Lifelong companionship begins with softness and temerity.
Delicate ladies do not speak freely with gentlemen.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
The Guy is not the only one with a fiery temperament this autumn . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823
Most days of the year, the village of Dunscroft was a quiet place—the idyllic country life interrupted by the occasional loose bull or runaway carriage, but in the grand scheme of small English towns, there was little in the village worthy of note.
Not so on Bonfire Night.
All of Dunscroft had come out for the festivities, it seemed. It was just after sundown, and the village green was filled with the trappings of the celebration—lanterns had been lit around the perimeter of the greensward, bathing the stalls that lined the outside of the space in a lovely golden glow.
Juliana stepped down from the carriage and was immediately accosted by the smells and sounds of the carnival atmosphere. There were hundreds of people on the greensward, all enjoying one part of the fair or another—children in paper masks chased through the legs of their elders before tripping upon impromptu puppet shows or smiling girls with trays of candy apples.
There was a pig roasting several yards away, and Juliana watched as a group of young men nearby attempted to shake a living statue from his impressively rigid pose with their jesting and dancing. She laughed at the picture they made in their buffoonery, enjoying the welcome sensation.
“You see?” Isabel said from her side. “I told you that you had nothing to worry about.”
“I am still not certain,” Juliana replied with a smile. “I do not see the bonfire you promised.”
A pyre had been set up at the center of the town square, an enormous pile of wood topped with a sorry-looking straw man. The head of the effigy listed dangerously to one side, threatening that it would take a light breeze rather than a blazing fire to bring him down. Children were running in circles around the unlit bonfire, singing and chanting, and a fat baby sat off to one side, covered in sticky toffee.
Juliana turned to her sister-in-law with a smile. “This does not seem at all frightening.”
“Just wait until the children have eaten their fill of sweets, and there is a great inferno from which to protect them. Then you shall see frightening.” Isabel peered through the crowd of people, searching. “Most of the girls should be here already. The house was empty save for Nick and Leighton when we left.”
The mention of Simon set Juliana on edge. She’d been thinking of him all day—had spent much of the morning finding reasons to move in and out of rooms, to fetch things from near the nursery and visit her brother in his study, all to no avail.
He’d all but disappeared.
She knew she should be happy that he was keeping his distance. Knew she should not tempt fate. He had made his choice, after all—it was only a matter of time before he returned to London and married another.
Someone he thought highly of.
Someone who matched him in name and station.
And now, instead of doing her best to forget him, she was standing in the middle of a mass of strange Englishmen, wearing one of her most flattering frocks, and wishing that he was here.
Wondering why he wasn’t here.
Even as she knew he was not for her.
It should be easier—here in the country, protected from the rest of the world, from the scandal of long-missing mothers and illegitimate children, far from marriages of convenience and betrothal balls and whispers and gossip.
And still, she thought of him. Of his future.
Of her own.
And of how they would differ.
She had to leave.
She could not stay. Not if he was here.
Isabel lifted her nose to the air. “Ooh . . . do you smell apple tarts?”
The question shook Juliana from her reverie. This was a carnival, and all of Yorkshire was in celebration, and she would not let the future change the now. There was enough time to worry about it tomorrow.
“Shall we have one?” she asked her sister-in-law with a smile.
They set off down the long line of stalls in search of pastry, as Isabel said, “You are warned, once I start, it is possible I shan’t stop until I have turned into an apple tart.”
Juliana laughed. “It is a risk I shall take.”
They found the stall and purchased tarts before a young woman stopped Isabel to discuss something about uniforms for the Townsend Park servants. Juliana wandered slowly, lingering in the stalls nearby as she waited for the conversation to finish, watching as the greensward grew dark, the only light at the center of the square coming from candles that people held as they chatted with their neighbors and waited, presumably, for the bonfire to be lit.
Everything in this little village had been distilled to this simple moment of conversation and celebration. The air was crisp with the smell of autumn, the leaves from the trees around the greensward were falling on the breeze, and there was no worry in this moment . . . no sadness. No loneliness.
Here she was in the country, where life was rumored to be simpler. She had come for this. For bonfire night and children’s rhymes and apple tarts. And, for one evening, she would have it.
She would not let him stop her.
She paused outside a booth filled with dried herbs and flowers, and the large woman manning the stall looked up from the sachet she was tying. “What’s your pleasure, milady?”
“My pleasure?”
The woman hefted herself from her stool and made her way to the high table where Juliana stood. “Children? Money? Happiness?”
Juliana smiled. “Plants can give me those things?”
“You doubt it?”
She gave a little laugh. “Yes.”
The woman watched her for a long moment. “I see what you want.”
“Oh?”
I want one evening of simplicity.
“Love,” pronounced the shopkeeper.
Far too complicated. “What about it?”
“That’s what you want.” The woman’s hands flew over the collection of herbs and flowers, faster than someone of her size should be able to move. She pinched a tip of lavender, a sprig of rosemary, thyme and coriander and several things that Juliana could not identify. She placed them all in a little burlap bag, tying it up with a length of twine in a knot Odysseus himself would not be able to undo. She handed the pouch to Juliana then. “Sleep with it under your pillow.”
Juliana stared at the little sachet. “And then what?”
The woman smiled, a great, wide grin that revealed several missing teeth. “He will come.”
“Who will come?” She was being deliberately obstinate.
The woman did not seem to mind. “Your love.” She put out a wide hand, palm up. “A ha’penny for the magic, milady.”
Juliana raised a brow. “I will admit, that does seem a bargain . . . for magic.” She dropped the herbs into her reticule and fished out a coin.
“It will work.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure it will.”
She turned away resolutely and froze.
There, propped against the post at the corner of the stall, arms crossed, was Simon, looking as little like a duke as the Duke of Leighton could look.
Which was still extraordinarily ducal.
He wore buckskin breeches and tall, brown riding boots, a white linen shirt, and a green topcoat, but there was nothing elaborate about the clothes—his cravat was uncomplicated, his coat simple and unassuming. A cap rather than a hat was pulled down over his brow and, while he was wearing gloves, he did not carry the cane that was required in town.
This was Simon with a nod to the country.
A Simon she could love.
Then she would give him up. To his reputation and his propriety and his responsibility and all the things she had come to love about him.
But tonight, they were in the country. And things were simpler.
Perhaps she could convince him of it.
The thought unstuck her. She began to move.
Toward him.
He straightened. “Are you buying magic potions?”
“Yes.” She tossed a look over her shoulder at the woman, now standing just outside the stall.
She smiled her toothy grin. “You see how quickly it works, milady?”
Juliana could not help but smile. “Indeed. Thank you.”
Simon looked uncomfortable. “What did she sell you?”
She met his gaze for a long moment.
It was now or never.
“What if I said she sold me one evening?”
His brow furrowed. “One evening of what?”
She gave a little shrug. “Simplicity. Ease. Peace.”
One side of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “I would say, let’s buy a lifetime of it.”
Juliana thought about the conversation long ago, when they had discussed the perfect Leighton lineage—the reputation he protected, the honor he valued. She recalled the pride in his voice, the heavy responsibility that was understood.
What must it be like to bear such a burden?
Difficult enough to be tempted by a night of freedom.
Juliana shook her head. “We can’t have a lifetime. Just one evening. Just this evening.”
He watched her for a long moment, and she willed him to accept her offer. This night, in this simple town in the English countryside, without gossip or scandal. A bonfire and a fair and a few hours of ease.
Tomorrow, next week, next month might all be horrible. Would likely be horrible.
But she would have now.
With him.
All she had to do was reach out and take it.
“I’ve enough for both of us, Simon,” she whispered. “Why not live for tonight?”
Please.
He hovered on the brink of answering, and she wondered if he would turn her away—knew he should turn her away. Her heart pounded in her chest as she watched the muscles in his jaw twitch, preparing for speech.
But before he could answer, the church bells on the far side of the square began to chime—an explosion of sound. Her eyes went wide as the people around them let up a powerful, raucous cheer. “What is happening?” she asked.
There was a beat, as though he had not heard the question right away. Before he offered her his arm. “The bonfire. It’s about to begin.”
Why not live for tonight?
The words echoed in Simon’s mind as they stood in the heat of the blazing bonfire.
One evening.
One moment that would be theirs, together, here in the country. Without responsibility or worry . . . just this Bonfire Night, and nothing more.
But what if he wanted more?
He could not have it.
Just one evening. Just this evening.
Once again, Juliana was issuing a challenge.
This time, he was afraid that if he accepted, he would never survive.
He turned slightly, just enough to take her in. She was in profile, staring at the bonfire, a look of glee upon her face. Her black hair was gleaming in the firelight—a riot of reds and oranges, a magnificent, vibrant thing. And her skin glowed with the heat of the fire and her excitement.
She sensed his gaze, turning toward him. When she met his eyes, he caught his breath.
She was beautiful.
And he wanted this night. He wanted whatever he could get of her.
He leaned down, his lips close to her ear, and resisted the urge to kiss her there, where she smelled so wonderfully like Juliana. “I would like the potion.”
She pulled back, her blue eyes navy in the darkness. “You are certain?”
He nodded.
Her lips curved in a wide, welcome smile, open and unfettered, and he felt that he had experienced a wicked blow to the head. “What now?”
An excellent question. People had begun to wander away from the fire; they were returning to the rest of the excitements on the square. He offered her an arm. “Would you take a turn about the green with me?”
She considered his arm for a long moment, and he understood her hesitation, saw the trepidation in her gaze when she met his gaze. “One evening.”
Every bit of him screamed that it wouldn’t be enough.
But it would have to be.
And he would not allow himself to think on what came tomorrow.
He dipped his head. Acquiesced. “One evening.”
And then her hand was on his arm, warm and firm, and they were moving away from the fire. The light faded, but the heat stayed, blazing hotter than before.
They walked in silence before she said, waving back at the pyre, “I confess, I am honored. All this, for Catholics.”
A crisp wind ripped through the square, pressing her closer to him, and he resisted the urge to wrap one arm around her. “For a specific Catholic,” he said. “Guy Fawkes nearly blew up Parliament and killed the king. Bonfire Night is a celebration of the foiling of the plot.”
She turned toward him, interested. “The man at the top of the fire . . . that is your Guy?” He nodded, and she turned to finger a bolt of cloth in one of the stalls. “He does not look so dangerous.”
He laughed.
She looked over her shoulder at the sound. “I like to hear you laugh, Your Grace.”
He resisted the title. “Not Your Grace tonight. If I get an evening of freedom and ease, I don’t want to be a duke.” He did not know where the words came from, but their truth was undeniable.
She inclined her head in his direction. “A reasonable request. Then who are you tonight?”
He did not have to think. He gave a little bow in her direction and she laughed, the sound like music in the darkness. “Simon Pearson. No title. Just the man.”
For one evening, he could imagine that the man was enough.
“You expect people to believe that you are a mere mister?”
If it was a game, why could he not make the rules? “Is this potion magic or not?”
She smiled softly, returning her hand to his arm. “It might be magic after all.”
They moved on in silence, past a sweets cart and a booth where pork and chicken pasties were for sale. “Are you hungry?” he asked. When she nodded, he purchased two of the savory treats and a skein of wine, and turned back to her with a smile. “Mr. Pearson would like to have an impromptu picnic.”
The smile widened to a grin. “Well, I would not like to disappoint him. Not on Bonfire Night.”
They moved to a more secluded part of the green, where they sat upon a low bench and ate, watching the revelers. A collection of children ran past—chasing or being chased—their laughter trailing behind them.
Juliana sighed, and the sound rippled through him, soft and lovely. “These evenings were my favorites as a little girl,” she said, her voice lilting with her Italian accent. “Festivals meant an evening when things did not have to be so proper.”
He imagined her as a little girl, too tall for her age, with dirty knees and a mass of wild curls tangling in the breeze, and he smiled at the picture. He leaned in, and said in Italian, “I would have liked to have known you then. To have seen young Juliana in her element.”
She laughed, liking that he had switched to her native tongue, enjoying the privacy it afforded them. “You would have been shocked by young Juliana. I was always dirty, always coming home with a new discovery, getting in trouble for yelling in the courtyard, snatching biscotti from the kitchens—wreaking havoc.”
He raised a brow. “And you think all that surprises me?”
She smiled and dipped her head. “I suppose not.”
“And as you grew older? Did you break a string of hearts on these festival evenings?” He should not ask such a thing. It was not appropriate.
But this night, there were no rules. This night was easier. This night, questions were allowed.
She tilted her head up to the sky with a low, liquid laugh and the long column of her neck was illuminated by the distant fire. He resisted the urge to press his lips to the delicate skin there and turn the laugh into a sigh of pleasure.
When she looked back at him, there was mischief in her eyes.
“Ah,” he said, stretching his legs out in front of him. “I see I am not so far off.”
“There was one boy,” she said. “Vincenzo.”
Simon was hit with a wave of emotion, curiosity and jealousy and intrigue all at once. “Tell me the story.”
“Every year in Verona, in April, there is the feast of San Zeno. The city prepares for weeks and celebrates like it is Christmas. One year . . .” She trailed off, as if she was uncertain whether she should continue.
He had never wanted to hear the rest of a story so much. “You cannot stop now. How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
Seventeen. As fresh-faced and beautiful as she was now. “And Vincenzo?”
She shrugged. “Not much older. Eighteen, perhaps?”
Simon remembered himself at eighteen, remembered the way he had thought of women . . . the things he had wanted to do with them.
Still wanted to do with them. With her.
He had an intense desire to do this unknown Italian boy harm.
“The young people in the town were enlisted to help with preparations for the festival, and I had been carrying food to the churchyard for much of the morning, Each time I arrived a new plate in hand, Vincenzo was there, eager to help.”
I imagine he was, Simon thought as she continued.
“This went on for an hour . . . four or five trips from the house to the church . . . I had saved the largest tray for last—an enormous platter of cakes for the celebration. I left the house, my hands full, and cut through a narrow alley leading to the church, and there, alone, leaning against one wall, was Vincenzo.”
A vision flashed, a lanky, dark-haired young Italian—eyes bright with desire—and Simon’s hands fisted.
“I thought he was there to take the plate from me.”
“I don’t imagine he was.” His voice had gone to gravel.
She shook her head with a little laugh. “No. He wasn’t. He reached for the plate, and when I made to give it to him, he stole a kiss.”
He loathed this boy. Wanted him dead.
“I hope you hit him in the inguine.”
Her eyes went wide. “Mr. Pearson!” she teased, switching back to English. “How very harsh of you!”
“It sounds like the pup deserved it.”
“Suffice it to say, I handled the situation.”
Pleasure shot through him. Good girl. He should have known she would take care of herself. Even if he wished he could have done it for her. “What did you do to him?”
“Sadly, Vincenzo now has a reputation for kissing with the enthusiasm of a slobbering dog.”
Simon laughed, loud and unrestrained. “Well done.”
She grinned. “We women are not so helpless as you think, you know.”
“I never thought you helpless. Indeed, I have thought you a gladiator from the beginning,” he said, offering her the skein of wine.
She smiled wide at the words. “Un gladiatore? I like that very much,” she said before drinking.
“Yes, I imagine you would.” He watched her drink, and when she lowered the flask, added, “I confess, I am very happy that he did not know how to kiss.”
She smiled, and he was transfixed by the motion of her tongue as she reached out to lick a lingering droplet of wine from her lips. “You needn’t worry. He is no competition for you.”
The words came out casually before she realized their implication. The air thickened between them almost immediately, and she dipped her head, color washing over her cheeks. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“You have said it now,” he teased, his voice low and filled with the need that was coursing through him—the need to take her in his arms and prove her correct. “I shan’t allow you to withdraw.”
She looked up, through her long, ebony lashes, and he was struck by her lush beauty. A man could spend a lifetime looking at her.
“I don’t withdraw.”
His pulse pounded at the words, and he wished they were anywhere but here, in this crowded square, with her brother and half of Yorkshire within shouting distance.
He stood, knowing that if he did not, he would not be responsible for his actions. Reaching down, he offered her a hand and pulled her to her full height. He was awash in the smell of her—that strange, exotic blend of red currants and basil. She lifted her face to his, the orange glow of the bonfire flickering across her skin, and he saw the emotion in her gaze, knew that if he took her lips here—in this public place—in front of everyone, she would not push him away.
The temptation was acute.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered what would happen if he did it—if he branded her as his here, in the middle of this country square. It would change everything in an instant. Honor would demand that they marry, and Georgiana’s scandal would take second place to the Duke of Leighton’s throwing over the daughter of a double marquess to wed an Italian merchant’s daughter of questionable legitimacy.
But he would have Juliana.
And in that instant, it almost felt that it would be enough.
He could do it; her mouth was mere inches from his, all softness and temptation, and all he had to do was close the distance between them. And she would be his.
He watched as the tip of her pink tongue stroked along her lower lip, and desire lanced through him. When she spoke, her voice was light and casual. “Shall we walk some more?”
She didn’t feel it, the twisting, unbearable need that roiled inside him.
He cleared his throat, taking a moment to draw out the sound in the hopes that his head would clear as well.
“Of course,” he said, and she was off, leaving him to trail behind her like the tragic pup that he had become. He was never more grateful than when she led him back to the line of stalls; he was more stable when near other people, when moving, when he did not feel her heat along the length of him.
She lifted her chin to the night air as they walked, taking a deep breath and letting it out on a long sigh. “I think I could like the country.”
He was surprised by the statement; she had such energy about her that this quiet, country village did not seem to suit. “You prefer it to London?”
She smiled and he saw the self-deprecation in the gesture. “I think it prefers me.”
“I think you belong in London.”
She shook her head. “Not anymore. At least, not for the rest of the year. I think I shall stay here in Yorkshire. I like the ladies of Minerva House, Lucrezia likes to run on the heath, and I am ready to be done with the season.”
He hated the idea of leaving her in the country. Of returning to London—to his staid, boring life there—without her added excitement. Her vibrancy was lost here amid the fields and the sheep. She should be riding through the morning mist in Hyde Park, waltzing through society ballrooms, draped in silks and satins.
With him.
He caught his breath at the vision that flashed, Juliana on his arm, holding court over society. Impossible.
She stopped at the opening to one booth, trailing her fingers along the green lace edge of a simple bonnet. He watched her smooth, delicate nail scrape along the brim, wondered how that finger would feel scraping along his neck . . . his shoulders . . . down his torso . . .
He grew instantly hard and shifted, thankful for the darkness, but did not look away, fascinated by the way she stroked the hat. Finally, when he could not bear watching her fondle the headpiece a moment longer, he drew a pouch of coins from his pocket and said to the shopkeeper, “I should like to buy the bonnet for the lady.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You cannot.”
But the man in the stall had already taken the coin. “Would you like to wear it, milady?”
She ignored him, looking up into Simon’s gaze. “It’s not done. You cannot buy me clothing.”
He lifted the bonnet from where it lay and tossed an extra coin to the salesman. Holding it out to Juliana, he said, “I thought we drank the potion?”
She looked at the hat for a long moment, and he thought she might not take it. When she did, he let out a long breath that he had not known he was holding.
“And besides,” he teased, “I promised to buy you a bonnet to replace the one you lost.”
He watched as the memory played over in her mind. Remembered the feel of her, cold and shivering in his arms. Wished he had not brought it up.
“If memory serves, Mr. Pearson—” She hesitated, turning the bonnet in her hands, and he warmed at her use of the evening’s pseudonym. “You offered to buy me a dozen.”
He nodded once in mock seriousness and turned back to the keeper of the stall. “Do you have eleven more of these? Perhaps in other colors?”
The man’s eyes grew wide, and Juliana laughed, grasping his arm and tugging him away from the booth. She smiled wide at the salesman. “He does not mean it. Apologies.”
The man’s eyes lit up. “ ’Tis Bonfire Night, milady, something about burning the Guy makes us all a mite mad.”
As they walked away, Simon said, “I would have said a mite more amusing.”
“Six of one, a half a dozen of the other when it comes to your sex,” she said drily, and it was his turn to laugh.
They had gone several yards when she slowed down once more, casting him a sideways look before returning her attention to the bonnet in her hands. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure.”
And it had been. He wanted to buy her a hundred hats. And cloaks and gowns and horses and saddles and pianofortes and whatever else she wanted. Whatever made her happy, he wanted her to have it in abundance.
So when she said, “I’m sorry,” and he heard the sadness in her tone, he did not like it at all.
He stopped, until she turned back to face him once more. “For what?”
One shoulder lifted in a tiny shrug. Lord, he was coming to adore those shrugs. “For all of it. For being so difficult. For challenging you, and provoking you, and sending you inappropriate, unwanted notes, and for angering you and frustrating you and making this all so . . . difficult.” She met his gaze, and he saw the honesty and contrition in her enormous blue eyes.
She shook her head once, before continuing. “I did not know, Simon . . . I did not know that you had such reason to be so concerned for propriety and reputation. Had I known . . .” She trailed off, looking over his shoulder at the bonfire, as though looking at him might be too painful. And then she whispered, “Had I known, I never would have made the silly challenge. I never would have pushed you so far.”
The words were so soft, if the breeze had been blowing in another direction, he would not have heard them. Would not have heard the sadness in them.
“I am sorry.”
They were at the far end of the green now, where the line of stalls ended, and Simon did not think twice about pulling her farther into the darkness, around the last booth and into a cluster of trees in the corner of the square.
“I thought we agreed that tonight was for simplicity,” he said, the words soft in the privacy of the space—the trees giving them cover of darkness, the flickering light and sounds of the bonfire far enough away that everything seemed like a dream.
As though they really had taken a magic potion.
As though tonight was different.
He felt rather than saw her shake her head. “But it’s not, really, is it? You are still a duke, and I . . . well, I am who I am.”
“No, Juliana,” he whispered, stepping closer, lifting a hand to cup her chin and tilt her face toward him. “Not tonight.”
He wished he could see her face.
“Yes, even tonight. Not even magic can unmake us, Simon. We are too well formed.” Her voice wrapped around him, filled with emotion, making him ache. “I just want you to know . . . I want you to know that I understand. And that if I could return to that night when I issued my challenge, I would take it all back.”
He didn’t want her to take it back.
“I wish I could go back and choose a different carriage.”
Irrational jealousy flared at the idea of this alternate reality, where another man had found her on the floor of his carriage.
She was his.
The wave of possessiveness was unsettling, and he released her as he attempted to control it.
She misunderstood his movement and stepped back, putting distance between them. He felt the loss of her keenly. “It is two weeks today, did you know that?”
He had not thought of the bargain in days. Not since he’d left for Yorkshire. He did a quick calculation of time. “Two weeks tonight. Yes.”
And you have kept your promise to show me passion.
He did not say the words. Did not have a chance to.
“I have not brought you to your knees.”
She’d done worse. It felt like she’d ripped his heart from his chest.
“Somewhere, my plan went wrong,” she said, her voice so soft he could barely hear it in the darkness. “Because instead of your discovering that passion is everything, I discovered that passion is nothing without love.”
What was she saying?
Was it possible she . . .
He reached for her, his fingers brushing her arms as she pulled away, retreating farther into the darkness. “What does that mean?”
A little, humorless laugh sounded, and he wanted desperately to see her face.
“Juliana?” He could barely make out her silhouette in the darkness.
“Don’t you see, Simon?” There was a tremor in her voice, and he hated it. “I love you.”
It was not until he heard the words on her tongue, in her beautiful, lyric accent, that he realized how very much he had wanted her to say them. She loved him. The thought washed over him, pleasure and pain, and all he could think was that he would die if she wasn’t in his arms.
He wanted nothing more than to hold her.
He did not know what would come after that, but it was a beginning.
She loved him.
Her name on his lips, he moved toward her, certain that for this moment—this evening—she was his.
He pulled her into his arms, and she struggled against his grip. “No. Let me go.”
“Say it again,” he said; he’d never wanted anything so much. He had no right to it. But he wanted it anyway.
“No.” He heard the regret in her tone. “I should not have said it to begin with.”
He smiled. He couldn’t help it. “Obstinate female.” He pulled her closer, one hand following the delicate curve of her throat, tilting her face toward his. “Say it again.”
“No.”
He kissed her, taking her lips with strength and purpose, and she yielded instantly to him. He groaned at her sweetness—the taste of wine and spice on her lips—but pulled back before he lost himself in her. “Say it again.”
She gave a little huff of displeasure. “I love you.”
He did not care that she sounded tortured. The words sent fire blazing through him. “With feeling, Siren.”
She hesitated, and he thought she might pull away before she seemed to give herself up to the moment, her hands on his arms, stroking up to the nape of his neck, fingers in his curls, stroking in that way that set him aflame. Her mouth was a hairsbreadth from his, and when she spoke, her voice was low and soft and perfect.
“Ti amo.”
And as she said the words in her native tongue, he heard the truth. And it slew him. In that moment, he would have given her anything she asked for . . . as long as she never stopped loving him.
“Kiss me again,” she whispered.
The request was unnecessary; his lips were already on hers.
Again and again he took her mouth, searching for the perfect angle, molding her against him and stroking deep in long, slow kisses that threatened his strength and his sanity. They kissed as though they had an eternity, long and languid, and she matched him move for move, rough when he was rough, gentle when he gentled.
She was perfect.
They were perfectly matched.
“Juliana,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice as he paused between kisses. “God, you are beautiful.”
She laughed, and the sound went straight to his core. “It is dark. You cannot see.”
His hands stroked down her body, beautifully rounded in all the proper places, cupping her tightly to him until they both gasped at the sensation. “But I can feel,” he whispered against her lips, and they kissed again, all soft lips and tangled tongues.
When she pulled back, and stroked along his bottom lip with her silken tongue, sending a lance of desire straight through him, he groaned and cupped one of her full, high breasts, pinching its pebbled tip through the layers of her clothing. She gasped, and the sound was a siren’s call, begging him to strip her bare and cover her with his mouth and body.
He wanted to lay her down upon the grassy floor of this little heaven and make love to her until neither of them remembered their names.
No.
They were in a public square.
He had to stop.
She deserved better.
They had to stop.
Before he ruined her.
He pulled away, ending the kiss. “Wait.” They were both breathing heavily, the little gasping rhythm of her breath making him ache with need. He released her and stepped back, his entire body protesting. “We must stop.”
“Why?” The simple, pleading question nearly did him in. He deserved a medal for exercising such restraint.
God, he wanted her.
And it was becoming impossible to be near her without seriously threatening her reputation.
Threatening her reputation?
Her reputation would be shredded if anyone found them.
“Simon . . .” she said, and he hated the calm in her tone. “This is all we have. One evening.”
One evening.
It had sounded so simple an hour ago, when they were laughing and teasing and pretending to be other than who they were.
But now, as he stood in the darkness with her, he didn’t want to be someone else. He wanted to be him. And he wanted her to be her. And he wanted it to be enough.
But it wasn’t.
Neither was one evening.
He could not be near her any longer. Not without taking what he wanted. Not without ruining her.
And he would not ruin her.
So he said the only thing he could think to say, grateful for the darkness that kept her from seeing the truth in his eyes. That with a single word, she could have him on his knees, begging for her.
“The evening is over.”
She froze, and he hated himself.
Hated himself even more when she turned and fled.