Page 84 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

Despite the crush, a space had opened up around him and the fashionably dressed dark-haired lady by his side. How very ducal he was: polished, flawless, shiny. He was spinning his quizzing glass on its chain, a blur of energy that belied his lazy demeanor.

He ought not to be here. How dare he be here! There had been a special opening of the exhibition for exalted invitees, so they did not have to share their space with the rabble.

Perhaps her surge of energy was too strong, for the crowd parted as if she had fired out a lightning bolt, and he twisted to look over his shoulder as if she had called his name.

He looked right at her.

Their eyes met.

The world receded. The noise dimmed. Everything and everyone blurred into the background. All she saw was him.

For long, frantic heartbeats, their gazes collided and tumbled over each other like stones in a landslide. But his gaze revealed nothing, nothing, and then he twisted back and bent his head to hear the words of his affianced bride.

Something fierce seared through Juno’s veins.No, he’s mine!she wanted to yell. She wanted to tear out that lady’s hair and scratch out her eyes and hurl her out a window for good measure.You don’t know him. You’ll never know him, never own him, not until you’ve seen his wild heart. He’s mine!

Her feet began propelling her forward; she realized her madness and yanked herself back, only to trip and stumble on nothing. She knocked into someone: a middle-aged gentleman. Their catalogues fluttered to the floor; she scooped them up while he straightened his hat. Her cheeks burned as they exchanged apologies and assured each other no harm was done. Then the gentleman moved on, and Beatrice was there, eyes wide.

“What are you up to, Juno?” she said. “It is not like you to be clumsy.”

Juno smoothed down her pelisse and patted her bonnet. She imagined Leo’s amusement at her collision, Leo saying,See? Your mind is already addled.

“The adverse side effects of drawing nudes,” Juno muttered to her poor mistreated catalogue.

Then she remembered herself. Oh no! Please let Beatrice not have heard her careless words!

No. Fortunately, Beatrice’s attention was directed elsewhere. Her eyes shone.

“Juno, darling, look! Look!” Juno didn’t need to look. “’Tis the Duke of Dammerton and Miss Macey. Shall we talk to them? Would it be an imposition? We have been introduced. No, I ought not to talk to him. But you could talk to him. No, you ought not to talk to him.”

Juno swiveled and catapulted herself toward another painting. “They are here to enjoy the art. It is best if we leave them alone.”

Beatrice agreed, but she kept twisting her head for another look, like a spaniel straining against her leash. Juno forced her eyes onto the sliver of painting visible through the bodies. She would not so much as glance at Leo again.

Or at the lady he meant to marry, that clever, virtuous earl’s granddaughter with twenty-five thousand pounds. Miss Macey looked very well. Stylish, nicely put together, pretty, young. And what of it? Juno thought grumpily. She could look well too, if she could spare a few hours each day on dressing, and had pots of money and a team of skilled maids. People always judged ladies by how accomplished they were, and never stopped to think how much more accomplished they would be if they didn’t have to spend so much time fussing about their hair and their clothes. Of course, when Miss Macey was a duchess, every eye in the room would be on her, so she had to look good.Rather her than me, Juno thought, and resolutely turned to march on.

But suddenly Leo was there, right in front of them.

No, not Leo. The duke.

She searched his face hungrily, seeking something, anything. A hint of a smile, a glint in his eye, a shared memory, a whisper of intimacy.

Nothing. His face was an exquisite mask, indifferent and aloof.

Beatrice sank into a low curtsy and yanked at Juno’s skirts, so she lowered her eyes and curtsied too.

“Your Grace, my husband and I would like to offer our sincerest felicitations upon your engagement,” Beatrice said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Prescott. Are you enjoying the exhibition?”

“Very much indeed.”

Then he turned his cool blue gaze on Juno. “Miss Bell. Your family is well, I trust? Your art progresses well?”

“Thank you, Your Grace. It is proving adequate.”

There: pleasantries successfully exchanged. Now they would nod and part. Again.

Indeed, he was going. One foot slid back, just an inch, and his chin came up and his lips parted. He would bid them farewell and, once more, he would be gone.

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