Page 49 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

And as if the mirror had magical properties, she was transported to some other world: an imaginary world where Leo crossed the room to wrap his arms around her, where he pressed his lips to her neck, then turned her to claim her mouth in a sweet, sweet kiss.

She slapped her hand to the mirror’s lies and whirled around.

Too much lay between them. The air pulsed with it. With that kiss yesterday, they had broken a thousand little rules, whose shards now shimmered and bounced around the room like the sunlight itself.

“I recall you talking of this mirror,” she said. Her voice sounded unnaturally loud. “A former soldier, am I right? He sings opera as he carves, you said, but he doesn’t know the words so he makes up his own.”

He smiled faintly. “You remember.”

“I enjoy your stories. These items feel like my friends, as if I’m already familiar with your collection. It is so clearly your passion.”

He reached out one hand—such beautiful hands, he had—and rippled his fingers over the perfume burner like he was playing the flute.

“I have long dreamed of expanding the scope of the Dammerton Foundation,” he said slowly. “It will require a large sum of money to execute. But my expenses are considerable and the divorce was costly.” His gaze was steady with meaning. “You do understand?”

“Yes. I understand.”

He was speaking of his marriage. He must marry for the usual reasons, of course: duty, family, heirs, and so forth. But also for money, for the Foundation that was his one passion. Presumably the lady in question did not object to being used thus. Juno didn’t ask. Miss Macey already haunted the conversation. Besides, Beatrice had revealed enough: Susannah Macey would bring to her marriage twenty-five thousand pounds, which would buy her status, stability, security, and a life with Leo.

* * *

Juno worea sad smile as she turned away to continue her explorations of his home. Leo trailed after her.

The rose-colored muslin of her gown swayed around her. She caressed the objects as she passed, fondled and petted and stroked, as if it demanded all her senses to experience them. She didn’t mean to be provocative, but he couldn’t stop watching her hands, his chest boiling with jealousy, as if he envied mere objects for receiving her touch.

Neither spoke again. She had understood his meaning. She would not understand everything, but she understood enough.

Dimly, he remembered they had agreed to sever their connection. That was the most sensible thing. But he was not feeling sensible now, with the memory of their kiss and his dream more vivid to him than the room itself, with her dress skimming over her hips and thighs, while every object seemed to come alive in her presence, the peculiar magic that belonged to Juno and Juno alone.

The way she brought him alive.

Still he said nothing. If he spoke, he might say something foolish.

I had a dream about you last night, he might say.

You are more beautiful than any of these decorative objects,he might say.

Foolish indeed. She would roll her eyes because such meaningless words were worthy of only the most inept libertine. Leo was not a libertine, and he had not invited her into his house to seduce her.

Had he?

The silence continued until she reached the dining room, where she clapped delightedly at the sight of the tea services covering the table.

“Good heavens! There are so many. You weren’t exaggerating. I revise what I said the other day. You may indeed send me a new tea service or six.”

“Choose whichever ones you want.”

She roamed about, eager as a child at a fair, before asking, “Which would you choose for me?”

He guided her to a small set, with only four teacups. Each took a season as its theme, personified by a nymph. The autumn nymph wore leaves of red and orange, the spring nymph danced amid pink blossoms, summer was draped in green, and winter twirled in white.

She lifted the cup for summer. “Oh, but they’re exquisite.”

“Look,” he said.

He edged behind her, his coat brushing her back, and slid his fingers under her wrist. He wrapped his hand around hers and the cup, tilted them gently to bring the panel into the light.

He did not need to stand so close. He did not need to wrap his hand around hers. He did not need to breathe in her floral scent, or revel in the warmth of her skin, or enjoy the tickle of her curls as he bent his head too close to hers. She tensed, then relaxed. She did not move away. She became complicit in his pretense that this was all quite reasonable.

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