Page 111 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

The trick was to keep her gaze fixed ahead, at what artists called the vanishing point. If she must look at anyone, she would look at them down her nose. But she was a novice at this duchess game: As she turned around after relinquishing her cloak, she accidentally met someone’s eyes. His face was vaguely familiar, one of those noblemen who enjoyed artists’ salons. “Good evening, Your Grace,” he said with a nod. Juno froze, then gathered her courage and twisted to look over her shoulder. The only “grace” she spotted was the Duchess of Sherbourne; when she turned back, the gentleman was gone.

By some miracle, no one was giving her the cut. Perhaps she did belong here. Or perhaps they dared not issue insults at the art ball. Or perhaps she simply wasn’t that important to anyone in the end.

And what of it? Only Leo mattered tonight. But how on earth was she to find him in this crush?

* * *

How the devilwas he to find her in this crush?

Leo scowled his way through the rooms, peering past feathers and flowers and turbans, for a glimpse of her.

But all he found was a grinning Tristan St. Blaise, accompanied, surprisingly, by an anxious-looking Thomas Macey. Sainted stitches, it was the fellow’s second wedding night and he was spending it at aball? When Leo had his second wedding night, he would spend it in the company of his wife, and his wife alone.

Ifhe got a second wedding night.

“Polly! How fine you look! You are looking for Miss Bell, I presume?”

“I certainly didn’t show up here to waltz with you,” Leo said.

“But I waltz so beautifully.” St. Blaise stepped closer, mischief writ plain across his face. “I thought you’d like to know that I placed a very large wager this afternoon. I bet you married Miss Bell today by special license.”

“You did what?”

St. Blaise beamed. “And then Macey here also placed a very large wager, that you married Miss Bell today by special license.”

Leo looked from one to the other. “You blithering clowns! When people learn it’s not true, she’ll be a laughingstock and then I’ll have to shoot you all over again.”

Macey’s eyes widened and his head whipped about to face St. Blaise. “You told me he got two special licenses,” he accused. “You told me it was true. You—”

St. Blaise clapped him on the shoulder. “Itmighthave been true,” he said. “The other men heard you in the club, Polly, talking about special licenses and weddings, and you know gossips always leap to the most exciting conclusion. I merely encouraged them in that conclusion. Stroke of genius on my part, really. Now, no one is sure whether Miss Bell is a duchess or not, so they won’t dare cut her if she shows up. After all, there are not so many duchesses in the world that anyone can afford to offend one.”

Leo shook his head. “Neither of you has two farthings to rub together, not with your debts. Where did you get the funds to place a large wager?”

“Well, Polly, you did say you wanted to solve your problem with the excess china. Got me a pretty penny, selling that.”

Leo couldn’t help it: He laughed. “You are so annoying. But if you helped her, thank you.” He slapped his brother on the back, and Tristan slapped him back, and somehow it devolved into a half-hug. Then Macey was saying, “Are we hugging now?” and threw his arms around them both.

“I’m leaving London tonight,” Leo said quietly to his brother, once he had extricated himself and was straightening his coat. “Look after everything for me, would you?”

“Be happy to.” St. Blaise’s eyes glinted. “And what about Miss Macey? Shall I look after her too?”

Before Leo could hurl him off the balcony, a hush wafted over the crowd.

“Sir Gordon and Lady Bell,” the butler announced.

Leo went very still. A million faces turned his way.

“Mr. Hadrian Bell,” the butler said. “Mrs. Grayshott. Miss Livia Bell.

Leo turned around. A million whispers rustled across the room.

“Miss Juno Bell,” the butler said.

Leo looked up. A million stars exploded in his heart.

Somehow, Juno had procured a stylish evening gown in a dark red, trimmed with gold braid on its bodice and around its hem. Red rosebuds bloomed from her carefully coiled hair, and garnets adorned her throat. She looked radiant and full of verve. She looked elegant and full of grace. She looked like a goddess. She looked like a—

“Duchess,” someone whispered behind him, hastily shushed, but that too was lost in the chorus of murmurs, before the guests remembered themselves and tried to behave as if everything was normal.

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