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“Besides, he doesn’t meet my criteria.”
“Your criteria? For…” He frowned. “Liaisons?”
Juno shifted uncomfortably. She had truly lost control of her tongue today, alluding to her affairs. But what of it? She didn’t have to explain herself to anyone, and certainly not to Leopold Halton.
“Have I shocked you?” she said.
“It’s not my concern.”
He picked up his coat and shrugged into it, once more hiding those intriguing shoulders and arms. How like Leo, to give her a glimpse of himself and then take it away.
A surge of energy pushed her aimlessly around the room. “Then last night’s ball was more interesting than you let on, if you are betrothed,” she babbled. “Congratulations. Or is it felicitations? My aunt did try to teach me the right phrases, but they never stuck.”
“I am not engaged. Not yet.”
“But you mean to become engaged soon,” she guessed. “You have chosen the lady and believe she will accept your offer.”
“Yes.”
She bumbled to a stop, nearer to him than she intended.
“That cannot be a surprise,” he said.
“Not at all. Everyone talks about it.”
He began to speak, stopped, raked a hand through his hair. He seemed to be at war with himself, wanting to say something, not wanting to say it. How unlike his usual unflappable self. She’d never seen him perturbed before. Except— Yes, once. In the meadow ten years earlier, when her declaration of love made him stammer awkwardly, not wanting to hurt her, she supposed, but wanting to be very clear he had no place for her in his life.
A single gray cat hair clung to his lapel, unnoticed. Juno felt a wicked stab of glee at this tiny flaw, a fierce urge to grab those otherwise flawless lapels and justshakehim, a savage longing to tear those fancy clothes right off him.
Figuratively speaking, of course. Not literally.
Well. Maybe abitliterally. Butmostlyfiguratively.
He wore his clothes and attitude like armor. If only she could tear it away, his armor of silk and words and other slippery things better at hiding truths than revealing them. Nature, the senses, the body—theywere real. If Juno could get to Leo’s senses, get to his body, then maybe, just maybe, she could get tohim.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
Pointless thoughts, figurative or literal. Leo was a duke, soon to be married to a lady who was surely as well bred, well behaved, and well dowered as a duke’s wife ought to be.
Besides, he had made it plain ten years ago that Juno was not good enough for him.
“Why so mysterious, Leo?” she teased, somehow achieving a light tone. “You are a duke, and it is your duty to remarry and produce baby dukes. What else is there to say? I cannot fathom why you needed to tell me yourself. I could have read the announcement in a newspaper along with everyone else.”
“You don’t read newspapers.”
“True, but other people read them, and someone would have told me, sooner or later.”
Once more he raked his tousled, untouchable hair. Once more he stopped himself from speaking. When he did speak, it was to curse, with a vehemence that startled her, until she heard the sounds from below: the front door closing, voices greeting Mrs. Kegworth.
Juno cursed too. Usually, she loved that people came and went from her house all day, unless she asked Mrs. Kegworth to bar the doors. But not now, as Leo turned inscrutable and unflappable again.
Footsteps came skipping up the stairs and then, in a flurry of yellow skirts and swaying ringlets, Juno’s patroness Beatrice Prescott was bursting into the room.
“Juno, darling, I have the most exciting news!” Beatrice cried, taking both of Juno’s hands in hers. “I have brought along—” She stopped short as she caught sight of Leo. Moving very carefully, she released Juno and sank into a curtsy.
“Good day, Your Grace,” she said.
As she rose, she shot an awed look at Juno. “It’s the Duke of Dammerton,” she whispered.
