Page 16 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

Yet, narrow-minded nonsense or not, Lady Renshaw made a valid point. Leo’s engagementwouldspark more gossip, and his activitieswouldattract more attention, and that gossipwouldembarrass his betrothed, and quite possibly Juno too.

So perhaps it would be wise to, say, call on Juno a little less frequently. And the gossip would affect her, so it would only be right to warn her it was coming.

He considered leaving, but spied Livia Bell, alone and awkward against a wall, and went to ask her to dance.

CHAPTER5

Bounding up the stairs to Juno’s parlor, Leo heard cheers and whoops, and he cursed under his breath to learn she was not alone.

The cheers, he discovered, came from a half-dozen guests, poets and the like. They were lined up against the wall with the furniture, and they were cheering because Juno was fencing, of all things, with Tristan St. Blaise.

Perhaps not fencing exactly, but they both brandished foils, fine Italian pieces with long, flexible blades. Juno wielded hers like a cross between a paintbrush and a poker, now sketching motifs, now jabbing at air, while she skipped back and forth along the worn blue rug as freely as her skirts would allow.

Those skirts belonged to one of her hideous work dresses—today’s was a dull brown with a black-leaf print—yet even so, she made a beguiling picture, there under the windows, where the sunlight bathed her in its honeyed glow and made a halo of her flyaway curls.

Unnoticed, Leo leaned in the doorway, scheming ways to get her alone like some debauchery-minded rake. Chance would be a fine thing: Juno’s studio saw more traffic than a coaching inn. Those sitting for portraits brought their friends; artists, poets, and musicians visited to avoid doing their own work; and studio tours were popular among people of all classes. Like many artists, Juno hung a dozen or so paintings for such tourists, including a still life of vibrant flowers, a portrait of Arabella, Marchioness of Hardbury, and her newest painting, of the mythological Pandora.

Leo would not see the next painting she added. He would not return to relax into her voluptuous settee, or share nonsense jokes, or sit in the window seat and watch her work.

Well. No need to be dramatic about it. No one was dying or getting exiled to the other side of the world. He’d return one day, when talk had settled down and interest had moved on. When he was wed.

In the middle of the room, St. Blaise was spinning around and flipping his foil, earning oohs and aahs from their poetic audience, who were too easily impressed by a pretty man doing showy tricks.

What the devil was his half-brother doing here again anyway?

“Such admirable style you possess, Miss Bell!” St. Blaise said. “I am amazed by the strength and steadiness of your arm.”

“Such hyperbolic styleyoupossess, sir,” Juno returned. “My arm must be strong and steady, to draw and paint for hours. Or had you not realized that is what an artist does?”

“No! Is it? I thought artists did nothing but get drunk, moan about the Muse, and complain that it’s always the least talented people who have the most success.”

Mischief lit her expression. “You’re confusing us with the poets.”

The watching poets yelled their protests. Juno spun toward them, giggling cheekily, lips parted to riposte, when she spied Leo. She lowered her foil, and her smile softened to one of welcome. He straightened under her warmth.

“Behold! My fair brother Polly!” At St. Blaise’s cry, every head turned. “Let the Duke of Dammerton serve as your tutor now.”

Without warning, St. Blaise sent his foil spinning through the air toward Leo. The blade stayed upright, quivering like a ballerina as it rode its arc across the room. The guests pressed into the wall, even as they awkwardly tried to bow to Leo, murmurs of “Your Grace” warring with yelps of self-protection.

In a single movement, Leo stepped toward the flying sword and caught its grip. The momentum propelled him onto the rug, where he demonstrated that he, too, could swish a blade like a preening cavalier, as he presented himself to Juno with a bow.

Her crooked smile kicked up. The exertions of swordplay had pinked her cheeks, and several curls tumbled free of her lopsided pile of hair.

“We must not impose upon His Grace, with his hair so superb and his waistcoat so splendid,” she said, offering him an exit, even as her eyes sparkled with challenge. “He might want to let another man have a turn.”

“My hair always looks superb and this is only my fifth-favorite waistcoat,” Leo said lazily. “I think I can bear to duel with you.”

He handed his foil to a grinning St. Blaise and turned away to tug off his coat and hang it over a writing desk.

Whatwashis half-brother up to? Nothing good, surely. Sowing mischief was one of St. Blaise’s greatest skills, up there with fencing, riding, shooting, boxing, and damn near every other athletic pursuit. He was Leo’s superior in all of them, always had been. Back when they were boys, Papa Duke spent his quarterly visits to Leo gushing about his beloved Tristan’s accomplishments, like a boy boasting about his new puppy.

And then Tristan showed up here, with his famous beauty and superior fencing skills, eyeing Juno with undisguised admiration. The fool. She would never be interested in the likes of him.

Would she?

Not Leo’s concern.

Did she still take lovers?

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