Page 47 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

Suddenly, it hurt to look at him. She didn’t belong here, in this stately square. “Niece to Sir Gordon Bell,” they described her, in that excruciatingly polite way, defining her by what they chose not to say.

Once more, Leo was an untouchable work of art—Arrogant Stranger, she would title it—whereas her cheeks felt flushed, and her best walking dress felt too tight, and she kept saying too much and speaking too freely. Mostly, she did not mind her own flaws: Life held too many delights to bother with such things. But now her flaws made her feel clumsy and plain. It was Leo’s doing. He had the power to make her feel happy and at peace; he equally had the power to make her feel like dirt under his boot.

“It is not your concern, Your Grace,” she said coldly. “We established that yesterday. I bid you good day.”

Then she marched on. This time, he did not come to her side.

Just keep walking,she said to herself.One step, then another, then—

“Juno, wait.”

She spun around. “Yes?”

He was tossing the walking stick from one hand to the other. The sunlight glinted on his ducal signet ring like a lighthouse warning.

“You are clearly in some distress. Perhaps I can offer assistance with your situation.” A tiny smile tugged at his lips. “I am a duke, remember. We are not entirely useless. At the very least, I could offer you and Mrs. Kegworth a cup of tea and a carriage home.”

Tears threatened. She chased them away with an unconvincing huff of laughter. “You are the last person whose help I’d seek with this.”

He stiffened. The tiny smile vanished. “I see.”

“I mean… That is not what I mean.”

A cup of tea. In his house. Explaining her problem—an edited version, of course. Receiving his help.

As if they were friends.

Yet their friendship had unraveled like a moth-eaten tapestry, until it was barely a heap of frayed threads, and she still did not understand how it had fallen apart so fast.

It was so tempting to stay near him a while longer. He was like a bowl of chocolate truffles, when she would say, “I’ll have just one more, andthenI’ll stop. Just one more.”

“You must apologize,” she said, to her own surprise. “For how you spoke to me yesterday.”

“I see.” His gaze briefly dipped to her lips. “Anything else from yesterday I need apologize for?”

“No,” she squeaked. She swallowed and added, “Everything else was perfectly … tolerable.”

“Tolerable?” A rakish glint lit his eyes, as if she had issued a challenge. “So gratifying, to know it wastolerable.”

He stepped closer. Her breath stopped. His gaze dipped to her mouth. Her lips parted.

Then the moment passed. He huffed out air and straightened.

“I apologize for the way I spoke to you yesterday,” he said. “It was unkind and unnecessary, and I greatly regret my mistreatment of you.”

“Why did you do it?” she whispered.

“I panicked.”

“Youpanicked? I saw your brother throw a sword at you and you didn’t panic.”

“Swords are easy. One simply avoids the pointy bits. In conversations, the pointy bits are not always clear.”

His sincerity had slipped back into glibness. She was losing him again.

“I still don’t understand what is happening,” she said.

He said nothing. Yes: She had lost him again.

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