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.”
Chapter Ten
Hay and horses make for unpleasant eau de toilette.
The stables are no place for a exquisite lady.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
Across our great nation, vicars draft sermons on the prodigal son . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
Juliana had been enthralled by him as he’d crossed the stall, stalking her until she could go no farther, caging her with his long arms, and touching her—giving her the contact that she had not known she yearned for until that moment. And his voice, that low, dark rumble of whiskey and velvet, had scrambled her thoughts, making her forget why she was here in this dark stable to begin with.
He had hovered there, a breath away, waiting for her. Waiting as though he could have stood for hours, for days, while she considered her options, while she decided what to do next.
But she did not need days or hours.
She barely needed seconds.
She did not know what would happen later that evening or tomorrow or next week. She did not know what she wanted to happen. Except this. She wanted him. She wanted this moment, in the darkened stables. She wanted a heartbeat of passion that would last her through whatever was to come.
He was enormous, his wide shoulders blocking out the dim light from the lantern on the wall of the stables, casting him into harsh, wicked shadow. She could not see his eyes but imagined their amber depths flashing with barely contained passion.
Perhaps it was not the case . . . but she preferred to believe that he could not get enough of her.
She placed her hands on him, feeling her way up his arms, reveling in the way that his muscles rippled beneath the wool of his coat, wishing that there were less fabric between them. Her fingers traced over broad, tense shoulders, to his neck, where she finally, finally connected with warm, soft skin. He bent his head as she tangled her hands in his soft, golden curls, either to afford her better access or because he no longer had the strength to resist.
She liked the idea of the latter.
His lips were at her ear now, his breath coming in ragged bursts, and she delighted in the sound, so contrary to his normal, cool countenance.
“You do not sound bored.”
He gave a harsh laugh and tortured her with a whisper at her ear. “If I had a hundred years to describe how I feel right now, bored would not make an appearance.”
She turned her head at the words, her gaze colliding with his. “Be careful, Simon. You shall make me like you. And then where will we be?”
He did not answer, and she waited for him to close the distance between them. Marveled at his control when he did not. His endless, unwavering control.
She could not match it. Did not try.
She pressed her lips to his and gave herself up to his kiss.
The moment their lips touched, Simon moved. He inhaled deeply and wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in the heat and strength and scent of him—fresh lemon and tobacco flower.
He pulled her closer, his grip strong and powerful, his hands setting her aflame. There was something different about this kiss from the one that morning in Hyde Park . . . that had been a kiss of frustration and fury, fear and anger.
This kiss was an exploration.
It sought and found, chased and captured. It was a kiss that suggested they had an eternity during which to learn each other, and when his tongue ran rough-smooth across her bottom lip, sending wave after wave of sensation rocketing through her, she hoped they did have an eternity. Surely, it would take that long for her to tire of this. Of him. She gasped at the feel of him, so powerful, so wicked.
He lifted his head at the sound, his shadowed eyes searching hers. “Is this . . .”
Her fingers stretched into his soft golden curls, pulling him back to her. “It is perfect.”
He growled his satisfaction at her answer, moving his hands to cup her face in his palms, tilting her head to the perfect angle, and taking her mouth in a single stark claiming that stole her breath. As he tormented her with deep, luxurious kisses that made it impossible to think or speak or do anything but feel.
Her legs turned to water, and he caught her, lifting her off her feet as though she weighed nothing at all. She met his force with her own, desperate to wrap around him even as her legs became tangled in silk and cotton. She kicked out, nearly hitting him in the shin, and he lifted his mouth from hers, curious.
“There is too much fabric in these damned gowns,” she said, frustrated.
He set her down and one strong, warm hand stroked down her neck to the wide bare expanse of skin there. “I find there is the right amount in certain places.” He ran one finger along the edge of her dress, setting her skin on fire. “This gown is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
She pressed toward him, unable to stop herself. Knowing that it was utterly wanton behavior. “I had it made for you.” She kissed him again, nipping his bottom lip before she added, “I thought you would like it. I thought you would not be able to resist it.”
“You thought right. But, I am coming to see your point. Entirely too much fabric.” And then he pulled the edge of the gown down, revealing the pebbled, aching tip of one breast. “So beautiful.” The whisper was dark and velvet, and she watched as he traced a single finger in a circle there once, twice. Then the finger moved, tilting her chin up to meet his dark gaze. “Yes or no?”
It was an imperious question, spoken as though he was gifting her with one fleeting moment to decide what she wanted before he took the lead once more and she tumbled, headfirst, into the world of which he was master.
“Yes,” she whispered, her fingers threading into his hair and pulling him to her. “Yes, Simon.”
Something flashed, dark and unhinged in his eyes, and he lowered his head, taking her lips in a searing kiss before he tracked his lips down her throat and across the pale skin of her breast. Her fingers flexed in his curls.