“Mari…” Callie said, caution in her tone.
“But, who is he?” Juliana pressed.
Callie waved one hand dismissively, heading for the sales counter. “The Duke of Leighton.”
“He is a duke?” Juliana asked in surprise.
“Yes,” Mari nodded, guiding her friend to the front of the bookshop. “And a thoroughly awful one. Considers anyone with a lesser title to be entirely beneath him. Which doesn’t leave him many equals.”
“Mariana! Must you insist on gossiping in public?”
“Oh, come, Callie. Admit that you cannot suffer Leighton.”
“Well, of course not,” Callie said in a low voice. “No one can. I do try not to announce my distaste to entire book-shops, however.”
Juliana considered their conversation. He hadn’t seemed at all distasteful. But, then, he hadn’t known who she was. Certainly if he had discovered she was a merchant’s daughter…
“Are there many like him? Many who will discount me immediately, simply because of my birth?”
Mariana and Callie exchanged a brief glance at the question before Callie waved a hand in the air, and said, “If there are, they are not worth the effort. There are plenty who will adore you. Never fear.”
“Indeed,” Mari added with a smile. “And do not forget that I am soon to be a duchess myself. And then…hang them all!”
“I should not like them to be killed,” Juliana said, worriedly.
The other women looked confused for a brief moment before Callie laughed, understanding that Mariana’s words had been lost in translation. “It is an expression, Juliana. No one shall be hanged. It simply means that Mariana will not care about them.”
Understanding dawned. “Ah! Capisco. I understand! Si. Hang them!”
The three women all laughed together and Juliana paid for her brothers’ gifts. After a footman had been charged to deliver their wrapped packages to the carriage, she turned a bright smile on the other women. “Where shall we go next?”
Mariana smiled broadly and announced, “The glover, of course. A woman cannot very well make her debut without opera gloves, can she?”
Ten
Callie stood at the edge of the Rivington box at the Theatre Royal, unable to contain her satisfied smile as she scanned the rest of the audience, noting the scores of opera glasses pointed in the direction of Miss Juliana Fiori.
If the attention were any indication, title or no, daughter of a fallen marchioness or no, Juliana would make a remarkable debut.
The opera had not even begun and, already, the box was mobbed with visitors, from pillars of the ton who came, ostensibly, to visit with the dowager duchess, and, as such, happened to meet the lovely young Juliana, to young men of society who were less discreet about the reason for their visit to the box—arriving and promptly falling over themselves for an introduction.
The evening could not have been more perfectly orchestrated, and Callie was taking full responsibility for its success.
Juliana had arrived at opening night in the Allendale carriage and, to Callie’s delight, the young woman had alighted with grace and aplomb, as though being set on display for the judgment of London’s aristocracy were the most natural thing in the world. Once inside the theatre, Juliana had removed her cloak to reveal her stunning satin evening dress, which had been delivered to Ralston House in perfect condition that morning; Madame Hebert had outdone herself on the gown, which was shot through with gold threads and sure to be the envy of every other woman in the house.
And then she had been escorted—on this, the most important night of the London theatrical season—to the Duke of Rivington’s personal box, where she was to be the personal guest of the dowager duchess, the future duchess, and the duke himself. For this evening, the Allendale box would stand empty; the Earl and Dowager Countess of Allendale and Callie would view the opera from the Rivington box—showing the world that Juliana was accepted by two of the most powerful families in Britain.
And, as if all that weren’t enough, Ralston and St. John had arrived—giving the matchmaking mamas of the ton even more gossip to feed upon. The elusive twin brothers were rarely seen at such blatantly social events as this one, and even more rarely seen together. Callie turned her attention to them, standing sentry, side by side, several feet behind their sister, thoroughly intimidating in their identical height and handsomeness.
Callie’s pulse quickened as she studied Ralston. He was impeccably dressed, forgoing the brilliant waistcoats preferred by the dandies of the ton in favor of perfectly tailored black breeches and dress coat over a classic white waistcoat without a single crease. His cravat was perfectly starched, and his boots gleamed, as though he had arrived via some magical route other than London’s muddy streets. He was flawless. That is, until one noted the tightly coiled tension in his square shoulders, the fisted hands at his sides, the tiny muscle that flexed in his jaw as he watched his sister navigate her way through the intricate dance of London’s social scene. It was clear that he was prepared to do battle to ensure his sister’s acceptance this evening.
As though sensing her attention, Ralston turned his head to look at her. She inhaled sharply as their gazes collided, trapped by his glittering blue eyes, intent and unreadable. He tipped his head, almost imperceptibly. She understood the meaning implicitly. Thank you.
She mirrored the action.
Not trusting herself to disguise her emotions, she turned back to stare unseeingly at the crowd building in the theatre, impatient for the opera to begin and distract her from his presence in the box.