Page 1 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

PROLOGUE

It was a chance encounter, as all their daily meetings were, the pair of them somehow treading the same woodland paths in the first hours of daylight, while Juno’s family slept. Early morning was the best time of day, they agreed, when the air was crisp and unsullied and full of hope.

The meetings were not secret, but neither ever spoke of them. It was simpler that way. Leo was a guest, visiting at seventeen, eighteen, now nineteen; Juno was two years younger. Erroneous assumptions would be made, accusations hurled, punches thrown. Even Juno’s family would not understand the innocent fervor of their friendship: their wide-ranging conversations, their free laughter, their sense of belonging found nowhere else. And honor demanded Leo never take it beyond friendship, not when he was heir to a duke and Juno his friend’s low-born cousin. Quite the little joke Fate had played, putting Juno Bell in his path, close enough to touch, yet forever out of reach.

That morning, their rambles ended in a meadow, chaperoned by an ancient oak and excitable birds. They were arguing, playfully, about whether the delicate pink wildflowers were called “cuckoo flowers” or “lady’s smock.” They were everywhere, amid splashes of blue and yellow, red and white, the masses of English wildflowers carpeting the fields and just now opening to greet the sun.

“Cuckoo flowers,” Juno said, holding one aloft, its four pale petals quivering. “Because they bloom when the first cuckoo arrives.”

“Lady’s smock,” Leo insisted, though he didn’t care about the name. He cared about the laughter dancing in her eyes, bluer than the morning sky behind her. He cared about her air of a pagan goddess, with wildflowers woven through her fair, unbound curls.

He cared about the way he felt when he was with her: free, alive, whole.

Dancing backward, she brandished her flower at him like a sword. He plucked one of his own to accept the challenge and, laughing, they dueled with the flowers. Until she broke through his guard and brushed the petals over his cheek. Their eyes met. Their smiles faded. His breath stopped. His heart thumped.

Then she stretched up and leaned in and pressed her soft lips to his. Sensations cascaded through him, warm and hopeful, magical, sensual, as nothing he had ever known before. How he welcomed her kiss, wanted it,neededit, closing his eyes, moving his lips against hers, burying his hands in her hair. He hadn’t a clue what he was doing, but she had already taught him there were times to stop thinking, to surrender to one’s senses and simply respond as felt right.

When they parted, they were breathless, sharing shy, astonished, delighted smiles. Reborn into a world forever changed.

It was his first-ever kiss, and the sweetest moment of his life.

Then Juno said, “I love you.”

And Leo said—nothing.

His throat froze. His mouth opened, shut, opened, shut, his words held prisoner by the war raging inside him. He had duties and obligations:This must stop now. He had her kiss lingering on his lips:This must never stop.

His torn silence dragged on until it filled the meadow.

Juno’s expression dimmed. Her shoulders slumped. And now she was backing away from him, her lips twisted, perhaps in a bitter smile, perhaps in a fight against tears. All the while, she was nodding sadly, as if to say,What else did I expect? Of course.

He reached for her hand, savored a desperate, desolate brush of skin before she pulled away.

“We cannot be together in any way,” he finally croaked, his throat tight, icy, aching. “I must consider my duty to my family when I choose a wife. You are my friend’s kin and Sir Gordon’s niece, so honor demands that I never touch— Even a kiss is not—” He tried again. “The future—”

“Oh, enough with the future, duty, honor, family,” she snapped. “Why must you carry them all with you? Why can we not be two people alone in a meadow, without you bringing everyone else along too? Do you think me so simple? Iknowwe can never be together.”

Then she laughed, softly, bitterly, even as she blinked away tears. “How stifling and miserable your life is, that you may not even kiss a girl in a meadow. I—” She paused to consult the old oak tree, before facing him defiantly. “I shall be an artist, and no one’s wife or mistress. I only wanted to kiss you and tell you that I love you, because I’m alive and you’re alive, and we’re young and beautiful and here. I know better than anybody that nothing lasts forever. Nothing ever stays. Not even this.”

She flung her crumpled flower at him and whirled away, her dew-soaked skirts clinging to her legs as she carved a path through the grass.

Leo wanted to surge after her and cry that of course he had to bring it all with him. His ancient family, his name, his duty, his honor—they were as much a part of him as his own skin and bones. He had to choose them, didn’t she see? He had to put his duty first.

He might never make her understand, but perhaps he would have tried, had she looked back.

She didn’t look back.

CHAPTER1

Ten years later

Leopold Halton, the Duke of Dammerton, was a man of many pleasures.

He took pleasure in caressing the smooth, graceful curves of exquisitely shaped porcelain. He took pleasure in stroking the silken threads of the embroidery on his clothes.

And on this day, he took great pleasure in stripping off his coat and seducing secrets from a wooden crate with a hard, iron bar.

Very gently, mind. Its contents might be fragile.

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