Page 39 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

“It can be no surprise that I wish my second marriage to succeed,” he said. “Maintaining a connection with a woman such as yourself would be disrespectful to the lady I make my wife.”

“A woman such as myself.” Her tone was flat.

“Do you require me to elaborate?”

“Oh, I think I comprehend your meaning. They’ll assume I am your mistress, if they don’t already. Because, after all, what use has a gentleman for awoman such as myself, except in his bed? Yet we are not lovers, and never have been, and never will be, except in their puerile, prejudiced minds. What a fine jest, when naught lies between us but a single kiss ten years ago that meant nothing at all, and was gone and forgotten before the summer was out.”

Startling, really, that such an old wound might still prove tender. That somewhere inside him, that sensitive youth had just cried out in pain.

“I find myself grateful for your eavesdropping, madam,” he made himself say. “As you save me the trouble of seeing you again to explain the situation. In the circumstances, I shall not be at liberty to call at your studio again.”

* * *

In that moment,Juno detested him.

The playful friend who lit up her studio was in hiding. The earnest boy she had once loved to distraction had grown into this glib, remote creature spun out of silk and lies.

So aloof, so ornate, and about as warm as a marble statue on a winter’s day.

And if she painted him now? There, with the sun favoring him, framed against the wall of jasmine trembling in the breeze.Beautiful Liar, she might title it.

She never had painted him. She would need burnt sienna and burnt umber, a touch of Prussian blue for his eyes, and— Oh, what did it matter what colors she would choose? She would never paint him. Already she had wasted too much time and paper, drawing Leopold Halton’s face.

Ten years ago he had rejected her, making it clear she was not valuable enough to keep in his life, and here he was, doing it again. He had tossed aside their friendship, crushed it under the heel of his impeccably crafted boot.

She hated those boots. Hated his waistcoat and his coat and his cravat, his eyes and his hair and his face.

He looked away, as if this interview had become vexing and tedious, as if called by some terribly important ducal matter. He had discharged an unpleasant task, but one did what one had to do. Honor and duty and such, don’t you know?

Then he met her eyes and bowed, a deeper bow than a duke ought to give to a woman such as herself. Such excessive courtesy. Such wondrous condescension.

Such an insufferable beast.

Juno refused to curtsy, but he did not wait for it. He turned on his heel, and she said, “You do not even see it, do you?”

He paused, head cocked as if he had heard a distant voice in the wind.

“You have betrayed our friendship, yet again.”

He turned back. “Again?” he repeated, sounding genuinely baffled. Sounding human and like himself again. There: a small tear in his facade. She would rip it open, as ruthlessly as he had torn her.

“I understand you must marry,” she said. “I understand you must sever our connection out of respect for your future bride. I do not like it, it grieves me terribly, and I hate that our society is made thus, but I understand it. I understand we cannot be friends in the future, but I do not understand why you must deny our friendship of the past.” She extended one hand in supplication. He glanced at it, looked away. She let her hand drop. “These words of yours, I don’t only lose you now, I lose every moment we ever shared in the past. I do not understand why you must do that.”

“And I do not understand why you persist. Madam.”

“You lied to Lord Renshaw,” she said, desperately needing it to be true. “And if you did not, then look me in the eye and tell me now our friendship meant nothing to you. I thought—” She laughed, but it was not a merry sound. “I deluded myself that I provided for you a haven, where you could relax and be yourself. And I fancied I could be at ease with you, and not hide— I never knew you were judging me for my choices.”

She stopped short. Some things were better not spoken out loud—the fact she took lovers, she painted nudes, she made bawdy jokes, she did notbehave. Yet not once had he made her feel unworthy of his respect.

Until now.

“All this time, you have been scorning me, and—” She shook her head. “No. I cannot believe it. You were happy in my studio. You—”

Tears pricked her eyes. She would not weep. She must return to Beatrice’s party and act the grateful protégée of her treacherous patroness. But after that, she would be safe at home, and there, alone with her cats, she would release his image onto the page.

Then she would burn every drawing she had of Leo and dance on the ashes.

Something surged inside her, something savage and fierce. It surged through her chest and her limbs, so powerful and violent it propelled her toward him. She grabbed his coat lapels, hauled herself closer. Words failed her. She could express herself only with her body.

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