That was it. That was how she felt.

“It is different for you,” Juliana said, and she hated the pout in her voice.

He took a drink. “It is. Now.”

Because he was the marquess.

Because he was English.

Because he was male.

“Because you are one of them.”

“Bite your tongue!” he said. “What an insult!”

She did not find it amusing. She found it infuriating.

“Ah, Juliana. It’s different for me because I now know what it is to have someone expect me to be more than what I am. Now I know what it is to want to be more.”

The meaning of his words sank in. “Callie.”

He nodded. “I no longer focus on meeting their expectations because I am too focused on outdoing hers.”

She could not help but smile. “The wicked Marquess of Ralston, inveterate libertine, laid low by love.”

He met her gaze, all seriousness. “I am not saying that you must marry, Juliana. On the contrary, if you prefer a life free of marriage, God knows you have enough money to live it. But you must ask yourself what you think your life should be.”

She opened her mouth to answer him, only to realize that she had no answer. She’d never given it much thought—not since her father had died and everything had changed. In Italy, marriage and family had not been out of the question, she supposed . . . but they had been so far off that she’d never really given them much thought. But here, in England . . .

Who would want her?

Unaware of her thoughts, Ralston stood, ending the conversation with one final thought. “I never thought I would say it, but love is not as bad as I thought it would be. Should it come for you, I hope you will not turn it away out of hand.”

She shook her head. “I hope it will not come for me.”

A smile flashed. “I have heard that before, you know. I’ve said it . . . Nick has said it . . . but, be warned. St. Johns do not seem to be able to avoid it.”

But I am not a St. John. Not really.

She did not speak the words.

She liked the illusion.

Chapter Seven

Amusement is expressed in delicate smiles.

Laughter is too coarse for the elegant lady.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

The age-old question is answered: In battle, marble trumps gold.

—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823

Juliana looked over the edge of the Duke of Rivington’s box at the Theatre Royale, considering the mass of silk and satin below. Half of the ton appeared to be in attendance at this special presentation of The Lady of Livorno, and the other half was surely put out that they could not secure a ticket.

“My word,” Mariana said, joining her to watch the tableau spread out before them, “I thought autumn was for country houses and hunting trips!”

“Yes, well, whoever decreed such apparently neglected to tell London society this year.”

“This is what happens when Parliament convenes special sessions. We all go mad from the autumn air. Is that wheat in Lady Davis’s hair?” Mariana lifted her opera glasses, inspecting the unfortunate coiffure with a shake of her head before surveying the rest of the boxes in the theatre before the performance began and she would be forced to pretend she did not care for the audience as much as for the company of actors. “Ah. Densmore is here with a woman I’ve never seen before. One can assume she’s a lightskirt.”

“Mari!” She might not have been in London for long, but even Juliana knew that discussion of courtesans was not appropriate conversation for the theatre.

Mariana looked up, eyes twinkling. “Well, it’s true!”

“What is true?” The Duke of Rivington had made his way through the throngs of visitors in search of a moment of his time and ran the back of one finger down his wife’s arm.

Juliana felt a pang of envy at the absentminded affection, barely noticed by husband or wife, and ignored it. Mariana turned to her duke with a brilliant, happy smile. “I was just saying that Densmore must be here with a lady of the evening. I’ve never seen her before.”

Rivington was used to his wife’s boldness, and instead of chastising her he sought the Densmore box, taking a long look at the viscount’s companion. “I think you may be right, sweeting.”

“You see?” Mariana nearly preened with satisfaction. “I’m an excellent judge of character.”

“Either that, or you’re becoming an excellent gossip,” Juliana said wryly.

Rivington laughed loudly. “Much more likely. Miss Fiori, I am afraid I must steal her away for a moment.” He turned back to Mari. “Come and say hello to Lady Allen, would you? I need you to entertain her for a bit while I discuss a matter with her husband.”

Mariana looked over Rivington’s shoulder at the couple in question, a somewhat staid pair, each with pursed lips and unfortunate jowls. Rolling her eyes, she handed her opera glasses to Juliana. “See what else you can discover while I’m gone. I expect a full report when I return.”

She was gone then, through a crowd of people, to do her duty as wife of one of the most revered men in the realm. Juliana watched in wonder as her friend approached the baroness and engaged the woman in conversation. Within moments, Lady Allen was smiling up at Mariana, obviously satisfied with her company.

As much as people talked about Mariana’s marriage as that most rare of things—the love match—it was undeniable that the relationship was as much a brilliant political partnership as it was a romance. Mariana was the very best of ducal wives; that her duke happened to be mad about her was a happy coincidence.