Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart Read online

  She tilted her head. “I may have done so.”

  “May have?” Ralston took a step toward her, and Juliana stood to face her brother head-on. Here was no simpering miss.

  She was tall, uncommonly so for a female. It was not every day that Simon met a woman with whom he did not have to stoop to converse.

  The top of her head came to his nose.

  “Well, I was rather busy, Gabriel.”

  There was something about the words, so utterly matter-of-fact, that had Simon exhaling his amusement, calling attention to himself.

  Ralston rounded on him. “Oh, I would not laugh too hard if I were you, Leighton. I’ve half a mind to call you out for your part in tonight’s farce.”

  Disbelief surged. “Call me out? I did nothing but keep the girl from ruining herself.”

  “Then perhaps you’d like to explain how it is that the two of you were alone in your study, her hands lovingly clasped in your own, when I arrived?”

  Simon was instantly aware of what Ralston was doing. And he did not like it. “Just what are you trying to say, Ralston?”

  “Only that special licenses have been procured for less.”

  His eyes narrowed on the marquess, a man he barely tolerated on a good day. This was not turning out to be a good day. “I’m not marrying the girl.”

  “There’s no way I’m marrying him!” she cried at the same moment.

  Well. At least they agreed on something.

  Wait.

  She didn’t want to marry him? She could do a damned sight worse. He was a duke, for God’s sake! And she was a walking scandal.

  Ralston’s attention had returned to his sister. “You’ll marry whomever I tell you to marry if you keep up with this ridiculous behavior, sister.”

  “You promised—” she began.

  “Yes, well, you weren’t making a habit of being accosted in gardens when I made that vow.” Impatience infused Ralston’s tone. “Who did this to you?”

  “No one.”

  The too-quick response rankled. Why wouldn’t she reveal who had hurt her? Perhaps she had not wanted to discuss the private matter with Simon, but why not with her brother?

  Why not allow retribution to be delivered?

  “I’m not a fool, Juliana.” Ralston resumed pacing. “Why not tell me?”

  “All you need know is that I handled him.”

  Both men froze. Simon could not resist. “Handled him how?”

  She paused, cradling her bruised wrist in her hand in a way that made him wonder if she might have sprained it. “I hit him.”

  “Where?” Ralston blurted.

  “In the gardens.”

  The marquess looked to the ceiling, and Simon took pity on him. “I believe your brother was asking where on his person did you strike your attacker?”

  “Oh. In the nose.” She paused in the stunned silence that followed, then said defensively, “He deserved it!”

  “He damn well did,” Ralston agreed. “Now give me his name, and I’ll finish him off.”

  “No.”

  “Juliana. The strike of a woman is not nearly enough punishment for his attacking you.”

  She narrowed her gaze on her brother, “Oh, really? Well, there was a great deal of blood considering it was the mere strike of a woman, Gabriel.”

  Simon blinked. “You bloodied his nose.”

  A smug smile crossed her face. “That’s not all I did.”

  Of course it wasn’t.

  “I hesitate to ask . . .” Simon prodded.

  She looked to him, then to her brother. Was she blushing?

  “What did you do?”

  “I . . . hit him . . . elsewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “In his . . .” She hesitated, her mouth twisting as she searched for the word, then gave up. “In his inguine.”

  Had he not understood the Italian perfectly, the circular movement of her hand in an area generally believed to be entirely inappropriate for discussion with a young woman of good breeding would have been unmistakable.

  “Oh, dear God.” It was unclear whether Ralston’s words were meant as prayer or blasphemy.

  What was clear was that the woman was a gladiator.

  “He called me a pie!” she announced, defensively. There was a pause. “Wait. That’s not right.”

  “A tart?”

  “Yes! That’s it!” She registered her brother’s fists and looked to Simon. “I see that it is not a compliment.”

  It was hard for him to hear over the roaring in his ears. He’d like to take a fist to the man himself. “No. It is not.”

  She thought for a moment. “Well, then he deserved what he received, did he not?”

  “Leighton,” Ralston found his voice. “Is there somewhere my sister can wait while you and I speak?”

  Warning bells sounded, loud and raucous.

  Simon stood, willing himself calm. “Of course.”

  “You’re going to discuss me,” Juliana blurted.

  Did the woman ever keep a thought to herself?

  “Yes. I am,” Ralston announced.

  “I should like to stay.”

  “I am sure you would.”

  “Gabriel . . .” she began, in a soothing tone Simon had only ever heard used with unbroken horses and asylum inmates.

  “Do not push your luck, sister.”

  She paused, and Simon watched in disbelief as she considered her next course of action. Finally, she met his gaze, her brilliant blue eyes flashing with irritation. “Your Grace? Where will you store me while you and my brother do the business of men?”

  Amazing. She resisted at every turn.

  He moved to the door, ushering her into the hallway. Following her out, he pointed to the room directly across from them. “The library. You may make yourself comfortable there.”

  “Mmm.” The sound was dry and disgruntled.

  Simon held back a smile, unable to resist taunting her one final time. “And may I say that I am happy to see that you are willing to admit defeat?”

  She turned to him and took a step closer, her breasts nearly touching his chest. The air grew heavy between them, and he was inundated with her scent—red currants and basil. It was the same scent he had noticed months ago, before he had discovered her true identity. Before everything had changed.

  He resisted the impulse to look at the expanse of skin above the rich green edge of her gown instead taking a step back.

  The girl was entirely lacking a sense of propriety.

  “I may admit defeat in the battle, Your Grace. But never in the war.”

  He watched her cross the foyer and enter the library, closing the door behind her, and he shook his head.

  Juliana Fiori was a disaster waiting to happen.

  It was a miracle that she had survived half a year with the ton.

  It was a miracle they had survived half a year with her.

  “She took him out with a knee to the . . .” Ralston said, when Simon returned to the study.

  “It would seem so,” he replied, closing the door firmly, as though he could block out the troublesome female beyond.

  “What the hell am I going to do with her?”

  Simon blinked once. Ralston and he barely tolerated one another. If it were not for the marquess’s twin being a friend, neither of them would choose to speak to the other. Ralston had always been an ass. He was not actually asking for Simon’s opinion, was he?

  “Oh, for Chrissakes, Leighton, it was rhetorical. I know better than to ask you for advice. Particularly about sisters.”

  The barb struck true, and Simon suggested precisely where Ralston might go to get some advice.

  The marquess laughed. “Much better. I was growing concerned by how gracious a host you had become.” He stalked to the sideboard and poured three fingers of amber liquid into a glass. Turning back he said, “Scotch?”

  Simon resumed his seat, realizing that he might be in for a long evening. “What a generous offer,�
�� he said dryly.

  Ralston walked the tumbler over and sat. “Now. Let’s talk about how you happen to have my sister in your house in the middle of the night.”

  Simon took a long drink, enjoying the burn of the liquor down his throat. “I told you. She was in my carriage when I left your ball.”

  “And why didn’t you apprise me of the situation immediately?”

  As questions went, it was a fairly good one. Simon swirled the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, thinking. Why hadn’t he closed the carriage door and fetched Ralston?

  The girl was common and impossible and everything he could not stomach in a female.

  But she was fascinating.

  She had been since the first moment he’d met her, in the damned bookshop, buying a book for her brother. And then they’d met again at the Royal Art Exhibition. And she’d let him believe . . .

  “Perhaps you would tell me your name?” he had asked, eager not to lose her again. The weeks since the bookshop had been interminable. She had pursed her lips, a perfect moue, and he had sensed victory. “I shall go first. My name is Simon.”

  “Simon.” He had loved the sound of it on her tongue, that name he had not used publicly in decades.

  “And yours, my lady?”

  “Oh, I think that would ruin the fun,” she had paused, her brilliant smile lighting the room. “Don’t you agree, Your Grace?”

  She had known he was a duke. He should have recognized then that something was wrong. But instead, he had been transfixed. Shaking his head, he had advanced upon her slowly, sending her scurrying backward to keep her distance, and the chase had enthralled him. “Now, that is unfair.”

  “It seems more than fair. I am merely a better detective than you.”

  He paused, considering her words. “It does appear that way. Perhaps I should simply guess your identity?”

  She grinned. “You may feel free.”

  “You are an Italian princess, here with your brother on some diplomatic visit to the King.”

  She had cocked her head at the same angle as she had this evening while conversing with her brother. “Perhaps.”

  “Or, the daughter of a Veronese count, whiling away your spring here, eager to experience the legendary London Season.”

  She had laughed then, the sound like sunshine. “How disheartening that you make my father a mere count. Why not a duke? Like you?”

  He had smiled. “A duke, then,” adding softly, “that would make things much easier.”

  She’d let him believe she was more than a vexing commoner.

  Which, of course, she wasn’t.

  Yes, he should have fetched Ralston the moment he saw the little fool on the floor of his carriage, squeezed into the corner as though she were a smaller woman, as though she could have hidden from him.

  “If I’d come to fetch you, how do you think that would have worked?”

  “She’d be asleep in her bed right now. That’s how it would have worked.”

  He ignored the vision of her sleeping, her wild raven hair spread across crisp, white linen, her creamy skin rising from the low scoop of her nightgown. If she wore a nightgown.

  He cleared his throat. “And if she’d leapt from my carriage in full view of all the Ralston House revelers? What then?”

  Ralston paused, considering. “Well, then, I suppose she would have been ruined. And you would be preparing for a life of wedded bliss.”

  Simon drank again. “So it is likely better for all of us that I behaved as I did.”

  Ralston’s eyes darkened. “That’s not the first time you have so baldly resisted the idea of marrying my sister, Leighton. I find I’m beginning to take it personally.”

  “Your sister and I would not suit, Ralston. And you know it.”

  “You could not handle her.”

  Simon’s lips twisted. There wasn’t a man in London who could handle the chit.

  Ralston knew it. “No one will have her. She’s too bold. Too brash. The opposite of good English girls.” He paused, and Simon wondered if the marquess was waiting for him to disagree. He had no intention of doing so. “She says whatever enters her head whenever it happens to arrive, with no consideration of how those around her might respond. She bloodies the noses of unsuspecting men!” The last was said on a disbelieving laugh.

  “Well, to be fair, it did sound like this evening’s man had it coming.”

  “It did, didn’t it?” Ralston stopped, thinking for a long moment. “It shouldn’t be so hard to find him. There can’t be too many aristocrats with a fat lip going around.”

  “Even fewer limping off the other injury,” Simon said wryly.

  Ralston shook his head. “Where do you think she learned that tactic?”

  From the wolves by whom she had clearly been raised.

  “I would not deign to guess.”

  Silence fell between them, and after a long moment, Ralston sighed and stood. “I do not like to be indebted to you.”

  Simon smirked at the confession. “Consider us even.”

  The marquess nodded once and headed for the door. Once there, he turned back. “Lucky, isn’t it, that there is a special session this autumn? To keep us all from our country seats?”

  Simon met Ralston’s knowing gaze. The marquess did not speak what they both knew—that Leighton had thrown his considerable power behind an emergency bill that could have waited easily for the spring session of Parliament to begin.

  “Military preparedness is a serious issue,” Simon said with deliberate calm.

  “Indeed it is.” Ralston crossed his arms and leaned back against the door. “And Parliament is a welcome distraction from sisters, is it not?”

  Simon’s gaze narrowed. “You have never pulled punches with me before, Ralston. There is no need to begin now.”

  “I do not suppose I could request your assistance with Juliana?”

  Simon froze, the request hanging between them.

  Simply tell him no.

  “What kind of assistance?”

  Not precisely “No,” Leighton.

  Ralston raised a brow. “I am not asking you to wed the girl, Leighton. Relax. I could use the extra set of eyes on her. I mean, she can’t go into the gardens of our own home without getting herself attacked by unidentified men.”

  Simon leveled Ralston with a cool look. “It appears that the universe is punishing you with a sibling who makes as much trouble as you did.”

  “I am afraid you might be right.” A heavy silence fell. “You know what could happen to her, Leighton.”

  You’ve lived it.

  The words remained unspoken, but Simon heard them, nonetheless.

  Still, the answer is no.

  “Forgive me if I am not entirely interested in doing you a favor, Ralston.”

  Much closer.

  “It would be a favor for St. John, as well,” Ralston added, invoking the name of his twin brother—the good twin. “I might remind you that my family has spent quite a bit of energy caring for your sister, Leighton.”

  There it was.

  The heavy weight of scandal, powerful enough to move mountains.

  He did not like having such an obvious weakness.

  And it would only get worse.

  For a long moment, Simon could not bring himself to speak. Finally, he nodded his agreement. “Fair enough.”

  “You can imagine how much I loathe the very idea of asking you for assistance, Duke, but think of how much you will enjoy rubbing it in my face for the rest of our days.”

  “I confess, I was hoping not to have to suffer you for so very long.”

  Ralston laughed then. “You are a cold-hearted bastard.” He came forward to stand behind the chair he had vacated. “Are you ready, then? For when the news gets out?”

  Simon did not pretend to misunderstand. Ralston and St. John were the only two men who knew the darkest of Simon’s secrets. The one that would destroy his family and his reputation if it were revealed.

&
nbsp; The one that was bound to be revealed sooner or later.

  Would he ever be ready?

  “Not yet. But soon.”

  Ralston watched him with a cool blue gaze that reminded Simon of Juliana. “You know we will stand beside you.”

  Simon laughed once, the sound humorless. “Forgive me if I do not place much weight in the support of the House of Ralston.”

  One side of Ralston’s mouth lifted in a smile. “We are a motley bunch. But we more than make up for it with tenacity.”

  Simon considered the woman in his library. “That I do not doubt.”

  “I take it you plan to marry.”

  Simon paused in the act of lifting his glass to his lips. “How did you know that?”

  The smile turned into a knowing grin then. “Nearly every problem can be solved by a trip to the vicar. Particularly yours. Who is the lucky girl?”

  Simon considered lying. Considered pretending that he hadn’t selected her. Everyone would know soon enough, however. “Lady Penelope Marbury.”

  Ralston whistled long and low. “Daughter of a double marquess. Impeccable reputation. Generations of pedigree. The Holy Trinity of a desirable match. And a fortune as well. Excellent choice.”

  It was nothing that Simon had not thought himself, of course, but it smarted nonetheless for him to hear it spoken aloud. “I do not like to hear you discuss my future duchess’s merits as though she were prize cattle.”

  Ralston leaned back. “My apologies. I was under the impression that you had selected your future duchess as though she were prize cattle.”

  The whole conversation was making him uncomfortable. It was true. He was not marrying Lady Penelope for anything other than her unimpeachable background.

  “After all, it isn’t as if anyone will believe the great Duke of Leighton would marry for love.”

  He did not like the tremor of sarcasm in Ralston’s tone. Of course, the marquess had always known how to irritate him. Ever since they were children. Simon rose, eager to move. “I think I shall fetch your sister, Ralston. It’s time for you to take her home. And I would appreciate it if you could keep your family dramatics from my doorstep in the future.”

  The words sounded imperious even to his ears.

  Ralston straightened, making slow work of coming to his full height, almost as tall as Leighton. “I shall certainly try. After all, you have plenty of your own family dramatics threatening to come crashing down on the doorstep, do you not?”