Music is the sound of the gods.
The delicate lady plays the pianoforte to perfection.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
We are assured that there is still time for the wedding of the season . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
He lifted her in his arms, turned, and carried her back to the piano bench. Setting her down on the hard wooden seat, he came to his knees before her, cupping her face and tilting her to receive his kiss.
His hands came to her breasts, lifted them, bared them, stroked across their peaks, pinching lightly until she gasped, and he rewarded the sound, giving her everything she had not known she wanted. She whispered his name as he suckled the pebbled tip of one breast, sending excitement coursing through her. She plunged her fingers into his lush golden curls, holding him to the spot where he wreaked havoc on her flesh and her emotions.
He groaned at the feel of her hands in his hair, and the sound rippled through her like pleasure.
She knew she should not allow it.
Knew she risked everything.
Did not care.
As long as he did not stop.
He clasped her to him, worshipping her with lips and tongue and the wicked hint of teeth as his hands stroked down the length of her, pressing her closer and closer to him, until she thought they might become one.
“Simon . . .” she whispered his name and he stopped, lifting his head, his eyes flashing with heat.
“God, Juliana,” he reached out one hand, stroking down one side of her cheek, and she turned her head impulsively, placing a warm, soft kiss on the pad of his thumb, tracing a circle there with her tongue before biting the flesh softly.
He growled at the sensation, pulling her to him for a kiss that was more claiming than caress. When he ended it, they were both breathing heavily, and her hands had found their way inside his topcoat to stroke his broad, firm chest.
“I want . . .” she started, the words breaking off as he returned his attention to her breasts, taking a nipple between his lips, rolling the tight peak between tongue and teeth until she could not think.
When he released her, he flashed a wolfish grin, and she could not help but reach out for him, letting her fingers play across his lips—as though touching the elusive smile could burn it into her memory. He took the tip of one finger into his mouth, sucking on it until she gasped. “What do you want, love?”
The endearment curled between them, and she was struck by a pang of longing . . . she wanted him. For more than a stolen moment in this dark, private place . . . for more than two weeks . . .
I want you to want me.
To choose me.
“Come closer.” She spread her legs, knowing that she was being wanton. Knowing that if they were caught, she would be ruined, and he would walk away to be with his future bride. But she did not care. She wanted to feel him against her. She did not care that there were layers of fabric between them. Did not care that they would never be as close as she wanted.
His eyes closed briefly as though he were steeling himself against her, and she thought for a moment that he might refuse. But when he opened them, she saw desire flare there in the stunning amber depths, then he groaned his pleasure and gave her what she wanted, pressing closer.
“You are my siren,” he said, running his hands along her thighs and down her calves, feeling the shape of her even as the silk of her gown kept them both from what they wanted. “My temptress . . . my sorceress . . . I cannot resist you, no matter how I try. You threaten to send me over the edge.”
His hands came to her ankles, and she flinched at the instant, intense pleasure of his touch. Her eyes widened. “Simon, I don’t—”
“Shh,” he said, as his hands smoothed slowly up the inside of her legs, setting her stockings aflame. “I’m showing you what I mean.”
His fingertips reached the lacy, scalloped edge of the stockings high on her thigh, and they both groaned at the feel of skin on skin. She snapped her legs closed, trapping his hands between her warm thighs.
She couldn’t.
He shouldn’t.
He leaned forward and placed his forehead on hers. “Juliana, let me touch you.”
How could she resist such temptation?
She relaxed, opening her thighs, knowing that she was a wanton.
Not caring.
He smiled, his hands climbing higher and higher. “You are not wearing drawers.”
She shook her head, barely able to speak through the anticipation. “I don’t like them. We don’t—in Italy.”
He took her mouth in a wicked kiss. “Have I mentioned how I adore the Italians?”
The sentiment, so counter to every argument they’d ever had, made her laugh. Then his fingers reached her core, feathering over the soft hair there, parting, seeking, and sending a shock of sensation through her. And the laugh turned to a moan.
His mouth was at her ear now, and he whispered wicked things as his fingers sought. Found. She did not know what she wanted. Only that—
“Simon . . .” she whispered.
He slid one finger deep into her core, and she closed her eyes at the caress, leaning back at the sensation, the piano keys sighing beneath her movement.
“Yes,” she whispered, embarrassed and bold all at once.
“Yes,” he repeated, as a second finger joined the first, and his thumb did wicked, wonderful things, circling the secret folds of her.
She bit her lip. “Stop . . . don’t stop.”
His grin was wide and wicked. “Which one?”
He stroked deep, and she grasped his arm tightly, whispering. “Don’t. Don’t stop.”
He shook his head, watching her. “I couldn’t if I tried.” Holding her gaze, he worked her in time with the movement of her hips, with the soft discordant tinkling of the piano keys beneath her. Everything faded except the feel of him, the strong, corded muscles of his arms, the magnificent way he touched her, driving her harder and faster toward something she did not understand and did not entirely trust.
She sat straight up, and he was there, one hand capturing her face, holding her to his lips. “I am here,” he whispered against her.
Was he, really?
She stiffened, shaking her head, rocketing toward pleasure. “No. Simon . . .”
“Take it, Juliana.” The demand crashed through her, so imperious that she could not follow it. She gasped at the pleasure, and he took her lips again, feeding her unbearable desire for more, for him where she ached and needed more than she would ever imagine, his beautiful amber gaze her anchor in the storm.
When he had wrung the last of her pleasure from her, he placed a soft kiss on the high arch of one cheek and righted her skirts, pulling her to him as she regained her strength. He held her there, quiet and unmoving for long minutes. Five. Maybe more.
Before she remembered where they were.
And why.
She pushed him back, away from her. “I must return.” She stood, wondering how long she would be able to suffer this interminable evening.
The worst was yet to come.
“Juliana,” he said, and she heard the plea in his voice, for what, she did not know. She waited, eager for him to say something that would make it better. That would make it right.
When he did not, she spoke. “You are to be married.”
He lifted his hands. Paused. Dropped them in frustration. “I am sorry. I should not have—I should have—”
She flinched at the words—she couldn’t help it. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t apologize.” She moved to the door, had one hand on the handle when he spoke again.
“Juliana. I cannot—” He halted. Rethought. “I am marrying Lady Penelope. I have no choice.”
There it was again, his cool, masterful tone.
She let her forehead rest on the cool mahogany of the door, so close that she could smell the rich stain on the wood.
He spoke again. “There are things you cannot understand. I must.”
She laid her palm flat against the door, resisting the horrible temptation to throw herself at his feet and beg him to have her. No. She had more pride than that. There was only one way to survive this. With dignity intact.
“Of course you must,” she whispered.
“You don’t understand.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But it is not important. Thank you for the lesson.”
“The lesson?”
This was her chance to have the last word.
To at least feel like she had won.
“Passion is not everything, is it?” She was proud of the lightness in her tone, the way she tossed the words at him as though they did not matter. As though he had not just thrown her world into upheaval.
Again.
But she did not trust herself to look at him. That would have been too challenging a part to play.
Instead, she opened the door and slipped into the hallway, not feeling at all like she’d won.
Feeling like she’d lost terribly.
She had, after all, broken the most important of her rules.
She had wanted more than she could have.
She had wanted him, and more . . . she had wanted him to want her.
In the name of something bigger than tradition, bolder than reputation, more important than a silly title.
She hovered at the entrance to the ballroom, watching the swirling silks, the way the men walked, danced, spoke with the undeniable sense of entitlement and purpose, the long, graceful lines of the women, who knew without question that they belonged.
Here, nothing trumped the holy trinity of tradition, reputation, and title.
And for someone like her—who laid claim to none of the three—someone like him—who held all three with a casual right—was utterly, undeniably, out of reach.
And she had been wrong to even pretend to reach for him.
She could not have him.
She took a deep, stabilizing breath.
She could not have him.
“Oh, good. I found you. We must talk,” Mariana whispered from her elbow, where she had materialized. “Apparently ours is not the only gossip to be had today.”
Juliana blinked. “Our gossip?”
Mariana cut her a quick, irritated look. “Really, Juliana. You shall have to get past the idea that you own all the trouble in our family. We’re a family. It’s our burden to bear as well.” Juliana did not have time to appreciate the sentiment as Mariana was already pressing on. “Apparently, there is another major event taking place tonight. One you will not like. Leighton is to be—”
“I know.” Juliana cut off her friend. She didn’t think she could bear hearing it again. Not even from Mariana.
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
Mariana’s brows snapped together. “When?”
She shrugged one shoulder, hoping it would be enough for her sister-in-law’s sister.
Apparently not. “Juliana Fiori! When did he tell you?”
She should have told her that Ralston told her. Or that she’d overheard it in the ladies’ salon. Usually, she was quicker.
Usually, she hadn’t just had her heart broken.
Her heart was not broken, was it?
It certainly felt that way.
“Earlier.”
“Earlier, when?”
“Earlier tonight.”
Mariana squeaked. Actually squeaked.
Juliana winced. She should have said last night.
Juliana turned to face her. “Please don’t make this an issue.”
“Why were you with Leighton earlier tonight?”
No reason, only that I was very nearly ruined in the conservatory belonging to his future bride.
She shrugged again.
“Juliana, you know that might very well be your most annoying habit.”
“Really? But I have so many.”
“Are you all right?”
“You mean the shoulder? Yes. Fine.”
Mariana’s eyes narrowed. “You are being deliberately difficult.”
“Possibly.”
Mariana looked at her then. Really looked at her. And Juliana got instantly nervous. The young duchess’s gaze softened almost instantly. “Oh, Juliana,” she whispered. “You are not all right at all, are you?”
The soft, kind words proved to be Juliana’s undoing. It was suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to swallow, all her energy instantly devoted to resisting the urge to throw herself into her friend’s arms and cry.
Which, of course, she could not do. “I must go.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No!” She heard the panic in her voice. Took a breath, tried to keep it from rising again. “No. I am . . . you must stay.”
Mariana did not like being told what to do. Juliana saw her hesitate, watched her consider denying the request. Please, Mari. “Fine. But you will take our carriage.”
Juliana paused for a moment, considering. “I—yes. All right. I shall take your carriage. Mari—” She heard the crack in her voice. Loathed it. “I have to leave. Now. Before.”
Before she had to watch the announcement of the betrothal unfold in a horrible, perverse tableau.
Mariana nodded once. “Of course. I’ll see you out. You’re obviously not feeling well. You’ve got a headache, clearly.”
Juliana would have laughed if it had seemed at all amusing.
Mariana began to push through the crowd at the edge of the ballroom, Juliana following close behind. They had barely gone a dozen steps when the orchestra stopped playing, and there was a commotion on the dais where they sat. Conversation stopped as the Marquess of Needham and Dolby, a portly man who obviously liked his drink, boomed, “Attention!”
Juliana made the mistake of looking toward the dais. Saw Simon there, tall and unbearably handsome—the perfect duke. The perfect husband.
Perfect.
Mariana turned back to her, eyes wide, and Juliana squeezed her hand. “Faster.”
“We can’t . . .” Mariana shook her head. “Everyone will see.”
Panic rose, and the ballroom tilted horribly, sending a wave of nausea through her. Of course they couldn’t leave. Escape would only make them the subject of more talk. Not now. Not when the betrothal was taking some of the attention from their scandal. She hated her mother in that moment, more than ever before. Juliana closed her eyes, knowing what was to come. Not knowing how she would survive it.
She turned to the dais, and Mariana took her hand, squeezing tightly, a rock in a maelstrom of dread.
And Juliana listened quietly as the only man she’d ever wanted pledged himself to another.
It was over blessedly quickly, footmen passing champagne among the revelers, who raised their glasses and voices in toast to the happy couple. No one noticed that Mariana and Juliana politely refused the drink, nor did they realize that the moment the Duke of Leighton raised the hand of his future duchess to his lips, the two were headed for the exit.
It was an eternity until they dashed up the steps from the dance floor; once there, Juliana made the mistake of looking back—of taking one final glance at Simon and his bride.
He was watching her.
And she was unable to resist drinking him in—his golden curls, strong jaw, and full lips, and that serious amber gaze that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world.
Of course she wasn’t.
Because his future bride stood next to him.
She turned and fled into the foyer, afraid that she would be sick if she stayed in the wretched house any longer. Thankfully, the servants at Dolby House were the best of the best, and a footman was already opening the door as she rushed for it, tears blurring her vision, Mariana on her heels.
She felt the cool air of the October night beyond and gave a little prayer of thanks. She was safe.
Or, she would have been . . .
If she had only remembered the vegetables.
Too late, she realized that the staircase remained smothered in fruits of the harvest, and by that time it was too late to stop. She’d already set one slippered foot on a large, round pompion, and sent the entire pyramid into collapse.
She heard Mariana call her name in alarm as she tumbled, riding a wave of gourds and onions and marrow down the dozen or so steps to the base of the staircase, landing in a heap. When she opened her eyes to ensure that she had survived the fall, she was surrounded by vegetables—many smashed open, their innards splattered across the cobblestone street.
Juliana watched as a turnip, barely the size of her fist, rolled past and came to a rest beneath a waiting carriage—one final, fallen soldier in her massacre.
“Oh, my . . .”
She looked up to find Mariana at the top of the steps, looking down at her, eyes wide, one hand to her open mouth. Two footmen stood just behind her, looking utterly uncertain of the protocol in this particular situation.
Juliana could not stop herself.
She began to laugh.
Not soft, quiet chuckles, either. Loud, raucous laughter that she could not hold in. Laughter that threatened her ability to breathe. Laughter that held all her sadness and frustration and anger and irritation.
Wiping a tear from her cheek, she looked up at Mariana and found that her friend’s shoulders were shaking with laughter as well. And the footmen, too—they couldn’t help it.
Their laughter sent another wave of emotion through her.
She cleared a space for her to stand, and her movements shook the others free. They all picked their way down the stairs, one footman bending to assist Juliana to her feet as she realized the full extent of the damage.
She had laid waste to Lady Needham’s centerpiece.
The steps would have to be cleared before anyone could leave the ball.
And Juliana’s lovely rose silk was covered in seeds and great gobs of pulp, entirely ruined.
She stood, thanking the footman and facing Mariana, who was still laughing—the response certainly as much horror as amusement.
“You’ve got . . .” She shook her head and waved one hand to indicate Juliana’s entire body. “Everywhere.”
Juliana pulled a long piece of wheat from her hair. “I suppose it is too much to ask that one of these carriages is yours?”
Mariana inspected the waiting vehicles. “Actually, it isn’t at all. That one is ours.”
Juliana headed for it. “Finally, something goes right.”
Mariana opened her reticule and extracted a ransom in gold coins for the footmen. “If you could forget who, precisely, destroyed your mistress’s décor . . .” She pressed the coins into their palms before dashing for the carriage and following Juliana inside.
“Do you think they will stay quiet?” Juliana asked as the coach lurched into motion.
“One can hope that they’ll take pity on you.”
Juliana sighed, leaning her head back on the smooth black upholstery. She let the motion of the carriage calm her for long minutes before she said, “Well, you must give me some credit.”
Mariana snickered. “For?”
“I cannot be accused of going quietly into the night.”