The walk or trot will do.
Delicate ladies never gallop.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
The Fashionable Hour comes earlier and earlier . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
The next morning, the Duke of Leighton rose with the sun.
He washed, dressed in crisp linen and smooth buckskin, pulled on his riding boots, tied his cravat, and called for his mount.
In less than a quarter of an hour, he crossed the great foyer of his town house, accepting a pair of riding gloves and a crop from Boggs, his ever-prepared butler, and exited the house.
Breathing in the morning air, crisp with the scent of autumn, the duke lifted himself into the saddle, just as he had every morning since the day he assumed the dukedom, fifteen years earlier.
In town or in the country, rain or shine, cold or heat, the ritual was sacrosanct.
Hyde Park was virtually empty in the hour just after dawn—few were interested in riding without the chance of being seen, and even fewer were interested in leaving their homes at such an early hour. This was precisely why Leighton so enjoyed his morning rides—the quiet punctuated only by hoofbeats, by the sound of his horse’s breath mingled with his own as they cantered through the long, deserted paths that only hours later would be packed with those still in town, eager to feed on the latest gossip.
The ton traded on information, and Hyde Park on a beautiful day was the ideal place for the exchange of such a commodity.
It was only a matter of time until his family was made the commodity of the day.
Leighton leaned into his horse, driving the animal forward, faster, as though he could outrun the tattle.
When they heard about his sister, the gossips would swarm, and his family would be left with little to protect their name and reputation. The Dukes of Leighton went back eleven generations. They had fought alongside William the Conqueror. And those who held the title and the venerable position so far above the rest of society were raised with one unimpeachable rule: Let nothing besmirch the name.
For eleven generations, that rule had gone unchallenged.
Until now.
Over the last several months, Leighton had done all he could to ensure that his character was untainted. He had dismissed his mistress, thrown himself into his work in Parliament, and attended scores of functions hosted by those who held sway over the ton’s perception of character. He had danced reels. Taken tea. Shown himself at Almack’s. Called on the most respected families of the aristocracy.
Spread a reasonable and accepted rumor that his sister was in the country, for the summer. And then for autumn. And, soon enough, for the winter.
But it was not enough. Nothing would be.
And that knowledge—the keen understanding that he could never entirely protect his family from the natural course of events—threatened his serenity.
There was only one thing left.
An unimpeachable, proper wife. A future darling of the ton.
He was scheduled to meet with Lady Penelope’s father that day. The Marquess of Needham and Dolby had approached Leighton the prior evening and suggested they meet “to discuss the future.” Leighton had seen no reason to wait, as the faster he had the marquess’s agreement that a match would be suitable, the faster he would be prepared to face the tongues that could begin wagging at any moment.
A half smile played across his lips. The meeting was mere formality. The marquess had come barely short of proposing to Leighton himself.
It would not have been the first proposal he received that evening.
Nor the most tempting.
He sat up straight in his saddle, reining in the horse, regaining control once more. A vision flashed, Juliana facing him like a warrior on the balcony of Weston House—tossing out her challenge as though it was nothing more than a game. Let me show you that not even a frigid duke can live without heat.
The words echoed around him in her lilting Italian accent, as though she were there, whispering in his ear once more. Heat.
He closed his eyes against the thought, giving the horse rein again, as though the biting wind at his cheeks would combat the word and its effect upon him.
She’d baited him. And he’d been so irate at the arrogance in her tone—at her certainty that every tenet upon which his life was built was laughable—that he’d wanted nothing more in that moment than to prove her wrong. He’d wanted to prove her insistence that his world contained nothing of value was as ridiculous as her silly dare.
So he’d given her two weeks.
It had not been an arbitrary length of time. He would give her two weeks to try her best with him, and he would show her at the end of the time, that reputation ruled the day. He would send the announcement of his impending nuptials to the Times, and Juliana would learn that passion was a tempting . . . and ultimately unfulfilling path.
If he hadn’t accepted her ridiculous challenge, she would have no doubt found someone else to needle into her plans—someone with less of a debt to Ralston and less of an interest in keeping her from ruin.
He’d done her a favor, really.
Let her do her worst.
Please.
The wicked word flashed, and with it a vision of Juliana as temptress. Her long, naked limbs tangled in his linen sheets, her hair spread like satin across his pillow, her eyes, the color of Ceylon sapphires, promising him the world as her full lips curved, and she whispered his name, reaching for him.
For a moment, he allowed himself the fantasy—all it would ever be—imagining what it would be like to ease her down, to lie across her long, lush body and bury himself in her hair, in her skin, in the hot, welcome core of her and give himself up to the passion she held so dear.
It would be paradise.
He’d wanted her from the first moment he’d seen her, young and fresh and so very different than the porcelain dolls who were paraded before him by mothers who reeked of desperation.
And for a fleeting moment, he’d thought he might be able to have her. He’d thought she was an exotic, foreign jewel, precisely the kind of wife that would so well match the Duke of Leighton.
Until he’d realized her true identity and the fact that she was entirely lacking in the pedigree required of his duchess.
Even then, he’d considered making her his. But he did not think that Ralston would take well to his sister’s becoming mistress to any duke, much less a duke he took particular pleasure in disliking.
The path of his thoughts was interrupted—blessedly—by the thunder of another set of hoofbeats. Leighton eased back in his saddle, slowing once more and looking across the meadow to see a horse and rider in full gallop, coming toward him at a reckless pace, even for a rider with such obvious skill. He paused, impressed by the synchronized movement of master and beast. His eyes tracked the long, graceful legs and pistoning muscles of the black, then turned to the form of the rider, at one with his horse, leaning low over the creature’s neck, whispering his encouragement.
Simon made to meet the rider’s gaze, to nod his appreciation, one master horseman to another. And froze.
The eyes he met were a brilliant blue, sparkling with a mix of defiance and satisfaction.
Surely he had conjured her up.
For there was absolutely no possible way that Juliana Fiori was here, in Hyde Park, at dawn, dressed in men’s clothing, riding a horse at breakneck speed, as though she were on the track at Ascot.
Without thinking, he brought his mount to a stop, unable to do anything but watch as she charged toward him, either unaware of or uninterested in the disbelief and fury surging within him, the emotions waging powerful, unsettling war for primary position in his mind.
She was upon him then, stopping so quickly that he knew immediately that this was not the first time she had ridden her mount so hard or so fast or so well. He watched, speechless, as she peeled off one black glove and stroked the long column of the horse’s neck, whispering words of encouragement in soft, breathless Italian to the massive animal as it leaned into her touch. She curved her long fingers into the beast’s pelt, rewarding it with a deep scratch.
Only then, once the horse had been properly praised, did she turn to him, as though this was a perfectly normal, entirely appropriate meeting. “Your Grace. Good morning.”
“Are you a madwoman?” The words were harsh and graveled, their sound foreign to his own ears.
“I’ve decided that if London . . . and you . . . are so convinced of my questionable character, there is no reason to worry so much about it, is there?” She waved a hand in the air as though she were discussing the possibility of being caught in the rain. “Lucrezia has not had such a run since we arrived. And she adored it . . . did you not, carina?” She leaned low again, murmuring to the horse, which preened at the loving words of her mistress and snorted her pleasure at being so well praised.
Not that he could blame the beast.
He shook off the thought. “What are you doing here? Do you have any idea what might happen if you were caught? What are you wearing? What would possess you to . . .”
“Which of those questions would you like me to answer first?”
“Do not test me.”
She was not intimidated. “I already told you. We are out for a ride. You know as well as I that there is little risk of our being seen at this hour. The sun is barely awake itself. And as for how I am dressed . . . don’t you think it better that I dress as a gentleman? That way, if someone were to see me, they would think nothing of it. Far less than they would if I were out in a riding habit. That, and it’s much less fun to ride sidesaddle, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
She slid the hand she had bared down the long length of her thigh, underscoring her attire, and he could not help but track the movement, taking in the shapely curve of her leg, tucked tightly against the flank of the horse. Tempting him.
“Can’t you, Your Grace?”
He snapped his gaze up to meet hers, recognizing the smug amusement there. He did not like it. “Can’t I what?”
“Can’t you imagine that it’s less fun to ride sidesaddle? So proper. So . . . traditional.”
Familiar irritation flared and with it, sanity. He took a long look around them, checking the wide-open expanse of meadow for other riders. It was empty. Thank God. “What would possess you to take such a risk?”
She smiled then, slowly, with the triumph of a cat whiskers-first in a bowl of cream. “Because it feels wonderful. Why else?”
The words were a blow to the head, soft and sensual and utterly confident.
And entirely unexpected.
“You should not say such things.”
Her brows knitted together. “Why not?”
“It is inappropriate.” He knew the words were asinine even as he spoke them.
She gave a long-suffering sigh. “We’re rather past that, are we not?” When he did not reply, she pressed on, “Come now, Your Grace, you are not here on your horse, the sky still streaked with night, because you find riding merely agreeable. You are here because you agree that it feels wonderful.” He pressed his lips together in a thin line, and she gave a knowing little laugh that sent a shiver of awareness through him. She pulled on her glove, and he watched the movement—transfixed by the precise way she fitted the leather to the delicate web of her fingers. “You may deny it, but I saw it.”
He could not resist. “Saw what?”
“Envy.” She pointed a long finger at him in a gesture he should have found insolent. “Before you knew it was me on this horse . . . you wanted to be me. You wanted to give your horse full rein and ride . . . with passion.” With a flick of the reins, she pointed her horse toward the wide expanse of meadow, empty and waiting.
He watched her closely, unable to look away from her, from the way she fairly shimmered with energy and power.
He knew what was coming.
He was ready for it.
“I’ll race you to the Serpentine.” The words were a soft lilt of Italian, left hanging in the air behind her as she was already moving. Within seconds, she was at a full gallop.
Without thinking, he was after her.
His mount was faster, stronger, but Simon kept the creature in check, watching Juliana. She rode like a master, moving with her horse, leaning low over the mare’s neck. He could not hear, but he knew she was talking to the beast, giving her soft words of encouragement, of praise . . . gifting her with freedom to run as fast as she wished.
From his position two lengths behind, his eyes traced Juliana’s long, straight spine, the full curve of her backside, the way her thighs clenched and released, giving silent, irresistible commands to the horse beneath her.
Desire hit him hard and intense.
He rejected it almost instantly.
It was not her. It was the situation.
And then she looked back over her shoulder, her blue eyes glittering when she confirmed that he had followed her. That he was behind her. She laughed, the sound traveling on the biting wind and the early-morning sunshine, wrapping around him as she returned her attention to the race.
He gave his horse full rein, relinquishing control to the beast.
He passed her in seconds, beginning the wide arc that followed along a densely wooded area of the Park, leading down through the meadow to the curve of the Serpentine Lake. He gave himself up to the movement—to the way that the world tipped and slid away, leaving nothing but man and steed.
She was right.
It felt wonderful.
He looked back, unable to stop himself from looking for her, several lengths behind, and watched as she peeled off, guiding her mount off the path he had chosen, barely slowing down as she disappeared into the wooded thicket beyond.
Where in damnation was she headed?
He hauled up on the reins, his horse lifting off its front legs to follow the command, turning nearly in midair. And then he was after her, charging into the woods seconds behind her.
The morning sun had not reached beyond the trees, but the lack of light did not stop Simon from riding hard down the dimly lit path that had been barely visible from the meadow. Emotion rose in his throat, part fury, part fear, as the path twisted and turned, teasing him with glimpses of Juliana ahead.
He followed a particularly sharp turn and paused at the top of a long, shadowed straightaway, where she was urging her mount on, toward an enormous felled tree that blocked the path.
With terrifying clarity, he saw her purpose. She was going to jump it.
He called her name in a harsh shout, but she did not slow, did not turn back.
Of course she didn’t.
His heart stopped as horse and rider took to the air in perfect form, clearing the barrier with feet to spare. They landed and tore around a corner on the far side of the tree, and Simon swore, vivid and angry, and leaned into his mount, desperate to get to her.
Someone needed to take the girl in hand.
He cleared the tree trunk without concern, wondering how long she would keep him on this chase, each long stride of the horse beneath him making him more and more irate.
Coming around the turn, he pulled up hard on the reins.
There, in the middle of the path, was Juliana’s mare, calm and collected.
And riderless.
He leapt down from his horse before the animal had come to a full stop, calling her name once into the still morning air before he saw her, leaning against a tree to one side of the path, hands on her knees as she caught her breath, cheeks red with exertion and cold, eyes bright with excitement and something he did not have the patience to identify.
He stormed toward her. “You reckless female!” he thundered. “You could have killed yourself!”
She did not flinch in the face of his anger; instead, she smiled. “Nonsense. Lucrezia has leapt much higher, much more treacherous obstacles.”
He stopped mere feet from her, fists clenched. “I don’t care if she’s the devil’s own steed. You were asking to be hurt.”
She uncrossed her arms, spreading them wide. “But I am unharmed.”
The words did nothing to settle him. Instead, they made him more irritated. “I can see that.”
One side of her mouth tilted up in an expression many would have found endearing. He found it annoying. “I am more than unharmed. I am quite exhilarated. Did I not tell you we had twelve lives?”
“You cannot survive twelve scandals, though, and you are well on your way. Anyone could have found you.” He could hear the peevishness in his tone. He hated himself for it.
She laughed, the sound bright in the shadowed grove. “It’s been two minutes.”
“If I hadn’t followed you, you might have been set upon by thieves.”
“This early?”
“It might be late for them.”
She shook her head slowly, taking a step toward him. “But you did follow me.”
“But you did not know I would.” He did not know why it mattered. But it did.
She stepped closer, cautiously, as though he were a wild animal.
He felt like an animal. Out of control.
Simon took a deep breath and was inundated with her scent.
“Of course you were going to follow me.”
“Why would you think that?”
She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Because you wanted to.”
She was close enough to touch, and his fingers flexed at his side, itching to reach for her, to pull her to him and prove her right. “You’re wrong. I followed you to keep you from getting into more trouble.” She was looking up at him with her bright eyes and her full lips, curved in a small smile that promised endless secrets. “I followed you because your impulsiveness is a danger to yourself and others.”
“You are sure?”
The entire conversation was getting away from him. “Of course I am,” he said, casting about for proof. “I haven’t time for your little games, Miss Fiori. I’m to meet with Lady Penelope’s father today.”
Her gaze flickered away for the briefest of instants before returning to his. “You’d best be off, then. You would not want to miss such an important appointment.”
He read the dare in her eyes.
Go.
He wanted to.
He was going to.
One strand of long black hair had come loose from her cap, and he reached for it instinctively. He should have pushed it back from her face—should not have touched it to begin with—but once he had it in his grasp, he could not stop himself from wrapping it once, twice around his fist, watching it cut a swath across the soft leather of his riding glove, wishing he could feel the silken strand against his skin.
Her breath quickened, and his gaze fell to the rise and fall of her chest beneath her coat. The men’s clothing should have renewed his fury, but instead it sent a powerful rush of desire through him. A mere handful of buttons kept her from him—buttons that could easily be dispatched, leaving her in nothing but the linen of her shirt, which could be freed from breeches, providing access to soft female skin beyond.
His gaze returned to hers, and that’s when he saw it. Gone were the bold challenge and the smug satisfaction, replaced with something raw and powerful, immediately identifiable.
Desire.
Suddenly, he saw how he could regain control of the moment. Of himself.
“I think you wanted me to follow you.”
“I—” Her voice caught, and she stopped. He felt the heady triumph of a hunter who had spied his first prey. “I did not care.”
“Liar.” The word was whispered, low and dark in the heavy morning air. He tugged on the lock of hair, pulling her toward him, until mere inches separated them.
Her mouth opened on a quick intake of breath, stealing his attention.
And when he saw those wide lush lips barely parted, begging for him, he did not resist. He did not even try.
She tasted like spring.
The thought exploded through him as he settled his lips on hers, lifting his hands to cup her cheeks, tilting her toward him, affording him better access to her. He could have sworn she gasped his name . . . the sound soft and breathy and intoxicating as hell. He pulled her more tightly against him, pressing her to him. She came willingly, moving against him as though she knew what he wanted before he did.
And perhaps she did.
He ran his tongue along her full, bottom lip, and when she gasped at the sensation, he did not wait, taking her mouth again, stroking deep, thinking of nothing but her. And then she was kissing him back, matching his movements, and he was lost in the feel of her—her hands moving with torturous slowness along his arms until they finally, finally reached his neck, her fingers threading into his hair, the softness of her lips, and the maddening, magnificent little sounds she made at the back of her throat as he claimed her.
And it was a claiming—primitive and wicked.
She pressed closer to him, the swell of her breasts pressing high on his chest, and pleasure flared. He deepened the kiss, running his hands down her back to pull her against him where he wanted her most. The breeches afforded her a freedom of movement that no skirts ever could have, and he palmed one long lovely thigh, hitching her leg up until she cradled the throbbing length of him at her warm core.
He broke the kiss on a soft groan as she rocked against him in a rhythm that set him aflame. “You are a sorceress.” In that moment, he was an innocent lad chasing after his first bit of skirt, desire and excitement and something far more base colliding deep within in a tumult of sensation.
He wanted her laid bare right here, on the dirt path at the center of Hyde Park, and he did not care who saw them.
He took the soft lobe of her ear between his teeth, worrying the flesh there until she called out high and clear, “Simon!”
The sound of his given name punctuating the quiet dawn brought him back to reality. He pulled back, dropping her leg as though it burned. He stepped away, breathing heavily, watching as confusion chased desire from her countenance.
She stumbled at the instant loss of him, unable to bear her own weight with so little warning. He reached out to catch her, to steady her.
The moment she regained her footing, she pulled her arm from his and took a long step backward. Her gaze shuttered, the emotion there cooling, and he wanted to kiss her again, to bring the desire back.
She turned away from him before he could act on the desire, heading for her mount, still at the center of the pathway. He watched, unmoving, as she lifted herself up into the saddle with practiced ease. She looked down at him from above with all the grace of a queen.
He should apologize.
He had mauled her in the middle of Hyde Park. If someone had come upon them—
She stopped the thought with her words. “It seems you are not so immune to passion as you think, Your Grace.”
And with a cool flick of her wrist she was off like a shot, her horse thundering up the path from which they had come.
He watched as she disappeared, listening for the break in the hoofbeats as she took the felled tree once more . . .
Hoping the fleeting silence would drown out the echo of his title on her lips.