Trees are nothing but a canopy for scandal.
Elegant ladies remain indoors after dark.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
We hear that leaves are not the only things falling in gardens . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
In retrospect, there were four actions Miss Juliana Fiori should have reconsidered that evening.
First, she likely should have ignored the impulse to leave her sister-in-law’s autumn ball in favor of the less-cloying, better-smelling, and far more poorly lit gardens of Ralston House.
Second, she very likely should have hesitated when that same impulse propelled her deeper along the darkened paths that marked the exterior of her brother’s home.
Third, she almost certainly should have returned to the house the moment she stumbled upon Lord Grabeham, deep in his cups, half–falling down, and spouting entirely ungentlemanly things.
But, she definitely should not have hit him.
It didn’t matter that he had pulled her close and breathed his hot, whiskey-laden breath upon her, or that his cold, moist lips had clumsily found their way to the high arch of one cheek, or that he suggested that she might like it just as her mother had.
Ladies did not hit people.
At least, English ladies didn’t.
She watched as the not-so-much a gentleman howled in pain and yanked a handkerchief from his pocket, covering his nose and flooding the pristine white linen with scarlet. She froze, absentmindedly shaking the sting from her hand, dread consuming her.
This was bound to get out. It was bound to become an “issue.”
It didn’t matter that he deserved it.
What was she to have done? Allowed him to maul her while she waited for a savior to come crashing through the trees? Any man out in the gardens at this hour was certain to be less of a savior and more of the same.
But she had just proven the gossips right.
She’d never be one of them.
Juliana looked up into the dark canopy of trees. The rustle of leaves far overhead had only moments ago promised her respite from the unpleasantness of the ball. Now the sound taunted her—an echo of the whispers inside ballrooms throughout London whenever she passed.
“You hit me!” The fat man’s cry was all too loud, nasal, and outraged.
She lifted her throbbing hand and pushed a loose strand of hair back from her cheek. “Come near me again, and you’ll get more of the same.”
His eyes did not leave her as he mopped the blood from his nose. The anger in his gaze was unmistakable.
She knew that anger. Knew what it meant.
Braced herself for what was coming.
It stung nonetheless.
“You shall regret this.” He took a menacing step toward her. “I’ll have everyone believing that you begged me for it. Here in your brother’s gardens like the tart you are.”
An ache began at her temple. She took one step back, shaking her head. “No,” she said, flinching at the thickness of her Italian accent—the one she had been working so hard to tame. “They will not believe you.”
The words sounded hollow even to her.
Of course they would believe him.
He read the thought and gave a bark of angry laughter. “You can’t imagine they’d believe you. Barely legitimate. Tolerated only because your brother is a marquess. You can’t believe he’d believe you. You are, after all, your mother’s daughter.”
Your mother’s daughter. The words were a blow she could never escape. No matter how hard she tried.
She lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders. “They will not believe you,” she repeated, willing her voice to remain steady, “because they will not believe I could possibly have wanted you, porco.”
It took a moment for him to translate the Italian into English, to hear the insult. But when he did, the word pig hanging between them in both languages, Grabeham reached for her, his fleshy hand grasping, fingers like sausages.
He was shorter than she was, but he made up for it in brute strength. He grabbed one wrist, fingers digging deep, promising to bruise, and Juliana attempted to wrench herself from his grip, her skin twisting and burning. She hissed her pain and acted on instinct, thanking her maker that she’d learned to fight from the boys on the Veronese riverfront.
Her knee came up. Made precise, vicious contact.
Grabeham howled, his grip loosening just enough for escape.
And Juliana did the only thing she could think of.
She ran.
Lifting the skirts of her shimmering green gown, she tore through the gardens, steering clear of the light pouring out of the enormous ballroom, knowing that being seen running from the darkness would have been just as damaging as being caught by the odious Grabeham . . . who had recovered with alarming speed. She could hear him lumbering behind her through a particularly prickly hedge, panting in great, heaving breaths.
The sound spurred her on, and she burst through the side gate of the garden into the mews that abutted Ralston House, where a collection of carriages waited in a long line for their lords and ladies to call for transport home. She stepped on something sharp and stumbled, catching herself on the cobblestones, scoring the palms of her bare hands as she struggled to right herself. She cursed her decision to remove the gloves that she had been wearing inside the ballroom—cloying or not, kidskin would have saved her a few drops of blood that evening. The iron gate swung shut behind her, and she hesitated for a fraction of a second, sure the noise would attract attention. A quick glance found a collection of coachmen engrossed in a game of dice at the far end of the alleyway, unaware of or uninterested in her. Looking back, she saw the great bulk of Grabeham making for the gate.
He was a bull charging a red cape; she had mere seconds before she was gored.
The carriages were her only hope.
With a low, soothing whisper of Italian, she slipped beneath the massive heads of two great black horses and crept quickly along the line of carriages. She heard the gate screech open and bang shut, and she froze, listening for the telltale sound of predator approaching prey.
It was impossible to hear anything over the pounding of her heart.
Quietly, she opened the door to one of the great hulking vehicles and levered herself up and into the carriage without the aid of a stepping block. She heard a tear as the fabric of her dress caught on a sharp edge and ignored the pang of disappointment as she yanked her skirts into the coach and reached for the door, closing it behind her as quietly as she could.
The willow green satin had been a gift from her brother—a nod to her hatred of the pale, prim frocks worn by the rest of the unmarried ladies of the ton. And now it was ruined.
She sat stiffly on the floor just inside the carriage, knees pulled up to her chest, and let the blackness embrace her. Willing her panicked breath to calm, she strained to hear something, anything through the muffled silence. She resisted the urge to move, afraid to draw attention to her hiding place.
“Tego, tegis, tegit,” she barely whispered, the soothing cadence of the Latin focusing her thoughts. “Tegimus, tegitis, tegunt.”
A faint shadow passed above, hiding the dim light that mottled the wall of the lushly upholstered carriage. Juliana froze briefly before pressing back into the corner of the coach, making herself as small as possible—a challenge considering her uncommon height. She waited, desperate, and when the barely there light returned, she swallowed and closed her eyes tightly, letting out a long, slow breath.
In English, now.
“I hide. You hide. She hides—”
She held her breath as several masculine shouts broke through the silence, praying for them to move past her hiding place and leave her, for once, in peace. When the vehicle rocked under the movement of a coachman scrambling into his seat, she knew her prayers would go unanswered.
So much for hiding.
She swore once, the epithet one of the more colorful of her native tongue, and considered her options. Grabeham could be just outside, but even the daughter of an Italian merchant who had been in London for only a few months knew that she could not arrive at the main entrance of her brother’s home in a carriage belonging to God knew whom without causing a scandal of epic proportions.
Her decision made, she reached for the handle on the door and shifted her weight, building up the courage to escape—to launch herself out of the vehicle, onto the cobblestones and into the nearest patch of darkness.
And then the carriage began to move.
And escape was no longer an option.
For a brief moment, she considered opening the door and leaping from the carriage anyway. But even she was not so reckless. She did not want to die. She just wanted the ground to open up and swallow her, and the carriage, whole. Was that so much to ask?
Taking in the interior of the vehicle, she realized that her best bet was to return to the floor and wait for the carriage to stop. Once it did, she would exit via the door farthest from the house and hope, desperately, that no one was there to see her.
Surely something had to go right for her tonight. Surely she had a few moments to escape before the aristocrats beyond descended.
She took a deep breath as the coach came to a stop. Levering herself up . . . reaching for the handle . . . ready to spring.
Before she could exit, however, the door on the opposite side of the carriage burst open, taking the air inside with it in a violent rush. Her eyes flew to the enormous man standing just beyond the coach door.
Oh, no.
The lights at the front of Ralston House blazed behind him, casting his face into shadow, but it was impossible to miss the way the warm, yellow light illuminated his mass of golden curls, turning him into a dark angel—cast from Paradise, refusing to return his halo.
She felt a subtle shift in him, a quiet, almost imperceptible tensing of his broad shoulders and knew that she had been discovered. Juliana knew that she should be thankful for his discretion when he pulled the door to him, eliminating any space through which others might see her, but when he ascended into the carriage easily, with the aid of neither servant nor step, gratitude was far from what she was feeling.
Panic was a more accurate emotion.
She swallowed, a single thought screaming though her mind.
She should have taken her chances with Grabeham.
For there was certainly no one in the world she would like to face less at this particular moment than the unbearable, immovable Duke of Leighton.
Surely, the universe was conspiring against her.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and they were alone.
Desperation surged, propelling her into movement, and she scrambled for the near door, eager for escape. Her fingers fumbled for the handle.
“I would not if I were you.”
The calm, cool words rankled as they cut through the darkness.
There had been a time when he had not been at all aloof with her.
Before she had vowed never to speak to him again.
She took a quick, stabilizing breath, refusing to allow him the upper hand. “While I thank you for the suggestion, Your Grace. You will forgive me if I do not follow it.”
She clasped the handle, ignoring the sting in her hand at the pressure of the wood, and shifted her weight to release the latch. He moved like lightning, leaning across the coach and holding the door shut with little effort.
“It was not advice.”
He rapped the ceiling of the carriage twice, firmly and without hesitation. The vehicle moved instantly, as though his will alone steered its course, and Juliana cursed all well-trained coachmen as she fell backward, her foot catching in the skirt of her gown, further tearing the satin. She winced at the sound, all too loud in the heavy quiet, and ran one dirty palm wistfully down the lovely fabric.
“My dress is ruined.” She took pleasure in implying that he’d had something to do with it. He need not know the gown had been ruined long before she’d landed herself in his carriage.
“Yes. Well, I can think of any number of ways you could have avoided such a tragedy this evening.” The words were void of contrition.
“I had little choice, you know.” She immediately hated herself for saying it aloud.
Especially to him.
He snapped his head toward her just as a lamppost in the street beyond cast a shaft of silver light through the carriage window, throwing him into stark relief. She tried not to notice him. Tried not to notice how every inch of him bore the mark of his excellent breeding, of his aristocratic history—the long, straight patrician nose, the perfect square of his jaw, the high cheekbones that should have made him look feminine but seemed only to make him more handsome.
She gave a little huff of indignation.
The man had ridiculous cheekbones.
She’d never known anyone so handsome.
“Yes,” he fairly drawled, “I can imagine it is difficult attempting to live up to a reputation such as yours.”
The light disappeared, replaced by the sting of his words.
She’d also never known anyone who was such a proper ass.
Juliana was thankful for her shadowy corner of the coach as she recoiled from his insinuation. She was used to the insults, to the ignorant speculation that came with her being the daughter of an Italian merchant and a fallen English marchioness who had deserted her husband and sons . . . and dismissed London’s elite.
The last was the only one of her mother’s actions for which Juliana had even a hint of admiration.
She’d like to tell the entire lot of them where they could put their aristocratic rules.
Beginning with the Duke of Leighton. Who was the worst of the lot.
But he hadn’t been at the start.
She pushed the thought aside. “I should like you to stop this carriage and let me out.”
“I suppose this is not going the way that you had planned?”
She paused. “The way I had . . . planned?”
“Come now, Miss Fiori. You think I do not know how your little game was to have been played out? You, discovered in my empty carriage—the perfect location for a clandestine assignation—on the steps of your brother’s ancestral home, during one of the best attended events in recent weeks?”
Her eyes went wide. “You think I am—”
“No. I know that you are attempting to trap me in marriage. And your little scheme, about which I assume your brother has no knowledge considering how asinine it is, might have worked on a lesser man with a lesser title. But I assure you it will not work on me. I am a duke. In a battle of reputation with you, I would most certainly win. In fact, I would have let you ruin yourself quite handily back at Ralston House if I were not unfortunately indebted to your brother at the moment. You would have deserved it for this little farce.”
His voice was calm and unwavering, as though he’d had this particular conversation countless times before, and she was nothing but a minor inconvenience—a fly in his tepid, poorly seasoned bisque, or whatever it was that aristocratic British snobs consumed with soup spoons.
Of all the arrogant, pompous . . .
Fury flared, and Juliana gritted her teeth. “Had I known this was your vehicle, I would have avoided it at all costs.”
“Amazing, then, that you somehow missed the large ducal seal on the outside of the door.”
The man was infuriating. “It is amazing, indeed, because I’m sure the seal on the outside of your carriage rivals your conceit in size! I assure you, Your Grace”—she spit the honorific as if it were an epithet—“if I were after a husband, I would look for one who had more to recommend him than a fancy title and a false sense of importance.” She heard the tremor in her voice but could not stop the flood of words pouring from her. “You are so impressed with your title and station, it is a miracle you do not have the word ‘Duke’ embroidered in silver thread on all of your topcoats. The way you behave, one would think you’d actually done something to earn the respect these English fools afford you instead of having been sired, entirely by chance, at the right time and by the right man, who I imagine performed the deed in exactly the same manner of all other men. Without finesse.”
She stopped, the pounding of her heart loud in her ears as the words hung between them, their echo heavy in the darkness. Senza finezza. It was only then that she realized that, at some point during her tirade, she had switched to Italian.
She could only hope that he had not understood.
There was a long stretch of silence, a great, yawning void that threatened her sanity. And then the carriage stopped. They sat there for an interminable moment, he still as stone, she wondering if they might remain there in the vehicle for the rest of time, before she heard the shifting of fabric. He opened the door, swinging it wide.
She started at the sound of his voice, low and dark and much much closer than she was expecting.
“Get out of the carriage.”
He spoke Italian.
Perfectly.
She swallowed. Well. She was not about to apologize. Not after all the terrible things that he’d said. If he was going to throw her from the carriage, so be it. She would walk home. Proudly.
Perhaps someone would be able to point her in the proper direction.
She scooted across the floor of the coach and outside, turning back and fully expecting to see the door swing shut behind her. Instead, he followed her out, ignoring her presence as he moved up the steps of the nearest town house. The door opened before he reached the top step.
As though doors, like everything else, bent to his will.
She watched as he entered the brightly lit foyer beyond, a large brown dog lumbering to greet him with cheerful exuberance.
Well. So much for the theory that animals could sense evil.
She smirked at the thought, and he turned halfway back almost instantly, as though she had spoken aloud. His golden curls were once more cast into angelic relief, as he said, “In or out, Miss Fiori. You are trying my patience.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he had already disappeared from view. And so she chose the path of least resistance.
Or, at least, the path that was least likely to end in her ruin on a London sidewalk in the middle of the night.
She followed him in.
As the door closed behind her and the footman hurried to follow his master to wherever masters and footmen went, Juliana paused in the brightly lit entryway, taking in the wide marble foyer and the gilded mirrors on the walls that only served to make the large space seem more enormous. There were half a dozen doors leading this way and that, and a long, dark corridor that stretched deeper into the town house.
The dog sat at the bottom of the wide stairway leading to the upper floors of the home, and under his silent canine scrutiny, Juliana was suddenly, embarrassingly aware of the fact that she was in a man’s home.
Unescorted.
With the exception of a dog.
Who had already been revealed to be a poor judge of character.
Callie would not approve. Her sister-in-law had specifically cautioned her to avoid situations of this kind. She feared that men would take advantage of a young Italian female with little understanding of British stricture.
“I’ve sent word to Ralston to come and fetch you. You may wait in the—”
She looked up when he stopped short, and met his gaze, which was clouded with something that, if she did not know better, might be called concern.
She did, however, know better.
“In the—?” she prompted, wondering why he was moving toward her at an alarming pace.
“Dear God. What happened to you?”
“Someone attacked you.”
Juliana watched as Leighton poured two fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler and walked the drink to where she sat in one of the oversized leather chairs in his study. He thrust the glass toward her, and she shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“You should take it. You’ll find it calming.”
She looked up at him. “I am not in need of calming, Your Grace.”
His gaze narrowed, and she refused to look away from the portrait of English nobility he made, tall and towering, with nearly unbearable good looks and an expression of complete and utter confidence—as though he had never in his life been challenged.
Never, that was, until now.
“You deny that someone attacked you?”
She shrugged one shoulder idly, remaining quiet. What could she say? What could she tell him that he would not turn against her? He would claim, in that imperious, arrogant tone, that had she been more of a lady . . . had she had more of a care for her reputation . . . had she behaved more like an Englishwoman and less like an Italian . . . then all of this would not have happened.
He would treat her like all the rest.
Just as he had done since the moment he had discovered her identity.
“Does it matter? I’m sure you will decide that I staged the entire evening in order to ensnare a husband. Or something equally ridiculous.”
She had intended the words to set him down. They did not.
Instead, he raked her with one long, cool look, taking in her face and arms, covered in scratches, her ruined dress, torn in two places, streaked with dirt and blood from her scored palms.
One side of his mouth twitched in what she imagined was something akin to disgust, and she could not resist saying, “Once more, I prove myself less than worthy of your presence, do I not?”
She bit her tongue, wishing she had not spoken.
He met her gaze. “I did not say that.”
“You did not have to.”
He threw back the whiskey as a soft knock sounded on the half-open door to the room. Without looking away from her, the duke barked, “What is it?”
“I’ve brought the things you requested, Your Grace.” A servant shuffled into the room with a tray laden with a basin, bandages, and several small containers. He set the burden on a nearby low table.
“That is all.”
The servant bowed once, neatly, and took his leave as Leighton stalked toward the tray. She watched as he lifted a linen towel, dipping one edge into the basin. “You did not thank him.”
He cut a surprised glance toward her. “The evening has not exactly put me in a grateful frame of mind.”
She stiffened at his tone, hearing the accusation there.
Well. She could be difficult as well.
“Nevertheless, he did you a service.” She paused for effect. “Not to thank him makes you piggish.”
There was a beat before her meaning became clear. “Boorish.”
She waved one hand. “Whatever. A different man would have thanked him.”
He moved toward her. “Don’t you mean a better man?”
Her eyes widened in mock innocence. “Never. You are a duke, after all. Surely there are none better than you.”
The words were a direct hit. And, after the terrible things he’d said to her in the carriage, a deserved one.
“A different woman would realize that she is squarely in my debt and take more care with her words.”
“Don’t you mean a better woman?”
He did not reply, instead taking the seat across from her and extending his hand, palm up. “Give me your hands.”
She clutched them close to her chest instead, wary. “Why?”
“They’re bruised and bloody. They need cleaning.”
She did not want him touching her. Did not trust herself.
“They are fine.”
He gave a low, frustrated growl, the sound sending a shiver through her. “It is true what they say about Italians.”
She stiffened at the words, dry with the promise of an insult. “That we are superior in all ways?”
“That it is impossible for you to admit defeat.”
“A trait that served Caesar quite well.”
“And how is the Roman Empire faring these days?”
The casual, superior tone made her want to scream. Epithets. In her native tongue.
Impossible man.
They stared at each other for a long minute, neither willing to back down until he finally spoke. “Your brother will be here at any moment, Miss Fiori. And he is going to be livid enough as it is without seeing your bloody palms.”
She narrowed her gaze on his hand, wide and long and oozing strength. He was right, of course. She had no choice but to relinquish.
“This is going to hurt.” The words were her only warning before he ran his thumb over her palm softly, investigating the wounded skin there, now crusted in dried blood. She sucked in a breath at the touch.
He glanced up at the sound. “Apologies.”
She did not reply, instead making a show of investigating her other hand.
She would not let him see that it was not pain that had her gasping for breath.
She had expected it, of course, the undeniable, unwelcome reaction that threatened whenever she saw him. That surged whenever he neared.
It was loathing. She was sure of it.
She would not even countenance the alternate possibility.
Attempting a clinical assessment of the situation, Juliana looked down at their hands, nearly entwined. The room grew instantly warmer. His hands were enormous, and she was transfixed by his fingers, long and manicured, dusted with fine golden hairs.
He ran one finger gently across the wicked bruise that had appeared on her wrist, and she looked up to find him staring at the purpling skin. “You will tell me who did this to you.”
There was a cool certainty in the words, as though she would do his bidding, and he would, in turn, handle the situation. But Juliana knew better. This man was no knight. He was a dragon. The leader of them. “Tell me, Your Grace. What is it like to believe that your will exists only to be done?”
His gaze flew to hers, darkening with irritation. “You will tell me, Miss Fiori.”
“No, I will not.”
She returned her attention to their hands. It was not often that Juliana was made to feel dainty—she towered over nearly all of the women and many of the men in London—but this man made her feel small. Her thumb was barely larger than the smallest of his fingers, the one that bore the gold-and-onyx signet ring—proof of his title.
A reminder of his stature.
And of how far beneath him he believed her to be.
She lifted her chin at the thought, anger and pride and hurt flaring in a hot rush of feeling, and at that precise moment, he touched the raw skin of her palm with the wet linen cloth. She embraced the distraction of the stinging pain, hissing a wicked Italian curse.
He did not pause in his ministrations as he said, “I did not know that those two animals could do such a thing together.”
“It is rude of you to listen.”
One golden brow rose at the words. “It is rather difficult not to listen if you are mere inches from me, shouting your discomfort.”
“Ladies do not shout.”
“It appears that Italian ladies do. Particularly when they are undergoing medical treatment.”
She resisted the urge to smile.
He was not amusing.
He dipped his head and focused on his task, rinsing the linen cloth in the basin of clean water. She flinched as the cool fabric returned to her scoured hand, and he hesitated briefly before continuing.
The momentary pause intrigued her. The Duke of Leighton was not known for his compassion. He was known for his arrogant indifference, and she was surprised he would stoop so low as to perform such a menial task as cleaning the gravel from her hands.
“Why are you doing this?” she blurted at the next stinging brush of linen.
He did not stay his movements. “I told you. Your brother is going to be difficult enough to deal with without you bleeding all over yourself. And my furniture.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I mean why are you doing this? Don’t you have a battalion of servants just waiting to perform such an unpleasant task?”
“I do.”
“And so?”
“Servants talk, Miss Fiori. I would prefer that as few people as possible know that you are here, alone, at this hour.”
She was trouble for him. Nothing more.
After a long silence, he met her gaze. “You disagree?”
She recovered quickly. “Not at all. I am merely astounded that a man of your wealth and prominence would have servants who gossip. One would think you’d have divined a way to strip them of all desire to socialize.”
One side of his mouth tightened, and he shook his head. “Even as I am helping you, you are seeking out ways to wound me.”
When she replied, her tone was serious, her words true. “Forgive me if I am wary of your goodwill, Your Grace.”
His lips pressed into a thin, straight line, and he reached for her other hand, repeating his actions. They both watched as he cleaned the dried blood and gravel from the heel of her palm, revealing tender pink flesh that would take several days to heal.
His movements were gentle but firm, and the stroke of the linen on the abraded skin grew more tolerable as he cleaned the wounds. Juliana watched as one golden curl fell over his brow. His countenance was, as always, stern and unmoving, like one of her brother’s treasured marble statues.
She was flooded with a familiar desire, one that came over her whenever he was near.
The desire to crack the façade.
She had glimpsed him without it twice.
And then he had discovered who she was—the Italian half sister of one of London’s most notorious rakes, the barely legitimate daughter of a fallen marchioness and her merchant husband, raised far from London and its manners and traditions and rules.
The opposite of everything he represented.
The antithesis of everything he cared to have in his world.
“My only motive is to get you home in one piece, with none but your brother the wiser about your little adventure this evening.”
He tossed the linen into the basin of now-pink water and lifted one of the small pots from the tray. He opened it, releasing the scent of rosemary and lemon, and reached for her hands once more.
She gave them up easily this time. “You don’t really expect me to believe that you are concerned for my reputation?”
Leighton dipped the tip of one broad finger into the pot, concentrating on her wounds as he smoothed the salve across her skin. The medicine combated the burning sting, leaving a welcome, cool path where his fingers stroked. The result was the irresistible illusion that his touch was the harbinger of the soothing pleasure flooding her skin.
Which it wasn’t.
Not at all.
She caught her sigh before it embarrassed her. He heard it nonetheless. That golden eyebrow rose again, leaving her wishing that she could shave it off.
She snatched her hand away. He did not try to stop her.
“No, Miss Fiori. I am not concerned for your reputation.”
Of course he wasn’t.
“I am concerned for my own.”
The implication that being found with her—being linked to her—could damage his reputation stung, perhaps worse than her hands had earlier in the evening.
She took a deep breath, readying herself for their next verbal battle, when a furious voice sounded from the doorway.
“If you don’t take your hands off of my sister this instant, Leighton, your precious reputation will be the least of your problems.”