Lasting love was not something with which Juliana was familiar. She was the product of a match devised from fleeting infatuation. Her mother had bewitched her father, from what Juliana could tell, and had deserted them both when she became tired of domesticity. Juliana’s father had never remarried, though he’d had several opportunities to do so—she had always thought that he’d made the most sensible choice. After all, why risk loving again when history suggested that such behavior would end in pain and anger and loss?

In the last several months, she had come to see that love was not a myth—she’d stood happily by as her half brothers had found it. Gabriel and Callie’s love blossomed just as Juliana arrived in England, and she had watched as they resisted it—futilely. When they had succumbed to the emotion, all of London had been surprised, and Juliana had hoped only that their love would not end in sadness. Within months, Nick had found his Isabel, and it was impossible to deny their devotion to each other.

But all love began this way—fiery and passionate and devoted. What happened when fire waned and devotion became tiresome?

She watched as Callie stretched to whisper into Ralston’s ear on the opposite side of the box. Her brother smiled broadly—something he had rarely done when Juliana had arrived in the spring—placing his hand on the small of his wife’s back and leaning down to reply.

From the pink wash that spread over Callie’s cheeks, Juliana imagined her brother’s words were not entirely fit for the theatre.

Something coiled deep within Juliana . . . something that she might have identified as envy if she spent too much time considering it.

But she knew better than to be envious of their love. It was a vague, ephemeral emotion that, within months—years, if one were lucky—would ultimately fade.

And then what?

No, Juliana did not want love.

But passion . . . the kind that made her brother say wicked things to his wife at the theatre . . . that was another thing entirely.

She wouldn’t mind that.

She thought back to the morning two days earlier, to the moment in Hyde Park when the Duke of Leighton had leapt from his horse, eyes flashing with anger and frustration, and kissed her. Thoroughly.

With passion.

And he’d made her want, damn him.

She wanted that of which he’d given her a taste.

Desire. Lust. Sensuality. Even the conflict was compelling.

But not him.

She refused to want him.

She lifted the binoculars and scanned the theatre, searching for something that would serve to redirect her attention. Several boxes away, Viscount Densmore appeared to be leering down the amply filled, alarmingly low-cut bodice of his companion—it appeared Mari had been right about her. A few yards farther, Lady Davis and Lady Sparrow were at risk of falling out of their box as they craned their necks toward some distant point before huddling behind fluttering fans held in the universal position for scandalous conversation. While Juliana had no love for either of the horrible women, she had to admit that they were expert gossips. Tracking their line of sight, she hoped for a welcome distraction.

When she arrived at the reason for their frenzied whispers, she vowed never to gossip again.

There, in the box directly opposite, stood the Duke of Leighton and the grape, in quiet, private conversation. In full view of half of London.

Several feet away from the perfect, poised couple, rounding out the portrait of aristocratic bliss—and very likely sending the rest of the theatre into convulsions of excitement over what was most definitely a sign of impeding marriage—were the Duchess of Leighton and a plump lady and portly gentleman who Juliana could only imagine were the grape’s parents.

Lady Penelope.

She had better start thinking of her as Lady Penelope.

Why? Soon enough she’ll be the Duchess of Leighton.

She ignored the wave of distaste that flooded her at the thought.

What did she care whom he married?

She didn’t.

Why did she care that he had selected someone who was everything Juliana was not? Poised perfection, absolutely no trouble, not even a bit scandalous?

She didn’t.

No? Then why not put down the opera glasses?

She could put down the opera glasses anytime she wanted.

She meant to put down the opera glasses.

He looked up and stared directly at her.

If they had burst into flame, she could not have lowered the opera glasses more quickly.

Or with more carelessness.

The binoculars hit the marble balustrade with a wicked crack, and the gold eyepiece fell to the carpeted floor.

It was dreadfully quiet in the box all of a sudden, as the collected visitors and family turned at the sound, finding Juliana openmouthed, staring at the long enamel handle that remained in her hand.

An enormous wave of embarrassment coursed through her, and Juliana took the first avenue of escape, falling to her knees on the floor of the at once too-dark and utterly not-dark-enough box to retrieve the glasses which . . . devil take them . . . must have bounced under a chair, because they were nowhere to be seen.

Searching blindly under the chairs, it took her a moment to realize that by crawling on the floor of the Duke of Rivington’s theatre box, she’d just made a bad situation much, much worse. Ladies Sparrow and Davis were very likely watching her now, waiting to see how she would extricate herself from this mortifying situation.

And she would not even think about him.

Certainly he had seen it all. And she imagined him lifting one imperious, golden brow in her direction as if to say, Thank goodness it is Ralston who must deal with you and not I.

She cursed under her breath, deciding that this particular situation could not be made worse by a few choice words in Italian.