Page 77 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

“A friend told me some news,” she said.

“Nothing bad, I hope.”

“Something from the past. It made me think.”

Juno did not enjoy this sort of thinking. She did not like the way her thoughts spun around like autumn leaves in a whirlwind. She did not like the way Leo’s revelation had sent every choice from the past ten years dancing through her mind like frenzied drunkards.

But how could she regret her choices? She was happy as an artist. She cherished her experiences. She was proud of what she had achieved. She liked who she had become.

Yet beside him in that bed, their bodies melded as one, she had felt more alive and whole than she had in years.

Longing swept over her like a river after a storm. She blinked it off as she became aware of Mrs. Kegworth repeating her name, her kindly face etched with concern.

Juno forced a smile. Enough! No point in yearning for Leo. He cared for her, she knew he did, but she had broken his youthful heart, and then strayed so far from the path of respectability that he had no room for her in his life.

And what of it? She could hardly fit a duke into her life either. Dukes took up an awful lot of space.

She squeezed the housekeeper’s hand. “Mrs. Kegworth. Alice. Have I ever said thank you?”

“Several times a day, Miss Bell.”

“I mean, really thank you. To you and Mr. Kegworth for agreeing to our arrangement.”

Mrs. Kegworth laughed and patted her hand. “No need to thank us, my dear. With the money we save on not paying you rent or board, Mr. Kegworth has saved a nice little nest egg. Besides, I enjoy keeping house and meeting your lively guests. I’m certain we’ve the better end of the bargain, as all we do in exchange for our rooms is to tell a little lie.”

“If not for that lie, I would not be able to have this studio. Some things money cannot buy.”

Juno glared at the kitchen, as though it were the stove’s fault that an unmarried woman could not run her own household, not if she earned her own living and wished to keep her good name. The scheme had been a gift from her friend Arabella, now Lady Hardbury, who created schemes the way other people ate breakfast. It was Juno who rented the house, but Mr. Kegworth, a lithographer, led the world to believe it was his household and that he was her mother’s cousin. This nice fiction gave Juno the cloak of respectability that came with living in the household of her male kin. Such stupid rules! At first it had amused her, like a game. How weary she was, now, of treading the tightrope of respectability.

“But I like my life,” she said to Mrs. Kegworth as if they’d been arguing over this point. The kitchen felt overheated. Her eyes were hot too; she swiped at a surprising tear. “I break their rules and I tell lies and I do what I must because there is always a price to pay. But it’s all right because I like my life. I’m happy,” she cried, and turned and ran up the stairs.

* * *

What she neededto do was draw.

But her studio looked shabby and threadbare. It felt like a stranger’s space, even as Angelica and Artemisia came bounding across the room to greet her. She crouched down to pet them and smiled as their heads bumped her chin, but her eyes roamed hopelessly, seeing all the places Leo would never be again.

Never mind: She did not need him. She had her art, and art had been enough for years.

She pulled out her sketchbook and sharpened the pencil and pressed that pencil to the page, and pressed and waited and pressed and waited and pressed until the pencil broke. Her Muse was silent. Her imagination felt numb.

Again she took up the blade, again she sharpened the point, and this time caught her skin with a yelp. She stared at the little jewel of blood in wonder. She had not cut herself since the first time Hester had let her sharpen her own pencil.

If Leo were here, he’d shake his head and gently wash off the blood, saying, “I warned you about becoming addled. The adverse side effects of drawing nudes!”

The image was so solid it stole her breath, and she shivered as she washed and bound the little cut herself.

* * *

What she neededto do was lose herself in diversions.

She had scores of friends. Why, she would not even notice Leo’s absence. Bohemian circles in London were large and full of drama. There was always some entertainment to be found, from salons and musicales to picnics and games.

But even among such entertainments, Leo haunted her. Everywhere she went, her friends would say, “Oh, but you know the Duke of Dammerton, do you not?” Juno would ignore her pounding heart and say something like, “We are acquainted,” at which they’d lean in eagerly and ask if the rumors were true: Had the duke really become engaged to a lady without informing her family and then run away? Each time she would say he’d never behave so dishonorably, to which they would say “Where is he, then?” and she would say she didn’t know, and they would say, “Of course not,” and the conversation would move on. Until someone else recalled her acquaintance, and the exchange would repeat itself all over again.

How funny people were. Every now and then, during these past years, someone would speculate that she was Leo’s mistress, simply because she was a woman and he was a man and what other evidence of an affair could anyone need? But in the end, no one truly believed a spinster and minor artist to be of any real interest to such a grand public figure as a duke. No one knew of their history, not even her family. No one knew they had loved each other and broken each other’s hearts. No one would guess they had each unwittingly shaped the course of the other’s life.

And no one ever would know. Did it happen if there was no one to witness it? If there was no record of something, was it even real?

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