Unhappiness is for those who lack culture.
The exquisite lady faces all obstacles with grace.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
The harvest bounty is shockingly lacking this year . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
Her horrendous evening was not over.
Bennett, the ancient butler who had served the Marquesses of Ralston for what Juliana suspected was forever, was awake when she arrived home—a rare occurrence as he was somewhat weathered, and there were plenty of younger servants who were more than capable of waiting for the master of the house to return.
Years of experience kept Bennett from responding to Juliana’s state, without her cloak, which she’d left in her hurry to escape the ball—she would have to work out a way to recover it at some point, she supposed—and covered in marrow innards, among other things.
In fact, he gave her a little bow when she entered the house—one she would have teased him for if she weren’t exhausted and desperate for a bath and a bed.
“Bennett, please have a bath sent up. As you can see, I need it,” she said, moving directly for the wide marble center staircase of the town house.
“Miss Fiori, you will excuse me,” he hesitated and she turned to face him, waiting. “You have a visitor.”
Excitement flared, brief and breathtaking, as her instant thought was that Simon had called. But, no . . . there was no way he had beaten her to Ralston House—not unless he’d fled the scene of his engagement upon the announcement. As lovely as that would have been, she knew better than even to think it. Simon would never do anything so scandalous.
She ignored the fact that earlier in the evening, they’d engaged in a rather shockingly scandalous interlude.
“A visitor? For me?”
The butler’s face grew dark, betraying an emotion that Juliana did not like. “Yes, milady. Your mother.”
Dread settled, heavy and cold. Juliana shook her head. “No. I am too tired to deal with her tonight. She can wait for Gabriel.”
“She says she is here for you.”
“Well, I am not receiving. She will have to try again.”
“I am impressed. You have grown into quite the strong-willed young lady.”
Juliana froze at the words, spoken in perfect, calm Italian behind her. She met Bennett’s gaze, filled with regret, and waved him off with what she hoped was a reassuring smile before she turned to face her mother.
Whom she had not spoken to for a decade.
Her mother’s gaze scanned over her, taking in her destroyed coiffure, ruined gown, and the clumps of unidentifiable muck sticking to her, and Juliana was instantly reminded of what it was like to be Louisa Hathbourne’s daughter—when not the recipient of cool disinterest, one was showered with distaste. She’d never been good enough for her mother. All those times she’d tried to prove herself worthy of Louisa’s love . . . of her pride . . . she’d never received it.
“Do not for a moment think that you had anything to do with my character.”
“I would not dream of it, Juli.”
The diminutive—a favorite of her father’s—sent a shock of sorrow and anger through Juliana. “Don’t call me that.”
Her mother moved from the doorway to the receiving room, extending one arm to Juliana. “Will you join me? I would like to speak with you. I have been waiting for quite a long while.”
“And how does it feel to be the one waiting for someone to return? I imagine it is quite a novelty.”
Louisa’s smile was small and secret. “I deserved that.”
“And much more, I assure you.”
She considered ignoring her mother’s request. Considered finding her bedchamber and letting the older woman stew in the receiving room until she got bored and went away.
But somewhere, deep inside, Juliana was still that ten-year-old girl. The one who rushed to do her mother’s bidding in the hope that, today, she would be worthy of her attention.
She hated herself as she followed her mother into the receiving room. Hated herself as she took a seat across from her. Hated herself as she waited for this woman who had taken so much from her took more.
Time she did not want to give.
“I am sorry about Sergio. I did not know that he had passed away.”
Juliana wanted to scream at her father’s name on this viper’s tongue. Instead she matched her mother’s calm, and said, “How could you? You never looked back once you left.”
Louisa dipped her head once, acknowledging the hit. “You are right, of course.”
Apologize. Juliana thought, the words a scream in her mind. Don’t you regret it?
They sat in silence for a long moment, until Juliana was ready to leave. If Louisa thought she would carry the conversation, she was horribly wrong. She was just about to stand when her mother spoke again.
“I am happy you found Gabriel and Nick.”
“So am I.”
“Ah, so you see, something good did come of having me as a mother.” There was self-satisfaction in the words. Of course there was. Louisa had never shied away from pointing out the good things about herself.
Perhaps because there were so few of them.
“Is this the moment when I am to tell you how grateful I am that you left me? That you left them?”
At least she knew not to respond to that. “What would you like me to say, Juli?”
Her voice turned to steel. “First, I would like you to stop using that name.”
“Why? I had a part in naming you. We both called you that.”
“Only one of you deserved to.”
A look of boredom crossed Louisa’s face. “Nonsense. I gave you life. That gives me as much right as anyone to call you whatever I like. But, very well, Juliana, answer the question.” She switched to English. “What would you like from me?”
I want you to explain it. I want you to tell me why you would leave me. Why you would leave us. Why you would return.
Juliana gave a little humorless laugh, then answered in English. “The very idea that you would ask that of me is ridiculous.”
“You want me to apologize?”
“It would be an excellent beginning.”
Louisa’s cool blue gaze, so like her own, seemed to look through her. “We will be here a very long time if that is what you want.”
Juliana shrugged one shoulder. “Excellent. Then we are done.” She stood.
“Your father used to do that, too. The shrug. I am surprised that England has not beaten it out of you. It is not the most polite of mannerisms.”
“England does not have a hold on me.”
Suddenly, the words did not seem so true.
“No? Your English is very good for someone who does not care for the culture. I will be honest; I was surprised when Gabriel told me you were here. I cannot imagine it is easy for you to survive.” Juliana stayed silent, refusing to give Louisa the pleasure of knowing she was right. Her mother pressed on. “I imagine it is just the same as it was for me. Difficult. You see, daughter, we are not so different.”
We are not so different. They were the words she dreaded. The words she prayed were not true. “We are nothing like each other.”
“You can say it over and over. It will not change the truth.” Louisa leaned back in her seat. “Look at you. Just back from a ball, perhaps, but covered in something that indicates that you have not had the most respectable of evenings. What have you been doing?”
Juliana looked down at herself. Resisted the urge to pick at the fast-drying pulp that clung to her. “It is not your business.”
“It doesn’t matter. The point is that you are unable to resist adventure. You are unwilling to close yourself off to whatever pleasure happens to tempt you at any given time. My taste for excitement has been in you since you took your first breath. Resist all you like, but I am your mother. I am in you. The sooner you stop fighting it, the happier you will be.”
No.
It was not true. It had been a decade since Louisa had seen Juliana last . . . ten years during which Juliana had had the opportunity to grow and change and resist the parts of her mother that lay dormant within.
She did not seek out adventure or scandal or ruin.
Did she?
Memories flashed: chasing through a darkened garden; hiding in a strange carriage; riding through Hyde Park in men’s clothing; climbing out onto a log to fetch a replaceable bonnet; toppling a pyramid of harvest vegetables; waiting for Simon outside his club; kissing Simon in the barn; kissing Simon in the conservatory of his betrothed’s home.
Kissing Simon.
She had virtually gone out of her way to cause scandal in the last week—and before that, since she arrived in London, she might not have sought out adventure, but she certainly had not resisted it when it came calling.
Dear God.
She looked to her mother, meeting those blue eyes that were so much like her own, the eyes that gleamed with a knowledge that Juliana at once feared and loathed.
She was right.
“What do you want from us?” She heard the tremor in her voice. Wished it was not there.
Louisa was quiet for a long time, unmoving, her cool gaze taking Juliana in. After several minutes, Juliana had had enough. “I’ve spent too much of my life waiting for you.” She stood. “I am going to bed.”
“I want my life back.”
There was no sorrow in the words, no regret, either. There wouldn’t be. This was the closest her mother would ever come to either of those emotions. Regret was for people with a capacity for feeling.
Unable to stop herself, Juliana sat once more, on the edge of her chair, and took a long look at the woman who had given her life. Her beauty—the gift she had given all three of her children—was showing her age. There were strands of silver in her sable hair, her blue eyes were clouded with her years. There were a handful of lines on her face and neck, a blemish on one temple. A beauty mark just above one dark-winged eyebrow that Juliana remembered being less faded, more perfect.
The years had been kind to Louisa Hathbourne, but in a weathered, aged way that made the most beautiful of women think that she had lost everything.
Not that she gave any impression of feeling that way.
“You must know . . .” Juliana said, “. . . you cannot erase the past.”
Irritation flared on her mother’s face. “Of course I know that. I did not come back for my title. Or for the house. Or for Gabriel and Nicholas.”
And certainly not for me, Juliana thought.
“But there comes a point when it is no longer easy to live the life I have lived.”
Understanding flared. “And you think Gabriel will help you live a different life.”
“He was raised to be marquess. Raised to protect his family at all costs. Why do you think I told your father to send you here if anything happened to him?”
Juliana shook her head. “You deserted him.”
“Yes.” Again, she was struck by the lack of regret in the answer.
“He would never support you . . .”
“We shall see.” There was something in her eyes—a keen awareness born of years of self-interest and manipulation.
And then it all became clear.
This was London society, where reputation trumped all—even for the Marquess of Ralston. Especially for the new Marquess of Ralston, who had a wife and sister and unborn child to protect.
Juliana narrowed her gaze. “You knew. You knew you would cause a scandal. You knew he would do whatever it took to mitigate its damage. Not the damage to you . . . the damage to us. You think he’ll give you a settlement. Something to keep you in the manner in which you are accustomed.”
One side of her mother’s mouth lifted in a half smile, and she brushed a speck from her gown—a design from several years ago. “You divined my strategy quite quickly. As I said, we are not so different, you and I.”
“I would not be so certain of that, Mother.” Ralston spoke from the doorway, and Juliana turned her attention to him and Callie, who was hurrying toward her. “Which part of, ‘You are not to come near Ralston House again,’ did you have difficulty understanding?”
Louisa looked up with a smile. “Well, it has been nearly two decades since I have been in England, darling. Meanings are troublesome at times.” She raised a hand to Callie. “You must be the marchioness. I am sorry, I was so quickly escorted from the room last night that we were not properly introduced.”
“No. You weren’t,” Ralston drawled.
“Do you know why she is here?” Juliana interrupted, outrage pushing her to her feet. “Do you know she wants money from you?”
“Yes,” Gabriel said matter-of-factly before noticing Juliana’s gown. “What on earth happened to you?”
“I think now is not the time to discuss it, Gabriel,” Callie interrupted.
“You’re not going to give it to her, are you?” Juliana asked on a squeak, ignoring everything but the most important matter at hand.
“I have not yet decided.”
“Gabriel!” She resisted the urge to stomp her foot.
He ignored her. “I would like you to leave, Mother. If you have need of us, you may send word. Nick has an excellent staff. They know how to reach us.”
“She is living at Nick’s town house?” Juliana said. “He shall be furious when he finds out!”
“Nonsense. Nick was always the child who liked me best,” Louisa said casually, rising and heading for the door. “I wonder if Bennett has set my cloak aflame. That man always loathed me.”
“I suspected that he had excellent taste,” Juliana said, unable to keep quiet.
“Tut-tut, Juliana, one would think no one had ever taught you any manners.”
“I was lacking in a feminine influence in my youth.”
“Mmm.” Louisa gave Juliana’s gown a long inspection. “Tell me . . . do you think that if I had remained in Italy, you would still be covered in seeds and wheat tonight?”
She turned and exited the room, Juliana staring after her, wishing that she’d had a final barb to sling at her mother.
When Louisa had left the room, Callie turned to them, and said, “It is incredible that the two of you turned out so very normal with a mother such as that.”
“I am not so very normal, Empress. And I am not sure about Juliana, either.”
Callie looked at her with a wry smile. “The evening’s great mystery has been solved—you toppled Lady Needham’s harvest centerpiece?”
He turned to Juliana and raised one brow. “Dear God. And you ran off like an errant child?”
Juliana chewed on her lower lip. “Perhaps.”
He scowled.
“What was I to do? It would have ruined the evening for everyone.”
He sighed, then crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a scotch. “Just once, Juliana, I’d like you to attempt to refrain from causing a scandal. Not every time. Just once.”
“Gabriel,” Callie said quietly. “Have a care.”
“Well, it is true. What did we discuss this evening before we left for the ball? We all needed to be on our very best behavior to even attempt to ride out the tornado that is our mother.”
Juliana winced at the frustration in his words. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, Gabriel . . .”
“Of course you didn’t. You didn’t mean to fall in the Serpentine or be accosted in our gardens or be nearly compromised by Leighton either, I’m guessing.”
“Gabriel!” Callie was not so quiet this time.
Color washed over Juliana’s cheeks. “No, I did not. But I see that you don’t believe that.”
“You have to admit that you make it rather difficult, sister.”
She knew he was angry. Knew he felt trapped by their mother’s arrival and her requests and the threat she was to their family reputation, as strong as spun sugar. She knew she should not take his criticism to heart. Knew that he was lashing out at her because he could.
But she was tired of everyone pointing out her flaws.
Especially when they were right.
“I have not exactly had the easiest of evenings. Aside from tumbling down a flight of stairs and having my first conversation in a decade with my mother, I’ve argued with you, ruined my gown, fled a ball, and watched . . .”
Watched Simon pledge himself to someone else.
“Watched?” he prompted.
Suddenly, she felt very tired. Tired from the day, from the last week, from the last seven months. Tired of London.
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
There was a long pause as he watched her, and she deliberately evaded his gaze until he finally sighed. “Yes, well, I’ve had enough of this disaster of a day, myself.”
He exited the room.
Callie watched him go before heaving a sigh herself. “He did not mean it, you know. He’s just . . . she’s not easy for him, either.”
Juliana met her sister-in-law’s kind eyes. Callie had always been a calm to Gabriel’s storm. “I know. But he is not entirely wrong.” They sat for long minutes in companionable silence before Juliana could no longer stay quiet.
“Leighton is marrying.”
Callie nodded. “Lady Penelope has made a good match.”
“She does not love him.”
Callie tilted her head. “No, I don’t imagine she does.”
The silence stretched between them until Juliana could no longer bear it. Looking down at her hands, clasped tightly together, she said quietly, “When are they marrying? Was anything said?”
“I heard sometime in late November.”
One month.
Juliana nodded, pressing her lips together.
It was done. He was gone.
She took a deep breath.
“I think I am through with London.”
Callie’s eyes widened. “Forever?”
“At least for now.”
Simon needed a drink.
More than one.
He tossed his hat and gloves to the footman who had waited for his return home, relieved the man of his duties for the rest of the evening, and threw open the door to the library, taking perverse enjoyment in the way the great slab of oak crashed against the inside wall of the room.
He was the only one who was impressed, apparently. Leopold lifted his head and sniffed the air once, thoughtfully, before finding the entire event unworthy of excitement.
Simon moved to a sideboard and poured himself a tumbler of scotch, immediately throwing back the fiery liquid.
He was betrothed.
He poured another glass.
He was betrothed, and this evening, he’d nearly ruined a woman who was not his future bride.
He eyed the decanter for a brief moment before grabbing it and heading for his chair. Glowering at the dog, he offered his most masterful, “Off.”
The damned animal yawned and eased from the chair with a long stretch, as though it had made the decision to move on its own.
This was what he had become—a duke unable to secure even the obedience of his own dog.
He took the chair, ignoring the way the dog stretched out in front of the warm fire burning in the hearth.
He let out a long breath that it seemed he had been holding since earlier in the evening . . . since the moment the Marquess of Needham and Dolby had thundered the announcement of his daughter’s betrothal, and Simon had taken Lady Penelope’s hand in his, raised it to his lips, and done his duty.
He’d felt it then, the burden. For now it was no longer his mother and his sister and the dukedom for which he was responsible. He was responsible for Lady Penelope as well. And even then it had not been his impending marriage or even his sister’s impending ruin that consumed his thoughts.
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.”