He was the only one who was impressed, apparently. Leopold lifted his head and sniffed the air once, thoughtfully, before finding the entire event unworthy of excitement.

Simon moved to a sideboard and poured himself a tumbler of scotch, immediately throwing back the fiery liquid.

He was betrothed.

He poured another glass.

He was betrothed, and this evening, he’d nearly ruined a woman who was not his future bride.

He eyed the decanter for a brief moment before grabbing it and heading for his chair. Glowering at the dog, he offered his most masterful, “Off.”

The damned animal yawned and eased from the chair with a long stretch, as though it had made the decision to move on its own.

This was what he had become—a duke unable to secure even the obedience of his own dog.

He took the chair, ignoring the way the dog stretched out in front of the warm fire burning in the hearth.

He let out a long breath that it seemed he had been holding since earlier in the evening . . . since the moment the Marquess of Needham and Dolby had thundered the announcement of his daughter’s betrothal, and Simon had taken Lady Penelope’s hand in his, raised it to his lips, and done his duty.

He’d felt it then, the burden. For now it was no longer his mother and his sister and the dukedom for which he was responsible. He was responsible for Lady Penelope as well. And even then it had not been his impending marriage or even his sister’s impending ruin that consumed his thoughts.

It had been Juliana.

He had been keenly aware of her departure; he’d watched out of the corner of his eye as she and the Duchess of Rivington had made their way through the crowd, weaving in and out of the throngs of revelers until they reached the exit. Had she been moving any faster, she would have been running.

Not that he blamed her.

He wished he could have run from that ballroom as well. As it was, he had left as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself.

And then she’d turned, and looked at him . . . into him.

And there had been something in her eyes that had terrified and taunted and tempted him.

Something that had stolen his breath and made him want to run after her.

He drank again, closing his eyes against the evening. But closing his eyes only served to heighten the memory of her. Her hair, her eyes, her skin, the way she had moved against him like a sorceress.

He had not meant to make things worse. Had not meant to touch her. Had not wanted to bring her any closer to ruin than he already had. He was not that man, for God’s sake! He wasn’t a rake. Yes, he’d kept a mistress now and then, and he’d had his fair share of dalliances, but he’d never ruined a girl. Never even come close.

He’d always prided himself on being a gentleman.

Until he’d met the one woman who made him want to throw gentlemanliness to the wind and drag her down to the floor and have his way with her.

Before announcing his engagement to someone else.

What had he become?

She’d been right to refuse his suit last night. Ralston, too.

But, God he wanted her.

And at another time, as another man, he would have had her. Without hesitation. As lover . . . as more.

As wife.

He cursed, loud and harsh in the silence, drawing the attention of the dog.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I disturbing your rest?”

Leopold gave a long-suffering sigh and went back to sleep.

Simon poured himself another drink.

“You don’t need that.”

He laughed, the sound ragged in the silence of the room.

His mother had followed him home.

It appeared his horrendous evening had not ended.

“It is two o’clock in the morning.”

She ignored him. “You left the ball early.”

“It is not early. In fact, it is altogether too late for you to be making calls, don’t you think?”

“I came to tell you that you did the right thing.”

No, I did not. But I am happy you think so.

“It could not wait for a more reasonable hour?”

“No.” She glided across the room to perch on the edge of the seat opposite him. She gave his chair a disapproving look. “That chair needs reupholstering.”

“I shall take your opinion under advisement.” He took a drink, ignoring her obvious distaste for the action.

He wondered how long he had to sit here before she would leave.

“Leighton—” she began, and he cut her off.

“You never use my name.”

Her brow furrowed just barely, and he took perverse pleasure in his ability to throw her off track. “I beg your pardon?”

“Simon. You’ve never called me that.”

“Why would I call you that?”

“It is my name.”

She shook her head. “You have a title. Responsibilities. You are due the respect they demand.”

“You didn’t call me Simon as a child.”

“You had a title then, too. Marquess of Hastings,” she added, as though he were an imbecile. “What is this about, Leighton?”

He heard the irritation in her voice. “Nothing.”

“Good.” She nodded once before changing the subject. “The marchioness and I plan to begin arrangements for the wedding tomorrow. You, of course, must be certain to escort Lady Penelope in public as much as possible over the next month. And no more invitations to Ralston House. I really don’t know what has happened to you; you’ve never associated with such . . . questionable stock before, and now that our name must remain unimpeachable, you’re gallivanting about with Ralston and his . . . cheap family.”