House parties are rife with temptation.
The exquisite lady locks her door.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
We blame an epidemic of love matches for the shocking lack of broken engagements this season . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823
Several hours later, all of Townsend Park was asleep, but Juliana paced the perimeter of her bedchamber, furious.
Furious with herself for confessing her feelings to Simon.
Furious with him for refusing her, for pushing her away.
One moment they had been jesting about magic potions and an evening of simplicity, and the next, she had confessed her love and was in his arms. And it was wonderful, right up until the moment when he had turned her away.
What a fool she had been, telling him that she loved him.
It did not matter that it was true.
She stopped at the foot of the bed, eyes closed in abject mortification.
What had she been thinking?
She clearly hadn’t been thinking.
Or perhaps she had been thinking that it might change something.
She sat on the end of the bed with a sigh, then covered her face in both hands, letting the humiliation course through her until it gave way to sadness.
She loved him.
She knew she could not have him. She knew that he could not turn his back on his family and his title and his fiancée, but perhaps, in some quiet, dark corner of her mind, she’d hoped that saying the words would unlock some secret world where her love was enough.
Enough to overcome the need for propriety and reputation.
Enough for him.
And then she’d said it. Aloud. And as the words echoed around the little collection of trees, she’d wished, instantly, that she could take them back. That she could make them unsaid. Because now that she had confessed her love, it made everything worse.
Because speaking them aloud had made them so much more real.
She loved him.
Before tonight, she had loved the proper, arrogant, unmoving Simon, with his penchant for right and his calm, cool façade. And she had loved to move him, to crack that façade and unleash the heated, passionate Simon who could not stop himself from kissing her, from touching her, from speaking to her in his dark, wicked way.
But tonight, she had fallen in love with the rest of him—the secret, smiling, teasing Simon who lurked inside the Duke of Leighton.
And she wanted him for herself.
Except, he would never be hers. She was a collection of flaws that this culture would never accept in his wife—that he would never accept—the Italian, Catholic daughter of a fallen marchioness who continued to stir up scandal. And as long as he was the Duke of Leighton, their match was never to be made. They were destined for others.
Well, he was destined for another.
She stilled at the thought, and suddenly, with stunning clarity, she knew what came next. She stood, moving to the dressing screen in the corner.
She would give him up for one night.
Tomorrow she would think about what came next—London, Italy, a life without Simon.
But tonight, she would allow herself this. One night, with him.
She pulled on a silk dressing gown, tying the sash around her waist and heading for the door to her chamber before she could rethink her actions.
Slipping out of the room, she crept down the edge of the dark hallway, one hand trailing along the wall, counting doors as she went. Two. Three. At the fourth, she paused, hand splayed flat on the mahogany, heart beating heavily in her chest.
If she proceeded, at long last, her actions would be as scandalous as society had always expected them to be. And she would likely pay.
But she would not regret.
Indeed, if she did not take her one night . . . she would regret it forever.
She took a deep breath and opened the door.
The only light in the room was from the fireplace, and it took Juliana a moment to see Simon, standing by the fire, tumbler of scotch in hand, dressed only in his boots and breeches and pristine white shirtsleeves.
He spun toward the door as she closed it firmly behind her, the shock on his face quickly replaced with something more dangerous. “What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping toward her before stopping midstride, as though he had hit an invisible wall.
She took a deep breath. “The night is not over, Simon. You owe me the rest.”
He closed his eyes, and she thought he might be asking for patience. “Tell me you are not in this room with me. Tell me you are not here wearing nothing but your nightclothes.”
He opened his eyes, and his gaze found her, warm and liquid, like honey. It seared through her, reminding her of how much she loved his heat, his touch, his kiss . . . him.
She could not live the rest of her life without this moment . . . this night . . . without knowing what it was like to be his.
It was now or never. And there was no time for hesitation.
She put her hands to the sash of her silk robe and undid it in quick, economical movements, before he could stop her. Before she could stop herself.
One night.
Calling the siren in her, she said, “I am not wearing nightclothes, Simon.”
She let the silk drop to her feet in a lush sapphire pool.
As Simon took in her stunning, bare body, all long and lush and perfectly beautiful, he was not thinking that she was a staggering beauty, although she absolutely was.
He was also not thinking that he should resist her—that he should pack her back into the silk bit of nothing that she had discarded and return her to her bedchamber—although he absolutely should have done so.
Nor was he thinking that he should forget this had ever happened, because in all honesty, he knew an exercise in futility when faced with one. And he would never, ever forget this moment.
The moment when he realized that she was going to be his.
The truth of the words was almost unbearable as he watched her facing him—bold and brave and perfect, and willing him to take what she offered.
She was here. And she was naked.
And she loved him.
He had neither the will nor the strength to turn her away—not when he wanted her so much.
There wasn’t a man on earth who could resist her.
And he was through trying.
Everything would change.
The words whispered through his mind, and he was not sure if they were a warning or a promise. But he no longer cared.
She stood proud and still, facing him, her beautiful skin gleaming in the flickering golden light, casting wicked, enticing shadows across her. She had taken down her hair, and it cocooned her, all ebony curls wrapping about her shoulders and high, firm breasts as though she were a classical painting and not real at all.
Her hands were by her side, fingers clenched as if she were consciously trying not to cover the perfect, dark triangle that hid her most tempting secrets. He nearly groaned at the perfection of her.
She was a sacrificial offering at the temple of his sanity.
She took a deep breath, letting it out on a long, shaky sigh, and he noticed her trembling—the soft skin of her lush, curving belly, the hesitant rise and fall of her breasts, the tremor in her throat.
She was nervous.
He dropped the glass in his hand to the floor, not caring where it landed or what it ruined—caring only about reaching her.
And then he was holding her, lifting her against him, and she had wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and plunged her fingers into his hair, and his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was rough and searing, and she matched his need; where he went, she followed, opening for him, giving him everything for which he asked with a series of little, wanton sighs that set him aflame.
She was his.
He tore his lips from her, giving her scant space to breathe. “If you stay . . . you give yourself to me.”
She had to understand that. Had to make her own decision.
She nodded, eyes heavy with desire. “Yes. I am yours.”
He shook his head, knowing he had seconds before his passion took over, and they were both lost. “Leave now if you have any doubts.”
There was a pause, and the need to possess her coursed through him, thick and unforgiving and earth-shattering. Her gaze cleared, blue and beautiful. “I have no doubts, Simon.” She leaned close, her lips barely touching his, threatening to drive him mad. “Show me everything.”
His control snapped, and he no longer cared. He was overwhelmed with a primitive desire as he kissed her again and again, his hands running over her warm, endlessly smooth skin, pressing her to him, clasping her full, round bottom in his hands.
He pulled away enough to speak. “You are mine,” he said, and he heard the lack of control in the words. Didn’t care. What he felt for her in that moment was utterly unrefined. “Mine,” he repeated, refusing to let her have the kiss she was reaching for until she looked into his eyes. “Mine.”
“Yes,” she said, rocking into him, her heat against the length of him making him wild. “I am yours.”
He rewarded her with another kiss.
God, he loved kissing her. Loved her taste, her enthusiasm, the way she set him on fire with the stroke of her tongue. When he pulled back just briefly to meet her eyes again—stunningly blue with her desire—she shook her head almost instantly. “I am yours,” she repeated, taking his bottom lip between her teeth and pulling him back into the kiss. He groaned at the roughness, punctuated by the soft, unbearably wanton stroke of her tongue over the spot where her teeth had been.
She was his siren. Had been from the beginning.
Gone was the refined duke who had turned her away in the town square—who had sent her back to her family with all the gentlemanly restraint befitting his position. In his place was a mere man—flesh and blood and starving.
And she was his banquet.
He carried her to the bed, knowing that everything was about to change and failing to care. He followed her down to the crisp linen sheets, pressing between her long, warm thighs and taking her mouth again and again, whispering to her between kisses in both English and Italian.
“My siren . . . carina . . . so soft . . . so beautiful . . . che bella . . . che bellissima.”
She writhed beneath him, pressing and rocking against him as her hands yanked on the linen of his shirt, pulling the garment up until she had access to bare skin. And then her fingers were on him, leaving trails of fire along his back, and he thought he might die if he could not get closer to her. He lifted off her, hissing his pleasure as the movement pressed him—hard and thick—against the softest, warmest part of her.
Looking down at her, he took in her wide, kiss-stung lips, her flushed cheeks, and her enormous blue eyes, filled with desire. Her hands traced around to his stomach and pushed up under the shirt, running over his chest until one wayward thumb found a nipple and he gasped.
Wicked knowledge flashed in her gaze, and she did it again once, twice, before he whispered, “You are killing me,” and leaned down to take her mouth once more.
When he lifted his head again, she said, “Take it off. I want to be closer. As close as possible.” And he thought he would drown in the heat of the words.
The shirt was gone instantly, and he took her mouth again, stroking deep before he rolled off her to give himself access to her lush body. She cried out at the loss of him, reaching for him before he captured her hands and pulled them over her head, holding them easily in one of his. “No. You are mine,” he said, his free hand trailing down to stroke the tip of one beautiful breast, teasing until it was hard and begging for his mouth. “You came to me,” he whispered at her ear, tonguing the soft lobe there. “Why, Siren?”
“I—” she began, stopping when he rolled the tip of one breast between his fingers.
“Why?” he repeated, desperate to hear her answer.
“I wanted the night . . .” she gasped.
“Why?” He trailed his lips down her throat, dipped his tongue into the hollow at its base.
“I—” She stopped as he pressed soft kisses to the skin of her breast, leaving a trail as he headed toward the aching tip. “Simon . . .” the whisper was a plea. God, he loved the sound of his name on her lips. He blew one long stream of air over the nipple, reveling in the tightening of the skin and her gasp. “Please . . .”
“Why did you come to me?”
Say it, he willed, knowing it was not his place. Knowing he did not deserve it.
“I love you.”
A thrill coursed through him at the words, so simple. So honest. He took the straining tip between his lips, rewarding her with long pulls at the sweet flesh there. Loving the way she writhed against him, the way she cried out when he ran his tongue and teeth over her sensitive flesh, the way her hands twisted so that her fingers could thread through his.
When he lifted his head, they were both breathing heavily, and he was desperate to touch her everywhere.
To taste her everywhere.
“Again.”
“I love you.”
He released her hands, sliding down her body, placing warm kisses along her breasts and stomach and the soft crease where her thigh and hip met and the scent of her was unbearably perfect.
He was addicted to her softness, to the feel of her, to the way she pressed against the sheets and rocked her hips against him. He had never wanted anything in his life the way he wanted her. Now.
And she was here.
And she was his.
Simon slid off the bed, kneeling beside it. She sat up, instantly. “Where are you—?” The question gave way to a little squeak when he pulled her closer to the edge of the bed, letting her legs hang over the side, and stroked up her smooth soft skin from ankle to knee. He watched his hands, large and brown, follow the curve of her legs, and could not resist palming her strong, lean calves and easing her legs apart.
“What are you—? Simon!” she gasped, and he leaned forward, insinuating his body between her thighs. Her hands flew to cover the place he was desperate to touch, and he nipped the edge of her jaw lightly with his teeth.
“Lie back, Siren.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. You can’t.”
“You can. And I shall.” He heard the gravel in his tone. Felt the desperate desire coursing through him. If she did not let him touch her soon . . . “You asked for everything,” he said, the words thick at her ear. “This is part of it.”
She pulled back, and if he had not been as hard and aching as he was, he would have laughed at the skepticism in his gaze. “I’ve never heard of this.”
“You gave yourself to me,” he said, pressing her thighs wider, sliding his hands higher, touching his tongue to the perfect arch of one of her cheeks. “This is what I want.” She caught her breath as his fingers reached her hands, shielding her from view. He stroked his fingertips down the skin of her hands, a light, barely there touch that they both felt acutely. He stroked again, up to one delicate wrist, then back down. “I think you want it, too.”
He moved back to her ear, loving her shyness, her uncertainty. Wanting to teach her to share her secrets. “You ache here, don’t you?” She nodded, barely, and a surge of masculine pleasure coursed through him. “I can take it away.”
She exhaled on a long, shaky breath, and the sound went straight to the hard, straining length of him. He gritted his teeth. No. This was for her. She would find her pleasure. He would give it to her, and take his from that.
“Simon,” she said, her accent thick, wrapping around the syllables of his name like a fist. “Please.”
“Lie back,” he whispered, pressing her to the bed with his kiss before trailing down to where he desperately wanted to be. He pressed a soft kiss on one of her knuckles. “Let me in.” When she did, revealing the folds of her sex, he groaned his pleasure. He spread her soft lips gently, and she lifted her hips toward him. She was so tender, so ready for him. Slick and wet and perfect.
He ran one finger down the center of her, listening to her breathing, to the little cries she made as he explored. He discovered her, pressing and stroking to the sound of her pleasure, then sliding one finger into the hot, wet core of her. She was so tight, she came off the edge of the bed at the sensation.
He looked up her body as she lifted herself off the bed and drank in the vision of her, her gorgeous black hair, eyes like sapphires gleaming with pleasure, full, pink lips barely open as she gasped for breath.
He had never wanted anything like he wanted her.
He moved his hand, loving the way her eyes closed, then opened in time to the movement. He leaned forward, blew a long stream of air directly on the center of her pleasure, and gloried in the little cry of passion that she could not keep from escaping.
He was going to die if he didn’t have his mouth on her soon.
He rubbed his thumb across the swollen, pulsing heart of her, and she gasped her answer, her shyness gone. “Kiss me.”
“As you wish,” he said, and settled his lips to her, holding her wide as he pressed his tongue to the place where his thumb had been, making love to her with slow, savoring strokes. She arched off the bed, plunging her fingers into his hair and holding him to her as she moved against his mouth. She was wine, and he was instantly obsessed with her taste, with learning the things that she loved, wanting only to give her pleasure. To drive her wild.
He did. Slow circles became gradually faster, tongue working in time to the flexing of her fingers in his hair, and then she lifted herself from the bed offering herself to him. He took her, holding her to him while she found her pleasure, masculine satisfaction rippling through him.
And when she shattered in his arms, he was there, holding her, stroking her, bringing her back to earth.
He lifted his head after the last ripple of pleasure coursed through her, and he moved to lie beside her, wanting to hold her, to keep her safe.
He kissed her neck, sucking gently at the delicate skin there until she sighed. He could pleasure her forever. He could lie abed and worship her for an eternity. He took a nipple into his mouth, worrying it until she whispered his name, then kissed her, sliding his hand between her thighs in an undeniable urge to brand her as his.
Her legs parted against the weight of his hand, and her fingers slid down his torso to the waistband of his breeches. “Simon,” she said, and the low, sated pleasure in her voice made him agonizingly hard. “Remove your pants.”
God, yes.
He closed his eyes against the thought. “Are you certain?” If he was naked with her, there would be no going back.
She nodded, her sapphire eyes dark with passion. “Very.”
She would have him. Again and again, for the rest of their days.
He kissed her again, slow and deep. “I could not deny you anything.”
And as the words echoed between them, he knew they were true. She was everything he had ever wanted. And he would do everything in his power to keep her in his world. Nothing else mattered.
Her hands worked inexpertly at the buttons of his breeches until he could not bear the fumbling pressure anymore, and he lifted himself off the bed to divest himself of pants and boots as quickly as possible. Returning to her, he groaned his pleasure as he settled between her silken thighs, desperate to be inside her.
“Wait,” she whispered, scooting backward, away from him. “I want to see.”
He narrowed his gaze on her and followed her across the bed. “Not now. Next time.”
He took hold of her legs and pulled her to him, rubbing himself against her until she sighed at the friction. “But . . . we only have one night. This is my only opportunity to see you.”
He froze at the words, his hands coming to her face, holding her firmly so he could look into her eyes. He saw the sadness there, the desperation, overwhelmed by passion.
This would not be one night. She had to know that.
He would never let her go.
Everything had changed.
“Juliana,” he whispered, low and dark, thrusting through her wetness so that the tip of him rubbed her most sensitive spot. He watched her eyes widen, then cloud with pleasure. “Don’t make me stop.”
He repeated the motion, and her lids lowered. “No. Don’t stop.”
He pressed himself to the entrance of her, easing just inside her tight, blazing sheath before he paused—the hardest thing he had ever done—and looked down at her. “Is this all right?”
She nodded once, taking her bottom lip between her teeth, and the movement sent a shiver of desire straight to the core of him. But he would not ruin her first taste of passion. He held himself there, still, reveling in her heat, wanting nothing more than to thrust to the hilt and bury himself within her.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
She shook her head. “You won’t.”
He reached between them, stroking the tender, sensitive core of her until she gasped her pleasure. “I will. But then I will do my best never to hurt you again.” He met her gaze before running his tongue across her bottom lip, and saying, “Look at me. I want to watch you.”
She nodded, and he rocked against her, easing farther and farther into her tight passage, trying to be gentle, watching pain and pleasure war within her as she adjusted to his smooth thrusts, each deeper than the last. He was soon buried to the hilt, and they were both breathing heavily.
She whispered, “You have the most beautiful eyes.”
Pleasure coursed through him at the unexpected compliment, and he kissed her long and slow. Pulling back, he smiled, rocking gently against her. “Impossible. They are nothing compared to yours.”
He was desperate to move. Desperate to take the release for which his body had been begging all night. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her jaw, and said, “Does it hurt, Siren?”
She shook her head, and when she spoke, he heard something wonderful in her tone. “No . . . it feels . . . Simon, I can feel you . . . everywhere.” She relaxed and pressed up to meet his movements. He hissed his pleasure. She ran her hands down his back to the curve of his buttocks and clasped him tightly to her. “Do that again. Harder.”
He groaned. She was going to kill him.
He began to move, deeper, faster, with more power, and she cried her pleasure in his ear, threatening his sanity. In moments, she was whispering his name, her hands tangled in his hair, moving in time to his deep, smooth thrusts. He had never been so ready to take his pleasure, but he would not let go without her. He wanted her with him when he threw himself over the edge.
They rocked together, sensation building, until they were both gasping for breath.
“Simon . . . it’s . . . I can’t stop it.”
“Neither can I,” he pulled out until he was almost gone from her, then returned, sinking into her heat. How had he ever thought he could resist her? “Look at me, love. I want to watch.”
She did, and her tumble into pleasure was his undoing. He followed her over the precipice with a force he had never before experienced; she was the center of his world—he wanted to stay in her arms, in this moment, in this night forever.
He collapsed into her arms and lay there for a long moment, breath coming in harsh bursts, before he realized that his weight must be crushing her. Turning, he pulled her to sprawl across him, all soft, glowing skin and silken hair. He could feel her breasts rising and falling against his chest, and he gritted his teeth against the instant awareness that coursed through him.
He wanted her again. Now.
He ignored the desire, instead running his fingers across her smooth, bare shoulders, reveling in the little tremor that pushed her closer to him, loving the feel of her naked against him.
As he held her, soft and warm in his arms, he did not want to think of the future. He wanted to savor her.
He wanted to savor the now.
It had been a mistake.
Even as she reveled in the feel of him beneath her, all firm muscles and warm skin, she knew that she had just made everything worse.
He had given her everything she had ever imagined—she had never felt so close, so connected, so desired.
She had never dreamed she would love him with such intensity.
Tomorrow she would leave him. And he would marry another.
And Juliana would live knowing that the man she loved would never be hers.
She shivered at the thought, pressing closer to him, as though she could fuse herself to him, as though she could stay the movement of time.
He stroked one warm hand down her spine, leaving a trail of fire, and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Are you cold?”
No.
It was easier to say yes than to tell the truth.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
He slid out from beneath her, pulling her up off the bed with him so he could turn down the sheets. He kissed her, full and lush, the caress blazing through her before he turned away to stoke the fire.
Feeling too vulnerable, she fetched her robe, pulling it on and knotting the sash before she turned back to watch his movements as he crouched before the fire, the muscles of his back rippling with the motion, his massive thighs gleaming in the orange glow—a god of fire.
When he stood, he looked to the bed. His brow furrowed when he discovered that she was gone, and he immediately sought her out, finding her in the shadows. He raised a hand, beckoning her to him, and she could not resist.
When she came to him, he lifted her into his arms, settling them both in a chair by the fire. He slipped one hand into the opening of her robe running it along her thigh as he pressed a kiss to the column of her neck. “I prefer you naked,” he said, and she wondered at this new, teasing Simon.
She ran her hand up his forearm to his wide, muscled shoulder. “I feel the same,” she confessed. “I thought you could not grow more handsome, but watching you in the firelight . . . you are Hephaestus, all muscle and flame.”
His eyes darkened at the comparison, and he pulled her to him, kissing her soundly before he tucked her to his chest, and said, “That makes you Aphrodite—an apt comparison.”
But Aphrodite and Hephaestus were married. The thought whispered through her mind. We have only one night.
No. She would not think on it.
“You are promoting me from siren to goddess, then?”
He chuckled, and she loved the feeling of the sound rumbling beneath her. He captured one of her hands, threading his fingers through hers and bringing it to his lips. “It would seem so, clever girl.”
“You see? I am more than just a walking scandal,” she teased, and immediately regretted the words. She had just affected the most serious scandal of her life. And he knew it. Perhaps he even thought she had done it on purpose—to cause scandal.
She hated the thought.
Hated that she had put it in his head.
She sat up on his lap, desperate to make sure that he did not think ill of her. “Simon . . . you know that I did not . . . this was not . . . I would never tell anyone that this . . . that tonight happened.” She winced at the words, utterly inarticulate. “You shan’t have to worry about another . . .”
He watched her, his amber eyes serious, and she wished she could take it all back—the words, the actions, the night. His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her hand once more. “No more talk of it.”
She hated that she had just become another thing for him to worry about. “I just . . . What I am attempting to say is that no one will ever know.”
He reached out and brushed a lock of her hair back from her cheek. “Juliana, I will know.”
Frustration flared. “Well, yes. Of course we will know. But I want you to also know that I will never ask anything of you. That I meant it when I proposed one night. One night only.”
Something flashed in his honeyed gaze, something that she could not identify. “We both should have known that one night would not be nearly enough.”
She stilled, the words coursing through her. He wanted more.
So did she.
But he was to be married.
Was he offering what she thought he was offering?
Could she take it?
If it was the only way she could have him . . . would it be enough?
It had to be.
She took a deep breath. “I could be your paramour.”
He went utterly still beneath her. “What did you say?”
“Your mistress.”
His hand clamped onto her thigh with immeasurable force. “Don’t say another word.”
She set her hands to his shoulders, leveraging herself up to face him. “Why? You once suggested I would make a fine mistress.”
He closed his eyes. “Juliana. Stop.”
She ignored him. “Would I not still make a worthy companion?”
“No.”
Pain flared. She was too much of a scandal even to rate as his mistress? “Why not?” She heard the begging in her tone. Hated herself for it.
“Because you deserve better!” he exploded, coming to his feet in a rush and sending her toppling from his lap. He grabbed her to him before she could fall to the floor, lifting her to face him. His hands were on her arms, as though he could shake her into understanding. “I won’t have you as my mistress. I wish I could go back and scrub you clean of the words. I wish I could go back and take a fist to myself for ever even suggesting it.”
The words coursed through her, and she ached for the promise that should come next. Love. Marriage. Family.
The things he had promised to another.
Things he had promised to another because he could not see a future with her.
And suddenly the words were not enough.
“Come to bed with me,” he whispered. “Let me sleep with you in my arms. We shall return you to your own chamber before the house awakes.”
The temptation was nearly undeniable. There was nothing in the world she wanted more than to sleep with him, the sound of his heart beneath her ear.
“I must leave, Simon.”
He reached for her, a smile playing across his lips. “Not yet. Stay a little while longer.”
She shook her head, taking a step back. “I cannot risk—”
I cannot risk any more of my heart.
She took a breath. Tried again. “I cannot risk being caught.”
He watched her carefully, his gaze boring into hers, and she willed him not to see the truth—that she was leaving him. For good, as the English liked to say.
But it did not feel good. It felt like torture.
He was still for a long time, as though considering his options, then he nodded once, firmly. “You are right. Tomorrow, I shall speak to Nick.”
“About what?”
“About our marriage.”
Her heart leapt into her throat. “Our marriage?”
He could not marry her. There was a litany of reasons why.
She was an Italian. A Catholic. Her parentage was questionable at best. Her mother was a disaster. Her father had been a simple merchant. The ton barely tolerated her.
He was already engaged to a darling of the Beau Monde.
But even as she thought the words, a thread of hope coiled within, unbidden. Was it possible? Could he choose her, after all? Could they marry? Could she have him, this man she loved until she ached? Could she have what she had come to envy in the couples around her, paired off like doves?
“Don’t look so sad,” he teased. “You’re finally getting your scandal.”
She froze, stepping back from his embrace.
Scandal.
That was what she was to him—the common, scandalous Italian who he married after one night in the country. And someday, when the news about Georgiana was out and he did not have a wife with a pristine reputation by his side, when his children were mocked for having a common mother, when he saw Lady Penelope dancing across some ballroom with a perfect husband, the belle of the ball, he would regret it.
She’d never been more. Never worthy of his companionship. Never a possibility for his wife. She’d never once been anything other than a scandalous distraction from his duty and responsibility. He was a duke, and she was a scandal.
Never his equal.
Never good enough.
And she’d believed it, too. How many times had she compared herself to her mother? How many times had she played into their expectations? Lived up to them? How often had she vied for his irritation and his passion instead of his admiration and respect because she had not believed the latter to be within her reach?
It was more than she could bear.
She loved him.
Sometimes, love was not enough.
His sister’s words echoed in her ears. “I cannot marry you, Simon.”
He smiled at first, before the meaning of her words registered. “What did you say?”
She took a deep breath and met his gaze, that rich, amber gaze that she had come to love so much. “I cannot marry you.”
“Why not?” There was confusion and disbelief in the words, then something close to anger.
“If tonight had not happened, would we even be discussing it?”
“I—” He stopped. Started again. “Tonight did happen, Juliana.”
“You’re engaged to another.”
“I shall end it,” he said simply, as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing to do.
“What of Lady Penelope? What of her reputation? And what of yours? And your plans to secure your family, your sister, your niece? What of your duty?”
He reached for her as she backed away. “Juliana, I compromised you. We shall marry.”
Not out of love. Not out of respect. Not out of admiration.
“Because this is the way things are done,” she whispered.
“Among other reasons, yes,” he said simply, as though it were obvious.
“I am not what you envisioned in a wife.” He stilled at the words, and she pressed on. “You’ve said it yourself. I am too reckless. Too impulsive. Too much of a scandal. Before tonight, you’d never even considered marrying me.”
“I proposed to you a week ago!” She heard the frustration in his tone as he spun away to fetch his dressing gown.
“Only after Gabriel discovered us in the stables. You proposed out of duty. Just as you do everything. You would have married me, but it would have been beneath you. Just as it would be now.”
He shoved his arms into the silk brocade and turned back to her, eyes dark. When he spoke, his voice was hard as steel. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?” she asked, gently. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
He did not reply.
“I’ll never be enough for you. Never good enough, never respectable enough, never proper enough—even if I tried, my past, my family, my blood would all make it impossible for us to be equal. What would they say? What would your mother say?”
“Hang them. Especially my mother.”
She stepped toward him, lifting her hand and touching his square jaw for a fleeting moment before he pulled away from her touch and stepped back, refusing to meet her gaze.
Tears welled as she considered his beautiful, stony countenance, knowing that this was the last time they would be together like this, alone and honest.
One of them, at least, was honest.
“You once accused me of never considering the consequences,” she said, willing him to understand. To see. “Of never thinking of what comes next.”
“What comes next is, we marry.”
She shook her head. “Now you are not considering the consequences. I shall always be your scandal, Simon. Never entirely worthy.”
“That is ridiculous. Of course you would be.” She was struck by how imperious he could sound in that moment as he stood before her clad in nothing but a dressing gown. So ducal, even now.
“No, I wouldn’t be. Not in your eyes. And there would come a day when I was not worthy in my own.” As she spoke the words, she was struck by the realization that she finally understood what it was she wanted from her life. From her future. “I deserve better. I deserve more.”
“You cannot do much better than me. I am a duke.” There was a slight tremor in his voice. Anger.
She brushed away a tear before it could spill over. “That may well be true, Simon. But if it is, it has nothing to do with your being a duke.”
He ignored the words, and they stood there for long moments before she started to leave the room, and he finally spoke. “This is not over, Juliana.”
“Yes, it is.”
She was proud of the strength in the words.
A strength she was not sure she had.