Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart

If he weren’t so furious with her for intruding on his space and his thoughts and his life, he might have laughed.

But he was too busy worrying that her brother might happily disembowel him if they were discovered in what would never be believed to be a coincidentally compromising position.

The woman was impossible.

And he was thrilled that she was there.

A problem, that.

“What are you doing following me down a darkened hallway?” she hissed.

“What are you doing heading down a darkened hallway?”

“I was attempting to find some peace!” She turned away, headed for the window, muttering in Italian. “In this entire city, is there a single place where I am not plagued with company?”

Simon did not move, taking perverse pleasure in her agitation. He should not be the only one to be rattled. “It is you who should not be here, not I.”

“Why, does the house come with the bride?” she snapped before switching to English. “And how is it that you speak Italian so well?”

“I find it is not worth doing anything if one does not do it well.”

She offered him a long-suffering look. “Of course you would say that.”

There was a long silence. “Dante.”

“What about him?”

One side of his mouth lifted at her peevishness. “I have a fondness for him. And so, I learned Italian.”

She turned to him, her black hair gleaming silver, the long column of her throat porcelain in the moonlight. “You learned Italian for Dante.”

“Yes.”

She returned her attention to the gardens beyond the window. “I suppose I should not be surprised. Sometimes I think the ton is a layer of hell.”

He laughed. He could not help it. She was magnificent sometimes. When she was not infuriating.

“Shouldn’t you be out there instead of here, sulking about in the darkness?”

“I think you mean skulking.” She need not know how close she was to the truth in her error.

She set the sheet music on the stand with a huff of irritation. “Fine. Skulking. It is a silly word, anyway.”

It was a silly word, but he found he liked the way she said it.

He liked the way she said many things.

Not that he had any right to.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked.

She sat on the piano bench, squinting into the darkness, trying to see him. “I wanted to be alone.”

He was taken aback by her honesty. “Why?”

She shook her head. “It’s not important.”

Suddenly, nothing in the world seemed so important. He stood, knowing he should not move closer to her.

Moved closer to her anyway.

“The gossip,” he said. Of course it was the gossip. She would certainly bear the brunt of it.

She gave a little half laugh, making room for him on the piano bench. The movement was so natural—as though she hadn’t thought for a moment.

As though he belonged there.

He sat, knowing it was a terrible idea.

Knowing nothing good could come of his being this close to her.

“Apparently, I am not her daughter, but rather a cunning gypsy who has pulled the linen over your eyes.” She smiled at the words, finally meeting his gaze.

She might have been a gypsy then, with streaks of silver moonlight in her hair, and a soft, sad smile in her beautiful blue eyes turned black with the night. She was bewitching.

He swallowed. “Wool.”

She was confused. “Wool?”

“Pulled the wool over our eyes,” he corrected, his fingers itching to touch her, to smooth back a curl that had come loose at her temple. “You said linen.”

She tilted her head, the column of her throat lengthening as she considered the words. “In Italian, it is lana. I was confused.”

“I know.” He was feeling confused himself.

She sighed. “I shall never be one of you.”

“Because you cannot tell the difference between linen and wool?” he teased. He did not want her to be sad. Not now. Not in this quiet moment before everything changed.

She smiled. “Among other things.” Their gazes met for a long moment and he steeled himself against the desire to touch her. To run his fingers across her smooth skin and pull her close and finish what they had started the night before. She must have sensed it, because she broke the connection, turning away. “So you are betrothed.”

He didn’t want to discuss it. Didn’t want it to be real. Not here.

“I am.”

“And the announcement shall be made tonight.”

“It shall.”

She met his gaze. “You will have your perfect English marriage after all.”

He leaned back, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “You are surprised?”

One shoulder lifted in an elegant shrug. He was coming to like those shrugs that spoke volumes. “The game was never one I could win.”

He was surprised. “Are you admitting defeat?”

“I suppose so. I release you from the wager.”

It was precisely what he had expected her to do. What he’d wanted her to do. “That does not sound like the warrior I have come to know.”

She gave him a small wry smile. “Not so much a warrior any longer.”

His brows snapped together. “Why not?”

“I—” She stopped.

He would have given his entire fortune to hear the rest of the sentence. “You—?” he prompted.

“I came to care too much about the outcome.”

He froze, watching her, taking in the way her throat worked as she swallowed, the way she fiddled with a piece of trim on her rose-colored gown. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” She did not meet his gaze. Instead, shaking her head once more. “I am sorry that you felt that you had to watch over me. I am sorry that Gabriel hit you. I am sorry that I came to be something you . . . regret.”

Regret.

The word was a blow more painful than anything Ralston had delivered.

He had felt many things for her in the past week . . . in the past months. But regret had never been one of them.

“Juliana—” Her name came out like gravel as he reached for her, knowing that when he had her in hand, he might not let her go.

She stood before he could touch her. “It would be a problem if we were discovered. I must go.”

He stood, too. “Juliana. Stop.”

She turned, taking a step back, into the darkness, placing herself just out of reach. “We are not to speak. Not to see each other,” she rattled, as though the words could build a wall between them.

“It is too late for that.” He stepped toward her. She stepped back. “Ralston will be looking for me.”

He advanced. “Ralston can wait.”

She hurried backward. “And you have a fiancée to claim.”

“She can wait as well.”

She stopped, finding her strength. “No she can’t.”

He did not want to talk about Penelope.

He met her, toe-to-toe. “Explain yourself.” The whisper was low and dark.

“I—” She looked down, giving him the top of her head. He wanted to bury his face in those curls, in the smell and feel of her.

But first, she would explain herself.

She did not speak for an eternity—so long that he thought she might not. And then she took a deep breath, and said, “I told you not to make me like you.” The words were full of defeat.

“You like me?” She looked up, her blue eyes reflecting the light from the window behind him, and he caught his breath at her beauty. He lifted a hand, ran the backs of his fingers across her cheek. She closed her eyes at the caress.

“Yes.” The whisper was plaintive and soft, barely audible. “I don’t know why. You’re a horrible man.” She leaned into him. “You’re arrogant and irritating, and you have a tem

per.”

“I do not have a temper,” he said, lifting her face toward him, so he could look his fill. She opened her eyes and gave him a look of complete disbelief, and he amended, “Only when I am around you.”

“You think you are the most important man in all of England,” she continued, her voice a thread of sound in the darkness, punctuated by little catches in her words as his fingers trailed along the line of her jaw. “You think you’re right all the time. You think you know everything . . .”

Her skin was so soft.

He should leave the room. It was wrong for him to be here with her. If they were caught, she would be ruined, and he would have no choice but to leave her in ruin. He had been engaged mere hours.

This was all wrong.

He should go.

A gentleman would go.

“You covered all that with ‘arrogant.’ ” He traced the column of her neck.

“I—” She gasped as he pressed a soft kiss to the base of her throat. “I thought you might need further explanation.”

“Mmm,” he spoke against the skin of her shoulder. “An excellent point. Go on.”

She took a deep breath as his lips and tongue played up the side of her neck. “What were we discussing?”

He smiled at her ear before he took the soft, velvety lobe between his teeth. “You were telling me all the reasons that you should not like me.”

“Oh . . .” The word turned into a little moan as he tongued the sensitive skin of her ear. She clutched his forearms at the sensation. “Yes. Well. Those are the major reasons.”

“And yet, you like me anyway.” He moved, pressing soft kisses along the edge of her gown, easing down the smooth expanse of skin there, her chest rising and falling as she gasped for breath. She did not reply for a long while, and he slid a finger beneath the silk, stroking, seeking, until he found what he was looking for, hard and ready for him. “Juliana?”

“Yes, damn you, I like you.”

He rewarded her by pulling the gown down and baring the rose-tipped breast to the moonlight. “There’s something you should know,” he whispered, the words coming from far away.

“Yes?”

He blew a long stream of cool air across her puckered nipple, loving the way it tightened more, begging for his mouth.

He would taste her tonight.

Once, before he went back to his staid, respectable existence.

Just once.

A rush of pleasure coursed through him, and he grew hard and heavy at the thought.

“Simon”—she sighed—“you torture me.”

He palmed one of her perfect breasts, rolling his thumb across its tip, reveling in the way she gave herself up to sensation.

“What is it?” she asked, the words broken around her pleasure.

“What is it?” he repeated.

“What should I know?”

He smiled at the question, dragging his gaze up to meet hers—heavy-lidded and gorgeous.

One more taste of her. One last taste.

“I like you, too.”

Chapter Twelve

Music is the sound of the gods.

The delicate lady plays the pianoforte to perfection.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

We are assured that there is still time for the wedding of the season . . .

—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823

He lifted her in his arms, turned, and carried her back to the piano bench. Setting her down on the hard wooden seat, he came to his knees before her, cupping her face and tilting her to receive his kiss.

His hands came to her breasts, lifted them, bared them, stroked across their peaks, pinching lightly until she gasped, and he rewarded the sound, giving her everything she had not known she wanted. She whispered his name as he suckled the pebbled tip of one breast, sending excitement coursing through her. She plunged her fingers into his lush golden curls, holding him to the spot where he wreaked havoc on her flesh and her emotions.

He groaned at the feel of her hands in his hair, and the sound rippled through her like pleasure.

She knew she should not allow it.

Knew she risked everything.

Did not care.

As long as he did not stop.

He clasped her to him, worshipping her with lips and tongue and the wicked hint of teeth as his hands stroked down the length of her, pressing her closer and closer to him, until she thought they might become one.

“Simon . . .” she whispered his name and he stopped, lifting his head, his eyes flashing with heat.

“God, Juliana,” he reached out one hand, stroking down one side of her cheek, and she turned her head impulsively, placing a warm, soft kiss on the pad of his thumb, tracing a circle there with her tongue before biting the flesh softly.

He growled at the sensation, pulling her to him for a kiss that was more claiming than caress. When he ended it, they were both breathing heavily, and her hands had found their way inside his topcoat to stroke his broad, firm chest.

“I want . . .” she started, the words breaking off as he returned his attention to her breasts, taking a nipple between his lips, rolling the tight peak between tongue and teeth until she could not think.

When he released her, he flashed a wolfish grin, and she could not help but reach out for him, letting her fingers play across his lips—as though touching the elusive smile could burn it into her memory. He took the tip of one finger into his mouth, sucking on it until she gasped. “What do you want, love?”

The endearment curled between them, and she was struck by a pang of longing . . . she wanted him. For more than a stolen moment in this dark, private place . . . for more than two weeks . . .

I want you to want me.

To choose me.

“Come closer.” She spread her legs, knowing that she was being wanton. Knowing that if they were caught, she would be ruined, and he would walk away to be with his future bride. But she did not care. She wanted to feel him against her. She did not care that there were layers of fabric between them. Did not care that they would never be as close as she wanted.

His eyes closed briefly as though he were steeling himself against her, and she thought for a moment that he might refuse. But when he opened them, she saw desire flare there in the stunning amber depths, then he groaned his pleasure and gave her what she wanted, pressing closer.

“You are my siren,” he said, running his hands along her thighs and down her calves, feeling the shape of her even as the silk of her gown kept them both from what they wanted. “My temptress . . . my sorceress . . . I cannot resist you, no matter how I try. You threaten to send me over the edge.”

His hands came to her ankles, and she flinched at the instant, intense pleasure of his touch. Her eyes widened. “Simon, I don’t—”

“Shh,” he said, as his hands smoothed slowly up the inside of her legs, setting her stockings aflame. “I’m showing you what I mean.”

His fingertips reached the lacy, scalloped edge of the stockings high on her thigh, and they both groaned at the feel of skin on skin. She snapped her legs closed, trapping his hands between her warm thighs.

She couldn’t.

He shouldn’t.

He leaned forward and placed his forehead on hers. “Juliana, let me touch you.”

How could she resist such temptation?

She relaxed, opening her thighs, knowing that she was a wanton.

Not caring.

He smiled, his hands climbing higher and higher. “You are not wearing drawers.”

She shook her head, barely able to speak through the anticipation. “I don’t like them. We don’t—in Italy.”

He took her mouth in a wicked kiss. “Have I mentioned how I adore the Italians?”

The sentiment, so counter to every argument they’d ever had, made her laugh. Then his fingers reached her core, feathering over the soft hair there, parting, seeking, and sending a shock of sensation through her. And the laug

h turned to a moan.

His mouth was at her ear now, and he whispered wicked things as his fingers sought. Found. She did not know what she wanted. Only that—

“Simon . . .” she whispered.

He slid one finger deep into her core, and she closed her eyes at the caress, leaning back at the sensation, the piano keys sighing beneath her movement.

“Yes,” she whispered, embarrassed and bold all at once.

“Yes,” he repeated, as a second finger joined the first, and his thumb did wicked, wonderful things, circling the secret folds of her.

She bit her lip. “Stop . . . don’t stop.”

His grin was wide and wicked. “Which one?”

He stroked deep, and she grasped his arm tightly, whispering. “Don’t. Don’t stop.”

He shook his head, watching her. “I couldn’t if I tried.” Holding her gaze, he worked her in time with the movement of her hips, with the soft discordant tinkling of the piano keys beneath her. Everything faded except the feel of him, the strong, corded muscles of his arms, the magnificent way he touched her, driving her harder and faster toward something she did not understand and did not entirely trust.

She sat straight up, and he was there, one hand capturing her face, holding her to his lips. “I am here,” he whispered against her.

Was he, really?

She stiffened, shaking her head, rocketing toward pleasure. “No. Simon . . .”

“Take it, Juliana.” The demand crashed through her, so imperious that she could not follow it. She gasped at the pleasure, and he took her lips again, feeding her unbearable desire for more, for him where she ached and needed more than she would ever imagine, his beautiful amber gaze her anchor in the storm.

When he had wrung the last of her pleasure from her, he placed a soft kiss on the high arch of one cheek and righted her skirts, pulling her to him as she regained her strength. He held her there, quiet and unmoving for long minutes. Five. Maybe more.

Before she remembered where they were.