Suspicion flared. “What lesson?”
“Reputation always triumphs.”
Chapter Four
The walk or trot will do.
Delicate ladies never gallop.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
The Fashionable Hour comes earlier and earlier . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
The next morning, the Duke of Leighton rose with the sun.
He washed, dressed in crisp linen and smooth buckskin, pulled on his riding boots, tied his cravat, and called for his mount.
In less than a quarter of an hour, he crossed the great foyer of his town house, accepting a pair of riding gloves and a crop from Boggs, his ever-prepared butler, and exited the house.
Breathing in the morning air, crisp with the scent of autumn, the duke lifted himself into the saddle, just as he had every morning since the day he assumed the dukedom, fifteen years earlier.
In town or in the country, rain or shine, cold or heat, the ritual was sacrosanct.
Hyde Park was virtually empty in the hour just after dawn—few were interested in riding without the chance of being seen, and even fewer were interested in leaving their homes at such an early hour. This was precisely why Leighton so enjoyed his morning rides—the quiet punctuated only by hoofbeats, by the sound of his horse’s breath mingled with his own as they cantered through the long, deserted paths that only hours later would be packed with those still in town, eager to feed on the latest gossip.
The ton traded on information, and Hyde Park on a beautiful day was the ideal place for the exchange of such a commodity.
It was only a matter of time until his family was made the commodity of the day.
Leighton leaned into his horse, driving the animal forward, faster, as though he could outrun the tattle.
When they heard about his sister, the gossips would swarm, and his family would be left with little to protect their name and reputation. The Dukes of Leighton went back eleven generations. They had fought alongside William the Conqueror. And those who held the title and the venerable position so far above the rest of society were raised with one unimpeachable rule: Let nothing besmirch the name.
For eleven generations, that rule had gone unchallenged.
Until now.
Over the last several months, Leighton had done all he could to ensure that his character was untainted. He had dismissed his mistress, thrown himself into his work in Parliament, and attended scores of functions hosted by those who held sway over the ton’s perception of character. He had danced reels. Taken tea. Shown himself at Almack’s. Called on the most respected families of the aristocracy.
Spread a reasonable and accepted rumor that his sister was in the country, for the summer. And then for autumn. And, soon enough, for the winter.
But it was not enough. Nothing would be.
And that knowledge—the keen understanding that he could never entirely protect his family from the natural course of events—threatened his serenity.
There was only one thing left.
An unimpeachable, proper wife. A future darling of the ton.
He was scheduled to meet with Lady Penelope’s father that day. The Marquess of Needham and Dolby had approached Leighton the prior evening and suggested they meet “to discuss the future.” Leighton had seen no reason to wait, as the faster he had the marquess’s agreement that a match would be suitable, the faster he would be prepared to face the tongues that could begin wagging at any moment.
A half smile played across his lips. The meeting was mere formality. The marquess had come barely short of proposing to Leighton himself.
It would not have been the first proposal he received that evening.
Nor the most tempting.
He sat up straight in his saddle, reining in the horse, regaining control once more. A vision flashed, Juliana facing him like a warrior on the balcony of Weston House—tossing out her challenge as though it was nothing more than a game. Let me show you that not even a frigid duke can live without heat.
The words echoed around him in her lilting Italian accent, as though she were there, whispering in his ear once more. Heat.
He closed his eyes against the thought, giving the horse rein again, as though the biting wind at his cheeks would combat the word and its effect upon him.
She’d baited him. And he’d been so irate at the arrogance in her tone—at her certainty that every tenet upon which his life was built was laughable—that he’d wanted nothing more in that moment than to prove her wrong. He’d wanted to prove her insistence that his world contained nothing of value was as ridiculous as her silly dare.
So he’d given her two weeks.
It had not been an arbitrary length of time. He would give her two weeks to try her best with him, and he would show her at the end of the time, that reputation ruled the day. He would send the announcement of his impending nuptials to the Times, and Juliana would learn that passion was a tempting . . . and ultimately unfulfilling path.
If he hadn’t accepted her ridiculous challenge, she would have no doubt found someone else to needle into her plans—someone with less of a debt to Ralston and less of an interest in keeping her from ruin.
He’d done her a favor, really.
Let her do her worst.
Please.
The wicked word flashed, and with it a vision of Juliana as temptress. Her long, naked limbs tangled in his linen sheets, her hair spread like satin across his pillow, her eyes, the color of Ceylon sapphires, promising him the world as her full lips curved, and she whispered his name, reaching for him.
For a moment, he allowed himself the fantasy—all it would ever be—imagining what it would be like to ease her down, to lie across her long, lush body and bury himself in her hair, in her skin, in the hot, welcome core of her and give himself up to the passion she held so dear.