She left the room, back straight, head high, determined not to show him how much she ached for him. The moment the door closed behind her, she sagged against it, the truth hitting her, hard and fast and cruel.

She loved him.

It changed nothing. He was still engaged to another, still obsessed with propriety and reputation. Still the Duke of Disdain. She would do well to remember it.

Perhaps, if she remembered it, she would love him less.

Because she did not think she could love him more.

She took a deep breath, a tiny sound catching in her throat.

They had lied, those who had extolled the virtues of love—its pleasures, its sublimity—those who had told her that it was beautiful and worthwhile.

There was nothing beautiful about it.

It was awful.

A battle raged in him, propriety and passion. Reputation and reward. And Juliana knew now, with sickening clarity, that it was this battle that she loved the most about him.

But now he was hurting her.

And she could not bear it.

Could not bear another moment of not being good enough for him.

And so she stood straight, coming away from the wall, and she did the only thing she could do.

She walked away.

Chapter Fifteen

Too-familiar servants are the worst kind of offense.

Refined ladies do not abide gossip in the kitchens.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

At long last, the appeal of the country has returned . . .

—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823

Simon wanted to put a fist through the wall of the nursery.

He’d left for Yorkshire the moment he’d received word that Georgiana’s baby had come; he’d told himself he was coming for his sister and his niece and to ensure that the family’s secrets remained just that—secret. And he had come for those things.

But he had also come to escape Juliana.

He should have known that once he arrived here, in this house filled with women, that he would be reminded of her. Should have known that when he drank scotch with Nick, he would see Juliana in Nick’s eyes, in the way he laughed. Should have known that near her family, he would think of her constantly.

But what he had not expected was how much he thought of her when he was near his own family: when his mother had left the house, with barely a word of farewell; when his sister had refused to see him upon his arrival to Townsend Park; when he held his niece in his arms, consumed with how her slight weight could seem so heavy. He’d thought of Juliana at all those moments.

He’d wanted her by his side. Her strength. Her willingness to face down any foe. Her commitment to those for whom she cared.

For those she loved.

When she’d burst into the nursery to take him on, to champion the infant Caroline at all costs, it had been as though he had conjured her up. And somehow, in her railing, he had found comfort for the first time since arriving in Yorkshire.

She had faced him with a fierce commitment to what she believed was right. No one had ever fought him the way she had. The way she did. No one had ever held his feet to the flame the way she did.

She was everything he had never been—emotion and passion and excitement and desire. She cared nothing for his name or his title or his reputation.

She cared only for the man he might be.

She made him want to be that man.

But it was impossible.

He had proposed to Penelope, thinking she could save them all, and only now did he realize that, with that final act, he had ruined everything.

Simon stared at the door through which Juliana had fled, knowing that the best he could do for her—for both of them—was to keep away from her.

He owed her at least that.

She deserved better than ruin at his hands.

A flood of remorse coursed through him—for what he had done and what he would never do. He tried not to think on it as noise came, loud and welcome, from the cradle; Caroline was waking. He moved instinctively toward her, wanting to hold the little creature who did not know enough to see his flaws.

He was beside her in seconds, thankful for the odd lack of servants at the Park. In any other house, the niece of a duke would be surrounded by nurses and nannies, but here, she was alone at times, giving her uncle a chance to be near her without an audience.

He lifted her once more into his arms, hoping that the contact was enough for her to settle and return to sleep. Caroline had other plans, her little cries getting louder.

“Don’t cry, sweeting,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “Don’t make me have to find a servant . . . or your mother—I’ve made a hash of things with her, as well.”

The infant took no pity on him, squirming in his hands. He moved her against his chest, her head on his shoulder, one large hand spread over her back. “I am not enough to make you happy, am I? Of course, there’s no reason to believe I should begin making the ladies in my life happy now.”

“You could try a touch harder.”

He turned at the words. His sister was crossing the nursery toward him, arms outstretched. He relinquished the baby and watched as Georgiana cradled her daughter. The child instantly settled into the arms of her mother, her cries becoming little whimpers. “She knows you.”

Georgiana gave a little smile, not looking away from the infant. “We’ve had several months to get acquainted.”

Several months during which he had been absent.

He was an ass.

“I hear you are to be married.”

“News travels fast in this house,” Simon said.

“It is a house populated entirely with women. What did you think would happen to the information?” She paused. “Are congratulations in order?”