“Why are you in need of calming?”

Penelope lifted a long square of linen to dry her hands. “No reason.”

Juliana laughed a little at the obvious lie. “I do not mean to offend, Lady Penelope, but you are not very good at hiding your feelings.”

Penelope met Juliana’s gaze. “You say whatever you are thinking, don’t you?”

Juliana gave a little shrug. “When you have a reputation such as mine, there is little need to mince words. Is it the ball that makes you nervous?”

Penelope looked away, her eyes finding her reflection in a nearby mirror. “Among other things.”

“Well, I can certainly understand that. They are horrible events, balls. I do not understand why anyone cares for them. All torturous whispers and silly dancing.”

Penelope met Juliana’s gaze in the mirror. “Tonight’s ball shall be one for the ages.”

“You refer to the gossip about my mother?”

“My engagement is to be announced tonight.”

The words should not have been a surprise, and yet they slammed through Juliana.

He was announcing the engagement tonight.

“Your engagement to whom?” She knew she should not ask. Could not stop herself from doing so. In some perverse way, she had to hear the words from this woman—his future wife.

“The Duke of Leighton.”

Juliana knew the words were coming, but they ripped through her, nonetheless.

“You are to marry the Duke of Leighton.” Stop talking. “He has proposed to you.”

Penelope nodded, lost in her own thoughts, her golden ringlets bobbing like the hair on one of Juliana’s childhood dolls. “This morning.”

Juliana swallowed around the knot in her throat. He’d obviously left Ralston House the prior evening with complete resolve—having narrowly escaped a bad match with Juliana . . . he’d happily secured a good one with . . .

Someone else.

And in a hideous twist of fate, Juliana was attending the betrothal ball.

All while her family’s reputation was being ripped to shreds.

Belatedly, she remembered her manners. “How . . . happy . . . you must be!”

“Yes. I suppose I should be happy.”

She did not seem happy.

In fact, Penelope’s eyes had turned liquid, and she seemed very close to tears.

And, suddenly, Juliana felt sorry for the other woman.

This woman, who was to marry Simon.

“You do not wish to marry him.”

There was a long pause as Penelope appeared to collect herself. Juliana watched with amazement as the tears cleared from the other woman’s eyes, returning them to their pale, porcelain blue, and a bright, white smile appeared on her face. She took a deep breath. “The Duke of Leighton is a good man. It is a fine match.”

It did not escape Juliana’s notice that Penelope had not answered the question. Juliana raised a brow. “You sound like one of them.”

Penelope’s brows knit together. “ ‘Them’?”

Juliana waved a hand to the outer salon and the ballroom beyond. “The English.”

Penelope blinked. “I am one of the English.”

“I suppose you are.” Juliana watched Penelope for a long while. “He is a good man.”

“He will make me a fine husband.”

Juliana rolled her eyes. “I would not go so far as to say that. He’s arrogant and high-handed, and he’ll want everything his cold, calculating way.”

She should stop this now. Simon was to marry Lady Penelope. And it was not Juliana’s place to become involved.

There was a long pause as Penelope considered the words, during which Juliana began to regret her bold speech. Just as she was about to apologize, Penelope said, “That is how marriage is.”

The simple statement, spoken as though it was an irrefutable fact, was Juliana’s undoing. She rose from her chair, having no choice but to move. “What is it with you English? You speak of marriage as though it is a business arrangement.”

“It is a business arrangement,” Penelope said, simply.

“And what of love?”

“I am sure that . . . in time . . . we shall develop a certain . . . fondness for each other.”

Juliana could not stop her laugh. “I have developed a fondness for apple tarts, but I do not want to marry one.” Penelope did not smile. “And passion?”

Penelope shook her head. “There is no room for passion in a good English marriage.”

Juliana went still at the words, an echo from another ball. Another aristocrat. “Did he say that to you?”

“No, but it is . . . the way things are done.”

The room grew instantly smaller, more cloying, and Juliana longed for air. Penelope was perfect for Simon. She would not challenge him, would breed him beautiful, golden-haired children, and host his dinner parties while he lived his quiet life, unfettered by scandal, uncomplicated by passion.

Juliana had never had a chance with him.

And only now, as the truth coiled through her, did she realize how much she had wanted one.

There is no room for passion in a good English marriage.

She turned for the door. “Well, at least in that, you are an excellent match.”

Just as Juliana reached the entryway to the larger salon, the grape found her skin. “It is not easy, you know. You think English ladies do not grow up imagining love? Of course we do. But we are not bred for love. We are bred for reputation. For loyalty. We are bred to turn our backs on passion and take the hand of security. Is it the stuff of novels? No. Do we like it? It does not matter. It is our duty.”