Chapter Twenty
Society does not forgive scandalous behavior.
Such is the delicate lady’s maxim.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
With the spectacle playing out in the Beau Monde this year, the theatre seems unnecessary . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823
The entire family was back at Ralston House within the hour.
They congregated in the library, Benedick and Rivington sitting in the high-backed chairs near the enormous fireplace, in front of which Ralston paced. Juliana sat on a low chaise, flanked by Mariana and Callie.
Amo, amas, amat.
I love, you love, he loves.
He loves.
He loves me.
She took a deep breath, a hitch catching in her throat.
Callie stood and headed for the door. “I think I shall call for tea.”
“I think we need something slightly stronger than that,” Ralston said, heading for a decanter of whiskey on the sideboard. He poured three glasses for the men, then, after a long moment, a fourth. He walked it over to Juliana. “Drink this. It will settle you.”
“Gabriel!” Callie reprimanded.
“Well, it will.”
Juliana took a sip of the fiery liquid, enjoying the burn it sent down her throat. At least when she was feeling that, she was not feeling the devastating ache that Simon had left with his profession of love.
“Perhaps you could explain to me how it is that Leighton came to profess his love to you in the middle of a crowded ballroom?”
The ache returned.
“He was in Yorkshire,” she whispered, hating the sound of the words. Hating the weakness.
Ralston nodded. “And tell me, did he lose his mind there?”
“Gabriel,” Callie said, warning in her tone. “Have a care.”
“Did he touch you?” Everyone stiffened. “Don’t answer. There’s no need. No man behaves in such a way without . . .”
“Ralston.” Benedick interrupted. “Enough.”
“He wants to marry me.”
Mariana squeezed her hand. “But, Juliana, that is good, is it not?”
“Well, after tonight, I am not certain that he would make a very good match,” Ralston said wryly.
Tears welled in Juliana’s eyes, and she took a sip of scotch to force them away.
She’d been trying so hard—so hard to be something more than a scandal. She’d worn a dress that was the required color, she’d danced appropriately with only the most gentlemanly of men, she’d convinced herself that she could be the kind of woman who was known for propriety. Who was known for reputation.
The kind of woman he would want by his side.
And still, she’d been nothing more to him than a scandal. Nothing more than what he’d seen in her since the beginning. And when he had professed his love there, in front of the entire ton, that dark, scandalous part of her had sung with happiness. And she ached for wanting him. For loving him.
And still she wanted more.
He made her a perfect match.
“If he seduced you, I have the right to tear him limb from limb.”
“That’s enough,” Callie said, standing. “Out.”
“You cannot exile me from my own library, Calpurnia.”
“I can and will. In fact, I have. Out!”
He gave a harsh laugh that did not hold much humor. “I am not going anywhere.” He turned to Juliana. “Do you want to marry him?”
Yes.
But it was not so simple.
The room was suddenly too small. She stood, heading for the exit. “I need . . . un momento,” she paused. “Per favore.”
As she reached the door, her brother called out to her, “Juliana.” When she turned back, he added, “Think about what you want. Whatever it is, you can have it.”
She left, closing the door behind her, allowing the hallway to cloak her in darkness.
She wanted Simon.
She wanted his love, yes. But she also wanted his respect and admiration. She wanted him to consider her his equal. She deserved as much, did she not? Deserved what she saw in Callie and Ralston, in Isabel and Nick, in Mariana and Rivington.
She wanted that.
And she did not have it.
Did she?
She took a deep breath, and another, replaying the events of the evening over and over in her mind.
He’d broken every rule he had—he’d ignored protocol and attended an event from which he had been uninvited, he’d allowed all of London to turn their backs on him, he’d stopped a ball.
He’d stopped a ball—bringing even more scandal down upon him—even as all of London turned their backs on him.
And he’d done it for her.
Because he cared for her.
Because he wanted to show her that she was more important than anything else. Than everything else.
And she’d refused him.
She’d refused his love.
She wrapped her arms around her middle, the realization coming like a blow to the stomach, and the door to the library opened.
Benedick stepped out into the hallway, a kind smile on his face. He closed the door behind him, shutting Callie and Ralston’s argument inside, and coming toward her.
She forced a smile. “Are they still arguing about me?”
He grinned. “No. Now they are discussing whether Callie should be riding still now that she is with child.”
She gave a little huff of laughter. “I imagine she will win.”
“I would not be so certain.” They were silent for a moment. “There is something I should like to discuss with you.”
“Is it about the duke? Because I would prefer not to discuss him, honestly.”
“Not exactly.”
“What, then?”
He hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Juliana, if you would like, I would have you. To wife.”
As proposals went, it was not the most eloquent, but it was honest, and her eyes went wide at the words. She shook her head. “Benedick—”
“Just hear me. We enjoy each other’s company, we are friends. And I think we would have a good time of it. You do not have to answer me now, but should you . . . have need of a husband . . .”
“No,” she said, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you very much, Benedick, but you deserve more than a wife in need of a husband.” She smiled. “And I deserve more than a husband who will simply have me to wife.”
He nodded once. “That much, at least, is true.” He paused. “For what it is worth, I think Leighton loves you very much.”
The words sent a sad little thrill through her. “I think so, too.”
“Then why not marry me?”
She snapped to attention at the words. Simon stood at the top of the stairs, soaked to the skin, face etched with lines of exhaustion. He had removed his hat, but his hair was plastered to his head and his coat hung wet and ragged from his shoulders. He looked terrible.
He looked wonderful.
“How did you . . . how did you get in here?” she asked.
“This is not the first house into which I have stormed this evening. I’m making quite a career of it.”
She smiled. She could not help it.
He let out a long sigh. “I had hoped to make you smile, Siren. I hated making you cry.”
She heard the truth in the words, and tears returned, unbidden.
He cursed in the darkness, “Allendale, I’m going to forgive your proposing to the woman I love. In return, do you think you could give us a moment?”
“I’m not certain I should.”
“I’m not going to ravish her on the landing.”
Benedick turned to Juliana for approval. After a long moment, she nodded. “Five minutes.” The earl met Simon’s gaze. “And I’m coming back.”
He returned to the library, and the second the door closed, Simon took a step toward her, reaching for her even as he stop
ped several feet away. He dropped his arms, raked one hand through his drenched hair, and shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to win you.”
You’ve already won me, she wanted to say. You’ve already ruined me for all others.
He continued. “So I shall simply tell you the truth. I have spent my entire life preparing for a cold, unfeeling, unimpassioned life—a life filled with pleasantries and simplicity. And then you came into it . . . you . . . the opposite of all that. You are beautiful and brilliant and bold and so very passionate about life and love and those things that you believe in. And you taught me that everything I believed, everything I thought I wanted, everything I had spent my life espousing—all of it . . . it is wrong. I want your version of life . . . vivid and emotional and messy and wonderful and filled with happiness. But I cannot have it without you.
“I love you, Juliana. I love the way you have turned my entire life upside down, and I am not certain I could live without you now that I have lived with you.”
He moved again, and she caught her breath as her great, proud duke lowered himself to his knees before her. “You once told me that you would bring me to my knees in the name of passion.”
“Simon . . .” She was crying freely now, and she stepped forward, placing her hands on his head, running her fingers through his hair. “Amore, no, please.”
“I am here. On my knees. But not in the name of passion,” He took her hands in both of his and brought them to his lips, kissing her, worshipping her. “I am here in the name of love.”
He looked up at her, his countenance so very stark and serious in the dimly lit hallway. “Juliana . . . please, be my wife. I swear I will spend the rest of my days proving that I am worthy of you. Of your love.”
He kissed her hands again, and whispered, “Please.”
And then she was on her knees as well, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Yes.” She pressed her lips to his. “Yes, Simon, yes.”
He returned the kiss, his tongue sliding into her hot, silken heat, stroking until they both required air. “I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered against her lips, pulling her to him, as though he could bring her close enough that they would never be apart again.
“No, I am sorry. I should not . . . I left you there . . . at the ball. I didn’t see until now . . . how much it meant.”
He kissed her again. “I deserved it.”
“No . . . Simon, I love you.”
They stayed there for long minutes, wrapped in each other, whispering their love, making promises for the future, touching, reveling, celebrating in one another.
And that was how Ralston found them.
He opened the door to the library, the lush golden glow from the candles beyond flooding the hallway and illuminating the lovers.
“You had better get a special license, Leighton.”
Simon smiled, bold and brash, and Juliana caught her breath at him—her angel—the handsomest man in England. In all of Europe. “I already have one.”
Ralston raised a black brow. “Excellent. You have two minutes to compose yourself before we go downstairs and discuss this.” Juliana smiled at the words, and Ralston caught her gaze. “You, sister, are not invited.”
He closed the door to Simon and Juliana’s laughter.
An hour later, Simon exited Ralston House, having made all the appropriate arrangements with his—he winced—future brother-in-law. He supposed it was only right that he was finally tied to this raucous family, the only people in England who did not care that he was a duke. Rather, the only people who had never cared. Now most of London would happily turn their backs on the House of Leighton for fear of being touched by its scandal.
And he found he did not care much about it.
He had a healthy niece and a woman who loved him, and suddenly those things seemed like more than enough.
He had wanted desperately to say good night to Juliana, but she had been nowhere to be found as he was leaving, and Ralston seemed disinclined to allow Simon abovestairs to seek her out. He supposed he could not blame the marquess; after all, he was not exactly good at keeping his hands off of his soon-to-be wife.
But they were to be married in less than a week, and he would bear the loss of her tonight, even if it brought with it an all-too-familiar and utterly unpleasant ache.
He waved the coachman off his duty and opened the door to his carriage—the one where it had all begun weeks ago. Lifting himself up and in, he took his seat and swung the door closed, rapping the roof quickly to set the coach in motion.
It was only then that he noticed that he was not alone.
Juliana smiled from the other end of the seat. “You did not think I would let you leave without saying good night, did you?”
He quashed a flash of intense pleasure and affected his most ducal tone. “We are going to have to discuss your penchant for stowing away in carriages.”
She moved toward him slowly, and a wave of awareness shot through him. “Only one carriage, Your Grace. Only yours. This time, I checked the seal before entering. Tell me, what do you plan to do with me now that I am here?”
He watched her intently for a long moment before leaning in, stopping a hairsbreadth from kissing her. “I plan to love you, Siren.” He wrapped one hand around her waist, hauling her onto his lap so that she was above him.
She looked down at him with wicked intensity. “Say it again.”
He grinned. “I love you, Juliana.”
His hands were stroking up her sides, tracking over her shoulders, tilting her head to bare her neck. He pressed a soft kiss to the skin at the base of her throat, where her pulse was pounding.
“Again.” She sighed.
He whispered the words against her lips—a promise—and claimed her mouth, his hands stroking, pressing everywhere.
She opened for him, matching his long, slow kisses stroke for stroke. For the first time, there was no urgency in the caresses—no sense of their being stolen from another time. From another woman.
She pulled back at the thought, lifting her head. “Penelope,” she said.
“We must discuss this now?” One of his hands was headed for the full swell of her breast, and she bit back a sigh of pleasure as it reached its destination.
“No.” She scrambled off his lap and onto the seat across from him.
He followed her, coming to his knees in front of her, the carriage rocking them together. “Yes.”
“Lady Penelope’s father has dissolved the agreement.” His hands grasped her ankles, and Juliana was not sure if it was the feel of his warm hands stroking up her legs beneath her skirts or the fact that he was no longer engaged that made her light-headed. He met her gaze, serious. “I would have ended it if he hadn’t, Juliana. I couldn’t have gone through with it. I love you too much.”
A thread of pleasure coiled through her at the words. “He called it off because of Georgiana’s scandal?”
“Yes,” he said, and the way the word rolled from his tongue gave her the distinct impression that he was not replying to her question. He folded back her skirts with reverence and cursed, dark and wicked in the carriage, and pressed a kiss to the inside of one knee.
She clamped her legs together, resisting his movements. “Simon . . .”
He stilled, meeting her eyes in the flickering light from outside before he kissed her again, long and thorough before he pulled back abruptly. “My sister announced her own scandal. Actually sent a letter to the Gazette! It was her wedding present. To us.”
Juliana smiled. “A broken engagement?”
“In exchange for a quick one,” he replied, taking her lips again, his urgency sending a wave of fire through her.
She reveled in the caress, in the feel of him, for a long minute before pushing him away once more. “Simon, your mother!”
“She is not at all a topic I care to discuss right now, love.”
“But . . . she will be furious!”
“I don’t care.
” He returned his attention to the inside of her knee, swirling his tongue there until the silk was wet. “And if she is, it shan’t be because of you. You are her best hope for a respectable grandchild. I’m the one with the terrible reputation.”
She laughed. “An abductor of innocents. A seducer of virgins.”
He parted her legs slowly, pressing lovely, languorous kisses up the inside of her thigh. “Only one innocent. One virgin.” She sighed and let her eyes close against the pleasure as he licked at the place where garter held stocking, a promise of what was to come.
“Lucky me.” She leaned forward, taking his unbearably handsome face between her hands. “Simon . . .” she whispered, “I have loved you from the beginning. And I will love you . . . I will love you for as long as you’ll have me.”
His gaze darkened, and he grew very serious. “I hope you plan to love me for a very long time.”
She kissed him again, pouring herself and her love into the caress, because words suddenly seemed lacking. When they stopped, both gasping for breath and desperate for more of each other, Juliana smiled. “So how does it feel to have thoroughly ruined your reputation?”
He laughed. “I shall never live it down.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Never.” He pulled her to him for another kiss.
Simon’s scandal was one for the ages. It would be fodder for whispers in ballrooms, and chatter on Bond Street and in the halls of Parliament, and years from now, he and Juliana would tell their grandchildren the story of how the Duke of Leighton had been laid low by love.
Epilogue
May 1824
Her Grace, the Duchess of Leighton, was high on a ladder in the library—too high to hide—when her husband entered the room, calling her name, distracted by a letter he held.
“Yes?”
“We’ve news from—” He trailed off, and she knew that she had been discovered. When he spoke again, the words were low and far—too calm for her husband, who had found that he rather enjoyed the full spectrum of emotion now that he had experienced it. “Juliana?”