His hands stroked down her body, beautifully rounded in all the proper places, cupping her tightly to him until they both gasped at the sensation. “But I can feel,” he whispered against her lips, and they kissed again, all soft lips and tangled tongues.
When she pulled back, and stroked along his bottom lip with her silken tongue, sending a lance of desire straight through him, he groaned and cupped one of her full, high br**sts, pinching its pebbled tip through the layers of her clothing. She gasped, and the sound was a siren’s call, begging him to strip her bare and cover her with his mouth and body.
He wanted to lay her down upon the grassy floor of this little heaven and make love to her until neither of them remembered their names.
No.
They were in a public square.
He had to stop.
She deserved better.
They had to stop.
Before he ruined her.
He pulled away, ending the kiss. “Wait.” They were both breathing heavily, the little gasping rhythm of her breath making him ache with need. He released her and stepped back, his entire body protesting. “We must stop.”
“Why?” The simple, pleading question nearly did him in. He deserved a medal for exercising such restraint.
God, he wanted her.
And it was becoming impossible to be near her without seriously threatening her reputation.
Threatening her reputation?
Her reputation would be shredded if anyone found them.
“Simon . . .” she said, and he hated the calm in her tone. “This is all we have. One evening.”
One evening.
It had sounded so simple an hour ago, when they were laughing and teasing and pretending to be other than who they were.
But now, as he stood in the darkness with her, he didn’t want to be someone else. He wanted to be him. And he wanted her to be her. And he wanted it to be enough.
But it wasn’t.
Neither was one evening.
He could not be near her any longer. Not without taking what he wanted. Not without ruining her.
And he would not ruin her.
So he said the only thing he could think to say, grateful for the darkness that kept her from seeing the truth in his eyes. That with a single word, she could have him on his knees, begging for her.
“The evening is over.”
She froze, and he hated himself.
Hated himself even more when she turned and fled.
Chapter Seventeen
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.