Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart (Love By Numbers #3)(15)

“Cats only have nine lives here.”

She smiled over her shoulder at him. “And women?”

“Far fewer. It is not wise for you to be here alone.”

“It was perfectly wise until you arrived.”

“This is why you are . . .” He trailed off.

“This is why I am always in trouble.”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you here, Your Grace? Don’t you risk your own reputation by being so near to me?” She turned to find him several yards away and gave a short laugh. “Well. I don’t suppose you could possibly be ruined from such a distance. You are safe.”

“I promised your brother that I would shield you from scandal.”

She was so very tired of everyone thinking she was one step from scandal.

She narrowed her gaze on him. “There is an irony in that, don’t you find? There was a time when you were the biggest threat to my reputation. Or do you not remember?”

The words were out before she could stop them, and his countenance grew stony in the shadows. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss such things.”

“It never is, is it?”

He changed the subject. “You are fortunate that it was I who found you.”

“Good fortune? Is that what this is?” Juliana met his eyes, searching for the warmth she had once seen there. She found nothing but his strong patrician gaze, unwavering.

How could he be so different now?

She turned back to the sky, anger flaring. “I think it best for you to leave.”

“I think it best for you to return to the ball.”

“Why? You think that if I dance a reel, they will open their arms and accept me into the fold?”

“I think they will never accept you if you do not try.”

She turned her head to meet his eyes. “You think I want them to accept me.”

He watched her for a long moment. “I think you should want us to accept you.”

Us.

She squared her shoulders. “Why should I? You are a rigid, passionless group, more concerned with the proper distance between dance partners than in the world in which you live. You think your traditions and your manners and your silly rules make your life desirable. They don’t. They make you snobs.”

“You are a child who knows not the game that she plays.”

The words stung. Not that she would show him that.

She stepped closer, testing his willingness to stand his ground. He did not move. “You think I consider this a game?”

“I think it is impossible for you to consider it otherwise. Look at you. The entire ton is mere feet away, and here you are, a hairsbreadth from ruin.” His words were steel, the strong planes of his face shadowed and beautiful in the moonlight.

“I told you. I don’t care what they think.”

“Of course you do. Or you wouldn’t still be here. You would have returned to Italy and been done with us.”

There was a long pause.

He was wrong.

She did not care what they thought.

She cared what he thought.

And that only served to frustrate her more.

She turned back to face the gardens, gripping the wide stone railing on the balcony and wondering what would happen if she ran for the darkness.

She would be found.

“I trust your hands have healed.”

They were back to being polite. Unmoved.

“Yes. Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “You seemed to enjoy the dancing.”

There was a beat as he considered the statement. “It was tolerable.”

She laughed a little. “What a compliment, Your Grace.” She paused. “Your partner appeared to enjoy your company.”

“Lady Penelope is an excellent dancer.”

The grape had a name.

“Yes, well, I had the good fortune of meeting her earlier this evening. I can tell you she does not have excellent choice in friends.”

“I will not have you insulting her.”

“You will not have me? How are you in a position to make demands of me?”

“I am quite serious. Lady Penelope is to be my bride. You will treat her with the respect she is due.”

He was going to marry the ordinary creature.

Her mouth dropped in surprise. “You are engaged?”

“Not yet. But it is a mere matter of formality at this point.”

She supposed it was right that he be matched with such a perfect English bride.

Except it seemed so wrong.

“I confess, I have never heard anyone speak so blandly about marriage.”

He crossed his arms against the cold, the wool of his black formal coat pulling taut across his shoulders, emphasizing his broadness. “What is there to say? We suit well enough.”

She blinked. “Well enough.”

He nodded once. “Quite.”

“How very impassioned.”

He did not rise to her sarcasm. “It’s a matter of business. There is no room for passion in a good English marriage.”

It was a joke. It must be.

“How do you expect to live your life without passion?”

He sniffed, and she wondered if he could smell his pompousness. “The emotion is overrated.”

She gave a little laugh. “Well, that might possibly be the most British thing I have ever heard anyone say.”