Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
Page 98
Suddenly, he knew what she was going to do.
And he could not stop her.
She shook her head. “No.”
He stood there like a fool, arm extended, not understanding.
She shook her head again and whispered, “I won’t be your scandal. Not this time.” The words crashed around him, and he watched as her eyes went liquid with unshed tears. “No,” she repeated, and she hurried past, heading for the exit.
It took him a moment to realize what had happened—that she was leaving him. That she had rejected him. He met Allendale’s gaze, blood roaring in his ears, shame and confusion and something else flooding through him, hot and furious.
“How could you do such a thing to her?”
The words barely registered before Allendale was pushing past him as well, following Juliana through the crowd.
He turned to watch them, to watch her rush through the room, their massive audience moving aside to let her pass, and he did the only thing he could think to do; he called after her. “Juliana!”
A collective gasp rippled through the room at the sound, a booming shout that was entirely out of place in a ballroom, or anywhere a cultured gentleman happened to be. But he did not care. He took a step toward her, following, and an arm came across his chest.
Ralston held him back.
He fought against the grip, calling out again, her name tearing through the room, echoing up into the rafters, silencing everyone in the room, including the orchestra. “Juliana!”
She turned back. He met her gaze—the color of Ceylon sapphires—and said the only thing he could think to say. The only thing he could imagine would keep her there. With him. The only thing that mattered. “I love you.”
Her face—her beautiful, perfect face—crumbled at the words, and the tears that she had held at bay spilled over.
She ran from the room, Allendale on her heels.
Simon tore himself from Ralston’s grip, followed, determined to reach her. Determined to fix it.
And damned if the ton didn’t protect her from him.
The orchestra resumed its playing, and there were suddenly throngs of people in his way. Everywhere he turned, there was a waltzing couple trapping him on the dance floor, and when he reached the edge of the ballroom, a constant stream of guests simply happened into his path.
Not one of them met his eyes; not one spoke to him. But they made it impossible for him to catch her.
When he had fought his way through the crowd, down the stairs, and out the door, she was gone, and there was nothing but a drenching London rain to greet him.
And at that moment, as he stared into the fog, replaying the events of the last few minutes over and over, he recognized the emotion coursing through him.
It was fear.
Fear that he had lost the only thing he had ever really wanted.
Chapter Twenty
Society does not forgive scandalous behavior.
Such is the delicate lady’s maxim.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
With the spectacle playing out in the Beau Monde this year, the theatre seems unnecessary . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823
The entire family was back at Ralston House within the hour.
They congregated in the library, Benedick and Rivington sitting in the high-backed chairs near the enormous fireplace, in front of which Ralston paced. Juliana sat on a low chaise, flanked by Mariana and Callie.
Amo, amas, amat.
I love, you love, he loves.
He loves.
He loves me.
She took a deep breath, a hitch catching in her throat.
Callie stood and headed for the door. “I think I shall call for tea.”
“I think we need something slightly stronger than that,” Ralston said, heading for a decanter of whiskey on the sideboard. He poured three glasses for the men, then, after a long moment, a fourth. He walked it over to Juliana. “Drink this. It will settle you.”
“Gabriel!” Callie reprimanded.
“Well, it will.”
Juliana took a sip of the fiery liquid, enjoying the burn it sent down her throat. At least when she was feeling that, she was not feeling the devastating ache that Simon had left with his profession of love.
“Perhaps you could explain to me how it is that Leighton came to profess his love to you in the middle of a crowded ballroom?”
The ache returned.
“He was in Yorkshire,” she whispered, hating the sound of the words. Hating the weakness.
Ralston nodded. “And tell me, did he lose his mind there?”
“Gabriel,” Callie said, warning in her tone. “Have a care.”
“Did he touch you?” Everyone stiffened. “Don’t answer. There’s no need. No man behaves in such a way without . . .”
“Ralston.” Benedick interrupted. “Enough.”
“He wants to marry me.”
Mariana squeezed her hand. “But, Juliana, that is good, is it not?”
“Well, after tonight, I am not certain that he would make a very good match,” Ralston said wryly.
Tears welled in Juliana’s eyes, and she took a sip of scotch to force them away.
She’d been trying so hard—so hard to be something more than a scandal. She’d worn a dress that was the required color, she’d danced appropriately with only the most gentlemanly of men, she’d convinced herself that she could be the kind of woman who was known for propriety. Who was known for reputation.
The kind of woman he would want by his side.
And still, she’d been nothing more to him than a scandal. Nothing more than what he’d seen in her since the beginning. And when he had professed his love there, in front of the entire ton, that dark, scandalous part of her had sung with happiness. And she ached for wanting him. For loving him.
And he could not stop her.
She shook her head. “No.”
He stood there like a fool, arm extended, not understanding.
She shook her head again and whispered, “I won’t be your scandal. Not this time.” The words crashed around him, and he watched as her eyes went liquid with unshed tears. “No,” she repeated, and she hurried past, heading for the exit.
It took him a moment to realize what had happened—that she was leaving him. That she had rejected him. He met Allendale’s gaze, blood roaring in his ears, shame and confusion and something else flooding through him, hot and furious.
“How could you do such a thing to her?”
The words barely registered before Allendale was pushing past him as well, following Juliana through the crowd.
He turned to watch them, to watch her rush through the room, their massive audience moving aside to let her pass, and he did the only thing he could think to do; he called after her. “Juliana!”
A collective gasp rippled through the room at the sound, a booming shout that was entirely out of place in a ballroom, or anywhere a cultured gentleman happened to be. But he did not care. He took a step toward her, following, and an arm came across his chest.
Ralston held him back.
He fought against the grip, calling out again, her name tearing through the room, echoing up into the rafters, silencing everyone in the room, including the orchestra. “Juliana!”
She turned back. He met her gaze—the color of Ceylon sapphires—and said the only thing he could think to say. The only thing he could imagine would keep her there. With him. The only thing that mattered. “I love you.”
Her face—her beautiful, perfect face—crumbled at the words, and the tears that she had held at bay spilled over.
She ran from the room, Allendale on her heels.
Simon tore himself from Ralston’s grip, followed, determined to reach her. Determined to fix it.
And damned if the ton didn’t protect her from him.
The orchestra resumed its playing, and there were suddenly throngs of people in his way. Everywhere he turned, there was a waltzing couple trapping him on the dance floor, and when he reached the edge of the ballroom, a constant stream of guests simply happened into his path.
Not one of them met his eyes; not one spoke to him. But they made it impossible for him to catch her.
When he had fought his way through the crowd, down the stairs, and out the door, she was gone, and there was nothing but a drenching London rain to greet him.
And at that moment, as he stared into the fog, replaying the events of the last few minutes over and over, he recognized the emotion coursing through him.
It was fear.
Fear that he had lost the only thing he had ever really wanted.
Chapter Twenty
Society does not forgive scandalous behavior.
Such is the delicate lady’s maxim.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
With the spectacle playing out in the Beau Monde this year, the theatre seems unnecessary . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823
The entire family was back at Ralston House within the hour.
They congregated in the library, Benedick and Rivington sitting in the high-backed chairs near the enormous fireplace, in front of which Ralston paced. Juliana sat on a low chaise, flanked by Mariana and Callie.
Amo, amas, amat.
I love, you love, he loves.
He loves.
He loves me.
She took a deep breath, a hitch catching in her throat.
Callie stood and headed for the door. “I think I shall call for tea.”
“I think we need something slightly stronger than that,” Ralston said, heading for a decanter of whiskey on the sideboard. He poured three glasses for the men, then, after a long moment, a fourth. He walked it over to Juliana. “Drink this. It will settle you.”
“Gabriel!” Callie reprimanded.
“Well, it will.”
Juliana took a sip of the fiery liquid, enjoying the burn it sent down her throat. At least when she was feeling that, she was not feeling the devastating ache that Simon had left with his profession of love.
“Perhaps you could explain to me how it is that Leighton came to profess his love to you in the middle of a crowded ballroom?”
The ache returned.
“He was in Yorkshire,” she whispered, hating the sound of the words. Hating the weakness.
Ralston nodded. “And tell me, did he lose his mind there?”
“Gabriel,” Callie said, warning in her tone. “Have a care.”
“Did he touch you?” Everyone stiffened. “Don’t answer. There’s no need. No man behaves in such a way without . . .”
“Ralston.” Benedick interrupted. “Enough.”
“He wants to marry me.”
Mariana squeezed her hand. “But, Juliana, that is good, is it not?”
“Well, after tonight, I am not certain that he would make a very good match,” Ralston said wryly.
Tears welled in Juliana’s eyes, and she took a sip of scotch to force them away.
She’d been trying so hard—so hard to be something more than a scandal. She’d worn a dress that was the required color, she’d danced appropriately with only the most gentlemanly of men, she’d convinced herself that she could be the kind of woman who was known for propriety. Who was known for reputation.
The kind of woman he would want by his side.
And still, she’d been nothing more to him than a scandal. Nothing more than what he’d seen in her since the beginning. And when he had professed his love there, in front of the entire ton, that dark, scandalous part of her had sung with happiness. And she ached for wanting him. For loving him.
