He’d never told her that she had a family.
She’d only learned about her half brothers, born of the mother she’d barely known, after her father had died—when she’d discovered that her funds had been placed in a trust, and that an unknown British marquess was to be her guardian.
Within weeks, everything had changed.
She had been dropped, summarily, on the doorstep of Ralston House, with three trunks of possessions and her maid.
All thanks to a mother without a thimbleful of maternal instinct.
Was it any surprise that people questioned the character of her daughter?
That the daughter questioned it, as well?
No.
She was nothing like her mother.
She’d never given them a reason to think she was.
Not on purpose, at least.
But it didn’t seem to matter. These aristocrats drew strength from insulting her, from looking down their long, straight noses at her and seeing nothing but her mother’s face, her mother’s scandal, her mother’s reputation.
They did not care who she was.
They cared only that she was not like them.
And how tempted she was to show them how very unlike them she really was . . . these unmoving, uninteresting, passionless creatures.
She took a deep, stabilizing breath, looking over the ballroom to the faraway doors leading to the gardens beyond. Even as she began to move, she knew that she should not head for them.
But in all the emotions flooding her, she could not find the room to care about what she should not do.
Mariana came from nowhere, placing a delicate gloved hand on Juliana’s elbow. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine.” She did not look at her friend. Could not face her.
“They’re horrid.”
“They’re also right.”
Mariana pulled up short at the words, but Juliana kept moving, focused singularly on the open French doors . . . on the salvation they promised. The young duchess caught up quickly. “They are not right.”
“No?” Juliana sliced a look at her friend, registering the wide blue eyes that made her such a perfect specimen of English femininity. “Of course they are. I am not one of you. I never will be.”
“And thank God for that,” Mariana said. “There are more than enough of us to go around. I, for one, am very happy to have someone unique in my life. Finally.”
Juliana paused at the edge of the dance floor, turning to face her friend. “Thank you.” Even though it isn’t true.
Mariana smiled as though everything had been repaired. “You’re very welcome.”
“Now, why don’t you go find your handsome husband and dance with him. You would not like tongues to begin wagging about the state of your marriage.”
“Let them wag.”
Juliana’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Spoken like a duchess.”
“The position does have a few perks.”
Juliana forced a laugh. “Go.”
Mariana’s brow furrowed with worry. “Are you sure you are all right?”
“Indeed. I am just heading for some fresh air. You know how I cannot bear the heat in these rooms.”
“Be careful,” Mariana said with a nervous look toward the doors. “Don’t get yourself lost.”
“Shall I leave a trail of petits fours?”
“It might not be a bad idea.”
“Good-bye, Mari.”
Mariana was off then, her shimmering blue gown swallowed up by the crowd almost instantly, as though they could not wait for her to join their masses.
They would not absorb Juliana in the same way. She imagined the crowd sending her back, like an olive pit spit from the Ponte Pietra.
Except, this was not as simple as falling from a bridge.
Not as safe, either.
Juliana took a few moments to watch the dancers, dozens of couples swirling and dipping in a quick country dance. She could not resist comparing herself to the women twirling before her, all in their pretty pastel frocks, with their perfectly positioned bodies and their tepid personalities. They were the result of perfect English breeding—raised and cultivated like grapevines to ensure identical fruit and inoffensive, uninteresting wine.
She noticed the girl from the salon taking her place on one side of the long line of dancers, the flush on her cheeks making her more alive than she had first seemed. Her lips were tilted up in what Juliana could only assume was a long-practiced smile—not too bright as to seem forward, not too dim as to indicate disinterest. She appeared a plump grape, ready for picking. Ripe for inclusion in this simple, English vintage.
The grape reached the end of the line, and she and her partner came together.
Her partner was the Duke of Leighton.
The two were weaving and spinning straight toward her, down the long line of revelers, and there was only one thought in Juliana’s head.
They were mismatched.
It was not merely the way they looked, everything but their similarly too-golden hair ill suited. She was somewhat plain—her face just a touch too round, her blue eyes a touch too pale, her lips something less than a perfect pink bow—and he was . . . well . . . he was Leighton. The difference in their statures was immense—he towered well over six feet, and she was small and slight, barely reaching his chest.
Juliana rolled her eyes at the look of them. He probably liked the idea of such a small female, something he could set in motion with the flick of a finger.
But they were mismatched in other ways, too. The grape enjoyed the dance, it was obvious from the twinkle in her eyes as she met the gazes of the other women in line. He did not smile as he danced, despite the fact that he clearly knew the steps to the reel. He did not enjoy himself. Of course, this was not a man who would take pleasure in country dances. This was not a man who took pleasure anywhere.