But all love began this way—fiery and passionate and devoted. What happened when fire waned and devotion became tiresome?
She watched as Callie stretched to whisper into Ralston’s ear on the opposite side of the box. Her brother smiled broadly—something he had rarely done when Juliana had arrived in the spring—placing his hand on the small of his wife’s back and leaning down to reply.
From the pink wash that spread over Callie’s cheeks, Juliana imagined her brother’s words were not entirely fit for the theatre.
Something coiled deep within Juliana . . . something that she might have identified as envy if she spent too much time considering it.
But she knew better than to be envious of their love. It was a vague, ephemeral emotion that, within months—years, if one were lucky—would ultimately fade.
And then what?
No, Juliana did not want love.
But passion . . . the kind that made her brother say wicked things to his wife at the theatre . . . that was another thing entirely.
She wouldn’t mind that.
She thought back to the morning two days earlier, to the moment in Hyde Park when the Duke of Leighton had leapt from his horse, eyes flashing with anger and frustration, and kissed her. Thoroughly.
With passion.
And he’d made her want, damn him.
She wanted that of which he’d given her a taste.
Desire. Lust. Sensuality. Even the conflict was compelling.
But not him.
She refused to want him.
She lifted the binoculars and scanned the theatre, searching for something that would serve to redirect her attention. Several boxes away, Viscount Densmore appeared to be leering down the amply filled, alarmingly low-cut bodice of his companion—it appeared Mari had been right about her. A few yards farther, Lady Davis and Lady Sparrow were at risk of falling out of their box as they craned their necks toward some distant point before huddling behind fluttering fans held in the universal position for scandalous conversation. While Juliana had no love for either of the horrible women, she had to admit that they were expert gossips. Tracking their line of sight, she hoped for a welcome distraction.
When she arrived at the reason for their frenzied whispers, she vowed never to gossip again.
There, in the box directly opposite, stood the Duke of Leighton and the grape, in quiet, private conversation. In full view of half of London.
Several feet away from the perfect, poised couple, rounding out the portrait of aristocratic bliss—and very likely sending the rest of the theatre into convulsions of excitement over what was most definitely a sign of impeding marriage—were the Duchess of Leighton and a plump lady and portly gentleman who Juliana could only imagine were the grape’s parents.
Lady Penelope.
She had better start thinking of her as Lady Penelope.
Why? Soon enough she’ll be the Duchess of Leighton.
She ignored the wave of distaste that flooded her at the thought.
What did she care whom he married?
She didn’t.
Why did she care that he had selected someone who was everything Juliana was not? Poised perfection, absolutely no trouble, not even a bit scandalous?
She didn’t.
No? Then why not put down the opera glasses?
She could put down the opera glasses anytime she wanted.
She meant to put down the opera glasses.
He looked up and stared directly at her.
If they had burst into flame, she could not have lowered the opera glasses more quickly.
Or with more carelessness.
The binoculars hit the marble balustrade with a wicked crack, and the gold eyepiece fell to the carpeted floor.
It was dreadfully quiet in the box all of a sudden, as the collected visitors and family turned at the sound, finding Juliana openmouthed, staring at the long enamel handle that remained in her hand.
An enormous wave of embarrassment coursed through her, and Juliana took the first avenue of escape, falling to her knees on the floor of the at once too-dark and utterly not-dark-enough box to retrieve the glasses which . . . devil take them . . . must have bounced under a chair, because they were nowhere to be seen.
Searching blindly under the chairs, it took her a moment to realize that by crawling on the floor of the Duke of Rivington’s theatre box, she’d just made a bad situation much, much worse. Ladies Sparrow and Davis were very likely watching her now, waiting to see how she would extricate herself from this mortifying situation.
And she would not even think about him.
Certainly he had seen it all. And she imagined him lifting one imperious, golden brow in her direction as if to say, Thank goodness it is Ralston who must deal with you and not I.
She cursed under her breath, deciding that this particular situation could not be made worse by a few choice words in Italian.
Her fingers brushed against something cool and smooth, and she grasped the fallen glasses. She lifted her head, to find herself staring at the shins of Callie’s brother, the Earl of Allendale. A gentleman of the highest caliber, Benedick was almost certainly there to help her to her feet.
She was not ready.
He seemed to sense that, instead crouching down beside her. “Shall I pretend to help with the search until you are ready to face them?” he whispered, and the lighthearted amusement in his tone helped to steady her pulse.
She met his clear brown gaze, so like Callie’s, and matched his whisper with her own. “Do you think I might stay here, my lord?”
“For how long?”
“Forever is too long, is it?”
He pretended to consider the question. “Well, as a gentleman, I would be required to remain by your side . . . and I was hoping to see the performance,” he teased. When she smiled, he offered her a hand and some quiet advice. “Keep smiling. If they see that you are embarrassed, you’ll hate yourself for it.”
With a deep breath, she allowed him to lift her to her feet. She could feel hundreds of eyes on her, but she refused to look.
Refused to check to see if one set of those eyes belonged to the arrogant duke opposite them. Through her forced smile, she said, “I’ve caused a scene, haven’t I?”
One side of Lord Allendale’s mouth rose in amusement. “Yes. But it’s a theatre. So take comfort in the fact that you are not the first to do so here.”
“The first to do so from so far above the stage, however.”
He leaned in close, as if to share a secret. “Nonsense. I once saw a viscountess lose her wig because she was leaning too far over the edge.” He gave a mock shudder. “Horrifying.”
She laughed, the sound equal parts amusement and relief. Benedick was handsome and charming and so much kinder than—
Than no one.
“First the Serpentine and now this.”
“You are an adventuress, it would seem,” he teased. “At least in this case, you are in no danger.”
“Really? Why does it feel so much more terrifying?”
Benedick smiled down at her. “Would you like to take a bow?”
Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t!”
“No?”
“It would be—”
“It would make for a far more interesting evening, that is certain.”
And Leighton would hate it.
The thought brought a grin to her face. A real one.
She shook her head. “I think I have caused enough trouble for one evening,” she said to the earl, turning to face the rest of the box. She held up the glasses triumphantly, announcing, “I found them!”
Mariana laughed, clapping her hands twice in a sign that she was thoroughly entertained. Ralston’s smirk indicated that his irritation at her scene was overpowered by his pride that she would not cower in fear of the rest of the ton. Her brother had never cared much for society, and Juliana had that for which to be thankful.
As for the visitors to the box, they seeme
d to be attempting to recall the proper etiquette for the moment when the sister of a marquess reappeared after spending entirely too long on the floor of a theatre box—not that Juliana believed there was an appropriate amount of time to spend on the floor of a theatre box—the lights in the theatre began to dim, and it was time for the real performance to begin.
Thank God.
Juliana was soon seated at the end of the first row of seats, next to Mariana, who had no doubt returned to Juliana’s side to protect her from further embarrassment. The lights came up on stage, and the play began.
It was impossible for Juliana to focus on the play. It was a farce, and a good one if the audience’s laughter was any indication, but she was struggling with residual nerves, a lingering impulse to flee the theatre, and an unbearable desire to look at the Duke of Leighton’s box.
An unbearable desire that, by the end of the first scene, proved irresistible.
She stole a glance from the corner of her eye and saw him.
Watching the play with avid interest.
Her fingers tightened around the delicate gold binoculars in her hands, reminding her of their existence. Of the ease with which she could see him clearly.
It was entirely reasonable for her to check the state of the most important component of the opera glasses, she reasoned. While the handle was broken, it would certainly be a tragedy if the glasses themselves were ruined as well. Any halfway-decent friend would replace them if they were broken.
Of course she would test the glasses.
She should test the glasses.
It was altogether expected.
She lifted the eyepiece and peered at the stage. No cracked lenses—Juliana could see the brilliant scarlet satin of the lead actress, she could almost make out the individual strands of the thick black moustache worn by the lead actor.
Perfect working order.
But there was no assurance that the glasses had not been broken in some other way.
Perhaps they were now affected by light?
Altogether possible. She would do well to find out.
In the name of friendship.
She swung the glasses as casually as possible in a wide arc from the stage, stopping only when she found his gleaming golden curls. Something on the stage made the audience laugh. He did not laugh . . . did not even smile, until the grape turned to him, as if to check to see that he was enjoying himself. Juliana watched as he forced a smile, leaning close to speak softly in her ear. Her smile grew broader, more natural, and she all of a sudden did not seem so very grapelike.
She seemed quite lovely.
Juliana felt ill.
“Do you see anything of interest?”
She inhaled sharply, nearly dropping the glasses at the whispered question.
She turned to meet Mariana’s gaze. “I—I was merely testing the opera glasses. I wanted to be certain that they were in working condition.”
“Ah.” A small smile played across her friend’s lips. “Because I could have sworn you were looking at the Duke of Leighton.”
“Why would I be doing that?” Juliana said, and the question came out at a near-inhuman pitch. She thrust the broken glasses into Mariana’s lap. “Here. They work.”
Mariana lifted the glasses, making absolutely no attempt to hide that she was looking at the Duke of Leighton. “I wonder why he is with Penelope Marbury?”
“He’s going to marry her,” Juliana grumbled.
Mariana gave Juliana a quick look of surprise. “Really. Well. She’s made the catch of a lifetime.”
The cod served at luncheon must have been off. It was the only reason why she would feel so very . . . queasy.
Mariana returned to her inspection. “Callie tells me that you’ve had several run-ins with him.”
Juliana shook her head, and whispered, “I don’t know what she is talking about. We haven’t run at all. There was a riding incident, but I didn’t think Callie knew about it . . .” She stopped talking as she noted that Mariana had lowered the glasses and was staring at her in shock. “I think I have misunderstood.”
Mariana recovered and said with a triumphant grin. “Indeed you have. How I adore that you still have not mastered English turns of phrase!”
Juliana clasped her friend’s hand. “Mari! You must not repeat it!”
“Oh, I won’t. On one condition.”
Juliana looked to the ceiling for salvation. “What?”
“You must tell me everything! A ‘riding incident’ sounds so very scandalous!”
Juliana did not reply, instead turning resolutely to the stage. She tried to pay attention to the action on the stage but the story—of two lovers avoiding discovery of their clandestine affair—was rather too familiar. She was in the midst of her own farce . . . broken opera glasses and scandalous meetings and all, and she’d just been discovered.
And she was not amused.
“He’s looking at you,” Mariana whispered.
“He is not looking at me,” she replied out of the corner of her mouth.
But she could not help but turn her head.
He was not looking at her.
“He was looking at you.”
“Well, I am not looking at him.”
And she did not look at him.
She did not look during the whole of the first act, as the lovers slammed in and out of doors and the audience howled with laughter, not as the curtain fell on them locked in a passionate embrace, in full view of her husband and his sister . . . who for some reason cared a bit too much about the skirts her brother was chasing.
She did not look as the candles were lit around the theatre, throwing London society back into view, and not as the stream of visitors to the Rivington box began once more and she had the opportunity to look without scrutiny.
She did not look while the Earl of Allendale entertained her during intermission, nor when Mariana suggested they go to the ladies’ salon to repair themselves—a thinly veiled ruse to get Juliana talking—nor after she declared that no, she did not have reason to attend the salon, and Mariana was forced to go alone.
She did not look until the lights had dimmed once more and the audience was settling in for the second act.
And then she wished she hadn’t.
Because he was guiding the grape into her seat, his large hand lingering at her elbow, sliding down her arm as he took his seat beside her.
And she found she could not look away.
The caress was over quickly—although it seemed to Juliana that it stretched out interminably—and Lady Penelope, unmoved, turned to the stage, immediately absorbed in the next act.
The duke, however, looked at Juliana, fully meeting her gaze. Distance and dim lights should have made her somewhat uncertain but, no . . . he was looking at her.
There was no other explanation for the shiver of awareness that shot down her spine.
He knew she had seen the caress.
Had wanted her to see it.
And suddenly there was not enough air in the box.
She stood abruptly, drawing Ralston’s attention as she headed for the exit. She leaned down to speak quietly in his ear, “I find I have something of a headache. I am going into the hallway for some air.”
His gaze narrowed. “Shall I take you home?”
“No no . . . I shall be fine. I will be just outside the box.” She smiled feebly. “Back before you realize that I am gone.”
Ralston hesitated, debating whether he should allow her to leave. “Do not go far. I don’t want you wandering through the theatre.”
She shook her head. “Of course not.”
He stayed her movement with one firm hand on her wrist. “I mean it, sister. I am well aware of the trouble you can find in a theatre during a performance.”
She raised a dark brow in a gesture they shared. “I look forward to hearing more about that soon.”
His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “You’ll have to ask Callie.”
S
he smiled. “You can be sure that I will.”
And then she was in the hallway, which was empty save a handful of footmen, and she could breathe once more.
There was a cool breeze blowing through the corridor, and she headed instinctively for its source, a large window on the back end of the theatre where the hallway ended abruptly above what must have been the stage. The window had been left open to the October evening, a chair beneath it, as though waiting for her arrival. It was likely too far from the box for Ralston’s taste, but it was a perfectly public place nonetheless.
She sat, leaning on the sill and looking out over the rooftops of London. Candlelight flickered in the windows of the buildings below, and she could just make out a young woman sewing several floors down. Juliana wondered, fleetingly, whether the girl had ever been to the theatre . . . whether she’d ever even dreamed of the theatre.
Juliana certainly hadn’t . . . not like this, with a family of aristocrats that she’d never known existed. Not with jewels and silks and satins and marquesses and earls and . . . dukes.
Dukes who infuriated her and consumed her thoughts and kissed her like she was the last woman on earth.
She sighed, watching as the light from the waxing moon reflected on the tile roofs, still wet from a brief rain that afternoon.
She had started something that she could not finish.
She’d wanted to tempt him with passion—to punish his arrogance by bringing him to his knees—but after the embarrassing episode at the lake, when he’d all but told her that she was the very last thing he would ever find tempting . . .
There were ten days left in their agreement, and he was courting Lady Penelope, planning a lifetime of proper, perfect marriage with a woman who had been reared to be a duchess.
The wager was supposed to end in Leighton’s triumphant set down; so why did it feel like it was Juliana who would be the losing party?
“Why aren’t you in your seat?”
She gave a little start at the words, laced with irritation.
He had followed her.
She should not care that he had sought her out.
Of course, she did.
She turned, attempting to appear calm. “Why aren’t you in your seat?”