But he would have Juliana.
And in that instant, it almost felt that it would be enough.
He could do it; her mouth was mere inches from his, all softness and temptation, and all he had to do was close the distance between them. And she would be his.
He watched as the tip of her pink tongue stroked along her lower lip, and desire lanced through him. When she spoke, her voice was light and casual. “Shall we walk some more?”
She didn’t feel it, the twisting, unbearable need that roiled inside him.
He cleared his throat, taking a moment to draw out the sound in the hopes that his head would clear as well.
“Of course,” he said, and she was off, leaving him to trail behind her like the tragic pup that he had become. He was never more grateful than when she led him back to the line of stalls; he was more stable when near other people, when moving, when he did not feel her heat along the length of him.
She lifted her chin to the night air as they walked, taking a deep breath and letting it out on a long sigh. “I think I could like the country.”
He was surprised by the statement; she had such energy about her that this quiet, country village did not seem to suit. “You prefer it to London?”
She smiled and he saw the self-deprecation in the gesture. “I think it prefers me.”
“I think you belong in London.”
She shook her head. “Not anymore. At least, not for the rest of the year. I think I shall stay here in Yorkshire. I like the ladies of Minerva House, Lucrezia likes to run on the heath, and I am ready to be done with the season.”
He hated the idea of leaving her in the country. Of returning to London—to his staid, boring life there—without her added excitement. Her vibrancy was lost here amid the fields and the sheep. She should be riding through the morning mist in Hyde Park, waltzing through society ballrooms, draped in silks and satins.
With him.
He caught his breath at the vision that flashed, Juliana on his arm, holding court over society. Impossible.
She stopped at the opening to one booth, trailing her fingers along the green lace edge of a simple bonnet. He watched her smooth, delicate nail scrape along the brim, wondered how that finger would feel scraping along his neck . . . his shoulders . . . down his torso . . .
He grew instantly hard and shifted, thankful for the darkness, but did not look away, fascinated by the way she stroked the hat. Finally, when he could not bear watching her fondle the headpiece a moment longer, he drew a pouch of coins from his pocket and said to the shopkeeper, “I should like to buy the bonnet for the lady.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You cannot.”
But the man in the stall had already taken the coin. “Would you like to wear it, milady?”
She ignored him, looking up into Simon’s gaze. “It’s not done. You cannot buy me clothing.”
He lifted the bonnet from where it lay and tossed an extra coin to the salesman. Holding it out to Juliana, he said, “I thought we drank the potion?”
She looked at the hat for a long moment, and he thought she might not take it. When she did, he let out a long breath that he had not known he was holding.
“And besides,” he teased, “I promised to buy you a bonnet to replace the one you lost.”
He watched as the memory played over in her mind. Remembered the feel of her, cold and shivering in his arms. Wished he had not brought it up.
“If memory serves, Mr. Pearson—” She hesitated, turning the bonnet in her hands, and he warmed at her use of the evening’s pseudonym. “You offered to buy me a dozen.”
He nodded once in mock seriousness and turned back to the keeper of the stall. “Do you have eleven more of these? Perhaps in other colors?”
The man’s eyes grew wide, and Juliana laughed, grasping his arm and tugging him away from the booth. She smiled wide at the salesman. “He does not mean it. Apologies.”
The man’s eyes lit up. “ ’Tis Bonfire Night, milady, something about burning the Guy makes us all a mite mad.”
As they walked away, Simon said, “I would have said a mite more amusing.”
“Six of one, a half a dozen of the other when it comes to your sex,” she said drily, and it was his turn to laugh.
They had gone several yards when she slowed down once more, casting him a sideways look before returning her attention to the bonnet in her hands. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure.”
And it had been. He wanted to buy her a hundred hats. And cloaks and gowns and horses and saddles and pianofortes and whatever else she wanted. Whatever made her happy, he wanted her to have it in abundance.
So when she said, “I’m sorry,” and he heard the sadness in her tone, he did not like it at all.
He stopped, until she turned back to face him once more. “For what?”
One shoulder lifted in a tiny shrug. Lord, he was coming to adore those shrugs. “For all of it. For being so difficult. For challenging you, and provoking you, and sending you inappropriate, unwanted notes, and for angering you and frustrating you and making this all so . . . difficult.” She met his gaze, and he saw the honesty and contrition in her enormous blue eyes.
She shook her head once, before continuing. “I did not know, Simon . . . I did not know that you had such reason to be so concerned for propriety and reputation. Had I known . . .” She trailed off, looking over his shoulder at the bonfire, as though looking at him might be too painful. And then she whispered, “Had I known, I never would have made the silly challenge. I never would have pushed you so far.”