“I have a good reason.”
“No doubt you think you do.”
She scowled at the insinuation that she did not actually have a good reason not to marry.
“You shall be happy to learn that I have decided against locking you in the attic for the rest of your days to keep you from more adventures,” he said, changing the subject. “But you are not far from such a fate. Do have a care, Juliana.” His dimple flashed. “I find I quite like having a sister.”
His words warmed her. She quite liked having a brother. “I do not mean to make trouble.”
He raised a brow.
“Not all the time. Not this afternoon.” Except she had meant to make trouble. Just not the kind he need know about. “Not the kind that ends at the bottom of a lake,” she qualified.
He moved to a sideboard and poured himself a scotch, then sat by the fireplace, indicating that she should join him.
When she took the chair opposite his, he said, “No, you mean to make the kind of trouble that ends in setting down half of London society.”
She opened her mouth to refute the point, and he continued. “There’s no use in telling me otherwise, Juliana. You think it is only our dark hair and blue eyes that make us siblings? You think I do not know what it is like to have them watch your every move? To have them wait for you to prove that you are every inch what they expect you to be?”
There was a long pause. “It’s different.”
“It’s not.”
“They didn’t think you were going to be like her.”
He did not pretend to misunderstand. “You’re nothing like her.”
How could he know that?
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his blue eyes unwavering. “I know it. I know what she was like. She was indifferent. Uncaring. She made a cuckold of her husband. She left her children . . . twice. That is not you.”
She wanted to believe him.
“She was also a scandal.”
He gave a little huff of laughter. “It’s not the same thing at all. You are unexpected and exciting and charming. Yes. You’re willful and irritating as hell when you want to be, but you’re not a scandal.”
She had been in Hyde Park that morning. She had been on the balcony the night before. If Ralston knew that she had wagered two weeks of passion with the duke, he’d have a fit.
Yes, she was a scandal.
Her brother simply didn’t know it.
“I fell in the Serpentine today.”
“Yes, well, that doesn’t usually happen to women in London. But it’s not so much of a scandal as it is a challenge. And if you’d stop nearly getting yourself killed . . .” He trailed off, and silence stretched between them. “She was real scandal. The kind from which families do not recover. You are not like her. Not at all.”
“Leighton thinks I am.”
Ralston’s eyes darkened. “Leighton compared you to our mother?”
She shook her head. “Not in so many words. But he thinks I’m a danger to the reputations around me.”
Ralston waved a dismissive hand. “First, Leighton is an ass, and has been since he was in short pants.” Juliana could not help her giggle, and Ralston smiled at the sound. “Second, he is too conservative. He always has been. And third”—he gave a wry smile—“I have suffered more than my fair share of blows to my reputation, and we are still invited to parties, are we not?”
“Perhaps everyone is just waiting for us to cause a scene.”
He settled back in his chair. “It’s possible.”
“Why is he so cautious?”
The question was out before she could stop it, and she immediately regretted it. She did not want Ralston to sense her interest in the duke.
Not that it was anything more than a passing interest.
Not at all.
Ralston seemed not to notice. “He has always been so. Since we were boys. At school, he couldn’t speak a sentence without mentioning that he was heir to a dukedom. Always stiff and proper and all about the title. I’ve always thought his behavior ridiculous. Why assume the responsibilities of a title if you’re not willing to enjoy the benefits?”
He met her eyes, honestly confounded by the idea of feeling responsible to a title, and Juliana could not help but grin. Her brother had a rake inside him. A tame one, now that he was married, but a rake nonetheless.
Silence fell, and Juliana had to bite her tongue to keep from pressing her brother for more.
“Callie wants to have him to dinner. To thank him. Publicly.”
He thought for a moment. “That seems to be sound logic.”
“Along with a half a dozen other eligible bachelors.”
He offered her a sympathetic look. “You do not actually believe that I can alter her from this course?”
“No, I suppose I do not.” She paused. “She thinks proximity to the duke will help my reputation.”
“She’s probably right. I can’t say I like the man, but he does hold a certain sway over society.” One side of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “A trait I’ve never been able to claim.” Silence fell, and they were both lost to their thoughts. Finally, Ralston said, “I won’t pretend their opinions don’t matter, Juliana. I wish to hell they didn’t; of course they do. But I promise you. You are nothing like her.”
She closed her eyes against his words. “I want to believe you.”
“But you find yourself believing them.”
Her gaze widened. How did he know that?
A wry smile crossed his face. “You forget, sister. I have been in your position. I have wanted to show them all that I was above them, all the while fearing that I was precisely what they thought.”
That was it. That was how she felt.
“It is different for you,” Juliana said, and she hated the pout in her voice.
He took a drink. “It is. Now.”
Because he was the marquess.
Because he was English.
Because he was male.
“Because you are one of them.”
“Bite your tongue!” he said. “What an insult!”
She did not find it amusing. She found it infuriating.
“Ah, Juliana. It’s different for me because I now know what it is to have someone expect me to be more than what I am. Now I know what it is to want to be more.”
The meaning of his words sank in. “Callie.”
He nodded. “I no longer focus on meeting their expectations because I am too focused on outdoing hers.”
She could not help but smile. “The wicked Marquess of Ralston, inveterate libertine, laid low by love.”
He met her gaze, all seriousness. “I am not saying that you must marry, Juliana. On the contrary, if you prefer a life free of marriage, God knows you have enough money to live it. But you must ask yourself what you think your life should be.”
She opened her mouth to answer him, only to realize that she had no answer. She’d never given it much thought—not since her father had died and everything had changed. In Italy, marriage and family had not been out of the question, she supposed . . . but they had been so far off that she’d never really given them much thought. But here, in England . . .
Who would want her?
Unaware of her thoughts, Ralston stood, ending the conversation with one final thought. “I never thought I would say it, but love is not as bad as I thought it would be. Should it come for you, I hope you will not turn it away out of hand.”
She shook her head. “I hope it will not come for me.”
A smile flashed. “I have heard that before, you know. I’ve said it . . . Nick has said it . . . but, be warned. St. Johns do not seem to be able to avoid it.”
But I am not a St. John. Not really.
She did not speak the words.
She liked the illusion.
Chapter Seven
Amusement is expressed in delicate smiles.
Laughter is too coarse for the elegant lady.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
The age-old question is answered: In battle, marble trumps gold.
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
Juliana looked over the edge of the Duke of Rivington’s box at the Theatre Royale, considering the mass of silk and satin below. Half of the ton appeared to be in attendance at this special presentation of The Lady of Livorno, and the other half was surely put out that they could not secure a ticket.
“My word,” Mariana said, joining her to watch the tableau spread out before them, “I thought autumn was for country houses and hunting trips!”
“Yes, well, whoever decreed such apparently neglected to tell London society this year.”
“This is what happens when Parliament convenes special sessions. We all go mad from the autumn air. Is that wheat in Lady Davis’s hair?” Mariana lifted her opera glasses, inspecting the unfortunate coiffure with a shake of her head before surveying the rest of the boxes in the theatre before the performance began and she would be forced to pretend she did not care for the audience as much as for the company of actors. “Ah. Densmore is here with a woman I’ve never seen before. One can assume she’s a lightskirt.”
“Mari!” She might not have been in London for long, but even Juliana knew that discussion of courtesans was not appropriate conversation for the theatre.
Mariana looked up, eyes twinkling. “Well, it’s true!”
“What is true?” The Duke of Rivington had made his way through the throngs of visitors in search of a moment of his time and ran the back of one finger down his wife’s arm.
Juliana felt a pang of envy at the absentminded affection, barely noticed by husband or wife, and ignored it. Mariana turned to her duke with a brilliant, happy smile. “I was just saying that Densmore must be here with a lady of the evening. I’ve never seen her before.”
Rivington was used to his wife’s boldness, and instead of chastising her he sought the Densmore box, taking a long look at the viscount’s companion. “I think you may be right, sweeting.”
“You see?” Mariana nearly preened with satisfaction. “I’m an excellent judge of character.”
“Either that, or you’re becoming an excellent gossip,” Juliana said wryly.
Rivington laughed loudly. “Much more likely. Miss Fiori, I am afraid I must steal her away for a moment.” He turned back to Mari. “Come and say hello to Lady Allen, would you? I need you to entertain her for a bit while I discuss a matter with her husband.”
Mariana looked over Rivington’s shoulder at the couple in question, a somewhat staid pair, each with pursed lips and unfortunate jowls. Rolling her eyes, she handed her opera glasses to Juliana. “See what else you can discover while I’m gone. I expect a full report when I return.”
She was gone then, through a crowd of people, to do her duty as wife of one of the most revered men in the realm. Juliana watched in wonder as her friend approached the baroness and engaged the woman in conversation. Within moments, Lady Allen was smiling up at Mariana, obviously satisfied with her company.
As much as people talked about Mariana’s marriage as that most rare of things—the love match—it was undeniable that the relationship was as much a brilliant political partnership as it was a romance. Mariana was the very best of ducal wives; that her duke happened to be mad about her was a happy coincidence.
Lasting love was not something with which Juliana was familiar. She was the product of a match devised from fleeting infatuation. Her mother had bewitched her father, from what Juliana could tell, and had deserted them both when she became tired of domesticity. Juliana’s father had never remarried, though he’d had several opportunities to do so—she had always thought that he’d made the most sensible choice. After all, why risk loving again when history suggested that such behavior would end in pain and anger and loss?
In the last several months, she had come to see that love was not a myth—she’d stood happily by as her half brothers had found it. Gabriel and Callie’s love blossomed just as Juliana arrived in England, and she had watched as they resisted it—futilely. When they had succumbed to the emotion, all of London had been surprised, and Juliana had hoped only that their love would not end in sadness. Within months, Nick had found his Isabel, and it was impossible to deny their devotion to each other.
But all love began this way—fiery and passionate and devoted. What happened when fire waned and devotion became tiresome?
She watched as Callie stretched to whisper into Ralston’s ear on the opposite side of the box. Her brother smiled broadly—something he had rarely done when Juliana had arrived in the spring—placing his hand on the small of his wife’s back and leaning down to reply.
From the pink wash that spread over Callie’s cheeks, Juliana imagined her brother’s words were not entirely fit for the theatre.
Something coiled deep within Juliana . . . something that she might have identified as envy if she spent too much time considering it.
But she knew better than to be envious of their love. It was a vague, ephemeral emotion that, within months—years, if one were lucky—would ultimately fade.
And then what?
No, Juliana did not want love.
But passion . . . the kind that made her brother say wicked things to his wife at the theatre . . . that was another thing entirely.
She wouldn’t mind that.
She thought back to the morning two days earlier, to the moment in Hyde Park when the Duke of Leighton had leapt from his horse, eyes flashing with anger and frustration, and kissed her. Thoroughly.
With passion.
And he’d made her want, damn him.