Simon had an instant desire to put his fist through Nick, who noticed the flash of anger with a wry smile. “You’re welcome to hit me, old friend, but I can tell you it will not make this any easier. Or my words any less true.”

Simon supposed he should have been impressed by Nick’s astuteness, but when he really considered it, how difficult was it to see the truth?

He was foolish around her. She made him a fool.

She made him more than that.

She made him ache. And want.

And more.

He did not follow the thought. Would not.

Nick need not know such things.

Instead, he faced his friend in silence, and they sat like that, unmoving, not speaking, for long moments before one side of Nick’s mouth rose in a small smile. “You realize you won’t be able to avoid it.”

Simon made a show of brushing an invisible speck from his coat sleeve, pretending to be bored, pretending not to care even as his mind and heart raced.

“Avoid what?”

“Avoid the way she makes you feel.”

“And who is to say she makes me feel anything but irritation?”

Nick laughed. “The fact that you know precisely of whom I am speaking is enough. And you will discover that, in this family, irritation is a precursor to far more dangerous sentiments.”

“I have discovered far too much about this family as it is,” he said, hoping that years of practiced haughtiness would cover the other emotions roiling within.

“You can play the part of the disdainful duke all you like, Leighton. It won’t change anything.” Nick set his snifter down and stood, heading for the door, turning back before he opened it. “I suppose it is too much to ask that you stay away from her?”

Yes.

The idea of staying away from Juliana was incomprehensible.

And yet, he must.

What an ass he was. What a fool.

“Not at all.”

Liar.

Nick made a little sound that spoke volumes.

“You do not believe me?”

Not that he should. Lord Nicholas St. John should remove him bodily from the house—for his sister’s protection.

For Simon’s.

“No, Leighton. I don’t believe you. Not in the slightest.” Nick opened the door.

“If you think I am a risk to her—to her reputation—why let me stay here?”

Nick turned to face him then, and Simon saw something in the other man’s blue eyes—eyes so like Juliana’s.

Sympathy.

“You are not a risk to her.”

Nick did not know the way desire raged through him when she was near.

Simon stayed silent as Nick continued. “You are too careful, Leighton. Too cautious. Juliana is not part of your perfect, pristine life. She is riddled with scandal—as is our entire family. Not that we mind it much,” he added in an aside, “but that alone will prevent you from touching her.”

Simon wanted to disagree. He wanted to scream at the irresponsibility inherent in the words. His own sister was abovestairs, living proof of what happened when men lost control. When they made mistakes.

But before he had a chance to speak, Nick added, “Do not keep her from happiness, Simon. Perhaps you do not want it for yourself, but you know she deserves it. And she can make a good match.”

With someone else.

A visceral hatred coursed through Simon at the thought.

“You say that like there is someone ready to make the offer.” He did not mean the disdain in his tone.

Nick heard it nonetheless, and Simon saw anger flash in his friend’s eyes. “I should give you the fight you so desperately want for saying that. You think that just because you would never dare to sully your precious reputation with someone like Juliana, there are not others who would line up for a chance at her?”

Of course there would be. She was intelligent and quick-witted and charming and mesmerizingly beautiful.

But before he could admit it, Nick exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him with a soft click, leaving Simon to his thoughts.

She did not want to be alone with her thoughts, so Juliana took solace in the least solitary place at Townsend Park.

The kitchens.

The Minerva House kitchens were precisely the way Juliana thought kitchens should be—loud and messy and filled with laughter and smells and people. They were the heart of the home that the house had become to all the women who lived there. That is to say, the Minerva House kitchens were nothing like the kitchens of other fine English manor houses.

Which was excellent, because Juliana had had enough of fine English things that day—fine English propriety, fine English arrogance, fine English dukes.

She wanted something real and honest.

When she came through the door, the cluster of women gathered around the enormous table at the center of the room barely looked up, continuing their boisterous conversation as Gwen, the manor’s cook, took one look at Juliana and put her to work.

“This is Juliana,” she said, as the other women made space for her around the oak table—long and lovely and scarred with years of meals and secrets. “Lord Nicholas’s sister.”

And with that, she was accepted. Gwen floured the space in front of Juliana and upended a copper bowl there, depositing a lump of thick dough in need of attention.

“Knead,” said the tiny woman, and Juliana did not think of disobeying.

There were a half dozen other women around the table, each with her own task—chopping, cutting, mixing, pounding—a perfectly organized battalion of cooks, chattering away.

Juliana took a deep breath, breathing in the comfort in the room. She pressed the dough out into a flat, round disk and listened. This was the distraction she needed. Here, she would not have to think about Simon.