—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.
If she proceeded, at long last, her actions would be as scandalous as society had always expected them to be. And she would likely pay.
But she would not regret.
Indeed, if she did not take her one night . . . she would regret it forever.
She took a deep breath and opened the door.
The only light in the room was from the fireplace, and it took Juliana a moment to see Simon, standing by the fire, tumbler of scotch in hand, dressed only in his boots and breeches and pristine white shirtsleeves.
He spun toward the door as she closed it firmly behind her, the shock on his face quickly replaced with something more dangerous. “What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping toward her before stopping midstride, as though he had hit an invisible wall.
She took a deep breath. “The night is not over, Simon. You owe me the rest.”
He closed his eyes, and she thought he might be asking for patience. “Tell me you are not in this room with me. Tell me you are not here wearing nothing but your nightclothes.”
He opened his eyes, and his gaze found her, warm and liquid, like honey. It seared through her, reminding her of how much she loved his heat, his touch, his kiss . . . him.
She could not live the rest of her life without this moment . . . this night . . . without knowing what it was like to be his.
It was now or never. And there was no time for hesitation.
She put her hands to the sash of her silk robe and undid it in quick, economical movements, before he could stop her. Before she could stop herself.
One night.
Calling the siren in her, she said, “I am not wearing nightclothes, Simon.”
She let the silk drop to her feet in a lush sapphire pool.
As Simon took in her stunning, bare body, all long and lush and perfectly beautiful, he was not thinking that she was a staggering beauty, although she absolutely was.
He was also not thinking that he should resist her—that he should pack her back into the silk bit of nothing that she had discarded and return her to her bedchamber—although he absolutely should have done so.
Nor was he thinking that he should forget this had ever happened, because in all honesty, he knew an exercise in futility when faced with one. And he would never, ever forget this moment.
The moment when he realized that she was going to be his.
The truth of the words was almost unbearable as he watched her facing him—bold and brave and perfect, and willing him to take what she offered.
She was here. And she was na**d.
And she loved him.
He had neither the will nor the strength to turn her away—not when he wanted her so much.
There wasn’t a man on earth who could resist her.
And he was through trying.
Everything would change.
The words whispered through his mind, and he was not sure if they were a warning or a promise. But he no longer cared.
She stood proud and still, facing him, her beautiful skin gleaming in the flickering golden light, casting wicked, enticing shadows across her. She had taken down her hair, and it cocooned her, all ebony curls wrapping about her shoulders and high, firm br**sts as though she were a classical painting and not real at all.
Her hands were by her side, fingers clenched as if she were consciously trying not to cover the perfect, dark triangle that hid her most tempting secrets. He nearly groaned at the perfection of her.
She was a sacrificial offering at the temple of his sanity.
She took a deep breath, letting it out on a long, shaky sigh, and he noticed her trembling—the soft skin of her lush, curving belly, the hesitant rise and fall of her breasts, the tremor in her throat.
She was nervous.
He dropped the glass in his hand to the floor, not caring where it landed or what it ruined—caring only about reaching her.
And then he was holding her, lifting her against him, and she had wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and plunged her fingers into his hair, and his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was rough and searing, and she matched his need; where he went, she followed, opening for him, giving him everything for which he asked with a series of little, wanton sighs that set him aflame.
She was his.
He tore his lips from her, giving her scant space to breathe. “If you stay . . . you give yourself to me.”
She had to understand that. Had to make her own decision.
She nodded, eyes heavy with desire. “Yes. I am yours.”
He shook his head, knowing he had seconds before his passion took over, and they were both lost. “Leave now if you have any doubts.”
There was a pause, and the need to possess her coursed through him, thick and unforgiving and earth-shattering. Her gaze cleared, blue and beautiful. “I have no doubts, Simon.” She leaned close, her lips barely touching his, threatening to drive him mad. “Show me everything.”
His control snapped, and he no longer cared. He was overwhelmed with a primitive desire as he kissed her again and again, his hands running over her warm, endlessly smooth skin, pressing her to him, clasping her full, round bottom in his hands.
He pulled away enough to speak. “You are mine,” he said, and he heard the lack of control in the words. Didn’t care. What he felt for her in that moment was utterly unrefined. “Mine,” he repeated, refusing to let her have the kiss she was reaching for until she looked into his eyes. “Mine.”
“Yes,” she said, rocking into him, her heat against the length of him making him wild. “I am yours.”
He rewarded her with another kiss.
God, he loved kissing her. Loved her taste, her enthusiasm, the way she set him on fire with the stroke of her tongue. When he pulled back just briefly to meet her eyes again—stunningly blue with her desire—she shook her head almost instantly. “I am yours,” she repeated, taking his bottom lip between her teeth and pulling him back into the kiss. He groaned at the roughness, punctuated by the soft, unbearably wanton stroke of her tongue over the spot where her teeth had been.
She was his siren. Had been from the beginning.
Gone was the refined duke who had turned her away in the town square—who had sent her back to her family with all the gentlemanly restraint befitting his position. In his place was a mere man—flesh and blood and starving.
And she was his banquet.
He carried her to the bed, knowing that everything was about to change and failing to care. He followed her down to the crisp linen sheets, pressing between her long, warm thighs and taking her mouth again and again, whispering to her between kisses in both English and Italian.
“My siren . . . carina . . . so soft . . . so beautiful . . . che bella . . . che bellissima.”
She writhed beneath him, pressing and rocking against him as her hands yanked on the linen of his shirt, pulling the garment up until she had access to bare skin. And then her fingers were on him, leaving trails of fire along his back, and he thought he might die if he could not get closer to her. He lifted off her, hissing his pleasure as the movement pressed him—hard and thick—against the softest, warmest part of her.
Looking down at her, he took in her wide, kiss-stung lips, her flushed cheeks, and her enormous blue eyes, filled with desire. Her hands traced around to his stomach and pushed up under the shirt, running over his chest until one wayward thumb found a nipple and he gasped.
Wicked knowledge flashed in her gaze, and she did it again once, twice, before he whispered, “You are killing me,” and leaned down to take her mouth once more.
When he lifted his head again, she said, “Take it off. I want to be closer. As close as possible.” And he thought he would drown in the heat of the words.
The shirt was gone instantly, and he took her mouth again, stroking deep before he rolled off her to give himself access to her lush body. She cried out at the loss of him, reaching for him before he captured her hands and pulled them over her head, holding them easily in one of his. “No. You are mine,” he said, his free hand trailing down to stroke the tip of one beautiful breast, teasing until it was hard and begging for his mouth. “You came to me,” he whispered at her ear, tonguing the soft lobe there. “Why, Siren?”
“I—” she began, stopping when he rolled the tip of one breast between his fingers.
“Why?” he repeated, desperate to hear her answer.
“I wanted the night . . .” she gasped.
“Why?” He trailed his lips down her throat, dipped his tongue into the hollow at its base.
“I—” She stopped as he pressed soft kisses to the skin of her breast, leaving a trail as he headed toward the aching tip. “Simon . . .” the whisper was a plea. God, he loved the sound of his name on her lips. He blew one long stream of air over the nipple, reveling in the tightening of the skin and her gasp. “Please . . .”
“Why did you come to me?”
Say it, he willed, knowing it was not his place. Knowing he did not deserve it.
“I love you.”
A thrill coursed through him at the words, so simple. So honest. He took the straining tip between his lips, rewarding her with long pulls at the sweet flesh there. Loving the way she writhed against him, the way she cried out when he ran his tongue and teeth over her sensitive flesh, the way her hands twisted so that her fingers could thread through his.
When he lifted his head, they were both breathing heavily, and he was desperate to touch her everywhere.
To taste her everywhere.
“Again.”
“I love you.”
He released her hands, sliding down her body, placing warm kisses along her br**sts and stomach and the soft crease where her thigh and hip met and the scent of her was unbearably perfect.
He was addicted to her softness, to the feel of her, to the way she pressed against the sheets and rocked her h*ps against him. He had never wanted anything in his life the way he wanted her. Now.
And she was here.
And she was his.
Simon slid off the bed, kneeling beside it. She sat up, instantly. “Where are you—?” The question gave way to a little squeak when he pulled her closer to the edge of the bed, letting her legs hang over the side, and stroked up her smooth soft skin from ankle to knee. He watched his hands, large and brown, follow the curve of her legs, and could not resist palming her strong, lean calves and easing her legs apart.
“What are you—? Simon!” she gasped, and he leaned forward, insinuating his body between her thighs. Her hands flew to cover the place he was desperate to touch, and he nipped the edge of her jaw lightly with his teeth.