Too-familiar servants are the worst kind of offense.
Refined ladies do not abide gossip in the kitchens.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
At long last, the appeal of the country has returned . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823
Simon wanted to put a fist through the wall of the nursery.
He’d left for Yorkshire the moment he’d received word that Georgiana’s baby had come; he’d told himself he was coming for his sister and his niece and to ensure that the family’s secrets remained just that—secret. And he had come for those things.
But he had also come to escape Juliana.
He should have known that once he arrived here, in this house filled with women, that he would be reminded of her. Should have known that when he drank scotch with Nick, he would see Juliana in Nick’s eyes, in the way he laughed. Should have known that near her family, he would think of her constantly.
But what he had not expected was how much he thought of her when he was near his own family: when his mother had left the house, with barely a word of farewell; when his sister had refused to see him upon his arrival to Townsend Park; when he held his niece in his arms, consumed with how her slight weight could seem so heavy. He’d thought of Juliana at all those moments.
He’d wanted her by his side. Her strength. Her willingness to face down any foe. Her commitment to those for whom she cared.
For those she loved.
When she’d burst into the nursery to take him on, to champion the infant Caroline at all costs, it had been as though he had conjured her up. And somehow, in her railing, he had found comfort for the first time since arriving in Yorkshire.
She had faced him with a fierce commitment to what she believed was right. No one had ever fought him the way she had. The way she did. No one had ever held his feet to the flame the way she did.
She was everything he had never been—emotion and passion and excitement and desire. She cared nothing for his name or his title or his reputation.
She cared only for the man he might be.
She made him want to be that man.
But it was impossible.
He had proposed to Penelope, thinking she could save them all, and only now did he realize that, with that final act, he had ruined everything.
Simon stared at the door through which Juliana had fled, knowing that the best he could do for her—for both of them—was to keep away from her.
He owed her at least that.
She deserved better than ruin at his hands.
A flood of remorse coursed through him—for what he had done and what he would never do. He tried not to think on it as noise came, loud and welcome, from the cradle; Caroline was waking. He moved instinctively toward her, wanting to hold the little creature who did not know enough to see his flaws.
He was beside her in seconds, thankful for the odd lack of servants at the Park. In any other house, the niece of a duke would be surrounded by nurses and nannies, but here, she was alone at times, giving her uncle a chance to be near her without an audience.
He lifted her once more into his arms, hoping that the contact was enough for her to settle and return to sleep. Caroline had other plans, her little cries getting louder.
“Don’t cry, sweeting,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “Don’t make me have to find a servant . . . or your mother—I’ve made a hash of things with her, as well.”
The infant took no pity on him, squirming in his hands. He moved her against his chest, her head on his shoulder, one large hand spread over her back. “I am not enough to make you happy, am I? Of course, there’s no reason to believe I should begin making the ladies in my life happy now.”
“You could try a touch harder.”
He turned at the words. His sister was crossing the nursery toward him, arms outstretched. He relinquished the baby and watched as Georgiana cradled her daughter. The child instantly settled into the arms of her mother, her cries becoming little whimpers. “She knows you.”
Georgiana gave a little smile, not looking away from the infant. “We’ve had several months to get acquainted.”
Several months during which he had been absent.
He was an ass.
“I hear you are to be married.”
“News travels fast in this house,” Simon said.
“It is a house populated entirely with women. What did you think would happen to the information?” She paused. “Are congratulations in order?”
“Lady Penelope will make a fine wife. Her family is ancient, her reputation, impeccable.”
“As ours used to be?”
“As it still is.”
She lifted her gaze to his, amber eyes—so like his own—seeing more than he would like. “Not for long, though.”
He did not want to discuss his marriage to Penelope. He did not want to discuss their family name, their reputation. He wanted to discuss his sister. He wanted to start fresh.
Not that it would ever be possible.
“Georgiana . . .” he began, stopping when she turned away, ignoring him and crossing the room to a high table where she set Caroline down and began fussing about with her.
“You shan’t want to stay for this bit, I don’t imagine.”
His brow furrowed at the words, and he moved closer, curious. “For what bit?” He peeked over his sister’s shoulder, took note of her actions and instantly turned his back to the scene. “Oh! Yes. Ah—No.” In all his ducal training, he had never been trained on the care and—cleaning—of infants. “Isn’t there . . .” he cleared his throat. “Someone who can . . . do that . . . for you?”
He could not be certain, but he thought he heard his sister chuckle. “Children do not arrive with nurse in tow, Simon.”
He did not like the mocking in her tone. “I know that. Of course I do. But you are—” He stopped. There were a dozen ways to end that sentence.
A duke’s daughter . . . my sister . . . barely out of diapers yourself in my mind. . .
“I am a mother.” She came around to face him, Caroline now quiet in her arms. His sister, whom he’d always considered fragile, now calm and strong, with a voice like steel. “Whatever you were about to say. It is of no import. I am her mother. And she is first. There isn’t anything you can say that will change my mind.”
His sister was no longer a delicate girl, but Juno, fully grown and protecting her young.
From him.
He, who should be doing the protecting, dammit.
“I don’t want to change your mind.”
She blinked. “You don’t.”
“No.”
It was true.
She let out a long breath. “You’ll let me stay with Caroline. You won’t make me fight you.”
For the last six months, he had been certain that sending the child away would be for the best. Even on the journey up, he’d toyed with the possibility, played over potential destinations in his mind, unwilling to release the hope that all could return to normal.
He now understood how ridiculous such an idea had been.
He could not bear the idea of sending Caroline away.
I know what it is like to grow up knowing that a parent does not want you, Simon. He’d seen the sadness in Juliana’s eyes as she’d spoken the words. He wanted to take his fists to the people who had made her feel such devastation. And he never wanted his niece to feel that pain.
“Of course you shall stay with Caroline.”
Georgiana’s relief was clear. “Thank you, Simon.”
He turned away, less than deserving of his sister’s words of gratitude after his poor treatment during the past few months. He deserved her anger and her fury and her loathing, not her thanks.
For, even as she held her daughter in a loving embrace, he thought of the damage that would be wrought upon the family name.
The scandal would come. And they would weather it. He was prepared. Or would be once he married Lady Penelope. “I shall be married in a month. It will help defray the interest in your situation.”
She laughed at that, and the sound grated. “Simon, a royal wedding itself would not defray the interest in my situation.”
He ignored the words, heading for the door, wanting nothing but to be free of this room that had seemed so welcoming and turned so cloying. Georgiana spoke before he could exit. “You don’t have to do it, you know. Nowhere is it written that you must shoulder the burden of our reputation. You don’t have to marry her.”
Of course he did.
He was the Duke of Leighton—one of the most powerful men in England, born to bear the weight of one of the most venerable titles in the aristocracy. He had spent his whole life preparing for this moment, when honor and duty came before all else.
Where was the honor in what he had done to Juliana? In the stables? In the park? In this room?
Shame coursed through him, his skin growing hot.
“It is not a question. I will marry the lady.”
He would do what needed to be done.
He found St. John in the Earl of Reddich’s study.
The door stood open, and he knocked once, firmly on the jamb, waiting for St. John to wave him into the room before assuming the ample leather chair on the far side of the great mahogany desk.
“One might almost think you were titled for how well you look behind that desk,” he said.
Nick finished annotating a long column of numbers in the estate ledger and looked up. “Considering that the earl is ten and at school, I don’t think he will mind if I keep the chair warm until he is ready for it.” He leaned back. “It is the mistress of the house that we have to be worried about. She gets irritated when I use her desk.”
“Why not get your own, then?”
St. John grinned. “I rather enjoy her when she’s irritated.”
Simon pretended not to hear the inappropriate comment. “I should like to talk about my sister.”
“Excellent. I should like to talk about mine.” Simon froze at the words, and St. John’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Isabel thinks there is something between the two of you. And she is always right. It’s infuriating, really.”
“There is nothing between us.”
“No?”
Yes.
“No.” He attempted to sound emphatic. Hoped he succeeded.
“Mmm.” Nick removed his spectacles and tossed them on the desk. “Well then. By all means, let’s discuss Lady Georgiana.”
Simon’s relief came out on a wave of irritation. “I am happy that someone in this house remembers my sister’s station.”
Nick’s brows rose. “I would exercise more care if I were you, Leighton.”
Simon swore quietly, his hands balling in fists.
“Try again,” Nick said.
Nicholas St. John was, very possibly, Simon’s oldest friend, if he were to lay claim to one. The two, along with Ralston, had been the same year at Eton, and Simon, young and entitled, had spent too much time reminding the brothers—and the rest of the class—that the sons of the House of Ralston had come from questionable stock indeed. One day, he had pushed the easygoing Nick too far and suffered the consequences. Nick had bloodied his nose, and their friendship had begun.
It had waned in the years following their departure from school—Simon had become the Duke of Leighton, the head of the family, one of the most powerful men in England—and Nick had left for the Continent, disappearing into the East as a war raged. Leighton money had funded Nick’s activities, but that was as close as Simon had come to his friend during those years.
When Juliana had arrived in London, Simon had done nothing to support the house of St. John. And still, when Georgiana arrived on the doorstep of Townsend Park, with child and little else, Nick and Isabel had taken her in. Protected her as though she were their own. And as Simon had railed against them, threatening this house, their names, even their lives, Nick had stood firm, protecting Georgiana at all costs.
A friend.
Perhaps his only friend.
And Simon owed Nick more than he could ever repay.
And now he was going to ask for more.
“She wants to remain here. With the child.”
Nick leaned back in his chair. “And what do you want?”
What did he want?
He wanted it all to go back to the way it was. He wanted Georgiana safe in her bed at his country estate, preparing for autumn harvests and winter holidays. He wanted to be free of the burden that had been his since he had ascended to the dukedom . . . since before that.
And he wanted Juliana.
He stopped at the last, her name whispering through his mind.
But instead of bringing clarity, it served only to bring frustration.
He could not have her.
Not now, not ever.
And so he asked for what he could have.
“I want Georgiana to be safe. And Caroline—the child—I want them both to be safe.”
Nick nodded. “They are safe here.”
“Tell me how much you need.”
Nick slashed one hand through the air. “No, Leighton. You’ve given us enough over the past six months. More than necessary.”
“More than you expected.”
“Well, you must admit . . . with the way you stormed out of here after discovering your sister’s situation, we hardly expected you to become a benefactor of Minerva House.”
He’d done it out of guilt.
Georgiana had been terrified of telling him the truth about her situation—that she was with child—that the father’s identity would remain her secret. She’d been in tears, had virtually begged him to forgive her. To protect her.
And he’d walked away, angry and unsettled.
He’d returned to London, desperate to shore up their reputation.
Pretending that she was an inconvenience rather than his sister, and the only member of his family who had ever felt like family.
And so he had done the only thing he could do.
He had sent money.
A great deal of it.
“They are my responsibility. I will continue to care for them.”
Nick watched him for a long moment, and Simon held his friend’s gaze. He would not be denied this—the only way he could even begin to rectify his mistakes.
Nick nodded once. “You do what you feel needs to be done.”
“You will let me know if anything . . . if she needs anything.”
“I will.”
“You are a good friend.” It was the first time he’d ever said the words. To Nick . . . to anyone. The first time he had acknowledged a friendship that was more than a drink at the club or a fencing match. He surprised himself with the sentiment.
Nick’s eyes widened at the words. “You would do the same.”
The simple truth shook Simon to the core. He would. Now. But until recently, he might not have.
What had changed?
The answer was clear.
But he could not admit it. Not to himself. Certainly not to Nick.
“Now that that’s settled,” Nick said, reaching for a bottle of brandy and pouring two snifters’ worth of the rich liquid, “shall we return to the topic of Juliana?”
No. She is too much on my mind as it is.
Simon took the offered glass, trying to keep from betraying his thoughts. “There is not much to say.”
Nick drank, savoring the liquid and drawing out the moment. “Come, Leighton. You forget to whom you speak. Why not tell me the truth this time? I know my brother hit you. I know my sister flew into a near rage when she thought you might be here with your own child. Do you really want me to draw my own conclusions?”
They could not be any worse than the truth.
Simon remained silent.
Nick sat back, hands clasped together over his navy blue waistcoat—a portrait of calm. Simon loathed him for it. And then his friend spoke. “Fair enough. I shall tell you what I think. I think that you are beside yourself with discomfort at the situation your sister is in. I think you’ve proposed to Lady Penelope in some mad belief that your marriage can offset Georgiana’s scandal. I think you are marrying for all the wrong reasons. And I think that my sister is proving it to you.”
Simon had an instant desire to put his fist through Nick, who noticed the flash of anger with a wry smile. “You’re welcome to hit me, old friend, but I can tell you it will not make this any easier. Or my words any less true.”
Simon supposed he should have been impressed by Nick’s astuteness, but when he really considered it, how difficult was it to see the truth?
He was foolish around her. She made him a fool.
She made him more than that.
She made him ache. And want.
And more.
He did not follow the thought. Would not.
Nick need not know such things.
Instead, he faced his friend in silence, and they sat like that, unmoving, not speaking, for long moments before one side of Nick’s mouth rose in a small smile. “You realize you won’t be able to avoid it.”
Simon made a show of brushing an invisible speck from his coat sleeve, pretending to be bored, pretending not to care even as his mind and heart raced.
“Avoid what?”
“Avoid the way she makes you feel.”
“And who is to say she makes me feel anything but irritation?”
Nick laughed. “The fact that you know precisely of whom I am speaking is enough. And you will discover that, in this family, irritation is a precursor to far more dangerous sentiments.”
“I have discovered far too much about this family as it is,” he said, hoping that years of practiced haughtiness would cover the other emotions roiling within.
“You can play the part of the disdainful duke all you like, Leighton. It won’t change anything.” Nick set his snifter down and stood, heading for the door, turning back before he opened it. “I suppose it is too much to ask that you stay away from her?”
Yes.
The idea of staying away from Juliana was incomprehensible.
And yet, he must.
What an ass he was. What a fool.
“Not at all.”
Liar.
Nick made a little sound that spoke volumes.
“You do not believe me?”
Not that he should. Lord Nicholas St. John should remove him bodily from the house—for his sister’s protection.
For Simon’s.
“No, Leighton. I don’t believe you. Not in the slightest.” Nick opened the door.
“If you think I am a risk to her—to her reputation—why let me stay here?”
Nick turned to face him then, and Simon saw something in the other man’s blue eyes—eyes so like Juliana’s.
Sympathy.
“You are not a risk to her.”
Nick did not know the way desire raged through him when she was near.
Simon stayed silent as Nick continued. “You are too careful, Leighton. Too cautious. Juliana is not part of your perfect, pristine life. She is riddled with scandal—as is our entire family. Not that we mind it much,” he added in an aside, “but that alone will prevent you from touching her.”
Simon wanted to disagree. He wanted to scream at the irresponsibility inherent in the words. His own sister was abovestairs, living proof of what happened when men lost control. When they made mistakes.
But before he had a chance to speak, Nick added, “Do not keep her from happiness, Simon. Perhaps you do not want it for yourself, but you know she deserves it. And she can make a good match.”
With someone else.
A visceral hatred coursed through Simon at the thought.
“You say that like there is someone ready to make the offer.” He did not mean the disdain in his tone.
Nick heard it nonetheless, and Simon saw anger flash in his friend’s eyes. “I should give you the fight you so desperately want for saying that. You think that just because you would never dare to sully your precious reputation with someone like Juliana, there are not others who would line up for a chance at her?”
Of course there would be. She was intelligent and quick-witted and charming and mesmerizingly beautiful.
But before he could admit it, Nick exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him with a soft click, leaving Simon to his thoughts.
She did not want to be alone with her thoughts, so Juliana took solace in the least solitary place at Townsend Park.
The kitchens.
The Minerva House kitchens were precisely the way Juliana thought kitchens should be—loud and messy and filled with laughter and smells and people. They were the heart of the home that the house had become to all the women who lived there. That is to say, the Minerva House kitchens were nothing like the kitchens of other fine English manor houses.
Which was excellent, because Juliana had had enough of fine English things that day—fine English propriety, fine English arrogance, fine English dukes.
She wanted something real and honest.
When she came through the door, the cluster of women gathered around the enormous table at the center of the room barely looked up, continuing their boisterous conversation as Gwen, the manor’s cook, took one look at Juliana and put her to work.
“This is Juliana,” she said, as the other women made space for her around the oak table—long and lovely and scarred with years of meals and secrets. “Lord Nicholas’s sister.”
And with that, she was accepted. Gwen floured the space in front of Juliana and upended a copper bowl there, depositing a lump of thick dough in need of attention.
“Knead,” said the tiny woman, and Juliana did not think of disobeying.
There were a half dozen other women around the table, each with her own task—chopping, cutting, mixing, pounding—a perfectly organized battalion of cooks, chattering away.
Juliana took a deep breath, breathing in the comfort in the room. She pressed the dough out into a flat, round disk and listened. This was the distraction she needed. Here, she would not have to think about Simon.
“. . . I will say that he is one of the handsomest visitors we’ve had in a very long time.”
“Perhaps ever,” Gwen added, and there was a murmur of agreement from around the table.
“He looks like an angel.”
“A wicked one . . . fallen from heaven. Did you see the way he stormed in here and demanded to see Georgiana?”
Juliana froze. They were talking about Simon. It appeared she would not be able to escape him after all.
“The biggest, too,” added a tall, thin woman whom Juliana had never met.
“I wonder if he is that big all over,” someone said, and the girls dissolved into a fit of giggles at the innuendo.
“He’s a guest!” Gwen snapped a towel in the direction of the woman who had made the suggestive comment before smiling wide. “Not that I haven’t had that thought myself.”
“Please, tell me you are not speaking of whom I think you are speaking.”
Juliana’s head snapped up as the entire tableful of women laughed and cleared a space for the newcomer—Lady Georgiana.
It had to be her. She looked just like him, all golden-haired and amber-eyed. She was nowhere near his size, however. She was petite and lovely, like a porcelain doll, with the soft, round beauty of a woman who had just given birth. She did not look seventeen. Indeed, she looked much older. Wiser.
“If you thought we were speaking of your handsome brother, you are right,” Gwen teased. “Are you feeling up to peeling apples?”
Gwen did not wait for an answer, placing a basketful of bright red apples in front of Georgiana. The younger girl did not protest, instead lifting a small paring knife and setting to work. A shock of surprise went through Juliana at the scene—the sister of a duke happily peeling apples in the kitchens of Minerva House—but she did not comment. “My handsome brother, is he?” Georgiana said, lifting her gaze to Juliana’s with a smile.
Juliana went instantly back to work.
Fold, punch, fold, punch.
“You must admit, he is good-looking.”
Juliana pretended not to hear.
Turn, flour, fold, punch.
“He has enough women in London throwing themselves at him. Do not give him the pleasure of such a reception here.”
Pretended not to think of other women in his arms. Of Penelope in his arms.
Flip, fold, press.
“Nah, men like the duke are too cold, anyway.” The tall woman added, “Look at what he’s done, sending you and Caroline away for the scandal.”
“He didn’t exactly send us away.”
The larger woman waved a hand in dismissal. “I don’t care what happened. You’re here with us instead of there with him, and that’s enough for me. I like my men with heart.”
“He has heart.” Juliana didn’t know she had spoken aloud until the conversation around the table went silent.
“He does, does he?” She looked up, cheeks flaming, and met Georgiana’s curious eyes before returning to the dough. “We have not been introduced.”
“This is Lord Nicholas’s sister,” Gwen hurried to say.
“Miss Fiori, is it?”
Juliana looked up again, hands wrist deep in pastry. “Juliana.”
Georgiana nodded. “And what do you know of my brother’s heart, Juliana?”
“I—I simply mean he must have a heart, no?” When none of the women replied, returned to the dough. “I don’t know.”
Fold, turn, fold.
“It sounds like you know quite a bit.”
“I don’t.” She meant for it to sound more emphatic than it was.
“Juliana,” Georgiana asked in a pointed way that was all too familiar, “are you . . . fond of my brother?”
She shouldn’t be. He was everything she didn’t want. Everything she loathed about England and aristocrats and men.
Except the parts of him that were everything she loved about them.
But his bad far outweighed the good.
Hadn’t he just proven it?
Juliana slapped her hand into the dough, her hand spreading the mass flat on the table. “Your brother is not fond of me.”
There was a long silence before she looked up to find Georgiana smiling at her. “That is not what I asked, though.”
“No!” she burst out. “There is nothing about that man to be fond of.” Georgiana’s mouth dropped open as she continued. “All he cares about is his precious dukedom”—she collected the dough violently into a ball—“and his precious reputation.” She punched the ball, enjoying the sensation of dough pressing through her fingers. She flipped the disk over and repeated the action before she realized that she had just insulted the lady’s brother. “And you, of course, my lady.”
“But he is handsome,” Gwen interjected, trying for levity.
Juliana was not amused. “I don’t care how big he is or how handsome. No, I am not fond of him.”
There was stunned silence around the table, and Juliana blew a strand of hair from where it had come loose. She rubbed one floury hand across her cheek.
“Of course you aren’t,” Georgiana said carefully.
There was a chorus of agreement from around the table, and Juliana realized just how silly she must look. “I am sorry.”
“Nonsense. He is a very difficult man to be fond of. You needn’t tell me that,” Georgiana said.
Gwen snatched the dough from Juliana’s grip, returning it to the bowl. “I think this is kneaded very well. Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” She heard the pout in her tone. Did not care for it.
“He’s not so handsome, either,” said the tall woman.
“I’ve seen handsomer,” chimed another.
“Indeed,” Gwen said, handing Juliana a freshly baked biscuit, still warm from the oven.
She nibbled on one end, amazed that this group of women whom she did not know ignored her mad behavior, returning to their tasks one by one.
What a fool she had become.
She stood at the thought, pushing the stool back so quickly that it tipped and barely righted itself. “I should not have . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
Only one of the two beginnings was true.
She swore softly in Italian, and the women looked to each other, seeking for a translator in their midst. They did not find one.
“I must go.”
“Juliana,” Georgiana said, and she heard the plea in the girl’s voice. “Stay. Please.”
Juliana froze at the door, back to the room, feeling instantly sorry for anyone who had or would feel the way she did at that precise moment—the combination of shame and sadness and frustration and nausea that made her want to crawl into her bed and never come out again.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I cannot stay.”
She opened the door and hurried toward the stairs. If she could just reach the house’s center staircase—if she could just find her way upstairs—things would be better. She would be better.
She increased her pace, eager to escape the embarrassment that seemed to be chasing her from the kitchens.
“Juliana!”
Embarrassment followed nonetheless, in the form of Lady Georgiana.
She spun back around, facing the smaller woman, wishing she could eliminate the last few minutes, the last hour, the whole trip to Yorkshire. “Please.”
Georgiana smiled, a dimple flashing in her cheek. “Would you like to take a walk with me? The gardens are quite nice.”
“I—”
“Please. I am told I should take air after the baby. I should like the company.”
She made it impossible to refuse. They exited through a sitting room set off to one side of the corridor, out an unassuming doorway and down a small set of stone stairs into the vegetable garden at the side of the house.
They walked among the perfectly organized rows of plants in silence for long moments before Juliana could not bear in any longer. “I am sorry for what I said in the kitchens.”
“Which part?”
“All of it, I suppose. I did not mean to criticize your brother.”
Georgiana smiled then, running her fingers along a sprig of rosemary and bringing the scent to her nose. “That is unfortunate. I rather liked that you were willing to criticize my brother. So few ever do.”
Juliana opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, uncertain of what to say. “I suppose that he does little to deserve their criticism,” she said, finally.
Georgiana gave her a look. “Do you?”
The truth was far easier than attempting to say the right thing. She gave a little self-deprecating laugh. “Not entirely, no.”
“Good. He’s infuriating, isn’t he?”
Juliana’s eyes widened in surprise, and she nodded. “Exceedingly so.”
Georgiana grinned. “I think I like you.”
“I am happy to hear it.” They walked a while longer. “I have not said congratulations. On the birth of your daughter.”
“Caroline. Thank you.” There was a long pause. “I suppose you know that I am a terrible scandal in the making.”
Juliana offered her a smile. “Then we are destined to be friends, as I am considered by many to be a terrible scandal already made.”
“Really?”
Juliana nodded, pulling a sprig of thyme from a nearby shrubbery and lifting it to her nose, inhaling deep. “Indeed. I have a mother, as I’m sure you know. She is a legend.”
“I’ve heard of her.”
“She returned to England last week.”
Georgiana’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Yes. Your brother was there.” Juliana tossed the herb aside. “Everyone thinks I am made from the same clothing.” Georgiana tilted her head in the way people did when they did not entirely understand her. Juliana rephrased. “They think I am like her.”
“Ah. Cut from the same cloth.”
That was it. “Yes.”
“And are you?”
“Your brother thinks so.”
“That was not the question.”
Juliana considered the words. No one had ever asked her if she was like her mother. No one had ever cared. The gossips of the ton had immediately condemned her for her parentage, and Gabriel and Nick and the rest of the family had simply rejected the idea of any similarities out of hand.
But Georgiana stood across from her on this winding garden path and asked the question no one had ever asked. So, Juliana told the truth. “I hope not.”
And it was enough for Georgiana. The path forked ahead of them, and she threaded one hand through Juliana’s arm, leading the way back to the house. “Never fear, Juliana. When my news gets out, they will forget everything they have ever thought of you and your mother. Fallen angels make for excellent gossip.”
“But you are the daughter of a duke,” Juliana protested. “Simon is marrying to protect you.”
Georgiana shook her head. “I am well-and-truly ruined. Absolutely irredeemable. Perhaps he can protect our reputation, perhaps he can quiet the whispers, but they will never go away.”
“I am sorry,” Juliana said, because she could not think of anything else.
Georgiana squeezed her hand and smiled. “I was, too, for a while. But now I am here for as long as Nick and Isabel will have me, and Caroline is healthy, and I find it difficult to care.”
I find it difficult to care. In all the time that she had been in England, for all the times that she had scoffed at the disdainful words and glances from the ton, Juliana had never not cared. Even when she had tried her best, she had cared.
She had cared what Simon had thought.
Cared that he would never think her enough.
Even as she had known it to be true.
And she envied this strong, spirited woman who faced her uncertain future with such confidence.
“It may not be proper for me to say it,” Juliana said, “but they are idiots for casting you aside. The ballrooms of London could benefit from a woman with such spirit.”
Georgiana’s eyes gleamed with wry humor. “It is not at all proper for you to say it. But we both know that the ballrooms of London can hardly bear one woman with spirit. What would they do with two of us?”
Juliana laughed. “When you decide to return, my lady, we shall cut a wide, scandalous path together. My family has a particular fondness for children with questionable parentage, you see—” She trailed off, realizing that she had gone too far. “I am sorry. I did not mean to say that . . .”
“Nonsense,” Georgiana said, waving one hand in the air to dismiss the apology. “Caroline is most definitely of questionable parentage.” She grinned. “So I am quite happy to know that there is at least one drawing room where we will be received.”
“May I ask . . .”
Georgiana met her gaze with admiration. “You do not worry about propriety, do you, Miss Fiori?” Juliana looked away with chagrin. “It is an old tale, tiresome and devastatingly trite. I thought he loved me, and maybe he did. But sometimes love is not enough—more often than not, I think.” There was no sadness in the tone, no regret. Juliana met Georgiana’s amber gaze and saw honesty there, a clarity that belied her age.
Sometimes love is not enough.
They walked in silence back to the house, those words echoing over and over in Juliana’s mind.
Words she would do well to remember.