Chapter Two
London, a week later
The gossip began before the orchestra had struck the first note of the waltz.
"Refused him. Right there in the middle of the floor!"
"She said no to Ashbourne? Is she mad or merely provincial?"
"Perhaps both."
Juliana Merrick stood at the edge of Lady Sefton's ballroom, chin lifted, spine straight, the swish of silk skirts and the hum of scandal clinging to her like perfume.
She had done what no debutante—nay, no woman—had dared to do in years. She had said no to the most powerful, most mysterious, most dangerously untouchable man in the room.
And now she was being devoured for it.
Across the ballroom, the Duke of Ashbourne stood perfectly still, as if the refusal had rolled off him like rain off a waxed coat. Surrounded by debutantes and their mamas all vying for his attention. He was polite enough but his stance says not to get to close. Although one gloved hand rested at his side, the other wrapped casually around a crystal glass. His expression was unreadable—except for the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Amusement? Annoyance?
She rather hoped it was both.
"You're either remarkably brave or remarkably stupid," muttered Lord Percy Seaton, her current—and painfully dull—dance partner.
"Perhaps I'm just bored," Juliana replied, stepping out of the next turn of the quadrille with deliberate grace. "Not every woman is inclined to swoon over an aristocratic scowl."
Lord Percy blinked. "He's a duke."
"And I'm not a sheep."
Behind her, the music swelled. Somewhere across the room, a parasol of feathers trembled as a chaperone fainted from the shock of it all.
Juliana lasted precisely four more days before fate decided to punish her.
It came in the form of rain, a broken carriage wheel, and an invitation she could not decline.
Her aunt had insisted they visit Lady Wilton's estate just outside the city for a house party—"A more refined setting for introductions, my dear, and far less crowded than those wretched balls."
Juliana had agreed, not because she believed her aunt, but because she longed for fresh air and a reprieve from the endless parade of powdered matrons and predatory bachelors.
She had not expected to find him already there.
Lord Ashbourne was the final guest to arrive at Ashwick Hall, muddy boots and storm-wet coat notwithstanding. The room had grown silent at his entrance, as it always did. But this time, Juliana did not look away.
Their eyes met again.
He bowed, exquisitely proper.
"Miss Merrick," he said, with the faintest hint of irony. "How lovely to see you again. Still refusing dances, I presume?"
She curtsied. "Only when necessary, Your Grace."
Their hosts laughed politely.
Juliana did not.
That evening, at dinner, he was seated directly across from her.
And so it began.
A war of glances, barbed words tucked inside polite conversation, and heat simmering beneath every exchange. He made a cruel observation about the state of country fashion. She complimented the simplicity of his cravat with such sweetness that several women missed the insult.
By dessert, she hated him.
By nightfall, she couldn't stop thinking about him.
And when she retired to bed—exhausted, confused, and furious—she pressed her fingers to her lips and told herself the heat in her chest was not anticipation.
She had insulted a duke.
He had smiled at her like a wolf.
And tomorrow, there would be more.