It had been planned, she knew it. Planned that she would have someone with whom to dance the moment she entered the ballroom. Planned that that someone would be an earl.

She accepted, and they danced a lively quadrille, and Benedick was the perfect gentleman, promenading her around the perimeter of the room after the dance, not leaving her side. “You do not have to be so careful with me, you know,” she finally said, softly. “They cannot do much to me in a ballroom.”

He gave a half smile. “They can do plenty to you in a ballroom. And besides, I have nowhere better to go.”

They reached a quiet spot on the edge of the room and stood silently beside each other, watching other dancers trip across the floor in a country reel. “Don’t you have other ladies to court?” she teased.

He shook his head in mock sadness. “Not a single one. I am relieved of my duties as bachelor earl this evening.”

“Ah,” she said, “so something good has come of the trouble at Ralston House.”

He flashed her a grin. “For me, at least.” They fell back to watching the dancers for a while before Benedick said quietly, “It shall be all right, you know.”

She did not look to him for fear of losing her mask of serenity. “I do not know that, but thank you very much for saying so.”

“Ralston will do what needs to be done to make it all right. He shall have the full support of Rivington and me . . . and dozens of others.”

But not the one man I hoped would stand with us.

She turned at the soft certainty in his warm tone, meeting his kind eyes and wondering, fleetingly, why it could not be this man who set her aflame. “I don’t know why you would all risk so much.”

He gave a little sound of refusal. “Risk,” he said, as though it were a silly word. “It is not a risk for us. We are young, handsome aristocrats with plenty of land and plenty of money. What risk?”

She was surprised by his candor. “Not all of you seem to think so lightly of the damage to your reputation that an association with us might do.”

“Well, Rivington and I haven’t much choice, as we are related, if you would remember.” She heard the teasing in his tone but did not find it very amusing. There was a beat of silence. “I assume you are referring to Leighton.”

She stiffened. She couldn’t help it. “Among others.”

“I saw the way he watched you last night. I think Leighton will align himself with you faster than you would imagine.”

The words—predicated on logic so faulty—stung. She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

Benedick might think he had seen support in Leighton’s manner last night, but he had misread the emotion. He had seen frustration, irritation, desire perhaps. But not caring.

On the contrary, had Benedick seen the duke storm from the stables later that evening, after it was revealed that he was engaged, he would not think such things at all.

Simon was to be married.

The words had barely whispered through her mind when, as though she had conjured up his bride-to-be, Juliana caught a glimpse of the grape through the crowd, headed for the ladies’ salon.

And she could not resist.

“I shall return,” she whispered, already in motion.

She knew even as she headed for the salon that she should not follow Lady Penelope, that any conversation they might have would be more painful than no conversation at all, but she could not help herself. The grape had done what Juliana could not—she had caught Simon. And there was a perverse part of Juliana that simply had to know who this plain, perfect Englishwoman was.

What it was about her that had led the immovable Duke of Leighton to choose her for his duchess.

It was early enough that the salon was empty, save for a handful of servants, and Juliana crossed the main room of the salon to a small side chamber, where she found Penelope pouring water into a small washbasin, then setting her hands into the water, breathing deeply.

The grape appeared ill.

“You are not going to cash in your accounts, are you?”

Penelope spun toward her, the surprise in her eyes turning quickly to confusion. “Cash in my accounts?”

“It is possible I have it incorrect.” Juliana moved her hand in a rolling motion. “To be ill. In Italian, we say vomitare.” The grape’s eyes went wide with understanding before a flush rose high on her cheeks. “Ah. I see you understand.”

“Yes. I understand.” Lady Penelope shook her head. “No. I am not going to cast up my accounts. At least, I don’t think so.”

Juliana nodded. “Bene.” She indicated a chair near the basin. “May I join you?”

The grape’s brow furrowed. Evidently it was not every day that she had a conversation such as this one.

But if she wanted to refuse, she was too polite to do so. “Please.”

Juliana sat, waving one hand. “You need not stop what it is you were doing.” She paused. “What is it that you were doing?”

Penelope eyed the washbasin before meeting Juliana’s curious gaze. “It is just something that I do to calm myself.”

“Wash your hands?”

One side of Penelope’s mouth lifted in a self-deprecating smile. “It’s silly.”

Juliana shook her head. “I conjugate verbs.”

“In Italian?”

“In Latin. And in English.”

Penelope seemed to consider the idea. “And it works?”

With everything but Leighton. “Most of the time.”

“I shall have to try it.”