She turned to the dais, and Mariana took her hand, squeezing tightly, a rock in a maelstrom of dread.

And Juliana listened quietly as the only man she’d ever wanted pledged himself to another.

It was over blessedly quickly, footmen passing champagne among the revelers, who raised their glasses and voices in toast to the happy couple. No one noticed that Mariana and Juliana politely refused the drink, nor did they realize that the moment the Duke of Leighton raised the hand of his future duchess to his lips, the two were headed for the exit.

It was an eternity until they dashed up the steps from the dance floor; once there, Juliana made the mistake of looking back—of taking one final glance at Simon and his bride.

He was watching her.

And she was unable to resist drinking him in—his golden curls, strong jaw, and full lips, and that serious amber gaze that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world.

Of course she wasn’t.

Because his future bride stood next to him.

She turned and fled into the foyer, afraid that she would be sick if she stayed in the wretched house any longer. Thankfully, the servants at Dolby House were the best of the best, and a footman was already opening the door as she rushed for it, tears blurring her vision, Mariana on her heels.

She felt the cool air of the October night beyond and gave a little prayer of thanks. She was safe.

Or, she would have been . . .

If she had only remembered the vegetables.

Too late, she realized that the staircase remained smothered in fruits of the harvest, and by that time it was too late to stop. She’d already set one slippered foot on a large, round pompion, and sent the entire pyramid into collapse.

She heard Mariana call her name in alarm as she tumbled, riding a wave of gourds and onions and marrow down the dozen or so steps to the base of the staircase, landing in a heap. When she opened her eyes to ensure that she had survived the fall, she was surrounded by vegetables—many smashed open, their innards splattered across the cobblestone street.

Juliana watched as a turnip, barely the size of her fist, rolled past and came to a rest beneath a waiting carriage—one final, fallen soldier in her massacre.

“Oh, my . . .”

She looked up to find Mariana at the top of the steps, looking down at her, eyes wide, one hand to her open mouth. Two footmen stood just behind her, looking utterly uncertain of the protocol in this particular situation.

Juliana could not stop herself.

She began to laugh.

Not soft, quiet chuckles, either. Loud, raucous laughter that she could not hold in. Laughter that threatened her ability to breathe. Laughter that held all her sadness and frustration and anger and irritation.

Wiping a tear from her cheek, she looked up at Mariana and found that her friend’s shoulders were shaking with laughter as well. And the footmen, too—they couldn’t help it.

Their laughter sent another wave of emotion through her.

She cleared a space for her to stand, and her movements shook the others free. They all picked their way down the stairs, one footman bending to assist Juliana to her feet as she realized the full extent of the damage.

She had laid waste to Lady Needham’s centerpiece.

The steps would have to be cleared before anyone could leave the ball.

And Juliana’s lovely rose silk was covered in seeds and great gobs of pulp, entirely ruined.

She stood, thanking the footman and facing Mariana, who was still laughing—the response certainly as much horror as amusement.

“You’ve got . . .” She shook her head and waved one hand to indicate Juliana’s entire body. “Everywhere.”

Juliana pulled a long piece of wheat from her hair. “I suppose it is too much to ask that one of these carriages is yours?”

Mariana inspected the waiting vehicles. “Actually, it isn’t at all. That one is ours.”

Juliana headed for it. “Finally, something goes right.”

Mariana opened her reticule and extracted a ransom in gold coins for the footmen. “If you could forget who, precisely, destroyed your mistress’s décor . . .” She pressed the coins into their palms before dashing for the carriage and following Juliana inside.

“Do you think they will stay quiet?” Juliana asked as the coach lurched into motion.

“One can hope that they’ll take pity on you.”

Juliana sighed, leaning her head back on the smooth black upholstery. She let the motion of the carriage calm her for long minutes before she said, “Well, you must give me some credit.”

Mariana snickered. “For?”

“I cannot be accused of going quietly into the night.”

Chapter Thirteen

Unhappiness is for those who lack culture.

The exquisite lady faces all obstacles with grace.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

The harvest bounty is shockingly lacking this year . . .

—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823

Her horrendous evening was not over.

Bennett, the ancient butler who had served the Marquesses of Ralston for what Juliana suspected was forever, was awake when she arrived home—a rare occurrence as he was somewhat weathered, and there were plenty of younger servants who were more than capable of waiting for the master of the house to return.

Years of experience kept Bennett from responding to Juliana’s state, without her cloak, which she’d left in her hurry to escape the ball—she would have to work out a way to recover it at some point, she supposed—and covered in marrow innards, among other things.

In fact, he gave her a little bow when she entered the house—one she would have teased him for if she weren’t exhausted and desperate for a bath and a bed.