Simon was there. In the house. With her brother.
He had been for nearly three-quarters of an hour.
And they had not called for her.
Juliana stalked the perimeter of the Ralston House library, the petticoats of her amethyst skirts whipping about her legs.
She couldn’t believe that neither of them had even thought that perhaps she would like to be a part of the discussion of her afternoon adventure. With a little huff of displeasure, she headed for the window of the library, which looked out on Park Lane and the blackness of Hyde Park beyond.
Of course they hadn’t called for her. They were imperious, infuriating men, two more annoying of whom could not be found in all of Europe.
An enormous carriage sat outside the house, lanterns blazing, waiting for its owner. Leighton’s crest was emblazoned on the door to the massive black conveyance, boasting a wicked-looking hawk complete with feather in its talon—spoils of battle, no doubt.
Juliana traced the shield on the glass. How fitting that Leighton was represented by a hawk. A cold, solitary, brilliant animal.
All calculation and no passion.
He had barely cared that she’d nearly died, instead saving her with cool calculation and bringing her home without a moment’s pause for what could have been a most tragic occurrence.
That wasn’t exactly true.
There had been a moment in the Park during which he’d seemed to be concerned for her welfare.
Just for a moment.
And then he’d simply seemed to want to be rid of her.
And the trouble she caused.
Depositing her unceremoniously in the foyer of Ralston House and leaving her to face her brother alone, he’d said with all calm, “Tell Ralston I shall return this evening. Dry.”
He had returned, of course—Leighton was nothing if not true to his word—and she would wager that the two men were laughing at her expense even now in Ralston’s study, drinking brandy or scotch or whatever infuriating, aristocratic males drank. She’d like to pour a vat of that liquor over their combined heads.
She looked down at the dress with disgust. She’d chosen it for him, knowing she looked lovely in purple. She’d wanted him to see that. Wanted him to notice her.
And not because of their wager.
This time, she had wanted him to regret the things he had said to her.
I haven’t time for your games.
It had been a game at the start—the letter, the blatant invitation—but once she’d fallen into the lake, once he’d rescued her, any playfulness had disappeared along with her bonnet, lost to the bottom of the Serpentine.
And when he’d held her in his warm, strong arms and whispered soft words of Italian to her—that had felt more serious than anything she’d ever felt before.
But he’d scolded her, then, all cool and unwavering, as though the whole episode had been a colossal waste of his time and energy.
As though she were nothing but trouble.
And she hadn’t felt much like playing games any longer.
Of course, she’d never tell him that. What purpose would it serve except to place a self-satisfied smirk on his face and give him the upper hand—as usual. And she couldn’t bear to do that, either.
Instead, she was waiting patiently in the library, resisting the urge to rush down to her brother’s study and discover just how much of her reckless behavior Leighton had recounted—and just how much trouble she was in.
Below, the coachman moved, leaping down from his seat, and hurrying to open the carriage door wide for his master. She knew she should turn away from the window, but then Leighton appeared, his golden curls gleaming briefly in the lanternlight before disappearing beneath his hat.
He stopped before the open door and she could not look away; spying was an irresistible temptation. He turned to speak to the coachman, squaring his shoulders against the wind that swirled leaves from the Park about his feet and lashed at his greatcoat. A lesser man would have shown some kind of response to such a violent gust—a wince, a grimace—but not the great Duke of Leighton. Not even nature could distract him from his course.
She watched the movement of his lips as he spoke and wondered what he was saying, where he was going. She leaned forward, her forehead nearly touching the mottled glass pane, as though she might be able to hear him if she were an inch closer.
The coachman nodded once and dipped his head, stepping back to hold the door.
He was leaving.
The duke did not need a step to climb into his great black carriage, he was large and strong enough to manage without one, and she watched as he reached for the handle to pull himself up, wishing that, just once, he would miss his mark, or stumble, or look anything less than he always did—perfect.
He paused, and she held her breath. Perhaps the action was not so easy after all. He turned his head. And looked straight at her.
She gasped and stepped back from the window immediately, hot embarrassment washing through her at having been caught, followed instantly by irritation at having been embarrassed.
It was he who should be embarrassed, not her.
It was he who had insulted her that afternoon, it was he who had come to speak with her brother that evening and not asked to see or speak with her.
She could have taken ill. Did he not care for her well-being?
Apparently not.
She would not let him scare her away. It was her house, after all. She had every right to look out the window. It was looking in windows that was rude.
And, besides, she had a wager to win.
She took a deep breath and returned to her place.
He was still looking up at her.
When she met his warm, amber gaze, gleaming in the light of the house, he raised one imperious, golden brow, as if to claim victory in their silent battle.
Resistance flared, hot and powerful. She would not allow him to win.
She crossed her arms firmly over her chest in a manner utterly improper for a lady and raised a brow of her own, hoping to surprise him, prepared to stand there all night, until he backed down.
It was not surprise she found as she looked down at him, however. Something lightened in the firm, angled lines of his face as he watched her—something vaguely like humor—before he turned and, with perfect precision, lifted himself into his carriage.
She did not waver as the coachman closed the door, hiding the duke from her view. She secretly hoped that he was watching her from behind the darkened windows of the conveyance as she released a long peal of laughter.
Whether he had allowed it or not, she had won.
And it felt wonderful.
“Juliana? May I come in?”
Her laughter was cut short as her sister-in-law entered, her head peeking around the edge before the door opened wide. Juliana spun toward her visitor, dropping her arms and dropping quickly to sit on the wide bench beneath the window. “Of course. I was . . .” She waved one hand in the air. “It is not important. What is it?”
Callie approached, a half smile on her face, to join Juliana. “I came to confirm that you are feeling well, and it sounds as though you are quite recovered from your adventure. I am so very happy that you are safe,” she added, taking Juliana’s hand. “I never thought I would say it, but thank goodness for the Duke of Leighton.”
Juliana did not miss the dryness in her sister-in-law’s tone. “You do not like him.”
“The duke?” Callie sat next to Juliana, her eyes shuttering. “I do not know him. Not really.”
Juliana recognized the evasion. “But . . . ?”
Callie considered her words for a long moment before speaking. “I will say that he—and his mother, for that matter—has always seemed arrogant, imperious, and unmoving in a way that makes him appear uncaring. To my knowledge, he has an interest in only one thing—his reputation. I’ve never cared for people with such rigid opinions.” She paused, then confessed, “No. I did not like him, until today. Now that he has rescued you, I think I shall have to reevaluate my opinion of the duke.”
Juliana’s heart pounded as she considered her sister-in-law’s words.
He has an interest in only one thing—his reputation.
“I think I shall host a dinner party,” Silence met the pronouncement, until Callie prodded, “Would you like to know why I am hosting a dinner party?”
Juliana was pulled from her thoughts. “Must you have a reason other than this is London, and we have a dining room?”
“You shall pay for that.” Callie smiled. “I think we should thank the duke for his rescuing you. And, if we expand the guest list to include a handful of eligible gentlemen—”
Juliana groaned, seeing her sister-in-law’s plans. “Oh, Callie, please . . . how embarrassing.”
Callie waved one hand. “Nonsense. The story is likely tearing through London as we speak; if we are to mitigate any exaggeration, we must take ownership of the truth. Additionally, I think it important for us to extend a modicum of gratitude for your life, don’t you?”
“Must we do so in front of half of London?”
Callie laughed. “ ‘Half of London,’ really, Juliana. No more than a dozen others.”
Juliana knew Callie well enough to understand that there was no point in arguing.
“As an added benefit, it will not hurt to have the Duke of Leighton on our side, you know. His friendship can only make you more attractive to other men of the ton.”
“And if I do not want to attract other men of the ton?”
Callie smiled. “Are you saying you want to attract the duke?”
It was a deliberate misunderstanding, Juliana knew. But she felt the wash of color on her cheeks nonetheless. Hoping to escape notice, she gave her sister-in-law a long-suffering look. “No.”
Callie took a deep breath. “Juliana, it is not as though we are planning to force you into marriage, but it would not hurt for you to meet a man or two. Whom you like. Company you enjoy.”
“You’ve been attempting this for months. To no avail.”
“At some point, you will meet someone to whom you are drawn.”
“Perhaps. But he will likely not be drawn to me.”
He will likely find me troublesome.
“Of course he will be drawn to you. You’re beautiful and entertaining and wonderful. I am inviting Benedick as well.”
The Earl of Allendale was Callie’s older brother. Juliana allowed her surprise to show. “Why do you say that in such a manner?”
Callie’s smile was too bright. “No reason. Don’t you like him?”
“I do . . .” Juliana’s gaze narrowed. “Callie, please do not play matchmaker. I am not right for men like Benedick. Or any of the others either.”
“I am not matchmaking!” The protest was loud. And false. “I simply thought you would like a familiar face. Or two.”
“I suppose that would not be so bad.”
Callie turned worried. “Juliana, has someone been rude?”
She shook her head. “No. They’re all extraordinarily polite. Very gracious. Impeccably British. But they also make it more than clear that I am not . . . what they seek. In a companion.”
“In a wife,” Callie corrected quickly. “A companion is a different thing altogether.”
Companion was likely the precise role that all of London—save her family—was expecting her to assume. They considered her too much of a scandal to be a wife. And Juliana did not like the word, anyway. She shook her head. “Callie, I’ve said from the beginning . . . from the day I arrived here in England . . . marriage is not for me.”
And it was not.
“Nonsense,” Callie said, dismissing the idea. “Why would you think such a thing?”
Because the daughter of the Marchioness of Ralston is not exactly the wife of whom every man dreams.
Of course, she could not say that.
She was saved from having to reply by the opening of the library door.
Ralston entered, his eyes finding them on the window seat, and Juliana watched as he drank in his wife, his features softening, his love clear.
She did not deny that it would be wonderful to have such a thing.
She simply did not waste her time wishing for it.
Ralston approached, taking Callie’s hand in his, lifting the fingers to his lips for a brief kiss. “I’ve been looking for you.” He turned to Juliana. “Both of you.”
Callie looked to Ralston. “Tell your sister she’s beautiful.”
He looked surprised. “Of course she’s beautiful. If only she were a touch taller, she’d be perfect.”
She laughed at the feeble joke. She was taller than half the men in London. “A common complaint.”
“Gabriel, I’m serious,” Callie was not going to let either sibling off the hook. “She thinks that she cannot land a husband.”
Her brother’s brows knitted together. “Why not?” he asked his wife.
“I don’t know! Because obstinacy runs in your blood?”
He pretended to consider the frustrated statement. “It’s possible. I am not certain that I could land a husband either.”
Juliana grinned. “It is because you are too tall.”
One side of his mouth kicked up. “Very likely.”
Callie gave a little aggravated sound. “You are both impossible! I have dinner to oversee. You”—she pointed a finger at her husband, then indicated Juliana—“talk some sense into her.”
When the door had closed behind Callie, Ralston turned to Juliana.
“Please do not make me discuss it.”
He nodded once. “You realize that she’s going to be relentless about this. You’ll have to come up with an excellent reason why you don’t want to marry, or you’ll be having this conversation for the rest of your life.”