Page 45 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

The earl studied her blankly, and then he repeated, “Miss Juno Bell?” and his affability vanished as quickly as her optimism. “So Dammerton was lying. I knew it.”

“This matter does not concern His Grace,” Juno said hastily. “You bought one of my paintings—”

“What rot.” Renshaw made a derisive sound. “The idea that I might purchase something by Dammerton’s doxy!”

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Juno said, very sharply.

“Taking a tone, are you? Let me guess: Dammerton ended his liaison with you, as I requested, and instead of graciously accepting his decision and parting gifts, you came here to make trouble for my Susannah.”

Juno stood as straight and tall as she could. “My lord, I have no interest in your family. I am a respectable artist, and I shall not—”

“Respectable! If you were respectable, you’d have a husband here to vouch for you.”

“What a shame I forgot to get married before calling.”

Mr. Eccles cleared his throat. “My lord, this lady’s uncle is Sir Gordon Bell, so perhaps we—”

“Perhaps he should be ashamed to acknowledge her.” He shook a finger at her, lace cuffs quivering. “I’ll have a word with Dammerton about this.”

“Please,” Juno said. “This has nothing to do with him. I do not want any trouble, I—”

“Trouble’s exactly what you want. I know all about women like you. In my day… Oh-ho, oh yes indeed.”

“My lord, you know nothing about me.”

“Enough. Eccles, shut the door.”

Mr. Eccles shot her a rueful look and did as he was told.

For five stunned seconds, Juno stared at the painted wood and the brass ring, before turning to traipse unevenly down the steps to the street.

Mrs. Kegworth was looking worried. “Not went as you hoped, then?”

A broken laugh escaped Juno’s throat. “I could not have achieved a worse outcome if I had delegated the planning of this to my cats.”

Now Leo would hear of this—the Earl of Renshaw’s version, that was. In one move, she had jeopardized both her own reputation and his courtship.

One option remained: to seek her aunt’s help, and beg her to ask no questions about why, exactly, she had a score of drawings of Leo hidden in a painting frame.

“We must call on my aunt next,” she told Mrs. Kegworth, and looked left and right to orient herself.

Only to be immediately disoriented when her gaze fell on Leo himself, standing like a statue, walking stick clutched in one hand.

Oh, dear heaven, could this day get any worse?

She briefly entertained mad visions of dashing to the garden in the middle of the square and hiding in the bushes until he went away. But her feet were like stone, and Mrs. Kegworth said brightly, “Why, it’s His Grace,” and then Leo was striding toward her, freezing her in place like a rabbit before a lion.

Warmth burst over her, which was immensely annoying, because she was neither shrinking violet nor blushing virgin, and he was nothing but an insufferable, vain, arrogant beast who had denied their friendship and treated her as a blight upon his day.

And kissed her so thoroughly she still felt him sizzling through her veins.

He stopped abruptly. His coattails flapped from the momentum. He remained at a courteous distance, but there was nothing courteous in his heated gaze as it roamed over her face and scorched her dry lips, or in his harsh tone as he said, “What the devil are you doing on this street?”

“For crying out loud,” Juno muttered.

She spun around and hurried away, away from Renshaw and Dammerton and every other pestilent peer that infested this place.

Leo easily kept pace with her, though poor Mrs. Kegworth was soon left behind.

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