Even at balls, one must be wary of the vulgar.
Elegant ladies steer clear of dark corners.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
Fluttering sparrows and their companions recently received their due . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
The steps leading up to Dolby House were covered in vegetables.
The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby had taken her harvest ball more than seriously, covering the front of the house with onions, potatoes, what looked like several different kinds of wheat, and gourds of every conceivable size and color. A path had been created for guests, not a straight shot up the steps and into the house, but a meandering, curving, walkway flanked with spoils of the harvest that made seven steps feel like seventy, and those following it feel utterly ridiculous.
Juliana alighted from the carriage and eyed the squash- and wheat-strewn pathway skeptically. Callie followed her down and gave a little chuckle at the exhibition. “Oh, my.”
Ralston took his wife’s arm and led the way through the extravagant labyrinth. “This is all your doing, you know,” he whispered at her ear, and Juliana could hear the humor in his tone. “I hope you’re happy.”
Callie laughed. “I have never had the opportunity to meander through a vegetable patch, my lord,” she teased. “So yes, I am quite happy.”
Ralston rolled his eyes heavenward. “There will be no meandering, Empress. Let’s get this over with.” He turned toward Juliana, indicating that she should precede him up the steps. “Sister?”
Juliana pasted a bright smile on her face and stepped up alongside him. He leaned down, and said quietly, “Keep the smile on your face, and they shan’t know how to respond.”
There was no question that by now, a full day since the return of their mother, the ton would be buzzing with the news. There had been a brief discussion that afternoon of not attending this particular ball, hosted at the home of Lady Penelope—the future Duchess of Leighton—but Callie had insisted that if they were to weather this storm, they had to attend any events to which they received invitations, whether Leighton was going to be in attendance or not. Soon, after all, there would be markedly fewer to accept.
And tonight, at least, the full narrative of the prior evening’s events at Ralston House would be hazy at best.
She increased the brightness of her smile and trod along the path between turnips and marrows, squash and courgettes, into what was destined to be one of the longest nights of her life.
Once divested of her cloak, Juliana turned to face the pit of vipers that waited inside the ballroom of Dolby House.
The first thing she noticed were the stares. The entrance to the ballroom was from above, down a short flight of stairs almost certainly designed for the best—and least innocuous—entrance. As she hovered there at the top of the stairs, Juliana felt scores of eyes raking over her. Looking out across the room, she refused to allow her smile to fade even as she saw the telltale signs of gossip: bowed heads, fluttering fans, and brightly lit eyes, eager for a glimpse at whatever sordid drama might unfold.
Callie turned back to her, and she recognized a similarly-too-bright smile on her sister-in-law’s face. “You’re doing wonderfully. Once we’re in the crush, everything will settle.”
She wanted to believe that the words were true. She looked out over the crowd, desperate to appear as though something had captured her attention. And then something did.
Simon.
She caught her breath as hot memory flooded through her.
He stood at the far end of the ballroom, tall and handsome, in perfect formalwear and a linen cravat with lines so crisp it could have sliced butter. High on one cheek she noticed a red welt—it appeared that at least one of Ralston’s blows from the evening prior had struck true—but the mark only made Simon more handsome. More devastating.
It only made her want him more.
He had not seen her, and still she resisted the simultaneous urges to smooth her skirts and turn and run for the exit. Instead, she focused on descending to the ballroom floor, where she could not see him.
Perhaps if she could not see him, she would stop thinking so much about him—about his kisses and his strong arms, and the way his lips had felt against her bare skin.
And the way he had proposed to Lady Penelope before he had come for Juliana in the stables.
Lady Penelope, in whose home Juliana stood.
She pushed the thoughts to the side as her brother came to her elbow and leaned low into her ear. “Remember what we discussed.”
She nodded. “I shall be the belle of the ball.”
He grinned. “As usual.” She snorted her laughter, and he added, “Well, do attempt to do as little of that as possible.”
“I live to do your bidding, my lord.”
He gave a short bark of laughter. “If only that were true.” His gaze grew serious. “Try to enjoy yourself. Dance as much as you can.”
She nodded. If anyone would ask her.
“Miss Fiori?” The deep, warm request came from behind her, and she spun to face Callie’s brother, the Earl of Allendale. He smiled, kindness in his brown eyes. He held out one hand. “Would you do me the honor?”
It had been planned, she knew it. Planned that she would have someone with whom to dance the moment she entered the ballroom. Planned that that someone would be an earl.
She accepted, and they danced a lively quadrille, and Benedick was the perfect gentleman, promenading her around the perimeter of the room after the dance, not leaving her side. “You do not have to be so careful with me, you know,” she finally said, softly. “They cannot do much to me in a ballroom.”
He gave a half smile. “They can do plenty to you in a ballroom. And besides, I have nowhere better to go.”
They reached a quiet spot on the edge of the room and stood silently beside each other, watching other dancers trip across the floor in a country reel. “Don’t you have other ladies to court?” she teased.
He shook his head in mock sadness. “Not a single one. I am relieved of my duties as bachelor earl this evening.”
“Ah,” she said, “so something good has come of the trouble at Ralston House.”
He flashed her a grin. “For me, at least.” They fell back to watching the dancers for a while before Benedick said quietly, “It shall be all right, you know.”
She did not look to him for fear of losing her mask of serenity. “I do not know that, but thank you very much for saying so.”
“Ralston will do what needs to be done to make it all right. He shall have the full support of Rivington and me . . . and dozens of others.”
But not the one man I hoped would stand with us.
She turned at the soft certainty in his warm tone, meeting his kind eyes and wondering, fleetingly, why it could not be this man who set her aflame. “I don’t know why you would all risk so much.”
He gave a little sound of refusal. “Risk,” he said, as though it were a silly word. “It is not a risk for us. We are young, handsome aristocrats with plenty of land and plenty of money. What risk?”
She was surprised by his candor. “Not all of you seem to think so lightly of the damage to your reputation that an association with us might do.”
“Well, Rivington and I haven’t much choice, as we are related, if you would remember.” She heard the teasing in his tone but did not find it very amusing. There was a beat of silence. “I assume you are referring to Leighton.”
She stiffened. She couldn’t help it. “Among others.”
“I saw the way he watched you last night. I think Leighton will align himself with you faster than you would imagine.”
The words—predicated on logic so faulty—stung. She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”
Benedick might think he had seen support in Leighton’s manner last night, but he had misread the emotion. He had seen frustration, irritation, desire perhaps. But not caring.
On the contrary, had Benedick seen the duke storm from the stables later that evening, after it was revealed that he was engaged, he would not think such things at all.
Simon was to be married.
The words had barely whispered through her mind when, as though she had conjured up his bride-to-be, Juliana caught a glimpse of the grape through the crowd, headed for the ladies’ salon.
And she could not resist.
“I shall return,” she whispered, already in motion.
She knew even as she headed for the salon that she should not follow Lady Penelope, that any conversation they might have would be more painful than no conversation at all, but she could not help herself. The grape had done what Juliana could not—she had caught Simon. And there was a perverse part of Juliana that simply had to know who this plain, perfect Englishwoman was.
What it was about her that had led the immovable Duke of Leighton to choose her for his duchess.
It was early enough that the salon was empty, save for a handful of servants, and Juliana crossed the main room of the salon to a small side chamber, where she found Penelope pouring water into a small washbasin, then setting her hands into the water, breathing deeply.
The grape appeared ill.
“You are not going to cash in your accounts, are you?”
Penelope spun toward her, the surprise in her eyes turning quickly to confusion. “Cash in my accounts?”
“It is possible I have it incorrect.” Juliana moved her hand in a rolling motion. “To be ill. In Italian, we say vomitare.” The grape’s eyes went wide with understanding before a flush rose high on her cheeks. “Ah. I see you understand.”
“Yes. I understand.” Lady Penelope shook her head. “No. I am not going to cast up my accounts. At least, I don’t think so.”
Juliana nodded. “Bene.” She indicated a chair near the basin. “May I join you?”
The grape’s brow furrowed. Evidently it was not every day that she had a conversation such as this one.
But if she wanted to refuse, she was too polite to do so. “Please.”
Juliana sat, waving one hand. “You need not stop what it is you were doing.” She paused. “What is it that you were doing?”
Penelope eyed the washbasin before meeting Juliana’s curious gaze. “It is just something that I do to calm myself.”
“Wash your hands?”
One side of Penelope’s mouth lifted in a self-deprecating smile. “It’s silly.”
Juliana shook her head. “I conjugate verbs.”
“In Italian?”
“In Latin. And in English.”
Penelope seemed to consider the idea. “And it works?”
With everything but Leighton. “Most of the time.”
“I shall have to try it.”
“Why are you in need of calming?”
Penelope lifted a long square of linen to dry her hands. “No reason.”
Juliana laughed a little at the obvious lie. “I do not mean to offend, Lady Penelope, but you are not very good at hiding your feelings.”
Penelope met Juliana’s gaze. “You say whatever you are thinking, don’t you?”
Juliana gave a little shrug. “When you have a reputation such as mine, there is little need to mince words. Is it the ball that makes you nervous?”
Penelope looked away, her eyes finding her reflection in a nearby mirror. “Among other things.”
“Well, I can certainly understand that. They are horrible events, balls. I do not understand why anyone cares for them. All torturous whispers and silly dancing.”
Penelope met Juliana’s gaze in the mirror. “Tonight’s ball shall be one for the ages.”
“You refer to the gossip about my mother?”
“My engagement is to be announced tonight.”
The words should not have been a surprise, and yet they slammed through Juliana.
He was announcing the engagement tonight.
“Your engagement to whom?” She knew she should not ask. Could not stop herself from doing so. In some perverse way, she had to hear the words from this woman—his future wife.
“The Duke of Leighton.”
Juliana knew the words were coming, but they ripped through her, nonetheless.
“You are to marry the Duke of Leighton.” Stop talking. “He has proposed to you.”
Penelope nodded, lost in her own thoughts, her golden ringlets bobbing like the hair on one of Juliana’s childhood dolls. “This morning.”
Juliana swallowed around the knot in her throat. He’d obviously left Ralston House the prior evening with complete resolve—having narrowly escaped a bad match with Juliana . . . he’d happily secured a good one with . . .
Someone else.
And in a hideous twist of fate, Juliana was attending the betrothal ball.
All while her family’s reputation was being ripped to shreds.
Belatedly, she remembered her manners. “How . . . happy . . . you must be!”
“Yes. I suppose I should be happy.”
She did not seem happy.
In fact, Penelope’s eyes had turned liquid, and she seemed very close to tears.
And, suddenly, Juliana felt sorry for the other woman.
This woman, who was to marry Simon.
“You do not wish to marry him.”
There was a long pause as Penelope appeared to collect herself. Juliana watched with amazement as the tears cleared from the other woman’s eyes, returning them to their pale, porcelain blue, and a bright, white smile appeared on her face. She took a deep breath. “The Duke of Leighton is a good man. It is a fine match.”
It did not escape Juliana’s notice that Penelope had not answered the question. Juliana raised a brow. “You sound like one of them.”
Penelope’s brows knit together. “ ‘Them’?”
Juliana waved a hand to the outer salon and the ballroom beyond. “The English.”
Penelope blinked. “I am one of the English.”
“I suppose you are.” Juliana watched Penelope for a long while. “He is a good man.”
“He will make me a fine husband.”
Juliana rolled her eyes. “I would not go so far as to say that. He’s arrogant and high-handed, and he’ll want everything his cold, calculating way.”
She should stop this now. Simon was to marry Lady Penelope. And it was not Juliana’s place to become involved.
There was a long pause as Penelope considered the words, during which Juliana began to regret her bold speech. Just as she was about to apologize, Penelope said, “That is how marriage is.”
The simple statement, spoken as though it was an irrefutable fact, was Juliana’s undoing. She rose from her chair, having no choice but to move. “What is it with you English? You speak of marriage as though it is a business arrangement.”
“It is a business arrangement,” Penelope said, simply.
“And what of love?”
“I am sure that . . . in time . . . we shall develop a certain . . . fondness for each other.”
Juliana could not stop her laugh. “I have developed a fondness for apple tarts, but I do not want to marry one.” Penelope did not smile. “And passion?”
Penelope shook her head. “There is no room for passion in a good English marriage.”
Juliana went still at the words, an echo from another ball. Another aristocrat. “Did he say that to you?”
“No, but it is . . . the way things are done.”
The room grew instantly smaller, more cloying, and Juliana longed for air. Penelope was perfect for Simon. She would not challenge him, would breed him beautiful, golden-haired children, and host his dinner parties while he lived his quiet life, unfettered by scandal, uncomplicated by passion.
Juliana had never had a chance with him.
And only now, as the truth coiled through her, did she realize how much she had wanted one.
There is no room for passion in a good English marriage.
She turned for the door. “Well, at least in that, you are an excellent match.”
Just as Juliana reached the entryway to the larger salon, the grape found her skin. “It is not easy, you know. You think English ladies do not grow up imagining love? Of course we do. But we are not bred for love. We are bred for reputation. For loyalty. We are bred to turn our backs on passion and take the hand of security. Is it the stuff of novels? No. Do we like it? It does not matter. It is our duty.”
Juliana took in the words. Duty. Reputation. Security. She would never understand this world, this culture. She would never be one of them. And it was that which would always set her apart. Always make her worthy of their whispers.
Never make her worthy of him.
Not in the way this sturdy Englishwoman was.
The ache returned, and before she could make her excuses, Penelope offered a small, quiet smile. “We leave love to the Italians.”
“I’m not sure we want it.” The conversation was over. “My felicitations, Lady Penelope.”
She left Penelope to her washbasin and her future and passed through the main room, ignoring both the cluster of women gathered there, heads bent in the rapt pleasure of the purest essence of balls—gossip and fashion.
“I heard she’s back and swearing that she was never in Italy.” The words rose above covert whispers, meant to be heard. Meant to wound and incite.
And Juliana could not help herself.
She turned to see Lady Sparrow holding court over her minions. She smirked, an asp about to strike, meeting Juliana’s gaze, and saying, baldly, “Which means someone is not who she says she is.”
There was a collective gasp at the suggestion. To suggest someone’s illegitimacy was the highest form of insult. And to do it while the person in question was in the room . . .
No drama tonight. The family didn’t need it.
Sparrow should have been called Vulture. She was circling as though she had spied carrion. “Because it would not surprise me if she’d simply heard that there was money and station to be had here. I mean, we don’t know anything about her. She might not be Italian at all. She might be something else entirely?”
Juliana wanted to turn and prove just how Italian she was. In small, vicious words that would sear the skin from Sparrow’s ears.
But would it change anything?
It would not garner their acceptance. It would not make this night, or any to come, easier. It would not remove the scandal from their name, nor would it make her worthy in their eyes.
In his eyes.
She resisted the thought. This was not about him.
Or was it?
Wasn’t he one of them? Hadn’t he judged her just as they had? Didn’t he expect her to cause a scandal everywhere she went?
Hadn’t she proven him right?
“Something else?”
“A gypsy?”
“A Spaniard?”
If she weren’t so angry, Juliana would have laughed at the way the word had been said, as though it were synonymous with witch. What was wrong with Spaniards?
“We could ask her ourselves,” Lady Sparrow said, and the group of women turned to face her. Each face smirking a more wicked smile than the last.
This was how it would be now.
This was what it was to have scandal surround you—real scandal, not some cheap approximation of a black mark on your reputation because you were Italian, or outspoken, or clumsy, or because you resisted their silly rules.
This was what he was afraid of.
And as she stared at their wicked smiles, reading the viciousness in their eyes, she could not blame him.
She would marry the grape as well.
A flood of hot anger and embarrassment coursed through her, and Juliana wanted to scream and rant and throw things at the horrible women. Her muscles tensed with an unbearable desire to lash out. But she had been in London for eight months, and she had learned that there were more painful things than physical blows.
And she’d had enough.
Instead, she turned and checked her reflection in the mirror, making a show of tucking a curl back into her coiffure, before returning her attention to them, affecting as much boredom as she could.
“You know as well as I, Lady Sparrow, that I am whatever you and your”—she waved a lazy hand in the direction of the group—“harpies decide to make me. Italian, Spanish, gypsy, changeling. I welcome whichever mantle you choose . . . as long as you do not make me English.”
She watched as understanding dawned in their shocked faces.
“For surely there is nothing worse than being one of you.”
He had pretended not to see her arrive.
Just as he had pretended not to care when she’d laughed and danced in the arms of the Earl of Allendale.
Just as he’d pretended not to count the minutes she spent in the ladies’ salon.
Instead, he had feigned vast interest in the conversation around him—in the opinions of the men who were eager to share his thoughts on the military-spending bill, and to garner the respect and support of the Duke of Leighton.
But when she quietly exited the ballroom, heading down a long, dark corridor toward the back of the house, where God only knew who or what might be waiting for her, he could not pretend any longer.
And so he crossed the ballroom, politely dismissing those who thought to stop him in conversation, and followed Juliana into the recesses of the ancestral home of the woman to whom he was betrothed.
The second woman to whom he had proposed marriage in the past twenty-four hours.
The only one who had accepted his suit.
Juliana had refused him.
He was still unable to wrap his head around the ridiculous truth.
She hadn’t even considered the possibility of marrying him.
She’d simply turned to her brother and suggested in a tone that most people reserved for children and servants, that Simon Pearson, eleventh Duke of Leighton, knew not what he was saying.
As though he offered himself up in marriage to anyone who came along.
He should be thrilled with this turn of events . . . after all, everything was now going according to plan. He was marrying the impeccable Lady Penelope, and, within moments, would align their two families, officially shoring up his defenses in preparation for the attacks that would come when scandal hit.
He passed several closed, locked doors before the hallway curved to the right, and he stopped in complete darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. Once he could make out the doors down the long stretch of hall, he continued.
He should think himself the luckiest of men that he had avoided a terrible match with Juliana Fiori.
He should be down on his knees, thanking his Maker for a narrow miss.
Instead, he was following her into the darkness.
He did not like the metaphor.
She was a sorceress.
She’d seemed so fragile there in that small stall, brushing her horse, talking to herself in soft, self-deprecating tones.
What man could resist such a tableau?
Ralston might have thought Leighton the perpetrator, the years-older gentleman taking advantage of a barely out twenty-year-old. Certainly, Simon had played into the role . . . and he’d accepted the fists and the accusations, and he’d proposed.
And as much as he tried to convince himself that he did it out of a sense of what was right, the truth was that in the moment, he’d done it because he’d wanted her. Wanted to brand her as his and finish what they had started.
The kiss had felt like nothing he had ever experienced. The softness of her skin, the feel of her fingers in his hair, the way she turned him inside out with a little sigh, the way he grew hard and aching with the mere memory of the way she whispered his name, the way she begged him to taste her on those soft, pink . . .
He opened a door, looking into a dark room. Pausing, listening. She was not there. He closed the door with a curse.
He’d never felt this way. Never been so consumed with frustration or desire or . . .
Passion.
He froze at the word, shaking his head.
What was he doing?
This was the final moment before his engagement to Lady Penelope was made public . . . before the gates closed and locked on all other paths save this one—down which lay his future duchess and their life together. And he was following another woman down a dark hallway.
It was time for him to remember who he was.
Penelope would make a sound wife. And an excellent duchess.
A vision flashed—not Penelope. Nothing like Penelope. Ebony curls and eyes the color of the Aegean Sea. Full, ripe lips that whispered his name like a prayer. A laugh that carried on the wind as Juliana rode away from him in Hyde Park, teased him at dinner, on the streets of London, in her stables.
She lived with passion. And she would love with it as well.
He ignored the thought.
She was not for him.
He turned around. Resolute. Saw the light in the darkness, marking the corridor returning to the ballroom. Headed for it.
Just as she spoke from the shadows.
“Simon?”
His given name, in her lilting Italian, breathy with surprise, was a siren’s call.
He turned to her.
“What are you—”
He grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her into the first room he found, and closed the door behind them, quickly, sealing them inside a conservatory.
She backed up, toward the large bay window and a pool of silver moonlight, managing only a few steps before she kicked a cello. She cursed in a whisper of Italian that was too loud to even be called a whisper, as she lunged to keep it from crashing to the ground.
If he weren’t so furious with her for intruding on his space and his thoughts and his life, he might have laughed.
But he was too busy worrying that her brother might happily disembowel him if they were discovered in what would never be believed to be a coincidentally compromising position.
The woman was impossible.
And he was thrilled that she was there.
A problem, that.
“What are you doing following me down a darkened hallway?” she hissed.
“What are you doing heading down a darkened hallway?”
“I was attempting to find some peace!” She turned away, headed for the window, muttering in Italian. “In this entire city, is there a single place where I am not plagued with company?”
Simon did not move, taking perverse pleasure in her agitation. He should not be the only one to be rattled. “It is you who should not be here, not I.”
“Why, does the house come with the bride?” she snapped before switching to English. “And how is it that you speak Italian so well?”
“I find it is not worth doing anything if one does not do it well.”
She offered him a long-suffering look. “Of course you would say that.”
There was a long silence. “Dante.”
“What about him?”
One side of his mouth lifted at her peevishness. “I have a fondness for him. And so, I learned Italian.”
She turned to him, her black hair gleaming silver, the long column of her throat porcelain in the moonlight. “You learned Italian for Dante.”
“Yes.”
She returned her attention to the gardens beyond the window. “I suppose I should not be surprised. Sometimes I think the ton is a layer of hell.”
He laughed. He could not help it. She was magnificent sometimes. When she was not infuriating.
“Shouldn’t you be out there instead of here, sulking about in the darkness?”
“I think you mean skulking.” She need not know how close she was to the truth in her error.
She set the sheet music on the stand with a huff of irritation. “Fine. Skulking. It is a silly word, anyway.”
It was a silly word, but he found he liked the way she said it.
He liked the way she said many things.
Not that he had any right to.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked.
She sat on the piano bench, squinting into the darkness, trying to see him. “I wanted to be alone.”
He was taken aback by her honesty. “Why?”
She shook her head. “It’s not important.”
Suddenly, nothing in the world seemed so important. He stood, knowing he should not move closer to her.
Moved closer to her anyway.
“The gossip,” he said. Of course it was the gossip. She would certainly bear the brunt of it.
She gave a little half laugh, making room for him on the piano bench. The movement was so natural—as though she hadn’t thought for a moment.
As though he belonged there.
He sat, knowing it was a terrible idea.
Knowing nothing good could come of his being this close to her.
“Apparently, I am not her daughter, but rather a cunning gypsy who has pulled the linen over your eyes.” She smiled at the words, finally meeting his gaze.
She might have been a gypsy then, with streaks of silver moonlight in her hair, and a soft, sad smile in her beautiful blue eyes turned black with the night. She was bewitching.
He swallowed. “Wool.”
She was confused. “Wool?”
“Pulled the wool over our eyes,” he corrected, his fingers itching to touch her, to smooth back a curl that had come loose at her temple. “You said linen.”
She tilted her head, the column of her throat lengthening as she considered the words. “In Italian, it is lana. I was confused.”
“I know.” He was feeling confused himself.
She sighed. “I shall never be one of you.”
“Because you cannot tell the difference between linen and wool?” he teased. He did not want her to be sad. Not now. Not in this quiet moment before everything changed.
She smiled. “Among other things.” Their gazes met for a long moment and he steeled himself against the desire to touch her. To run his fingers across her smooth skin and pull her close and finish what they had started the night before. She must have sensed it, because she broke the connection, turning away. “So you are betrothed.”
He didn’t want to discuss it. Didn’t want it to be real. Not here.
“I am.”
“And the announcement shall be made tonight.”
“It shall.”
She met his gaze. “You will have your perfect English marriage after all.”
He leaned back, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “You are surprised?”
One shoulder lifted in an elegant shrug. He was coming to like those shrugs that spoke volumes. “The game was never one I could win.”
He was surprised. “Are you admitting defeat?”
“I suppose so. I release you from the wager.”
It was precisely what he had expected her to do. What he’d wanted her to do. “That does not sound like the warrior I have come to know.”
She gave him a small wry smile. “Not so much a warrior any longer.”
His brows snapped together. “Why not?”
“I—” She stopped.
He would have given his entire fortune to hear the rest of the sentence. “You—?” he prompted.
“I came to care too much about the outcome.”
He froze, watching her, taking in the way her throat worked as she swallowed, the way she fiddled with a piece of trim on her rose-colored gown. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” She did not meet his gaze. Instead, shaking her head once more. “I am sorry that you felt that you had to watch over me. I am sorry that Gabriel hit you. I am sorry that I came to be something you . . . regret.”
Regret.
The word was a blow more painful than anything Ralston had delivered.
He had felt many things for her in the past week . . . in the past months. But regret had never been one of them.
“Juliana—” Her name came out like gravel as he reached for her, knowing that when he had her in hand, he might not let her go.
She stood before he could touch her. “It would be a problem if we were discovered. I must go.”
He stood, too. “Juliana. Stop.”
She turned, taking a step back, into the darkness, placing herself just out of reach. “We are not to speak. Not to see each other,” she rattled, as though the words could build a wall between them.
“It is too late for that.” He stepped toward her. She stepped back. “Ralston will be looking for me.”
He advanced. “Ralston can wait.”
She hurried backward. “And you have a fiancée to claim.”
“She can wait as well.”
She stopped, finding her strength. “No she can’t.”
He did not want to talk about Penelope.
He met her, toe-to-toe. “Explain yourself.” The whisper was low and dark.
“I—” She looked down, giving him the top of her head. He wanted to bury his face in those curls, in the smell and feel of her.
But first, she would explain herself.
She did not speak for an eternity—so long that he thought she might not. And then she took a deep breath, and said, “I told you not to make me like you.” The words were full of defeat.
“You like me?” She looked up, her blue eyes reflecting the light from the window behind him, and he caught his breath at her beauty. He lifted a hand, ran the backs of his fingers across her cheek. She closed her eyes at the caress.
“Yes.” The whisper was plaintive and soft, barely audible. “I don’t know why. You’re a horrible man.” She leaned into him. “You’re arrogant and irritating, and you have a temper.”
“I do not have a temper,” he said, lifting her face toward him, so he could look his fill. She opened her eyes and gave him a look of complete disbelief, and he amended, “Only when I am around you.”
“You think you are the most important man in all of England,” she continued, her voice a thread of sound in the darkness, punctuated by little catches in her words as his fingers trailed along the line of her jaw. “You think you’re right all the time. You think you know everything . . .”
Her skin was so soft.
He should leave the room. It was wrong for him to be here with her. If they were caught, she would be ruined, and he would have no choice but to leave her in ruin. He had been engaged mere hours.
This was all wrong.
He should go.
A gentleman would go.
“You covered all that with ‘arrogant.’ ” He traced the column of her neck.
“I—” She gasped as he pressed a soft kiss to the base of her throat. “I thought you might need further explanation.”
“Mmm,” he spoke against the skin of her shoulder. “An excellent point. Go on.”
She took a deep breath as his lips and tongue played up the side of her neck. “What were we discussing?”
He smiled at her ear before he took the soft, velvety lobe between his teeth. “You were telling me all the reasons that you should not like me.”
“Oh . . .” The word turned into a little moan as he tongued the sensitive skin of her ear. She clutched his forearms at the sensation. “Yes. Well. Those are the major reasons.”
“And yet, you like me anyway.” He moved, pressing soft kisses along the edge of her gown, easing down the smooth expanse of skin there, her chest rising and falling as she gasped for breath. She did not reply for a long while, and he slid a finger beneath the silk, stroking, seeking, until he found what he was looking for, hard and ready for him. “Juliana?”
“Yes, damn you, I like you.”
He rewarded her by pulling the gown down and baring the rose-tipped breast to the moonlight. “There’s something you should know,” he whispered, the words coming from far away.
“Yes?”
He blew a long stream of cool air across her puckered nipple, loving the way it tightened more, begging for his mouth.
He would taste her tonight.
Once, before he went back to his staid, respectable existence.
Just once.
A rush of pleasure coursed through him, and he grew hard and heavy at the thought.
“Simon”—she sighed—“you torture me.”
He palmed one of her perfect breasts, rolling his thumb across its tip, reveling in the way she gave herself up to sensation.
“What is it?” she asked, the words broken around her pleasure.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“What should I know?”
He smiled at the question, dragging his gaze up to meet hers—heavy-lidded and gorgeous.
One more taste of her. One last taste.
“I like you, too.”