Again.
But she did not trust herself to look at him. That would have been too challenging a part to play.
Instead, she opened the door and slipped into the hallway, not feeling at all like she’d won.
Feeling like she’d lost terribly.
She had, after all, broken the most important of her rules.
She had wanted more than she could have.
She had wanted him, and more . . . she had wanted him to want her.
In the name of something bigger than tradition, bolder than reputation, more important than a silly title.
She hovered at the entrance to the ballroom, watching the swirling silks, the way the men walked, danced, spoke with the undeniable sense of entitlement and purpose, the long, graceful lines of the women, who knew without question that they belonged.
Here, nothing trumped the holy trinity of tradition, reputation, and title.
And for someone like her—who laid claim to none of the three—someone like him—who held all three with a casual right—was utterly, undeniably, out of reach.
And she had been wrong to even pretend to reach for him.
She could not have him.
She took a deep, stabilizing breath.
She could not have him.
“Oh, good. I found you. We must talk,” Mariana whispered from her elbow, where she had materialized. “Apparently ours is not the only gossip to be had today.”
Juliana blinked. “Our gossip?”
Mariana cut her a quick, irritated look. “Really, Juliana. You shall have to get past the idea that you own all the trouble in our family. We’re a family. It’s our burden to bear as well.” Juliana did not have time to appreciate the sentiment as Mariana was already pressing on. “Apparently, there is another major event taking place tonight. One you will not like. Leighton is to be—”
“I know.” Juliana cut off her friend. She didn’t think she could bear hearing it again. Not even from Mariana.
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
Mariana’s brows snapped together. “When?”
She shrugged one shoulder, hoping it would be enough for her sister-in-law’s sister.
Apparently not. “Juliana Fiori! When did he tell you?”
She should have told her that Ralston told her. Or that she’d overheard it in the ladies’ salon. Usually, she was quicker.
Usually, she hadn’t just had her heart broken.
Her heart was not broken, was it?
It certainly felt that way.
“Earlier.”
“Earlier, when?”
“Earlier tonight.”
Mariana squeaked. Actually squeaked.
Juliana winced. She should have said last night.
Juliana turned to face her. “Please don’t make this an issue.”
“Why were you with Leighton earlier tonight?”
No reason, only that I was very nearly ruined in the conservatory belonging to his future bride.
She shrugged again.
“Juliana, you know that might very well be your most annoying habit.”
“Really? But I have so many.”
“Are you all right?”
“You mean the shoulder? Yes. Fine.”
Mariana’s eyes narrowed. “You are being deliberately difficult.”
“Possibly.”
Mariana looked at her then. Really looked at her. And Juliana got instantly nervous. The young duchess’s gaze softened almost instantly. “Oh, Juliana,” she whispered. “You are not all right at all, are you?”
The soft, kind words proved to be Juliana’s undoing. It was suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to swallow, all her energy instantly devoted to resisting the urge to throw herself into her friend’s arms and cry.
Which, of course, she could not do. “I must go.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No!” She heard the panic in her voice. Took a breath, tried to keep it from rising again. “No. I am . . . you must stay.”
Mariana did not like being told what to do. Juliana saw her hesitate, watched her consider denying the request. Please, Mari. “Fine. But you will take our carriage.”
Juliana paused for a moment, considering. “I—yes. All right. I shall take your carriage. Mari—” She heard the crack in her voice. Loathed it. “I have to leave. Now. Before.”
Before she had to watch the announcement of the betrothal unfold in a horrible, perverse tableau.
Mariana nodded once. “Of course. I’ll see you out. You’re obviously not feeling well. You’ve got a headache, clearly.”
Juliana would have laughed if it had seemed at all amusing.
Mariana began to push through the crowd at the edge of the ballroom, Juliana following close behind. They had barely gone a dozen steps when the orchestra stopped playing, and there was a commotion on the dais where they sat. Conversation stopped as the Marquess of Needham and Dolby, a portly man who obviously liked his drink, boomed, “Attention!”
Juliana made the mistake of looking toward the dais. Saw Simon there, tall and unbearably handsome—the perfect duke. The perfect husband.
Perfect.
Mariana turned back to her, eyes wide, and Juliana squeezed her hand. “Faster.”
“We can’t . . .” Mariana shook her head. “Everyone will see.”
Panic rose, and the ballroom tilted horribly, sending a wave of nausea through her. Of course they couldn’t leave. Escape would only make them the subject of more talk. Not now. Not when the betrothal was taking some of the attention from their scandal. She hated her mother in that moment, more than ever before. Juliana closed her eyes, knowing what was to come. Not knowing how she would survive it.