One never knows where ruffians might lurk.
Elegant ladies do not leave the house alone.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
Remarkable, is it not, the decisions that can be made over a still-smoking rifle?
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
The Marquess of Needham and Dolby took careful aim at a red grouse and pulled the trigger on his rifle. The report sounded loud and angry in the afternoon air.
“Damn. Missed it.”
Simon refrained from pointing out that the marquess had missed all five of the creatures at which he’d aimed since suggesting that they converse outside, “like men.”
The portly aristocrat took aim and fired once more, the sound sending a shiver of irritation through Simon. No one hunted in the afternoon. Certainly no one who was such a poor shot should be so interested in hunting in the afternoon.
“Blast it!”
Another miss. Simon had begun to fear for his own well-being. If the older man wanted to shoot up the gardens of his massive estate on the banks of the Thames, far be it from Simon to dissuade him of the activity, but he could not help but regret his proximity to such ineptitude.
Apparently, even the marquess had his limits. With a muttered curse, he passed the rifle off to a nearby footman and, hands clasped stoutly behind his back, started down a long, winding path away from the house. “All right, Leighton, we might as well get down to it. You want to marry my eldest.”
Bad shot or no, the marquess was no fool.
“I believe that such a match would benefit both our families,” he said, matching the older man’s stride.
“No doubt, no doubt.” They walked in silence for several moments before the marquess continued, “Penelope will make a fine duchess. She’s not horse-faced, and she knows her place. Won’t make unreasonable demands.”
They were the words that Simon wanted to hear. They underscored his selection of the lady for the role of his future wife.
So why did they so unsettle him?
The marquess continued. “A fine, sensible girl—ready to do her duty. Good English stock. Shouldn’t have any trouble breeding. Doesn’t have any illusions about marriage or the other fanciful things some girls think they deserve.”
Like passion.
A vision flashed, unheeded, unwelcome—Juliana Fiori, smirking around her words. Not even a frigid duke can live without heat.
Nonsense.
He stood by his statement from the night before—passion had no place in a good English marriage. And it seemed that Lady Penelope would agree.
Which made her the ideal candidate for his wife to be.
She was entirely suitable.
Precisely what he needed.
We all need passion.
The words were a whisper at the back of his mind, the mocking tone, lilting with an Italian accent.
He gritted his teeth. She had no idea what he needed.
With a curt nod, Simon said, “I am happy to hear that you approve a match.”
“Of course I do. It’s a fine marriage. Two superior British lines of aristocracy. Equals in reputation and in stock,” the marquess said, removing the glove from his right hand and extending it to Simon.
As Simon shook the hand of his future father-in-law, he wondered if the marquess would feel differently once the secrets of Leighton House were aired.
The Leighton stock would not carry such a pristine reputation, then.
Simon only hoped that the marriage would lend enough weight for them all to survive the scandal.
They turned back toward Dolby House, and Simon released a long, slow breath.
One step closer. All he had to do was propose to the lady, and he would be as prepared as he could be.
The marquess cut him a glance. “Penelope is at home—you are welcome to speak with her now.”
Simon understood the meaning behind the words. The marquess wanted the match announced and completed. It was not every day that a duke went looking for a wife.
He considered the possibility. There was, after all, no reason to postpone the inevitable.
Two weeks.
He’d given her two weeks.
It had been a ridiculous thing for him to do—he could use those weeks—could have been planning a wedding during their course. Could have been married before the end of them if he’d insisted upon it.
And instead, he’d offered them up to Juliana’s silly game.
As though he had time for her games and reckless behavior and improper attire and—
Irresistible embraces.
No. This morning had been a mistake. One that would not be repeated.
No matter how much it wanted repeating.
He shook his head.
“You disagree?”
The marquess’s words pulled Simon from his reverie. He cleared his throat. “I should like to court her properly, if you’ll allow it.”
“No need for it, you know. It’s not as if it’s a love match.” Vastly entertained by the idea, the marquess laughed big and brash from the depths of his overhanging midsection. Simon did his best to keep his irritation from showing. When the laughter died down, his future father-in-law said, “I’m just saying that everyone knows you’re not one for silly emotions. Penelope won’t expect courting.”
Simon tilted his head. “Nevertheless.”
“It makes no difference to me how you do it, Leighton,” said the older man, running his wide hands over his wider girth. “My only advice is that you begin as you mean to go on with her. Wives are much easier to manage if they know what to expect from a marriage.”
The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby was a lucky woman indeed, Simon thought wryly. “I shall take that under advisement.”
The marquess nodded once. “Shall we have a brandy? Drink to an excellent match?”
There was little Simon wanted to do less than spend more time with his future father-in-law. But he knew better than to dismiss the request. He could no longer afford to live above this particular fray.
He would never be able to again.
After a pause, he said, “I would enjoy that very much.”
Two hours later, Simon was back at his town house, in his favorite chair, hound at his feet, feeling far less triumphant than he would have expected to be. The meeting could not have gone better. He was to be aligned with a family of high regard and impeccable reputation. He had not seen Lady Penelope—had not wanted to see her, frankly—but all was well, and he imagined it was only a matter of securing the lady’s agreement before they were officially affianced.
“I assume that the outcome of your visit was satisfactory.”
He stiffened at the words, turning to meet his mother’s cold gray eyes. He had not heard her enter. He rose to his feet. “It was.”
She did not move. “The marquess has given his consent.”
He moved to the sideboard. “He has.”
“It is early for drink, Leighton.”
He turned back, a tumbler of scotch in his hand. “Consider it celebratory.”
She did not speak, nor did her gaze leave him. He wondered what she was thinking. Not that he had ever understood what lurked beneath the icy exterior of this woman who had given him life.
“Soon, you will be a mother-in-law,” he paused. “And a dowager.”
She did not rise to his bait. She never had.
Instead, she gave a single curt nod, as though everything were settled. As though everything were simple. “When do you plan on procuring a special license?”
Two weeks.
He closed his eyes against the thought, taking a drink to cover his hesitation. “Don’t you think that I should speak to Lady Penelope first?”
The duchess sniffed once, as though the question insulted several of her senses. “It’s not as though dukes of marriageable age are a common occurrence, Leighton. She’s about to make the best match in years. Just get it done.”
And there it was, in the cool, unmoving tenor of his mother’s words. Get it done. The demand . . . the expectation that a man like Simon would do whatever it took to ensure the safety and honor of his name.
He returned to his chair and deliberately relaxed into it—a feat of strength considering his frustration—taking a minuscule amount of pleasure in his mother’s stiffening at his outward calm. “I needn’t behave like an animal, Mother. I shall court the girl. She deserves some emotion, don’t you think?”
She did not move, her cool gaze showing nothing of her thoughts, and Simon realized that he’d never once been the recipient of his mother’s praise. He wondered, fleetingly, if she had the capacity for praise. Likely not. There was little need for emotion in the aristocracy. Lesser still where their offspring were concerned.
Emotion was for the masses.
He’d never seen her in a state of feeling. Never happy, never sad, never angry, never entertained. He’d once heard her say that amusements were for those with less pedigree than theirs. When Georgiana had been a child, all laughter and good nature, and the duchess had barely been able to suffer her. “Try not to sound so common, child,” she would say, lip just barely curled in the closest approximation to distaste he’d ever seen her display. “Your sire is the Duke of Leighton.”
Georgiana would grow serious then, a sliver of her exuberance gone forever.
He stiffened at the memory, long buried. No wonder his sister had fled when she’d discovered her situation. Their mother showed no sign of maternal love on the best of days.
He had not been much better.
“You are the sister to the Duke of Leighton!”
“Simon . . . it was a mistake.”
He’d barely registered her whisper. “Pearsons do not make mistakes!”
And he had left her there, in the backwoods of Yorkshire.
Alone.
When he had told their mother about the scandal that loomed, she had not moved; her breathing had not changed. Instead, she’d watched him with those cool, all-knowing eyes, and said, “You must marry.”
And they had never spoken of Georgiana again.
Regret flashed.
He ignored it.
“Sooner than later, Leighton,” the duchess said. “Before.”
Someone with less understanding of the duchess would think she had failed to complete the thought. Simon knew better. His mother did not use extraneous words. And he understood perfectly what she meant.
She did not wait for his response, knowing intuitively that her demand would be heeded. Instead, she turned on her heel and left the room, its contents gone from her mind before the door to the library closed behind her.
Trusting that Leighton would do what was needed to be done.
Before.
Before their secrets were discovered.
Before their name was dragged through the mud.
Before their reputation was ruined.
If he’d been told four months ago that he would be rushing toward marriage to shore up the reputation of the family, he would have laughed, long and imperious, and sent the informant packing.
Of course, four months ago, things had been different.
Four months ago, Simon had been the most sought after bachelor in Britain, with no expectations of a change in that stature.
Four months ago, nothing could have touched him.
He swore, low and dark, and rested his head back against his chair as the door to the library opened once more. He kept his eyes closed.
He did not want to face her again. Not her; not what she represented.
There was a delicate throat-clearing. “Your Grace?”
Simon straightened instantly. “Yes, Boggs?”
The butler crossed the room, extending the silver platter in his hand toward Simon. “I apologize for the intrusion. But an urgent message has arrived for you.”
Simon reached for the heavy ecru envelope. Turned it in his hand. Saw Ralston’s seal.
A ripple of tension shot through him.
There was only one reason for Ralston to send him an urgent note.
Georgiana.
Perhaps there was no more time for before.
“Leave me.”
He waited for Boggs to exit the room, until he heard the soft, ominous sound of door against jamb.
Only then did he slide one long finger beneath the seal, feeling the thick weight of the moment deep in his gut. He removed the single sheet of paper, unfolded it with resignation.
Read the two lines of text there.
And released the breath he had not known he had been holding in a short, angry burst, crushing the single page in his wicked grip.
The Serpentine at five o’clock.
I shall dress properly this time.
“Exspecto, Exspectas, Exspectat . . .”
She whispered the Latin words as she skipped stones across the surface of the Serpentine Lake, trying to ignore the sun, sinking toward the horizon.
She should not have sent the note.
“Exspectamus, Exspectatis, Exspectant . . .”
It was well past five. If he had planned to come, he would have already come.
Her companion and maid, Carla, made an indelicate sound of discomfort from her position on a wool blanket several feet away.
“I wait, you wait, she waits . . .”
If he took it to Ralston . . . she’d never be able to leave the house again. Not without a battalion of servants and chaperones and, very likely, Ralston himself.
“We wait, you wait, they wait.”
She tossed another stone and missed her target, wincing at the hollow sound the pebble made as it sank to the bottom of the lake.
“He is not coming.”
She turned at the Italian words, flat and full of truth, and met Carla’s deep brown gaze. The other woman was clutching a woolen shawl to her chest, bracing herself against the autumn wind. “You only say that because you want to return to the house.”
Carla lifted one shoulder and pulled a disinterested frown. “It does not make the words any less true.”
Juliana scowled. “You are not required to stay.”
“I am required to do just that, actually.” She sat down beneath a stout tree. “And I would not mind it if this country weren’t so unbearably cold. No wonder your duke is in such dire need of thaw.”
As if to punctuate the words, the wind picked up again, threatening to take the bonnet from Juliana’s head. She held it down, wincing as its ribbons and lace adornments lashed at her face. It was a wonder that a piece of headwear could be so troublesome and so useless all at once.
The wind lessened, and Juliana felt safe releasing the hat.
“He is not my duke.”
“Oh? Then why are we standing here in the frigid wind, waiting for him?”
Juliana’s gaze narrowed on the young woman. “You know, I’m told English lady’s maids are far more biddable. I’m considering making a switch.”
“I recommend it. I can then return to civilization. Warm civilization.”
Juliana leaned down and picked up another stone. “Ten more minutes.”
Carla sighed, long and dramatic, and Juliana felt a smile tug at her lips. As contrary and immovable as she was, Juliana was comforted by her presence. She was a piece of home in this strange new world.
This bizarre world that was filled with brothers and sisters and rules and regulations and balls and bonnets and incredible, infuriating men.
Men to whom one did not send flirtatious, inviting notes in the middle of the day, on one’s brother’s stationery.
She closed her eyes as a wave of embarrassment coursed through her.
It had been the worst kind of idea, the kind that arrived on a wave of triumph so acute that it turned every thought into a stroke of brilliance. She’d returned to her bedchamber that morning before the rest of Ralston House had risen, drunk on excitement and power from her encounter with Leighton, thrilled that she had shaken that enormous, immovable man to his core.
He’d kissed her.
And it had been nothing like the meek, simpering kisses of the boys she’d known in Italy, stolen as they teasingly lifted her from her father’s merchant ship onto the cobblestone wharf. No . . . this kiss had been the kiss of a man.
The kiss of a man who knew what he wanted.
A man who had never had to ask for what he wanted.
He had tasted just as he had done all those months ago, of strength and power and something both unbearable and irresistible.
Passion.
She’d dared him to discover the emotion but had been unprepared to discover it herself.
It had taken all her energy to mount her horse and leave him there, alone, in the early-morning light.
She had wanted more.
Just as she always did where he was concerned.
And when she returned home, heady with the success of their first interaction and full with the knowledge that she had shaken him to his core, just as she’d promised, she had not been able to resist flaunting her success. Before Ralston had risen, she had crept into his study and written a message for Leighton, more dare than invitation.
A harsh gust of wind blew through the meadow, sending white-edged ripples across the surface of the lake. Carla protested colorfully as Juliana turned her back to the blunt force of the wind, clutching her cloak tightly together.
She should not have sent the note.
She skipped a stone across the water.
It had been a terrible idea.
And another.
What had made her think he would come? He was no fool.
And another.
Why didn’t he come?
“Enough, idiota. He doesn’t come because he has a brain in his head. Unlike you.” She muttered the words aloud to the lake.
She’d had enough of waiting for him. It was freezing and the light was waning and she was going home. Immediately.
Tomorrow, she would consider her next course of action—she was by no means giving up. And she had one week and five days to do everything she could to bring the arrogant man down.
The fact that he’d ignored her summons would only serve to urge her on.
Her commitment renewed, Juliana turned and made her way toward the tree where her companion sat. “Andiamo. Let’s go home.”
“Ah, finalmente,” said the maid in a happy little burst as she leapt to her feet. “I thought you would never give up.”
Give up.
The words rankled. She was not giving up. She was simply ensuring that she had all her fingers and toes for the next battle.
As though the elements had sensed her conviction, the wind blew again, harsh and angry, and Juliana reached to secure her bonnet just as the silly thing flew off her head. With a little squeak, she turned to watch it fly toward the lake, tumbling across the water like one of the stones that Juliana had skipped earlier. It landed, unbelievably, on the far end of a wide fallen log, the long ribbons floating in the dark cold lake, taunting her.
Carla snickered, and Juliana turned to meet the maid’s twinkling brown eyes. “You are lucky I do not send you to fetch it.”
One of Carla’s dark eyebrows raised. “I am amused at the suggestion that I would do such a thing.”
Juliana ignored the impertinent remark and returned her attention to the bonnet, taunting her from its resting place. She would not allow a piece of millinery to get the better of her. Something would go right this afternoon.
Even if she had to march into the middle of the Serpentine Lake to make it so.
Removing her cloak, Juliana headed for the log, stepping up and throwing her arms wide for balance to make her way to the ill-behaved headwear mocking her from several yards away.
“State attenta,” Carla called out, and Juliana ignored the urging for care, singularly focused on the bonnet. The wind began to pick up, teasing at the blue frills on the hat, and Juliana stilled, waiting to see if the hat would blow away.
The wind slowed.
The hat remained.
Well. As her sister-in-law, Isabel, would say, now it was the principle of the thing.
Juliana continued her journey before the hat was sacrificed to the gods of the Serpentine.
Just a few more feet.
And then she’d have the bonnet in hand and she could go home.
Nearly there.
She crouched slowly, shifting her balance and reaching out. The tips of her fingers touched a curl of blue satin.
And then the hat was gone, blown off the log, and in a moment of frustration Juliana forgot her precarious position and lunged.
The waters of the Serpentine were as cold as they appeared. Colder.
And deeper.
She came up sputtering and swearing like a Veronese dockworker to Carla’s raucous laughter. Instinctively, she rolled her body to face shore, only to find her skirts entangled in her legs, pulling her under.
Confusion flared and she kicked out, breaking the surface again briefly, gasping for air and not entirely understanding what was happening.
Something was wrong.
She was an expert swimmer, why couldn’t she stay afloat?
She kicked once more, her legs caught in a mass of muslin and twill, and she realized that the heavy skirts were weighing her down. She could not reach the surface.
Panic flared.
She extended her arms again, kicking wildly in one last desperate attempt at air.
To no avail.
Her lungs were on fire, straining under the burden of holding in the last of her precious air . . . air she knew she was about to—
She exhaled, the sound of the air bubbles rising to the surface of the lake punctuating her fate.
I am going to drown.
The words drifted through her mind, eerily calm.
And then something strong and warm grasped one of her outstretched hands, jerking her up . . . until she could—
Thank God.
She could breathe.
Juliana took a great, gasping breath, coughing and sputtering and heaving, focusing on nothing but breathing as she was pulled from the deeper water until her feet touched firm, blessed ground.
Not that her legs could hold her upright.
She collapsed into her savior, wrapping her arms around a warm, sturdy neck—a rock in a sea of uncertainty.
It took a few moments for her to come back to place and time—to hear Carla keening like a Sicilian grandmother from the lakeshore, to feel the cold bite of wind on her face and shoulders, to register the movement of her rescuer as he held her, chest deep in the water, as she trembled—either from the cold or the fear or both.
His hands stroked along her back, and he whispered soft, calm words into her hairline. In Italian.
“Just breathe . . . I’ve got you . . . You are safe now . . . Everything is all right.” And somehow, the words convinced her. He did have her. She was safe. Everything would be all right.
She felt his chest rise and fall against her as he took a deep, calming breath. “You’re safe,” he repeated. “You little fool . . .” he whispered, the tone just as soothing as ever, “. . . I have you now.” His hands stroked rhythmically down her arms and up her spine. “What in hell were you doing in the lake? What if I hadn’t been here? Shh . . . I’ve got you now. Sei al sicura. You’re safe.”
It took her a moment to recognize the tenor, and when she did, she snapped her attention to him, looking at him with clear eyes for the first time.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Simon.
Disheveled and soaked to the skin, his blond hair turned dark with the water that dripped down his face, he looked the opposite of the poised, perfect duke she had come to expect him to be. He looked sodden and unkempt and winded . . .
And wonderful.
She said the first thing that came to her mind. “You came.”
And he’d saved her.
“Just in time, it seems,” he replied in Italian, understanding that she was not ready for English.
A fit of coughing overtook her, and she could do nothing but hold on to him for several minutes. When she was once more able to breathe, she met his steady gaze, his eyes the color of fine brandy.
He’d saved her.
A shiver rippled through her at the thought, and the tremor spurred him to action. “You are cold.”
He lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the water to the lake’s edge, where Carla was near hysteria.
The maid released a torrent of Italian. “Madonna! I thought you were gone! Drowned! I screamed and screamed! I was desperate for help!“ To Simon, still in Italian, “I curse the fact I cannot swim! If only I could return to my youth and learn!” Then back to Juliana, clutching her to her chest. “Mi Julianina! Had I known . . . I would never have let you out onto that log! Why, the thing is obviously the devil’s own oak left behind!” Then, back to Simon, “Oh! Thank the heavens that you were here!” The flow of words stopped abruptly. “Late.”
If Juliana had not been so cold, she would have laughed at the disdain that coated the last of the maid’s words. True, he had been late. But he had come. And if he hadn’t—
But he had.
She stole a glance at him. He had not missed Carla’s insinuation that if he had arrived on time, all of this might have been avoided. He stilled, his face firm and unmoving, like that of a Roman statue.
His clothes were plastered to him—he had not removed his coat before entering the lake, and the layers he wore seemed to blend together. Somehow, the sodden clothing made him seem larger, more dangerous, immovable. She watched a droplet of water slither down his forehead, and itched to brush it away.
To kiss it away.
She ignored the thought, certain that it was the product of her close encounter with death and nothing else, and redirected her gaze to his mouth, set in a firm, straight line.
And she instantly wanted to kiss that instead.
A muscle twitched at the corner of his lips, the only sign of his irritation.
More than irritation.
Anger.
Possibly fury.
Juliana shivered and told herself it was from the wind and the water and not the man who towered over her. She wrapped her arms about herself to ward off the cold and thanked Carla softly when the maid rushed to collect the cloak she had cast off prior to her adventure and place it over her shoulders. The garment did nothing to combat the cold air or the cold look with which Leighton had fixed her, and she shivered again, huddling into the thin twill.
Of all the men in all of London, why did he have to be the one to save her?
Turning her attention to a nearby rise, she saw a handful of people clustered together, watching. She could not make out their faces, but she was certain that they knew precisely who she was.
The story would be all over London by tomorrow.
She was flooded with emotion . . . exhaustion and fear and gratitude and embarrassment and something more base that twisted inside her and made her feel like she might be sick all over his once-perfect, now-destroyed boots.
All she wanted was to be alone.
Willing her shivering to subside, she met his gaze once more, and said, “Th-thank you, Your G-grace.” She was rather impressed that this close to having died by drowning, she was able to achieve cool politeness. In English no less. She stood with the help of Carla, and said the words that she desperately wanted not to say. “I am in your debt.”
She turned on one heel and, thinking only of a warm bath and warmer bed, set off for the entrance to the Park.
His words, spoken in perfect Italian, stopped her in her tracks.
“Do not thank me yet. I’ve never in my life been so livid.”