The hour on an invitation serves a purpose.
The refined lady is never late.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
Surely no meal is more sumptuous than one served with marriage in mind . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
He was the last to arrive to dinner. Deliberately.
Simon leapt down from his carriage and made his way up the steps of Ralston House, knowing that he was committing a grave breach of etiquette. But he was still feeling manipulated into attending the dinner at all, so he took perverse pleasure in knowing that he was several minutes late. He would, of course, make his apologies, but Juliana would know immediately that he had no interest in being managed by an impetuous female.
He was the Duke of Leighton. Let her try to forget it.
He could not help the wave of triumph that coursed through him as the door swung open, revealing the large, empty entryway of the Ralston home, proving what he had already known would be the case—they had begun dinner without him.
Entering the house, he handed his hat, cloak, and gloves to a nearby footman before heading for the wide center staircase that would lead to the second floor and the dining room. The quiet conversation coming from abovestairs grew louder as he drew closer, finally turning down the long, brightly lit hallway and entering the massive dining room, where guests were waiting for dinner to begin.
They had held the meal for him.
Which made him feel like an ass.
Of course, no one seemed particularly put out by waiting for him. Indeed, everyone appeared to be having a lovely time, especially the cluster of eligible gentlemen crowded so tightly around Juliana that all Simon could see of her were the gleaming ebony curls piled on top of her head.
Instantly, the reason for the dinner became clear.
Lady Ralston was playing matchmaker.
The thought was punctuated by a loud burst of laughter from the group, her high, lovely, feminine chuckle set apart from the others—low and altogether too masculine. The collection of sounds set Simon on immediate edge. He had not expected this.
And he found that he did not like it.
“So happy you decided to join us, Leighton.”
Ralston’s sarcastic words shook Simon from his reverie. He ignored the marquess, instead turning his attention to Lady Ralston. “I do apologize, my lady.”
The marchioness was all graciousness. “No need, Your Grace. Indeed, the extra time afforded us all an opportunity to chat.”
The gentle reminder of the collection of simpering men surrounding Juliana returned his attention there, and he watched, carefully hiding his thoughts as first one man, then the next peeled away from the group to be seated—ultimately leaving only the Earl of Allendale and, on his arm, Juliana.
Dressed in the most magnificent gown Simon had ever seen.
No wonder the others had been so entranced.
The dress was a scandal in itself, silk the color of midnight that shimmered around her in candlelight, giving her the illusion of being wrapped in the night sky. It was a combination of the darkest reds and blues and purples giving the appearance that she was wearing the richest of color and simultaneously no color at all. The bodice was cut entirely too low, showing a wide expanse of her creamy white skin, pale and pristine—tempting him to come closer. To touch her.
She wore the dress with a bold confidence that no other woman in the room—in London—would have been able to affect.
She knew that wearing black would cause a scene. Knew it would make her look like a goddess. Knew it would drive men—drive him—to want nothing more than to strip her out of that glorious gown and claim her.
Simon shook off the improper thought and was flooded with an intense urge to remove his coat and shield her from the greedy glances of the other men.
Surely Ralston knew this dress was entirely improper. Surely he knew that his sister was encouraging the worst kind of attention. Simon passed a cool gaze over the marquess, seated at the head of the table, appearing to know no such thing.
And then Juliana was passing him, a whisper of silk and red currants, escorted by the Earl of Allendale, to take her own seat at the center of the long, lavish banquet, smiling at the so-called gentlemen who immediately turned their attention to her.
He wanted to take each one of the mincing men out in turn for their improper glances. He should have refused this invitation. Every moment he was with this impetuous, impossible female, he felt his control slipping.
He did not care for the sensation.
He took his seat next to the Marchioness of Ralston, the place of honor that had been held for him as the duke in attendance who was not family. He spent the first three courses in polite conversation with Lady Ralston, Rivington, and his sister, Lady Margaret Talbott. As they ate, Simon attempted to ignore the activity at the center of the table, where a collection of gentlemen—who outnumbered the ladies at the dinner—attempted to gain Juliana’s attention.
It was impossible for him to ignore Juliana, however, as she laughed and teased with the others around the table, gifting them with her wide, welcome smile and sparkling eyes. Instead, while half participating in the conversation near him, Simon silently tracked her movements. She leaned toward the men across the table—Longwood, Brearley, and West—each untitled and self-made, each lobbying harder than the last for her attention.
West, the publisher of the Gazette, was regaling her with some idiotic story about a journalist and a street carnival.
“—I will say this, at least he returned the hat!”
“The reporter’s hat?” Longwood asked, as though the two of them were in a traveling show.
“The bear’s hat!”
Juliana dissolved into laughter along with the rest of the foolish group.
Simon returned his attention to his plate.
Could they not even find aristocrats with whom to match her? It was not as though she need stoop so low as to marry a commoner.
During the fourth course, Juliana’s attention was claimed almost entirely by Lord Stanhope, who would make a terrible match, notorious for his twin loves of gambling and women. To be fair, he always won at cards, but surely Ralston did not want his sister married to an inveterate rake.
Casting a sidelong glance at the marquess, who appeared to be equally entertained by Stanhope, Simon realized the problem with his logic. Rakes enjoyed the company of rakes.
He did his best to focus on the veal throughout the fifth course, pretending not to notice the long, graceful column of Juliana’s neck and jaw. Summarily ignoring his desire to place his lips to the spot where her neck met her shoulder—that place that would smell like her, warm and soft and begging for his tongue.
He knew he should not look, but everything about her called to him. She was a siren.
If he was not careful, he would drown in her.
A burst of laughter brought him back to the moment, to the event. The conversation had shifted from the autumn season to politics to art and music, the gentlemen hanging on Juliana’s every lilting word. The Earl of Allendale was holding court, regaling the entire table with tales of Lord and Lady Ralston’s courtship.
Juliana listened with rapt attention, her sparkling gaze glued to Allendale, and a pang of discontent flared deep in Simon’s gut. What would it be like to be the source of such pleasure? To be the man who elicited such a vibrant response? Such approval?
“Suffice it to say, I had never seen two people so destined for each other,” Allendale said, his gaze lingering a touch too long on Juliana in a manner that Simon did not care for.
Juliana grinned. “It is a pity it took my brother so long to realize it.”
The earl matched her smile as the rest of the company laughed. It was the second time Simon had seen Allendale give special attention to Juliana, and it did not escape him that the topic was appropriately romantic for any budding tendre between the two.
Simon sat back in his chair.
Allendale was entirely wrong for her. Too good-natured. Too genial. She’d run roughshod over him before he knew what had hit him.
He was not man enough for her.
Simon looked to Ralston, hoping that the marquess had seen the questionable exchange between his sister and brother-in-law, but Ralston only had eyes for his wife. He lifted his glass and toasted his wife. “I am endeavoring to make up for it.”
Simon looked away, uncomfortable with the obvious affection between the marquess and the marchioness. His attention returned to Juliana, her blue eyes softening as she took in the intimate moment.
The too-intimate moment.
He did not belong here.
Not with her. Not with her family and the way they were all so comfortable—freely speaking, even at a formal dinner, somehow making all attendees so very comfortable.
So unlike his own family.
So compelling.
It was not for him.
A blush high on her cheeks, the marchioness raised her own glass. “As we are toasting, I think it only right that we toast His Grace for his role in rescuing our Juliana, don’t you agree, my lord?”
The words, projected down the table at her husband, surprised Simon; prior to her marriage, Lady Calpurnia Hartwell had been a first-rate wallflower who would never have commanded such attention. She had found her voice.
Ralston raised his glass. “A capital idea, my darling. To Leighton. With thanks.”
Around the table, the gentlemen raised their glasses and drank to Simon, and he was torn between a keen respect for the way this family manipulated society—by making their thanks entirely public and admitting Juliana’s adventure, they had effectively removed the wind from the gossips’ sails—and a hot irritation that he had been so well-and-truly used.
The Duchess of Rivington leaned in with a knowing smile, interrupting his thoughts. “Consider yourself fairly warned, Your Grace. Now that you have saved one of us, you shan’t be able to escape!”
Everyone laughed. Everyone except Simon, who forced a polite smile and took a drink.
“I admit, I feel sorry for His Grace,” Juliana chimed in, a lightness in her tone that he did not entirely believe. “I imagine he had hoped his heroism would gain him more than our constant companionship.”
He loathed this conversation. Affecting a look of ducal boredom, he said, “There was nothing heroic about it.”
“Your modesty is putting the rest of us to shame, Leighton,” Stanhope called out, jovially. “The rest of us would happily accept the gratitude of such a beautiful lady.”
A plate was set in front of him, and he made a project of cutting a piece of lamb, ignoring Stanhope.
“Tell us the story!” West said.
“I would prefer we didn’t rehash it, Mr. West,” he said, forcing a smile. “Particularly not to a newspaperman. I’ve had enough of the tale, myself.”
The statement was met with a round of dissent from the rest of the dinner attendees, each calling for a recounting.
Simon remained silent.
“I agree with His Grace.” The raucous chatter around the table quieted at the soft statement, light with an Italian accent, and Simon, surprised, snapped his gaze to meet Juliana’s. “There is not much more to it than that he saved my life. And without him—” She paused.
He did not want her to finish the sentence.
She demurred with a smile. “Well—It is enough to say that I am very grateful that you came to the park that afternoon”—she returned her attention to the rest of the group with a light—“and even more grateful that he can swim.”
The table gave a collective chuckle at the words, but he barely heard it. In that moment, there was nothing he would not give to be alone with her—a fact that shook him to his core.
“Hear hear,” said Allendale, raising his glass. “To the Duke of Leighton.”
Around the table, glasses rose, and he avoided Juliana’s eyes lest he betray too much of his thoughts.
“Even I shall have to rethink my opinion of you, Leighton,” Ralston said wryly. “Thank you.”
“And now, you have been forced to accept not only our dinner invitation, but also our gratitude,” Juliana said from across the table.
Everyone assembled laughed to break the seriousness of the moment. Everyone that is, except Juliana, who broke their eye contact, looking down at her plate.
He considered their past, the things they had said—the ways they had lashed out, hoping to scratch if not to scar. He heard his words, the cutting way with which he had spoken to her, the way he had pushed her into a corner until she’d had no choice but to lie down or lash out.
She had fought back, proud and magnificent.
And suddenly, he wanted to tell her that.
He wanted her to know that he did not find her common, or childish, or troublesome.
He found her quite remarkable.
And he wanted to start over.
If for no other reason, than because she did not deserve his criticism.
But perhaps for more than that.
If only it were so easy.
The door to the dining room opened, and an older servant entered, discreetly moving to Ralston. He leaned low and whispered in his master’s ear, and Ralston froze, setting his fork down audibly.
Conversation stopped.
Whatever the news the servant brought, it was not good.
The marquess was ashen.
Lady Ralston stood instantly, rounding the table toward her husband, caring nothing about her guests. About making a scene.
Juliana spoke, concern in her voice. “What is it? Is it Nick?”
“Gabriel?”
Heads turned as one to the doorway, to the woman who had spoken Ralston’s given name.
“Dio.” Juliana’s whisper was barely audible, but he heard it.
“Who is she?” Simon did not register who asked the question. He was too focused on Juliana’s face, on the fear and anger and disbelief there.
Too focused on her answer, whispered in Italian.
“She is our mother.”
She looked the same.
Tall and lithe and as untouchable as she had been the last time Juliana had seen her.
Instantly, Juliana was ten again, covered in chocolate from the cargo unloaded on the dock, chasing her cat through the old city and into the house, calling up to her father from the central courtyard, sunlight pouring down around her. A door opened, and her mother stepped out onto the upper balcony, the portrait of disinterest.
“Silenzio, Juliana. Ladies do not screech.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“You should be.” Louisa Fiori leaned over the edge of the balcony. “You are filthy. It is as though I had a son instead of a daughter.” She waved one hand lazily toward the door. “Go back to the river and wash before you come into the house.”
She turned away, the hem of her pale pink gown disappearing through the double doors to the house beyond.
It was the last Juliana had seen of her mother.
Until now.
“Gabriel?” their mother repeated, entering the room with utter poise, as though it had not been twenty-five years since she had hosted her own dinners at this very table. As though she were not being watched by a roomful of people.
Not that such a thing would have stopped her. She had always adored attention. The more scandalous, the better.
And this would be a scandal.
No one would remember the Serpentine tomorrow.
She lifted her hands. “Gabriel,” there was satisfaction in her tone. “My, what a man you have become. The marquess!”
She was behind Juliana now, not having realized that her daughter, too, was in the room. There was a roaring in Juliana’s ears, and she closed her eyes against it. Of course her mother had not noticed. Why would she expect such a thing?
If she had, she would have looked for Juliana. She would have said something.
She would have wanted to see her daughter.
Wouldn’t she?
“Oh! It appears that I have interrupted something of a dinner party! I suppose I should have waited until morning, but I simply could not bear being away from home a moment longer.”
Home.
Juliana winced at the words.
The men around the table stood, their manners arriving late but impeccable. “Oh, please, do not stand for me,” the voice came again, unrelenting, dripping with English politesse and a hint of something else—the sound of feminine guile. “I shall simply put myself in a receiving room until Gabriel has time for me.”
The statement ended on a lilt of amusement, and Juliana opened her eyes at the grating sound, turning her head just slightly to see her brother, jaw steeled, ice in his cold blue gaze. To his left stood Callie, fists clenched, furious.
If Juliana had not been at risk of becoming utterly unhinged, she would have been amused by her sister-in-law—ready to slay dragons for her husband.
Their mother was a dragon if ever there was one.
There was an enormous pause, silence screaming in the room until Callie spoke. “Bennett,” she said, with unparalleled calm, “would you escort Signora Fiori to the green parlor? I’m sure the marquess will be along momentarily.”
The aging butler, at least, seemed to understand that he had been the harbinger of what was sure to be the biggest scandal London had seen since . . . well, since the last time London had seen Louisa Hathbourne St. John Fiori. He nearly leapt to do his mistress’s bidding.
“Signora Fiori!” their mother said with a bright laugh—the one Juliana remembered as punctuation to a lie. “No one has called me that since I left Italy. I am still the Marchioness of Ralston, am I not?”
“You are not.” Ralston’s voice was brittle with anger.
“You are married? How wonderful! I shall simply have to do with Dowager Marchioness, then!”
And with that simple sentence, Juliana was unable to breathe. Her mother had just renounced a decade of marriage, a husband, a life in Italy.
And her own daughter.
In front of a dozen others who would not hesitate to recount the tale.
Juliana closed her eyes, willing herself to remain calm.
Focusing on her breath, rather than the fact that her legitimacy had, with a few words from a long-forgotten woman, been thrown into question.
When she reopened her eyes, it was to meet the one gaze she did not wish to find.
The Duke of Leighton was not looking at her mother. He was watching Juliana. And she hated what she saw in his normally cold, unreadable amber eyes.
Pity.
Embarrassment and shame coursed through her, straightening her spine and reddening her cheeks.
She was going to be ill.
She could not remain in the room a moment longer.
She had to leave.
Before she did something thoroughly unacceptable.
She stood, pushing back her chair, not caring that ladies did not leave the dinner table midmeal, not caring that she was breaking every rule of this ridiculous country’s ridiculous etiquette.
And she fled.
The dinner party disbanded almost immediately upon the arrival of the Dowager Marchioness or Signora Fiori or whoever she was, and the rest of the attendees had made hasty retreats, ostensibly to allow the family time and space with which to address her devastating arrival, but much more likely to have been in the foul hope of spreading their first-person accounts of tonight’s dramatics.
Simon could think only of Juliana: of her face as she listened to her mother’s high-pitched cackle; of her enormous, soulful eyes as the wicked woman had made her scandalous pronouncement that she was not a Fiori, but a St. John; of the way she’d left the room, all square shoulders and straight spine, with stunning, remarkable pride.
He watched the other guests’ conveyances trundle down the street, listening with half an ear as the Duke and Duchess of Rivington discussed whether or not they should remain or leave their family in peace.
As they climbed into their coach, Simon heard the duchess ask quietly, “Should we at least look in on Juliana?”
“Leave her for tonight, love,” was Rivington’s idiotic reply before the door closed, and the carriage set off in the direction of their home.
Simon clenched his teeth. Of course they should have sought out Juliana. Someone had to make sure that the girl was not planning a midnight return to Italy.
Not him, of course.
He climbed up into his own coach—full with the memory of her on another scandalous evening.
She was not his concern.
He could not afford the scandal. He had his own family to worry about. Juliana was fine. Would be, at least. The woman had to be impervious to embarrassment by now.
And if she wasn’t?
With a wicked curse, he rapped on the ceiling of the coach and instructed the coachman to turn around. He did not even question his destination.
She was in the stables.
There were several stableboys loitering outside, and they came immediately to their feet at the sight of the Duke of Leighton. He waved them back and entered the building, thinking of nothing but finding her.
He did not hide his footsteps as he made his way down the long row of stalls to where she was, following the soft whispers of Italian and the smooth rustle of her clothes.
He stopped just outside the stall door, transfixed by her.
Her back was to him, and she was brushing her horse with a hard-bristled brush, each short, firm stroke coming on a little puff of breath. Periodically, the mare would shuffle and lean toward her mistress, turning her head for extra attention. When Juliana stroked the animal’s long, white muzzle, the horse was unable to contain its pleasure, nuzzling Juliana’s shoulder with a snort.
Simon could not blame the animal for preening under the affection.
“She did not even know I was there,” Juliana whispered in Italian as she worked her way down the mare’s broad back. “And if I hadn’t been, if I’d never come here, she would not have acknowledged her time with me at all.”
There was a pause, the only sound the light rustle of her bold, silk gown, entirely counter to her soft, sad whisper, and his heart went out to her. It was one thing to be deserted by a mother, but what a crushing blow it must have been to have her mother reject the life they had shared?
The sound of the brush slowed. “Not that I care if she acknowledges it at all.”
He heard the lie in the words, and something deep in his chest constricted, making it difficult to breathe.
“Perhaps now we can return to Italy, Lucrezia.” She put her forehead to the high black shoulder of the horse. “Perhaps now Gabriel will see that my staying was a terrible idea.”
The whispered words, so honest, so rife with sorrow and regret, were nearly his undoing. From the moment he’d met her, he’d thought she enjoyed the scandal that followed her everywhere. Thought she embraced it, invited it.
But as he stood in this darkened stable, watching her brush her enormous horse, dressed in a devastatingly beautiful gown and desperate for some way to escape the events of the evening, Simon was overcome with a single realization.
Scandal was not her choice.
It was her burden.
Her bold words and her brave face were not borne out of pleasure but out of self-preservation.
She was as much a victim of circumstance as he was.
The awareness hit him like a fist to the gut.
But it changed nothing.
“I would not place a wager on your brother allowing you to leave,” he said in Italian.
Juliana spun toward him, and he registered the fear and nervousness in her wide blue eyes an instant before it was gone, replaced with irritation.
Her fire was not gone.
“How long have you been there?” she asked in English, taking a step back, pressing herself against the side of the horse, who sidestepped once and gave a little, distraught nicker.
He stilled, as though moving closer to her would scare her off. “Long enough.”
Her gaze darted around the stall, as though she were looking for an escape route. As though she were terrified of him. And then she seemed to remember that she wasn’t terrified of anything.
Her eyes narrowed on him, blue and beautiful. “Eavesdropping is a terrible habit.”
He leaned against the doorjamb, giving her space. “You may add it to my list of unpleasant traits.”
“There isn’t enough paper in England to list them all.”
He raised a brow. “You wound me.”
She scowled, turning back to the horse. “If only it were so. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
So it was to be this way. She did not want to discuss the events of the evening. He watched as she resumed the long, firm strokes of the horse’s flanks. “I was invited to a dinner party, but it ended early.”
“It sounds like it was a terrible bore,” she said, her voice dry as sand. “Shouldn’t you be at your club? Recounting the devastating blow to our reputation to other arrogant aristocrats in a cloud of cheroot smoke as you drink scotch stolen from the North Country?”
“What do you know about cheroot smoke?”
She tossed him a look over her shoulder. “We do not have such restrictive rules in Italy.”
It was his turn for dryness. “Really? I had not noticed.”
“I am quite serious. Surely you have something better to do than stand in the stables and watch me groom my horse.”
“In an evening gown.”
The most incredible gown he’d ever seen.
She gave one of her little shrugs. “Don’t tell me there’s a rule about that, too.”
“A rule about ladies wearing evening gowns to groom horses?”
“Yes.”
“Not in so many words, no.”
“Excellent.” She did not stop her movements.
“That said, I must say I have never witnessed a lady so well attired grooming a horse.”
“You still haven’t.”
He paused. “I beg your pardon?”
“You still haven’t witnessed a lady doing so. I think tonight has made it quite clear that I am no lady, don’t you?” She leaned down and tapped the mare’s forelock, inspecting one hoof. “I don’t have the kind of stock required for the honor.”
And with that, the conversation turned, and the air in the room grew heavy.
She turned back to him, meeting his gaze with complete seriousness. “Why did you come looking for me?”
Damned if he knew.
“Did you think that now that our mother is back, you could come to me in the stables, and I would behave the way she always did?” The words hung between them, brash and unpleasant, and Simon wanted to shake her for saying them. For cheapening his concern. For suggesting that she was nothing better than her mother had been.
She pressed on. “Or perhaps you could not resist the opportunity to enumerate the additional ways that I am damaged goods after tonight? I assure you, there is nothing you could say that I have not already considered myself.”
He deserved it, he supposed, but he could not help but defend himself. Did she really think that he would take this opportunity—this night—to set her down? “Juliana, I—” He took a step toward her, and she put up a hand to stay his movement.
“Don’t tell me this has changed everything, Leighton.”
She had never called him that. Your Grace, in that mocking tone that set him instantly on edge. Or Simon. But now, in all seriousness, she used his title. The shift unsettled him.
She laughed, the sound cold and brittle and altogether unlike her. “Of course it hasn’t. This has merely underscored all that you already know. All that you’ve known since the beginning. How is it you say it? I am a scandal waiting to happen?” She tilted her head, feigning deep thought. “Perhaps I have already happened. But, if there were any doubt, the woman standing in that dining room is more than enough, isn’t she?” There was a long silence before she added, in Italian, so softly that he was almost unsure he heard it, “She’s ruined everything. Again.”
There was a devastating sadness in the words, a sadness that echoed around them until he could not bear it. “She’s not you,” he said in her language, as though speaking it in Italian could make her believe it.
She wouldn’t believe it, of course.
But he did.
“Sciocchezze!” Her eyes glistened with angry tears as she resisted his words, calling them nonsense as she turned away, presenting him with her back. He almost didn’t hear the rest of the statement, lost in the harsh hiss of the brush. “She is what I come from. She is what I shall become, isn’t that how it goes?”
The words sliced through him, making him unreasonably furious with her for thinking them, and he reached for her, unable to stop himself. Turned her toward him, met her wide eyes. “Why would you say that?” He heard the roughness in his tone. Tried to clear it. Failed. “Why would you think that?”
She laughed, the sound harsh and without humor. “I’m not the only one. Isn’t that what you believe? Aren’t those the words by which aristocrats like you live? Come now, Your Grace. I’ve met your mother.” Then, in English, “Blood will out, will it not?”
He stopped. They were words that he had heard countless times—one of his mother’s favorite sayings. “Did she say that to you?”
“Haven’t you said it to me?” She lifted her chin, proud and defiant.
“No.”
One side of her mouth kicked up. “Not in so many words. It bears true for you, doesn’t it? Looking down at the lesser creatures from up on high. Blood will out—the very motto of the Duke of Disdain.”
The Duke of Disdain.
He’d heard it before, of course, the epithet that was whispered as he passed. He’d simply never given it much thought. Never realized the aptness of the name. Never realized the truth of it.
Emotion was for the masses.
It had always been easier to be the Duke of Disdain than to let them see the rest of him. The part that was not so disdainful.
He hated that Juliana knew the nickname. Hated that she thought of him that way. He met her glittering blue gaze and read the anger and defensiveness there. He could deal with those responses from her. But not the sadness.
He could not bear her sadness.
She read his thoughts, and her eyes flashed fury. “Don’t. Don’t you dare pity me. I don’t want it.” She tried to shake off his grip. “I’d rather have your disinterest.”
The words shocked him into letting her go. “My disinterest?”
“That’s what it is, is it not? Boredom? Apathy?”
He’d had enough.
“You think my feelings toward you apathetic?” His voice shook, and he advanced on her. “You think you bore me?”
She blinked under the heat of his words, stepping back toward the side of the stall. “Don’t I?”
He shook his head slowly, continuing toward her, stalking her in the small space. “No.”
She opened her mouth then closed it, not knowing what to say.
“God knows you are infuriating . . .” Nervousness flared in her eyes. “And impulsive . . .” Her back came up against the wall, and she gave a little squeak, even as he advanced. “And altogether maddening . . .” He placed one hand to her jaw, carefully lifting her face to his, feeling the leap of her pulse under his fingertips. “And thoroughly intoxicating . . .” The last came out on a low growl, and her lips parted, soft and pink and perfect.
He leaned close, his lips a fraction from hers.
“No . . . you are not boring.”