He was the Duke of Leighton. Let her try to forget it.
He could not help the wave of triumph that coursed through him as the door swung open, revealing the large, empty entryway of the Ralston home, proving what he had already known would be the case—they had begun dinner without him.
Entering the house, he handed his hat, cloak, and gloves to a nearby footman before heading for the wide center staircase that would lead to the second floor and the dining room. The quiet conversation coming from abovestairs grew louder as he drew closer, finally turning down the long, brightly lit hallway and entering the massive dining room, where guests were waiting for dinner to begin.
They had held the meal for him.
Which made him feel like an ass.
Of course, no one seemed particularly put out by waiting for him. Indeed, everyone appeared to be having a lovely time, especially the cluster of eligible gentlemen crowded so tightly around Juliana that all Simon could see of her were the gleaming ebony curls piled on top of her head.
Instantly, the reason for the dinner became clear.
Lady Ralston was playing matchmaker.
The thought was punctuated by a loud burst of laughter from the group, her high, lovely, feminine chuckle set apart from the others—low and altogether too masculine. The collection of sounds set Simon on immediate edge. He had not expected this.
And he found that he did not like it.
“So happy you decided to join us, Leighton.”
Ralston’s sarcastic words shook Simon from his reverie. He ignored the marquess, instead turning his attention to Lady Ralston. “I do apologize, my lady.”
The marchioness was all graciousness. “No need, Your Grace. Indeed, the extra time afforded us all an opportunity to chat.”
The gentle reminder of the collection of simpering men surrounding Juliana returned his attention there, and he watched, carefully hiding his thoughts as first one man, then the next peeled away from the group to be seated—ultimately leaving only the Earl of Allendale and, on his arm, Juliana.
Dressed in the most magnificent gown Simon had ever seen.
No wonder the others had been so entranced.
The dress was a scandal in itself, silk the color of midnight that shimmered around her in candlelight, giving her the illusion of being wrapped in the night sky. It was a combination of the darkest reds and blues and purples giving the appearance that she was wearing the richest of color and simultaneously no color at all. The bodice was cut entirely too low, showing a wide expanse of her creamy white skin, pale and pristine—tempting him to come closer. To touch her.
She wore the dress with a bold confidence that no other woman in the room—in London—would have been able to affect.
She knew that wearing black would cause a scene. Knew it would make her look like a goddess. Knew it would drive men—drive him—to want nothing more than to strip her out of that glorious gown and claim her.
Simon shook off the improper thought and was flooded with an intense urge to remove his coat and shield her from the greedy glances of the other men.
Surely Ralston knew this dress was entirely improper. Surely he knew that his sister was encouraging the worst kind of attention. Simon passed a cool gaze over the marquess, seated at the head of the table, appearing to know no such thing.
And then Juliana was passing him, a whisper of silk and red currants, escorted by the Earl of Allendale, to take her own seat at the center of the long, lavish banquet, smiling at the so-called gentlemen who immediately turned their attention to her.
He wanted to take each one of the mincing men out in turn for their improper glances. He should have refused this invitation. Every moment he was with this impetuous, impossible female, he felt his control slipping.
He did not care for the sensation.
He took his seat next to the Marchioness of Ralston, the place of honor that had been held for him as the duke in attendance who was not family. He spent the first three courses in polite conversation with Lady Ralston, Rivington, and his sister, Lady Margaret Talbott. As they ate, Simon attempted to ignore the activity at the center of the table, where a collection of gentlemen—who outnumbered the ladies at the dinner—attempted to gain Juliana’s attention.
It was impossible for him to ignore Juliana, however, as she laughed and teased with the others around the table, gifting them with her wide, welcome smile and sparkling eyes. Instead, while half participating in the conversation near him, Simon silently tracked her movements. She leaned toward the men across the table—Longwood, Brearley, and West—each untitled and self-made, each lobbying harder than the last for her attention.
West, the publisher of the Gazette, was regaling her with some idiotic story about a journalist and a street carnival.
“—I will say this, at least he returned the hat!”
“The reporter’s hat?” Longwood asked, as though the two of them were in a traveling show.
“The bear’s hat!”
Juliana dissolved into laughter along with the rest of the foolish group.
Simon returned his attention to his plate.
Could they not even find aristocrats with whom to match her? It was not as though she need stoop so low as to marry a commoner.
During the fourth course, Juliana’s attention was claimed almost entirely by Lord Stanhope, who would make a terrible match, notorious for his twin loves of gambling and women. To be fair, he always won at cards, but surely Ralston did not want his sister married to an inveterate rake.
Casting a sidelong glance at the marquess, who appeared to be equally entertained by Stanhope, Simon realized the problem with his logic. Rakes enjoyed the company of rakes.