
Her dark brows arched perfectly. “Such as?”
“Such as your person.”
She sneezed, and he cursed, “And now you’re going to fall ill if you don’t keep warm, you daft female.”
He reached behind them for a traveling rug, and thrust it at her.
She took it and covered herself. “Thank you,” she said firmly, before looking away and staring straight ahead.
He set the curricle in motion after a long moment, wishing he’d been less forceful. More courteous.
He did not feel at all courteous. Did not think he could muster courtesy.
They exited Hyde Park before she spoke, and he barely heard her over the sound of hoofbeats against the cobblestones. “You needn’t speak to me as though I am half-witty.”
He could not resist. “I believe you mean half-witted.”
She turned away, and he heard an irritated Italian curse over the wind. After a long moment, she said, “I did not plan to drown myself.”
There was sulking in her tone, and he felt a slight twinge of sympathy for her. Perhaps he should not be so hard on her. But, damned if he could stop. “Plan or no, if I hadn’t come along, you would have drowned.”
“You came,” she said simply, and he recalled that as she had coughed up water and trembled with relief in the moments after he’d rescued her, she’d whispered the same words. You came.
He’d tried not to.
He’d thrown away her reckless note—the cleverly disguised missive that had fooled everyone into thinking that the Marquess of Ralston had sent the correspondence—tossed it into a wastepaper basket in his study.
He’d pretended it wasn’t there as he read the rest of his correspondence.
And still as he discussed a handful of outstanding issues with his man of business.
And even as he had opened the package that arrived from his mother less than an hour after she had left him—the package that had contained the Leighton sapphire, the betrothal ring that had been worn by generations of Duchesses of Leighton.
Even then, as he’d placed the ring on his desk, in full view, that crumpled piece of paper taunted him, spreading Juliana throughout his orderly, disciplined house. Everywhere he looked, he saw her missive, and he’d wondered what she would do if he did not respond.
He’d imagined that she would not think twice about assuming a more scandalous course of action—and then her bold, black scrawl had been replaced with her bold, black curls and her flashing blue eyes. And they’d been in his bedchamber . . .
He had called for his curricle and driven entirely too fast for a man who was determined to avoid her.
And he’d almost been too late.
His hands tightened on the reins, and the horses shifted uneasily under the tension. He forced himself to relax.
“And aren’t you lucky that I came? I nearly didn’t. Sending me such a message was both immodest and infantile.” He did not give her an opportunity to reply, his next words exploding on a wave of irritation. “What would possess you to dive into a frigid lake?”
“I didn’t dive,” she pointed out. “I fell. It was a mistake. Although I suppose you never make those.”
“Not life-threatening ones, usually, no.”
“Well. We cannot all be as perfect as you are.”
She was changing the topic, and he was in no mood to allow it. “You did not answer my question.”
“Was there an inquiry hidden in all of that judgment? I did not notice.”
He found himself comforted by the fire in her. He cut her a glance. “The lake. Why were you in there in the first place?”
“I told you. I followed my hat.”
“Your hat.”
“I like the hat. I did not want to lose it.”
“Your brother would have bought you a new hat. I would have bought you a dozen if it would have kept me from having to . . .”
He stopped.
From having to watch you nearly die.
“I wanted that one,” she said, quietly. “And I am sorry you had to rescue me . . . or that you shall have to replace this upholstery . . . or buy new boots . . . or whatever other trouble my situation has caused you.”
“I didn’t say—”
“No, because you are too proper to finish the sentence, but that’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? That you would buy me a dozen bonnets if it would keep you from having to keep me out of trouble? Again?”
She sneezed again.
And the sound nearly did him in.
He nearly stopped the carriage and yanked her to him and gave her the thrashing she deserved for taunting him . . . and then terrifying him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he pulled the carriage to a stop in front of Ralston House with all decorum, despite the anger and frustration roiling within.
“And now we have arrived,” she said, peevishly, “and your tiresome position as savior may be passed off to another.”
He threw down the reins and descended from the carriage, biting his tongue, refusing to correct her view of the situation—refusing to allow himself to be pulled further into the maelstrom of emotion that this woman seemed to call into being every time she came near.
Last night, she’d labeled him emotionless.
The idea seemed utterly laughable today.
By the time he reached her side of the carriage, she had already helped herself down and was heading toward the door. Obstinate female.
He gritted his teeth as she turned back from the top step, looking down at him with all the self-confidence of a queen despite her sodden, bedraggled clothes and her hair, collapsed around her. “I am sorry that I have so inconvenienced you on what I can only imagine was a perfectly planned day. I shall do my best to avoid doing so in the future.”
She thought him inconvenienced?
He had been many things that afternoon, but inconvenienced was not one of them. The tepid word didn’t come close to how he felt.
Irate, terrified, and completely unbalanced, yes. But not even close to inconvenienced.
The entire afternoon made him want to hit something. Hard.
And he imagined that the conversation he was about to have with her brother would do little to combat that impulse.
But he would be damned if she would see that.
“See that you do,” he said in his most masterful tone as he started up the steps after her, rejecting the impulse to leave her there, summarily, on her doorstep, and get as far from her as he possibly could. He would see her inside. And only then he would get as far from her as he possibly could. “As I told you yesterday, I haven’t time for your games.”
Simon was there. In the house. With her brother.
He had been for nearly three-quarters of an hour.
And they had not called for her.
Juliana stalked the perimeter of the Ralston House library, the petticoats of her amethyst skirts whipping about her legs.
She couldn’t believe that neither of them had even thought that perhaps she would like to be a part of the discussion of her afternoon adventure. With a little huff of displeasure, she headed for the window of the library, which looked out on Park Lane and the blackness of Hyde Park beyond.
Of course they hadn’t called for her. They were imperious, infuriating men, two more annoying of whom could not be found in all of Europe.
An enormous carriage sat outside the house, lanterns blazing, waiting for its owner. Leighton’s crest was emblazoned on the door to the massive black conveyance, boasting a wicked-looking hawk complete with feather in its talon—spoils of battle, no doubt.
Juliana traced the shield on the glass. How fitting that Leighton was represented by a hawk. A cold, solitary, brilliant animal.
All calculation and no passion.
He had barely cared that she’d nearly died, instead saving her with cool calculation and bringing her home without a moment’s pause for what could have been a most tragic occurrence.
That wasn’t exactly true.
There had been a moment in the Park during which he’d seemed to be concerned for her welfare.
Just for a moment.
And then he’d simply seemed to want to be rid of her.
And the trouble she caused.
Depositing her unceremoniously in the foyer of Ralston House and leaving her to face her brother alone, he’d said with all calm, “Tell Ralston I shall return this evening. Dry.”
He had returned, of course—Leighton was nothing if not true to his word—and she would wager that the two men were laughing at her expense even now in Ralston’s study, drinking brandy or scotch or whatever infuriating, aristocratic males drank. She’d like to pour a vat of that liquor over their combined heads.
She looked down at the dress with disgust. She’d chosen it for him, knowing she looked lovely in purple. She’d wanted him to see that. Wanted him to notice her.
And not because of their wager.
This time, she had wanted him to regret the things he had said to her.
I haven’t time for your games.
It had been a game at the start—the letter, the blatant invitation—but once she’d fallen into the lake, once he’d rescued her, any playfulness had disappeared along with her bonnet, lost to the bottom of the Serpentine.
And when he’d held her in his warm, strong arms and whispered soft words of Italian to her—that had felt more serious than anything she’d ever felt before.
But he’d scolded her, then, all cool and unwavering, as though the whole episode had been a colossal waste of his time and energy.
As though she were nothing but trouble.
And she hadn’t felt much like playing games any longer.
Of course, she’d never tell him that. What purpose would it serve except to place a self-satisfied smirk on his face and give him the upper hand—as usual. And she couldn’t bear to do that, either.
Instead, she was waiting patiently in the library, resisting the urge to rush down to her brother’s study and discover just how much of her reckless behavior Leighton had recounted—and just how much trouble she was in.
Below, the coachman moved, leaping down from his seat, and hurrying to open the carriage door wide for his master. She knew she should turn away from the window, but then Leighton appeared, his golden curls gleaming briefly in the lanternlight before disappearing beneath his hat.
He stopped before the open door and she could not look away; spying was an irresistible temptation. He turned to speak to the coachman, squaring his shoulders against the wind that swirled leaves from the Park about his feet and lashed at his greatcoat. A lesser man would have shown some kind of response to such a violent gust—a wince, a grimace—but not the great Duke of Leighton. Not even nature could distract him from his course.
She watched the movement of his lips as he spoke and wondered what he was saying, where he was going. She leaned forward, her forehead nearly touching the mottled glass pane, as though she might be able to hear him if she were an inch closer.
The coachman nodded once and dipped his head, stepping back to hold the door.
He was leaving.
The duke did not need a step to climb into his great black carriage, he was large and strong enough to manage without one, and she watched as he reached for the handle to pull himself up, wishing that, just once, he would miss his mark, or stumble, or look anything less than he always did—perfect.
He paused, and she held her breath. Perhaps the action was not so easy after all. He turned his head. And looked straight at her.
She gasped and stepped back from the window immediately, hot embarrassment washing through her at having been caught, followed instantly by irritation at having been embarrassed.
It was he who should be embarrassed, not her.
It was he who had insulted her that afternoon, it was he who had come to speak with her brother that evening and not asked to see or speak with her.
She could have taken ill. Did he not care for her well-being?
Apparently not.
She would not let him scare her away. It was her house, after all. She had every right to look out the window. It was looking in windows that was rude.
And, besides, she had a wager to win.
She took a deep breath and returned to her place.
He was still looking up at her.
When she met his warm, amber gaze, gleaming in the light of the house, he raised one imperious, golden brow, as if to claim victory in their silent battle.
Resistance flared, hot and powerful. She would not allow him to win.
She crossed her arms firmly over her chest in a manner utterly improper for a lady and raised a brow of her own, hoping to surprise him, prepared to stand there all night, until he backed down.
It was not surprise she found as she looked down at him, however. Something lightened in the firm, angled lines of his face as he watched her—something vaguely like humor—before he turned and, with perfect precision, lifted himself into his carriage.
She did not waver as the coachman closed the door, hiding the duke from her view. She secretly hoped that he was watching her from behind the darkened windows of the conveyance as she released a long peal of laughter.
Whether he had allowed it or not, she had won.
And it felt wonderful.
“Juliana? May I come in?”
Her laughter was cut short as her sister-in-law entered, her head peeking around the edge before the door opened wide. Juliana spun toward her visitor, dropping her arms and dropping quickly to sit on the wide bench beneath the window. “Of course. I was . . .” She waved one hand in the air. “It is not important. What is it?”
Callie approached, a half smile on her face, to join Juliana. “I came to confirm that you are feeling well, and it sounds as though you are quite recovered from your adventure. I am so very happy that you are safe,” she added, taking Juliana’s hand. “I never thought I would say it, but thank goodness for the Duke of Leighton.”
Juliana did not miss the dryness in her sister-in-law’s tone. “You do not like him.”
“The duke?” Callie sat next to Juliana, her eyes shuttering. “I do not know him. Not really.”
Juliana recognized the evasion. “But . . . ?”
Callie considered her words for a long moment before speaking. “I will say that he—and his mother, for that matter—has always seemed arrogant, imperious, and unmoving in a way that makes him appear uncaring. To my knowledge, he has an interest in only one thing—his reputation. I’ve never cared for people with such rigid opinions.” She paused, then confessed, “No. I did not like him, until today. Now that he has rescued you, I think I shall have to reevaluate my opinion of the duke.”
Juliana’s heart pounded as she considered her sister-in-law’s words.
He has an interest in only one thing—his reputation.
“I think I shall host a dinner party,” Silence met the pronouncement, until Callie prodded, “Would you like to know why I am hosting a dinner party?”
Juliana was pulled from her thoughts. “Must you have a reason other than this is London, and we have a dining room?”
“You shall pay for that.” Callie smiled. “I think we should thank the duke for his rescuing you. And, if we expand the guest list to include a handful of eligible gentlemen—”
Juliana groaned, seeing her sister-in-law’s plans. “Oh, Callie, please . . . how embarrassing.”
Callie waved one hand. “Nonsense. The story is likely tearing through London as we speak; if we are to mitigate any exaggeration, we must take ownership of the truth. Additionally, I think it important for us to extend a modicum of gratitude for your life, don’t you?”
“Must we do so in front of half of London?”
Callie laughed. “ ‘Half of London,’ really, Juliana. No more than a dozen others.”
Juliana knew Callie well enough to understand that there was no point in arguing.
“As an added benefit, it will not hurt to have the Duke of Leighton on our side, you know. His friendship can only make you more attractive to other men of the ton.”
“And if I do not want to attract other men of the ton?”
Callie smiled. “Are you saying you want to attract the duke?”
It was a deliberate misunderstanding, Juliana knew. But she felt the wash of color on her cheeks nonetheless. Hoping to escape notice, she gave her sister-in-law a long-suffering look. “No.”
Callie took a deep breath. “Juliana, it is not as though we are planning to force you into marriage, but it would not hurt for you to meet a man or two. Whom you like. Company you enjoy.”
“You’ve been attempting this for months. To no avail.”
“At some point, you will meet someone to whom you are drawn.”
“Perhaps. But he will likely not be drawn to me.”
He will likely find me troublesome.
“Of course he will be drawn to you. You’re beautiful and entertaining and wonderful. I am inviting Benedick as well.”
The Earl of Allendale was Callie’s older brother. Juliana allowed her surprise to show. “Why do you say that in such a manner?”
Callie’s smile was too bright. “No reason. Don’t you like him?”
“I do . . .” Juliana’s gaze narrowed. “Callie, please do not play matchmaker. I am not right for men like Benedick. Or any of the others either.”
“I am not matchmaking!” The protest was loud. And false. “I simply thought you would like a familiar face. Or two.”
“I suppose that would not be so bad.”
Callie turned worried. “Juliana, has someone been rude?”
She shook her head. “No. They’re all extraordinarily polite. Very gracious. Impeccably British. But they also make it more than clear that I am not . . . what they seek. In a companion.”
“In a wife,” Callie corrected quickly. “A companion is a different thing altogether.”
Companion was likely the precise role that all of London—save her family—was expecting her to assume. They considered her too much of a scandal to be a wife. And Juliana did not like the word, anyway. She shook her head. “Callie, I’ve said from the beginning . . . from the day I arrived here in England . . . marriage is not for me.”
And it was not.
“Nonsense,” Callie said, dismissing the idea. “Why would you think such a thing?”
Because the daughter of the Marchioness of Ralston is not exactly the wife of whom every man dreams.
Of course, she could not say that.
She was saved from having to reply by the opening of the library door.
Ralston entered, his eyes finding them on the window seat, and Juliana watched as he drank in his wife, his features softening, his love clear.
She did not deny that it would be wonderful to have such a thing.
She simply did not waste her time wishing for it.
Ralston approached, taking Callie’s hand in his, lifting the fingers to his lips for a brief kiss. “I’ve been looking for you.” He turned to Juliana. “Both of you.”
Callie looked to Ralston. “Tell your sister she’s beautiful.”
He looked surprised. “Of course she’s beautiful. If only she were a touch taller, she’d be perfect.”
She laughed at the feeble joke. She was taller than half the men in London. “A common complaint.”
“Gabriel, I’m serious,” Callie was not going to let either sibling off the hook. “She thinks that she cannot land a husband.”
Her brother’s brows knitted together. “Why not?” he asked his wife.
“I don’t know! Because obstinacy runs in your blood?”
He pretended to consider the frustrated statement. “It’s possible. I am not certain that I could land a husband either.”
Juliana grinned. “It is because you are too tall.”
One side of his mouth kicked up. “Very likely.”
Callie gave a little aggravated sound. “You are both impossible! I have dinner to oversee. You”—she pointed a finger at her husband, then indicated Juliana—“talk some sense into her.”
When the door had closed behind Callie, Ralston turned to Juliana.
“Please do not make me discuss it.”
He nodded once. “You realize that she’s going to be relentless about this. You’ll have to come up with an excellent reason why you don’t want to marry, or you’ll be having this conversation for the rest of your life.”
“I have a good reason.”
“No doubt you think you do.”
She scowled at the insinuation that she did not actually have a good reason not to marry.
“You shall be happy to learn that I have decided against locking you in the attic for the rest of your days to keep you from more adventures,” he said, changing the subject. “But you are not far from such a fate. Do have a care, Juliana.” His dimple flashed. “I find I quite like having a sister.”
His words warmed her. She quite liked having a brother. “I do not mean to make trouble.”
He raised a brow.
“Not all the time. Not this afternoon.” Except she had meant to make trouble. Just not the kind he need know about. “Not the kind that ends at the bottom of a lake,” she qualified.
He moved to a sideboard and poured himself a scotch, then sat by the fireplace, indicating that she should join him.
When she took the chair opposite his, he said, “No, you mean to make the kind of trouble that ends in setting down half of London society.”
She opened her mouth to refute the point, and he continued. “There’s no use in telling me otherwise, Juliana. You think it is only our dark hair and blue eyes that make us siblings? You think I do not know what it is like to have them watch your every move? To have them wait for you to prove that you are every inch what they expect you to be?”
There was a long pause. “It’s different.”
“It’s not.”
“They didn’t think you were going to be like her.”
He did not pretend to misunderstand. “You’re nothing like her.”
How could he know that?
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his blue eyes unwavering. “I know it. I know what she was like. She was indifferent. Uncaring. She made a cuckold of her husband. She left her children . . . twice. That is not you.”
She wanted to believe him.
“She was also a scandal.”
He gave a little huff of laughter. “It’s not the same thing at all. You are unexpected and exciting and charming. Yes. You’re willful and irritating as hell when you want to be, but you’re not a scandal.”
She had been in Hyde Park that morning. She had been on the balcony the night before. If Ralston knew that she had wagered two weeks of passion with the duke, he’d have a fit.
Yes, she was a scandal.
Her brother simply didn’t know it.
“I fell in the Serpentine today.”
“Yes, well, that doesn’t usually happen to women in London. But it’s not so much of a scandal as it is a challenge. And if you’d stop nearly getting yourself killed . . .” He trailed off, and silence stretched between them. “She was real scandal. The kind from which families do not recover. You are not like her. Not at all.”
“Leighton thinks I am.”
Ralston’s eyes darkened. “Leighton compared you to our mother?”
She shook her head. “Not in so many words. But he thinks I’m a danger to the reputations around me.”
Ralston waved a dismissive hand. “First, Leighton is an ass, and has been since he was in short pants.” Juliana could not help her giggle, and Ralston smiled at the sound. “Second, he is too conservative. He always has been. And third”—he gave a wry smile—“I have suffered more than my fair share of blows to my reputation, and we are still invited to parties, are we not?”
“Perhaps everyone is just waiting for us to cause a scene.”
He settled back in his chair. “It’s possible.”
“Why is he so cautious?”
The question was out before she could stop it, and she immediately regretted it. She did not want Ralston to sense her interest in the duke.
Not that it was anything more than a passing interest.
Not at all.
Ralston seemed not to notice. “He has always been so. Since we were boys. At school, he couldn’t speak a sentence without mentioning that he was heir to a dukedom. Always stiff and proper and all about the title. I’ve always thought his behavior ridiculous. Why assume the responsibilities of a title if you’re not willing to enjoy the benefits?”
He met her eyes, honestly confounded by the idea of feeling responsible to a title, and Juliana could not help but grin. Her brother had a rake inside him. A tame one, now that he was married, but a rake nonetheless.
Silence fell, and Juliana had to bite her tongue to keep from pressing her brother for more.
“Callie wants to have him to dinner. To thank him. Publicly.”
He thought for a moment. “That seems to be sound logic.”
“Along with a half a dozen other eligible bachelors.”
He offered her a sympathetic look. “You do not actually believe that I can alter her from this course?”
“No, I suppose I do not.” She paused. “She thinks proximity to the duke will help my reputation.”
“She’s probably right. I can’t say I like the man, but he does hold a certain sway over society.” One side of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “A trait I’ve never been able to claim.” Silence fell, and they were both lost to their thoughts. Finally, Ralston said, “I won’t pretend their opinions don’t matter, Juliana. I wish to hell they didn’t; of course they do. But I promise you. You are nothing like her.”
She closed her eyes against his words. “I want to believe you.”
“But you find yourself believing them.”
Her gaze widened. How did he know that?
A wry smile crossed his face. “You forget, sister. I have been in your position. I have wanted to show them all that I was above them, all the while fearing that I was precisely what they thought.”
That was it. That was how she felt.
“It is different for you,” Juliana said, and she hated the pout in her voice.
He took a drink. “It is. Now.”
Because he was the marquess.
Because he was English.
Because he was male.
“Because you are one of them.”
“Bite your tongue!” he said. “What an insult!”
She did not find it amusing. She found it infuriating.
“Ah, Juliana. It’s different for me because I now know what it is to have someone expect me to be more than what I am. Now I know what it is to want to be more.”
The meaning of his words sank in. “Callie.”
He nodded. “I no longer focus on meeting their expectations because I am too focused on outdoing hers.”
She could not help but smile. “The wicked Marquess of Ralston, inveterate libertine, laid low by love.”
He met her gaze, all seriousness. “I am not saying that you must marry, Juliana. On the contrary, if you prefer a life free of marriage, God knows you have enough money to live it. But you must ask yourself what you think your life should be.”
She opened her mouth to answer him, only to realize that she had no answer. She’d never given it much thought—not since her father had died and everything had changed. In Italy, marriage and family had not been out of the question, she supposed . . . but they had been so far off that she’d never really given them much thought. But here, in England . . .
Who would want her?
Unaware of her thoughts, Ralston stood, ending the conversation with one final thought. “I never thought I would say it, but love is not as bad as I thought it would be. Should it come for you, I hope you will not turn it away out of hand.”
She shook her head. “I hope it will not come for me.”
A smile flashed. “I have heard that before, you know. I’ve said it . . . Nick has said it . . . but, be warned. St. Johns do not seem to be able to avoid it.”
But I am not a St. John. Not really.
She did not speak the words.
She liked the illusion.