Sarah Maclean - Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Dukes Heart

Eleven Scandals to Start

to Win a Dukes Heart

Sarah MacLean

Dedication

For Carrie,

with love and gratitude.

Thanks for getting me

back to Base Camp.

Un momento con una donna capricciosa

vale undici anni di vita noiosa.

A single moment with a fiery female

is worth eleven years of a boring life.

(Italian Proverb)

Contents

Trees are nothing but a canopy for scandal.

Elegant ladies remain indoors after dark.

A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

We hear that leaves are not the only things falling in gardens...

The Scandal Sheet, October 1823

I n retrospect, there were four actions Miss Juliana Fiori should have reconsidered that evening.

First, she likely should have ignored the impulse to leave her sister-in-laws autumn ball in favor of the less-cloying, better-smelling, and far more poorly lit gardens of Ralston House.

Second, she very likely should have hesitated when that same impulse propelled her deeper along the darkened paths that marked the exterior of her brothers home.

Third, she almost certainly should have returned to the house the moment she stumbled upon Lord Grabeham, deep in his cups, halffalling down, and spouting entirely ungentlemanly things.

But, she definitely should not have hit him.

It didnt matter that he had pulled her close and breathed his hot, whiskey-laden breath upon her, or that his cold, moist lips had clumsily found their way to the high arch of one cheek, or that he suggested that she might like it just as her mother had.

Ladies did not hit people.

At least, English ladies didnt.

She watched as the not-so-much a gentleman howled in pain and yanked a handkerchief from his pocket, covering his nose and flooding the pristine white linen with scarlet. She froze, absentmindedly shaking the sting from her hand, dread consuming her.

This was bound to get out. It was bound to become an issue.

It didnt matter that he deserved it.

What was she to have done? Allowed him to maul her while she waited for a savior to come crashing through the trees? Any man out in the gardens at this hour was certain to be less of a savior and more of the same.

But she had just proven the gossips right.

Shed never be one of them.

Juliana looked up into the dark canopy of trees. The rustle of leaves far overhead had only moments ago promised her respite from the unpleasantness of the ball. Now the sound taunted heran echo of the whispers inside ballrooms throughout London whenever she passed.

You hit me! The fat mans cry was all too loud, nasal, and outraged.

She lifted her throbbing hand and pushed a loose strand of hair back from her cheek. Come near me again, and youll get more of the same.

His eyes did not leave her as he mopped the blood from his nose. The anger in his gaze was unmistakable.

She knew that anger. Knew what it meant.

Braced herself for what was coming.

It stung nonetheless.

You shall regret this. He took a menacing step toward her. Ill have everyone believing that you begged me for it. Here in your brothers gardens like the tart you are.

An ache began at her temple. She took one step back, shaking her head. No, she said, flinching at the thickness of her Italian accentthe one she had been working so hard to tame. They will not believe you.

The words sounded hollow even to her.

Of course they would believe him.

He read the thought and gave a bark of angry laughter. You cant imagine theyd believe you. Barely legitimate. Tolerated only because your brother is a marquess. You cant believe hed believe you. You are, after all, your mothers daughter.

Your mothers daughter. The words were a blow she could never escape. No matter how hard she tried.

She lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders. They will not believe you, she repeated, willing her voice to remain steady, because they will not believe I could possibly have wanted you , porco.

It took a moment for him to translate the Italian into English, to hear the insult. But when he did, the word pig hanging between them in both languages, Grabeham reached for her, his fleshy hand grasping, fingers like sausages.

He was shorter than she was, but he made up for it in brute strength. He grabbed one wrist, fingers digging deep, promising to bruise, and Juliana attempted to wrench herself from his grip, her skin twisting and burning. She hissed her pain and acted on instinct, thanking her maker that shed learned to fight from the boys on the Veronese riverfront.

Her knee came up. Made precise, vicious contact.

Grabeham howled, his grip loosening just enough for escape.

And Juliana did the only thing she could think of.

She ran.

Lifting the skirts of her shimmering green gown, she tore through the gardens, steering clear of the light pouring out of the enormous ballroom, knowing that being seen running from the darkness would have been just as damaging as being caught by the odious Grabeham... who had recovered with alarming speed. She could hear him lumbering behind her through a particularly prickly hedge, panting in great, heaving breaths.

The sound spurred her on, and she burst through the side gate of the garden into the mews that abutted Ralston House, where a collection of carriages waited in a long line for their lords and ladies to call for transport home. She stepped on something sharp and stumbled, catching herself on the cobblestones, scoring the palms of her bare hands as she struggled to right herself. She cursed her decision to remove the gloves that she had been wearing inside the ballroomcloying or not, kidskin would have saved her a few drops of blood that evening. The iron gate swung shut behind her, and she hesitated for a fraction of a second, sure the noise would attract attention. A quick glance found a collection of coachmen engrossed in a game of dice at the far end of the alleyway, unaware of or uninterested in her. Looking back, she saw the great bulk of Grabeham making for the gate.

He was a bull charging a red cape; she had mere seconds before she was gored.

The carriages were her only hope.

With a low, soothing whisper of Italian, she slipped beneath the massive heads of two great black horses and crept quickly along the line of carriages. She heard the gate screech open and bang shut, and she froze, listening for the telltale sound of predator approaching prey.

It was impossible to hear anything over the pounding of her heart.

Quietly, she opened the door to one of the great hulking vehicles and levered herself up and into the carriage without the aid of a stepping block. She heard a tear as the fabric of her dress caught on a sharp edge and ignored the pang of disappointment as she yanked her skirts into the coach and reached for the door, closing it behind her as quietly as she could.

The willow green satin had been a gift from her brothera nod to her hatred of the pale, prim frocks worn by the rest of the unmarried ladies of the ton. And now it was ruined.

She sat stiffly on the floor just inside the carriage, knees pulled up to her chest, and let the blackness embrace her. Willing her panicked breath to calm, she strained to hear something, anything through the muffled silence. She resisted the urge to move, afraid to draw attention to her hiding place.

Tego, tegis, tegit, she barely whispered, the soothing cadence of the Latin focusing her thoughts. Tegimus, tegitis, tegunt.

A faint shadow passed above, hiding the dim light that mottled the wall of the lushly upholstered carriage. Juliana froze briefly before pressing back into the corner of the coach, making herself as small as possiblea challenge considering her uncommon height. She waited, desperate, and when the barely there light returned, she swallowed and closed her eyes tightly, letting out a long, slow breath.