Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
Page 67
His gaze snapped to her. “Ralston is married to the sister of the Earl of Allendale and the Duchess of Rivington.”
His mother waved a hand dismissively. “None of that matters now that the mother is back. And the sister.” Her upper lip curled as though she had inhaled something offensive. “She is a disgrace.”
He went still under the wave of anger that coursed through him at the sneering, disdainful words. There was nothing disgraceful about Juliana. She was beautiful and brilliant and, yes, perhaps too bold at times, but she was marvelous. And he wanted to toss his mother out for saying otherwise.
His knuckles whitened around the crystal tumbler. “I will not hear you speak so about the lady.”
The duchess’s eyes narrowed on him. “I had not known that you held Miss Fiori in such high regard.” He did not miss the correction to Juliana’s title. When he remained quiet, she added, a wealth of cool understanding in her tone, “Do not tell me you want the girl.”
He did not speak. Did not look to his mother. “I see you do.” There was a long pause, then, “She is nothing, Leighton. No name, no breeding, nothing to recommend her except a thread of a relation to Ralston, who is barely respectable himself now that their scandalous mother has returned. My goodness, we’re not even certain that she is who she says! The rumors have begun again that she is illegitimate. Not even a connection to Allendale and Rivington will save that family’s reputation now . . .” The duchess leaned forward and steeled her tone. “She is so far beneath you, she’s barely good enough to take to mistress.”
Rage coursed through him. Yes, there had been a time when he had suggested Juliana would make a good mistress himself, but it was long ago, long before he had come to see . . .
How remarkable she was.
The duchess continued, boredom in her tone. “Look elsewhere to warm your bed, Leighton. You can find someone with increased . . . worth.”
He took in the hateful words, let them wash over him.
And realized that he would never find anyone with such worth as Juliana.
He would never have her. But, by God, he would not allow her be maligned.
“Get out.” The words were reserved, and he was impressed with his control.
Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?” There was a thread of outrage in her tone.
“You heard me.”
She did not move. “Leighton. Really. There’s no need for such dramatics. Since when have you become so pedestrian?”
“There’s nothing pedestrian about it. I’ve had enough of you tonight, Mother. You have received what you want. I am marrying Lady Penelope—she of impeccable reputation and immense worth. I’ve had enough of doing your bidding for the time being.”
The duchess stood, pulling herself up to her full, stoic height. “You will remember that I am your mother, Leighton, and due the respect of the station.”
“And you will remember that I am duke, Mother, and the time is long past during which I took my marching orders from you. Go home, before I say something I will regret.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither backing down until there was a soft knock on the door to the library.
Was this night never to end?
Simon spun away from his mother. “Damnation! What?”
Boggs entered, trepidation on his face. “Your Graces, my apologies. There is an urgent message for the duke. From Yorkshire.”
Simon went cold, taking the note and dismissing the butler.
He broke the wax seal, and unfolded the paper, knowing that this was the note he had been dreading—the one that would change everything.
He read it quickly, then refolded it, placing it in his pocket. All this time, he’d been waiting . . . preparing for the message and, with it, any number of emotions—anger, fear, nervousness, irritation.
But what he felt was calm.
He stood, heading for the door.
“Leighton—” his mother called out, and he paused, back to her. Had that been a tremor in her voice? He looked over his shoulder, noticing her skin like parchment, her gray eyes set deep in her face, the hollow of her cheeks.
She looked weary.
And resigned.
“Is there news?”
The news they had been waiting for.
“You are a grandmother.”
Chapter Fourteen
The country is where rumors go to hide.
Elegant ladies do not rusticate.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
Tragedy! Our favorite item from the Continent has gone missing . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823
After traveling for five days on the hard, unforgiving roads of the English countryside, Juliana had never been so happy as she was to see Townsend Park.
If only she could get there.
The carriage had been stopped as soon as it had turned off the post road and down the long drive leading to the great stone house that loomed, stately and beautiful from the vast Yorkshire moors. When she had explained to the two enormous guards that her brother was the master of the house, and she was simply here for a visit, one of the men had leapt on a horse and was off like a shot to the great house—presumably to announce her arrival.
After a quarter of an hour, Juliana had descended from the carriage to stretch her legs by the side of the road while she waited to be approved for entry into the Park.
Security was serious business in this little corner of England.
On the surface, Townsend Park was the primary residence the Earl of Reddich, overseen by Juliana’s half brother and Ralston’s twin, Lord Nicholas St. John, and his wife Isabel, the earl’s sister. But the manor was also known as Minerva House, a safe place for young women from across England who needed sanctuary from difficult circumstances. Until Nick had discovered Isabel and the house several months ago, the safety of its residents had been under constant threat.
His mother waved a hand dismissively. “None of that matters now that the mother is back. And the sister.” Her upper lip curled as though she had inhaled something offensive. “She is a disgrace.”
He went still under the wave of anger that coursed through him at the sneering, disdainful words. There was nothing disgraceful about Juliana. She was beautiful and brilliant and, yes, perhaps too bold at times, but she was marvelous. And he wanted to toss his mother out for saying otherwise.
His knuckles whitened around the crystal tumbler. “I will not hear you speak so about the lady.”
The duchess’s eyes narrowed on him. “I had not known that you held Miss Fiori in such high regard.” He did not miss the correction to Juliana’s title. When he remained quiet, she added, a wealth of cool understanding in her tone, “Do not tell me you want the girl.”
He did not speak. Did not look to his mother. “I see you do.” There was a long pause, then, “She is nothing, Leighton. No name, no breeding, nothing to recommend her except a thread of a relation to Ralston, who is barely respectable himself now that their scandalous mother has returned. My goodness, we’re not even certain that she is who she says! The rumors have begun again that she is illegitimate. Not even a connection to Allendale and Rivington will save that family’s reputation now . . .” The duchess leaned forward and steeled her tone. “She is so far beneath you, she’s barely good enough to take to mistress.”
Rage coursed through him. Yes, there had been a time when he had suggested Juliana would make a good mistress himself, but it was long ago, long before he had come to see . . .
How remarkable she was.
The duchess continued, boredom in her tone. “Look elsewhere to warm your bed, Leighton. You can find someone with increased . . . worth.”
He took in the hateful words, let them wash over him.
And realized that he would never find anyone with such worth as Juliana.
He would never have her. But, by God, he would not allow her be maligned.
“Get out.” The words were reserved, and he was impressed with his control.
Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?” There was a thread of outrage in her tone.
“You heard me.”
She did not move. “Leighton. Really. There’s no need for such dramatics. Since when have you become so pedestrian?”
“There’s nothing pedestrian about it. I’ve had enough of you tonight, Mother. You have received what you want. I am marrying Lady Penelope—she of impeccable reputation and immense worth. I’ve had enough of doing your bidding for the time being.”
The duchess stood, pulling herself up to her full, stoic height. “You will remember that I am your mother, Leighton, and due the respect of the station.”
“And you will remember that I am duke, Mother, and the time is long past during which I took my marching orders from you. Go home, before I say something I will regret.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither backing down until there was a soft knock on the door to the library.
Was this night never to end?
Simon spun away from his mother. “Damnation! What?”
Boggs entered, trepidation on his face. “Your Graces, my apologies. There is an urgent message for the duke. From Yorkshire.”
Simon went cold, taking the note and dismissing the butler.
He broke the wax seal, and unfolded the paper, knowing that this was the note he had been dreading—the one that would change everything.
He read it quickly, then refolded it, placing it in his pocket. All this time, he’d been waiting . . . preparing for the message and, with it, any number of emotions—anger, fear, nervousness, irritation.
But what he felt was calm.
He stood, heading for the door.
“Leighton—” his mother called out, and he paused, back to her. Had that been a tremor in her voice? He looked over his shoulder, noticing her skin like parchment, her gray eyes set deep in her face, the hollow of her cheeks.
She looked weary.
And resigned.
“Is there news?”
The news they had been waiting for.
“You are a grandmother.”
Chapter Fourteen
The country is where rumors go to hide.
Elegant ladies do not rusticate.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
Tragedy! Our favorite item from the Continent has gone missing . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823
After traveling for five days on the hard, unforgiving roads of the English countryside, Juliana had never been so happy as she was to see Townsend Park.
If only she could get there.
The carriage had been stopped as soon as it had turned off the post road and down the long drive leading to the great stone house that loomed, stately and beautiful from the vast Yorkshire moors. When she had explained to the two enormous guards that her brother was the master of the house, and she was simply here for a visit, one of the men had leapt on a horse and was off like a shot to the great house—presumably to announce her arrival.
After a quarter of an hour, Juliana had descended from the carriage to stretch her legs by the side of the road while she waited to be approved for entry into the Park.
Security was serious business in this little corner of England.
On the surface, Townsend Park was the primary residence the Earl of Reddich, overseen by Juliana’s half brother and Ralston’s twin, Lord Nicholas St. John, and his wife Isabel, the earl’s sister. But the manor was also known as Minerva House, a safe place for young women from across England who needed sanctuary from difficult circumstances. Until Nick had discovered Isabel and the house several months ago, the safety of its residents had been under constant threat.
