Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart by Sarah MacLean Page B

chaperone.”
    “And if I resist your tempestuous life?”
    “Then you marry the grape and all is well.”
    He blinked. “The grape?”
    “Lady Penelope.” There was a long pause. “But . . . if you cannot resist . . .” She stepped close, his warmth a temptation in the crisp October air.
    “Then what?” he asked, his voice low and dark.
    She had him now. She would bring him down.
    And his perfect world with him.
    She smiled. “Then your reputation is in serious danger.”
    He was silent, the only movement the slow twitch of a muscle in his jaw. After several moments, she thought he might leave her there, her threat hovering in the cold air.
    And then he spoke.
    “I shall give you two weeks.” She did not have time to revel in her victory. “But it shall be you who learns the lesson, Miss Fiori.”
    Suspicion flared. “What lesson?”
    “Reputation always triumphs.”

Chapter Four
     
The walk or trot will do.
Delicate ladies never gallop.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
     
The Fashionable Hour comes earlier and earlier . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
     
    T he next morning, the Duke of Leighton rose with the sun.
    He washed, dressed in crisp linen and smooth buckskin, pulled on his riding boots, tied his cravat, and called for his mount.
    In less than a quarter of an hour, he crossed the great foyer of his town house, accepting a pair of riding gloves and a crop from Boggs, his ever-prepared butler, and exited the house.
    Breathing in the morning air, crisp with the scent of autumn, the duke lifted himself into the saddle, just as he had every morning since the day he assumed the dukedom, fifteen years earlier.
    In town or in the country, rain or shine, cold or heat, the ritual was sacrosanct.
    Hyde Park was virtually empty in the hour just after dawn—few were interested in riding without the chance of being seen, and even fewer were interested in leaving their homes at such an early hour. This was precisely why Leighton so enjoyed his morning rides—the quiet punctuated only by hoofbeats, by the sound of his horse’s breath mingled with his own as they cantered through the long, deserted paths that only hours later would be packed with those still in town, eager to feed on the latest gossip.
    The ton traded on information, and Hyde Park on a beautiful day was the ideal place for the exchange of such a commodity.
    It was only a matter of time until his family was made the commodity of the day.
    Leighton leaned into his horse, driving the animal forward, faster, as though he could outrun the tattle.
    When they heard about his sister, the gossips would swarm, and his family would be left with little to protect their name and reputation. The Dukes of Leighton went back eleven generations. They had fought alongside William the Conqueror. And those who held the title and the venerable position so far above the rest of society were raised with one unimpeachable rule: Let nothing besmirch the name.
    For eleven generations, that rule had gone unchallenged.
    Until now.
    Over the last several months, Leighton had done all he could to ensure that his character was untainted. He had dismissed his mistress, thrown himself into his work in Parliament, and attended scores of functions hosted by those who held sway over the ton ’s perception of character. He had danced reels. Taken tea. Shown himself at Almack’s. Called on the most respected families of the aristocracy.
    Spread a reasonable and accepted rumor that his sister was in the country, for the summer. And then for autumn. And, soon enough, for the winter.
    But it was not enough. Nothing would be.
    And that knowledge—the keen understanding that he could never entirely protect his family from the natural course of events—threatened his serenity.
    There was only one thing left.
    An unimpeachable, proper wife. A future darling of the ton.
    He was scheduled to meet with Lady Penelope’s father that day. The Marquess of Needham