The Duchess of Leighton stood not ten feet from her.

It was hard to believe that this woman, petite and pale, had spawned the enormous, golden Leighton. Juliana struggled to find something of him in his mother. It was neither in her pallid coloring nor in her parchment skin, so thin as to be nearly translucent, nor was it in the eyes, the color of a winter sea.

But those eyes, they seemed to see everything. Juliana held her breath as the duchess’s cool gaze tracked her from head to toe. She resisted the urge to fidget under the silent examination, refused to allow the woman’s obvious judgment to rattle her.

Of course, it did rattle her.

And suddenly, she saw the similarities in crystal clarity. The stiff chin, the haughty posture, the cold perusal, the ability to shake a person to her core.

She was his mother—him in all the very worst of ways.

But she did not have his heat.

There was nothing in her but an unwavering stoicism that spoke of a lifetime of entitlement and lack of emotion.

What turned a woman to stone?

No wonder he did not believe in passion.

The duchess was waiting for Juliana to look away. Just like her son, she wanted to prove that her ancient name and her straight nose made her better than all others. Certainly, her unwavering gaze seemed to say, it made her better than Juliana.

Ignoring her rioting nerves, Juliana remained steadfast.

“Your Grace,” Madame Hebert said, unaware of the battle of wills taking place in her front parlor, “my apologies for the delay. Would you care to look at the lace now?”

The duchess did not look away from Juliana. “We have not been introduced,” she said, the words sharp and designed to startle. They were a cut direct, aimed to remind Juliana of her impertinence. Of her place.

Juliana did not respond. Did not move. Refused to look away.

“Your Grace?” Madame Hebert looked from Juliana to the duchess and back again. When she continued, there was uncertainty in her tone. “May I introduce Miss Fiori?”

There was a long pause, which might have been seconds or hours, then the duchess spoke. “You may not.” The air seemed to go out of the room with the imperious statement. She continued, without releasing Juliana’s gaze. “I admit to a modicum of surprise, Hebert. There was a time when you serviced a far less . . . common . . . clientele.”

Common.

If the rushing in her ears had not been so loud, Juliana would have admired the older woman’s calculation. She had chosen the perfect word—the one that would provide the quickest and most violent set down.

Common.

The very worst of insults from someone who lived life up on high.

The word echoed in her head, but in the repetition, Juliana did not hear the Duchess of Leighton.

She heard her son.

And she could not help but reply.

“And I had always thought she serviced a far more civilized one.” The words were out before she could stop them, and she resisted the impulse to clap one hand over her mouth to keep from saying anything more.

If it were possible, the duchess’s spine grew even straighter, her nose tipped even higher. When she spoke, the words dripped with boredom, as though Juliana were too far below her notice to merit a response. “So, it is true what they say. Blood will out.”

The Duchess of Leighton exited the shop, taking the air with her as the door closed, its little bell sounding happily in ironic punctuation.

“That woman is a shrew.”

Juliana looked up to see Mariana heading toward her, concern and anger on her face. She shook her head. “It seems that duchesses can behave as they please.”

“I don’t care if she’s the Queen. She has no right to speak to you in such a way.”

“If she were queen, then she really could speak to me however she liked,” Juliana said, ignoring the shaking in her voice.

What had she been thinking, goading the duchess on?

That was the problem, of course. She hadn’t been thinking of the duchess at all.

She’d been thinking of flashing amber eyes and a halo of golden locks and a square jaw and an immovable countenance that she desperately wanted to move.

And she’d said the first thing that came to her mind.

“I should not have spoken to her in such a manner. If it gets out . . . it will be a scandal.” Mariana shook her head and opened her mouth to reply, almost certainly with reassuring words, but Juliana continued with a small smile. “Is it wrong that I cannot help but feel that she deserved it?”

Mariana grinned. “Not at all! She did deserve it! And much more! I loathe that woman. No wonder Leighton is so stiff. Imagine being raised by her.”

It would have been horrible.

Instead of feeling set down, Juliana was reinvigorated. The Duchess of Leighton might think herself above Juliana and the rest of the known world, but she was not. And while Juliana had little interest in proving such to the hateful woman, she found herself recommitted to showing the duke precisely what he was missing in his life of cold disdain.

“Juliana?” Mariana interrupted her thoughts. “Are you all right?”

She would be.

Juliana pushed the thought away, turning to the normally unflappable modiste, who had watched the scene unfold with shock and likely horror, and offered an apology. “I am sorry, Madame Hebert. I seem to have lost you an important customer.”

It was honest. Juliana knew that Hebert would have no choice but to attempt to win back the favor of the Duchess of Leighton. One did not simply stand aside as one of the most powerful women in London took her business elsewhere. The repercussions of such an altercation could end the dressmaker if not handled properly.