“And now, you have been forced to accept not only our dinner invitation, but also our gratitude,” Juliana said from across the table.
Everyone assembled laughed to break the seriousness of the moment. Everyone that is, except Juliana, who broke their eye contact, looking down at her plate.
He considered their past, the things they had said—the ways they had lashed out, hoping to scratch if not to scar. He heard his words, the cutting way with which he had spoken to her, the way he had pushed her into a corner until she’d had no choice but to lie down or lash out.
She had fought back, proud and magnificent.
And suddenly, he wanted to tell her that.
He wanted her to know that he did not find her common, or childish, or troublesome.
He found her quite remarkable.
And he wanted to start over.
If for no other reason, than because she did not deserve his criticism.
But perhaps for more than that.
If only it were so easy.
The door to the dining room opened, and an older servant entered, discreetly moving to Ralston. He leaned low and whispered in his master’s ear, and Ralston froze, setting his fork down audibly.
Conversation stopped.
Whatever the news the servant brought, it was not good.
The marquess was ashen.
Lady Ralston stood instantly, rounding the table toward her husband, caring nothing about her guests. About making a scene.
Juliana spoke, concern in her voice. “What is it? Is it Nick?”
“Gabriel?”
Heads turned as one to the doorway, to the woman who had spoken Ralston’s given name.
“Dio.” Juliana’s whisper was barely audible, but he heard it.
“Who is she?” Simon did not register who asked the question. He was too focused on Juliana’s face, on the fear and anger and disbelief there.
Too focused on her answer, whispered in Italian.
“She is our mother.”
She looked the same.
Tall and lithe and as untouchable as she had been the last time Juliana had seen her.
Instantly, Juliana was ten again, covered in chocolate from the cargo unloaded on the dock, chasing her cat through the old city and into the house, calling up to her father from the central courtyard, sunlight pouring down around her. A door opened, and her mother stepped out onto the upper balcony, the portrait of disinterest.
“Silenzio, Juliana. Ladies do not screech.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“You should be.” Louisa Fiori leaned over the edge of the balcony. “You are filthy. It is as though I had a son instead of a daughter.” She waved one hand lazily toward the door. “Go back to the river and wash before you come into the house.”
She turned away, the hem of her pale pink gown disappearing through the double doors to the house beyond.
It was the last Juliana had seen of her mother.
Until now.
“Gabriel?” their mother repeated, entering the room with utter poise, as though it had not been twenty-five years since she had hosted her own dinners at this very table. As though she were not being watched by a roomful of people.
Not that such a thing would have stopped her. She had always adored attention. The more scandalous, the better.
And this would be a scandal.
No one would remember the Serpentine tomorrow.
She lifted her hands. “Gabriel,” there was satisfaction in her tone. “My, what a man you have become. The marquess!”
She was behind Juliana now, not having realized that her daughter, too, was in the room. There was a roaring in Juliana’s ears, and she closed her eyes against it. Of course her mother had not noticed. Why would she expect such a thing?
If she had, she would have looked for Juliana. She would have said something.
She would have wanted to see her daughter.
Wouldn’t she?
“Oh! It appears that I have interrupted something of a dinner party! I suppose I should have waited until morning, but I simply could not bear being away from home a moment longer.”
Home.
Juliana winced at the words.
The men around the table stood, their manners arriving late but impeccable. “Oh, please, do not stand for me,” the voice came again, unrelenting, dripping with English politesse and a hint of something else—the sound of feminine guile. “I shall simply put myself in a receiving room until Gabriel has time for me.”
The statement ended on a lilt of amusement, and Juliana opened her eyes at the grating sound, turning her head just slightly to see her brother, jaw steeled, ice in his cold blue gaze. To his left stood Callie, fists clenched, furious.
If Juliana had not been at risk of becoming utterly unhinged, she would have been amused by her sister-in-law—ready to slay dragons for her husband.
Their mother was a dragon if ever there was one.
There was an enormous pause, silence screaming in the room until Callie spoke. “Bennett,” she said, with unparalleled calm, “would you escort Signora Fiori to the green parlor? I’m sure the marquess will be along momentarily.”
The aging butler, at least, seemed to understand that he had been the harbinger of what was sure to be the biggest scandal London had seen since . . . well, since the last time London had seen Louisa Hathbourne St. John Fiori. He nearly leapt to do his mistress’s bidding.
“Signora Fiori!” their mother said with a bright laugh—the one Juliana remembered as punctuation to a lie. “No one has called me that since I left Italy. I am still the Marchioness of Ralston, am I not?”
“You are not.” Ralston’s voice was brittle with anger.
“You are married? How wonderful! I shall simply have to do with Dowager Marchioness, then!”