“You should not say such things.”
Her brows knitted together. “Why not?”
“It is inappropriate.” He knew the words were asinine even as he spoke them.
She gave a long-suffering sigh. “We’re rather past that, are we not?” When he did not reply, she pressed on, “Come now, Your Grace, you are not here on your horse, the sky still streaked with night, because you find riding merely agreeable. You are here because you agree that it feels wonderful.” He pressed his lips together in a thin line, and she gave a knowing little laugh that sent a shiver of awareness through him. She pulled on her glove, and he watched the movement—transfixed by the precise way she fitted the leather to the delicate web of her fingers. “You may deny it, but I saw it.”
He could not resist. “Saw what?”
“Envy.” She pointed a long finger at him in a gesture he should have found insolent. “Before you knew it was me on this horse . . . you wanted to be me. You wanted to give your horse full rein and ride . . . with passion.” With a flick of the reins, she pointed her horse toward the wide expanse of meadow, empty and waiting.
He watched her closely, unable to look away from her, from the way she fairly shimmered with energy and power.
He knew what was coming.
He was ready for it.
“I’ll race you to the Serpentine.” The words were a soft lilt of Italian, left hanging in the air behind her as she was already moving. Within seconds, she was at a full gallop.
Without thinking, he was after her.
His mount was faster, stronger, but Simon kept the creature in check, watching Juliana. She rode like a master, moving with her horse, leaning low over the mare’s neck. He could not hear, but he knew she was talking to the beast, giving her soft words of encouragement, of praise . . . gifting her with freedom to run as fast as she wished.
From his position two lengths behind, his eyes traced Juliana’s long, straight spine, the full curve of her backside, the way her thighs clenched and released, giving silent, irresistible commands to the horse beneath her.
Desire hit him hard and intense.
He rejected it almost instantly.
It was not her. It was the situation.
And then she looked back over her shoulder, her blue eyes glittering when she confirmed that he had followed her. That he was behind her. She laughed, the sound traveling on the biting wind and the early-morning sunshine, wrapping around him as she returned her attention to the race.
He gave his horse full rein, relinquishing control to the beast.
He passed her in seconds, beginning the wide arc that followed along a densely wooded area of the Park, leading down through the meadow to the curve of the Serpentine Lake. He gave himself up to the movement—to the way that the world tipped and slid away, leaving nothing but man and steed.
She was right.
It felt wonderful.
He looked back, unable to stop himself from looking for her, several lengths behind, and watched as she peeled off, guiding her mount off the path he had chosen, barely slowing down as she disappeared into the wooded thicket beyond.
Where in damnation was she headed?
He hauled up on the reins, his horse lifting off its front legs to follow the command, turning nearly in midair. And then he was after her, charging into the woods seconds behind her.
The morning sun had not reached beyond the trees, but the lack of light did not stop Simon from riding hard down the dimly lit path that had been barely visible from the meadow. Emotion rose in his throat, part fury, part fear, as the path twisted and turned, teasing him with glimpses of Juliana ahead.
He followed a particularly sharp turn and paused at the top of a long, shadowed straightaway, where she was urging her mount on, toward an enormous felled tree that blocked the path.
With terrifying clarity, he saw her purpose. She was going to jump it.
He called her name in a harsh shout, but she did not slow, did not turn back.
Of course she didn’t.
His heart stopped as horse and rider took to the air in perfect form, clearing the barrier with feet to spare. They landed and tore around a corner on the far side of the tree, and Simon swore, vivid and angry, and leaned into his mount, desperate to get to her.
Someone needed to take the girl in hand.
He cleared the tree trunk without concern, wondering how long she would keep him on this chase, each long stride of the horse beneath him making him more and more irate.
Coming around the turn, he pulled up hard on the reins.
There, in the middle of the path, was Juliana’s mare, calm and collected.
And riderless.
He leapt down from his horse before the animal had come to a full stop, calling her name once into the still morning air before he saw her, leaning against a tree to one side of the path, hands on her knees as she caught her breath, cheeks red with exertion and cold, eyes bright with excitement and something he did not have the patience to identify.
He stormed toward her. “You reckless female!” he thundered. “You could have killed yourself!”
She did not flinch in the face of his anger; instead, she smiled. “Nonsense. Lucrezia has leapt much higher, much more treacherous obstacles.”
He stopped mere feet from her, fists clenched. “I don’t care if she’s the devil’s own steed. You were asking to be hurt.”
She uncrossed her arms, spreading them wide. “But I am unharmed.”
The words did nothing to settle him. Instead, they made him more irritated. “I can see that.”
One side of her mouth tilted up in an expression many would have found endearing. He found it annoying. “I am more than unharmed. I am quite exhilarated. Did I not tell you we had twelve lives?”
“You cannot survive twelve scandals, though, and you are well on your way. Anyone could have found you.” He could hear the peevishness in his tone. He hated himself for it.
She laughed, the sound bright in the shadowed grove. “It’s been two minutes.”
“If I hadn’t followed you, you might have been set upon by thieves.”
“This early?”
“It might be late for them.”
She shook her head slowly, taking a step toward him. “But you did follow me.”
“But you did not know I would.” He did not know why it mattered. But it did.
She stepped closer, cautiously, as though he were a wild animal.
He felt like an animal. Out of control.
Simon took a deep breath and was inundated with her scent.
“Of course you were going to follow me.”
“Why would you think that?”
She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Because you wanted to.”
She was close enough to touch, and his fingers flexed at his side, itching to reach for her, to pull her to him and prove her right. “You’re wrong. I followed you to keep you from getting into more trouble.” She was looking up at him with her bright eyes and her full lips, curved in a small smile that promised endless secrets. “I followed you because your impulsiveness is a danger to yourself and others.”
“You are sure?”
The entire conversation was getting away from him. “Of course I am,” he said, casting about for proof. “I haven’t time for your little games, Miss Fiori. I’m to meet with Lady Penelope’s father today.”
Her gaze flickered away for the briefest of instants before returning to his. “You’d best be off, then. You would not want to miss such an important appointment.”
He read the dare in her eyes.
Go.
He wanted to.
He was going to.
One strand of long black hair had come loose from her cap, and he reached for it instinctively. He should have pushed it back from her face—should not have touched it to begin with—but once he had it in his grasp, he could not stop himself from wrapping it once, twice around his fist, watching it cut a swath across the soft leather of his riding glove, wishing he could feel the silken strand against his skin.
Her breath quickened, and his gaze fell to the rise and fall of her chest beneath her coat. The men’s clothing should have renewed his fury, but instead it sent a powerful rush of desire through him. A mere handful of buttons kept her from him—buttons that could easily be dispatched, leaving her in nothing but the linen of her shirt, which could be freed from breeches, providing access to soft female skin beyond.
His gaze returned to hers, and that’s when he saw it. Gone were the bold challenge and the smug satisfaction, replaced with something raw and powerful, immediately identifiable.
Desire.
Suddenly, he saw how he could regain control of the moment. Of himself.
“I think you wanted me to follow you.”
“I—” Her voice caught, and she stopped. He felt the heady triumph of a hunter who had spied his first prey. “I did not care.”
“Liar.” The word was whispered, low and dark in the heavy morning air. He tugged on the lock of hair, pulling her toward him, until mere inches separated them.
Her mouth opened on a quick intake of breath, stealing his attention.
And when he saw those wide lush lips barely parted, begging for him, he did not resist. He did not even try.
She tasted like spring.
The thought exploded through him as he settled his lips on hers, lifting his hands to cup her cheeks, tilting her toward him, affording him better access to her. He could have sworn she gasped his name . . . the sound soft and breathy and intoxicating as hell. He pulled her more tightly against him, pressing her to him. She came willingly, moving against him as though she knew what he wanted before he did.
And perhaps she did.
He ran his tongue along her full, bottom lip, and when she gasped at the sensation, he did not wait, taking her mouth again, stroking deep, thinking of nothing but her. And then she was kissing him back, matching his movements, and he was lost in the feel of her—her hands moving with torturous slowness along his arms until they finally, finally reached his neck, her fingers threading into his hair, the softness of her lips, and the maddening, magnificent little sounds she made at the back of her throat as he claimed her.
And it was a claiming—primitive and wicked.
She pressed closer to him, the swell of her br**sts pressing high on his chest, and pleasure flared. He deepened the kiss, running his hands down her back to pull her against him where he wanted her most. The breeches afforded her a freedom of movement that no skirts ever could have, and he palmed one long lovely thigh, hitching her leg up until she cradled the throbbing length of him at her warm core.
He broke the kiss on a soft groan as she rocked against him in a rhythm that set him aflame. “You are a sorceress.” In that moment, he was an innocent lad chasing after his first bit of skirt, desire and excitement and something far more base colliding deep within in a tumult of sensation.
He wanted her laid bare right here, on the dirt path at the center of Hyde Park, and he did not care who saw them.
He took the soft lobe of her ear between his teeth, worrying the flesh there until she called out high and clear, “Simon!”
The sound of his given name punctuating the quiet dawn brought him back to reality. He pulled back, dropping her leg as though it burned. He stepped away, breathing heavily, watching as confusion chased desire from her countenance.
She stumbled at the instant loss of him, unable to bear her own weight with so little warning. He reached out to catch her, to steady her.
The moment she regained her footing, she pulled her arm from his and took a long step backward. Her gaze shuttered, the emotion there cooling, and he wanted to kiss her again, to bring the desire back.
She turned away from him before he could act on the desire, heading for her mount, still at the center of the pathway. He watched, unmoving, as she lifted herself up into the saddle with practiced ease. She looked down at him from above with all the grace of a queen.
He should apologize.
He had mauled her in the middle of Hyde Park. If someone had come upon them—
She stopped the thought with her words. “It seems you are not so immune to passion as you think, Your Grace.”
And with a cool flick of her wrist she was off like a shot, her horse thundering up the path from which they had come.
He watched as she disappeared, listening for the break in the hoofbeats as she took the felled tree once more . . .
Hoping the fleeting silence would drown out the echo of his title on her lips.
Chapter Five
One never knows where ruffians might lurk.
Elegant ladies do not leave the house alone.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
Remarkable, is it not, the decisions that can be made over a still-smoking rifle?
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
The Marquess of Needham and Dolby took careful aim at a red grouse and pulled the trigger on his rifle. The report sounded loud and angry in the afternoon air.
“Damn. Missed it.”
Simon refrained from pointing out that the marquess had missed all five of the creatures at which he’d aimed since suggesting that they converse outside, “like men.”
The portly aristocrat took aim and fired once more, the sound sending a shiver of irritation through Simon. No one hunted in the afternoon. Certainly no one who was such a poor shot should be so interested in hunting in the afternoon.
“Blast it!”
Another miss. Simon had begun to fear for his own well-being. If the older man wanted to shoot up the gardens of his massive estate on the banks of the Thames, far be it from Simon to dissuade him of the activity, but he could not help but regret his proximity to such ineptitude.
Apparently, even the marquess had his limits. With a muttered curse, he passed the rifle off to a nearby footman and, hands clasped stoutly behind his back, started down a long, winding path away from the house. “All right, Leighton, we might as well get down to it. You want to marry my eldest.”