Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart by Sarah MacLean
She looked up, through her long, ebony lashes, and he was struck by her lush beauty. A man could spend a lifetime looking at her.
“I don’t withdraw.”
His pulse pounded at the words, and he wished they were anywhere but here, in this crowded square, with her brother and half of Yorkshire within shouting distance.
He stood, knowing that if he did not, he would not be responsible for his actions. Reaching down, he offered her a hand and pulled her to her full height. He was awash in the smell of her—that strange, exotic blend of red currants and basil. She lifted her face to his, the orange glow of the bonfire flickering across her skin, and he saw the emotion in her gaze, knew that if he took her lips here—in this public place—in front of everyone, she would not push him away.
The temptation was acute.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered what would happen if he did it—if he branded her as his here, in the middle of this country square. It would change everything in an instant. Honor would demand that they marry, and Georgiana’s scandal would take second place to the Duke of Leighton’s throwing over the daughter of a double marquess to wed an Italian merchant’s daughter of questionable legitimacy.
But he would have Juliana.
And in that instant, it almost felt that it would be enough.
He could do it; her mouth was mere inches from his, all softness and temptation, and all he had to do was close the distance between them. And she would be his.
He watched as the tip of her pink tongue stroked along her lower lip, and desire lanced through him. When she spoke, her voice was light and casual. “Shall we walk some more?”
She didn’t feel it, the twisting, unbearable need that roiled inside him.
He cleared his throat, taking a moment to draw out the sound in the hopes that his head would clear as well.
“Of course,” he said, and she was off, leaving him to trail behind her like the tragic pup that he had become. He was never more grateful than when she led him back to the line of stalls; he was more stable when near other people, when moving, when he did not feel her heat along the length of him.
She lifted her chin to the night air as they walked, taking a deep breath and letting it out on a long sigh. “I think I could like the country.”
He was surprised by the statement; she had such energy about her that this quiet, country village did not seem to suit. “You prefer it to London?”
She smiled and he saw the self-deprecation in the gesture. “I think it prefers me.”
“I think you belong in London.”
She shook her head. “Not anymore. At least, not for the rest of the year. I think I shall stay here in Yorkshire. I like the ladies of Minerva House, Lucrezia likes to run on the heath, and I am ready to be done with the season.”
He hated the idea of leaving her in the country. Of returning to London—to his staid, boring life there—without her added excitement. Her vibrancy was lost here amid the fields and the sheep. She should be riding through the morning mist in Hyde Park, waltzing through society ballrooms, draped in silks and satins.
With him.
He caught his breath at the vision that flashed, Juliana on his arm, holding court over society. Impossible.
She stopped at the opening to one booth, trailing her fingers along the green lace edge of a simple bonnet. He watched her smooth, delicate nail scrape along the brim, wondered how that finger would feel scraping along his neck . . . his shoulders . . . down his torso . . .
He grew instantly hard and shifted, thankful for the darkness, but did not look away, fascinated by the way she stroked the hat. Finally, when he could not bear watching her fondle the headpiece a moment longer, he drew a pouch of coins from his pocket and said to the shopkeeper, “I should like to buy the bonnet for the lady.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You cannot.”
But the man in the stall had already taken the coin. “Would you like to wear it, milady?”
She ignored him, looking up into Simon’s gaze. “It’s not done. You cannot buy me clothing.”
He lifted the bonnet from where it lay and tossed an extra coin to the salesman. Holding it out to Juliana, he said, “I thought we drank the potion?”
She looked at the hat for a long moment, and he thought she might not take it. When she did, he let out a long breath that he had not known he was holding.
“And besides,” he teased, “I promised to buy you a bonnet to replace the one you lost.”
He watched as the memory played over in her mind. Remembered the feel of her, cold and shivering in his arms. Wished he had not brought it up.
“If memory serves, Mr. Pearson—” She hesitated, turning the bonnet in her hands, and he warmed at her use of the evening’s pseudonym. “You offered to buy me a dozen.”
He nodded once in mock seriousness and turned back to the keeper of the stall. “Do you have eleven more of these? Perhaps in other colors?”
The man’s eyes grew wide, and Juliana laughed, grasping his arm and tugging him away from the booth. She smiled wide at the salesman. “He does not mean it. Apologies.”
The man’s eyes lit up. “ ’Tis Bonfire Night, milady, something about burning the Guy makes us all a mite mad.”
As they walked away, Simon said, “I would have said a mite more amusing.”
“Six of one, a half a dozen of the other when it comes to your sex,” she said drily, and it was his turn to laugh.
They had gone several yards when she slowed down once more, casting him a sideways look before returning her attention to the bonnet in her hands. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure.”
And it had been. He wanted to buy her a hundred hats. And cloaks and gowns and horses and saddles and pianofortes and whatever else she wanted. Whatever made her happy, he wanted her to have it in abundance.
So when she said, “I’m sorry,” and he heard the sadness in her tone, he did not like it at all.
He stopped, until she turned back to face him once more. “For what?”
One shoulder lifted in a tiny shrug. Lord, he was coming to adore those shrugs. “For all of it. For being so difficult. For challenging you, and provoking you, and sending you inappropriate, unwanted notes, and for angering you and frustrating you and making this all so . . . difficult.” She met his gaze, and he saw the honesty and contrition in her enormous blue eyes.
She shook her head once, before continuing. “I did not know, Simon . . . I did not know that you had such reason to be so concerned for propriety and reputation. Had I known . . .” She trailed off, looking over his shoulder at the bonfire, as though looking at him might be too painful. And then she whispered, “Had I known, I never would have made the silly challenge. I never would have pushed you so far.”
The words were so soft, if the breeze had been blowing in another direction, he would not have heard them. Would not have heard the sadness in them.
“I am sorry.”
They were at the far end of the green now, where the line of stalls ended, and Simon did not think twice about pulling her farther into the darkness, around the last booth and into a cluster of trees in the corner of the square.
“I thought we agreed that tonight was for simplicity,” he said, the words soft in the privacy of the space—the trees giving them cover of darkness, the flickering light and sounds of the bonfire far enough away that everything seemed like a dream.
As though they really had taken a magic potion.
As though tonight was different.
He felt rather than saw her shake her head. “But it’s not, really, is it? You are still a duke, and I . . . well, I am who I am.”
“No, Juliana,” he whispered, stepping closer, lifting a hand to cup her chin and tilt her face toward him. “Not tonight.”
He wished he could see her face.
“Yes, even tonight. Not even magic can unmake us, Simon. We are too well formed.” Her voice wrapped around him, filled with emotion, making him
He didn’t want her to take it back.
“I wish I could go back and choose a different carriage.”
Irrational jealousy flared at the idea of this alternate reality, where another man had found her on the floor of his carriage.
She was his.
The wave of possessiveness was unsettling, and he released her as he attempted to control it.
She misunderstood his movement and stepped back, putting distance between them. He felt the loss of her keenly. “It is two weeks today, did you know that?”
He had not thought of the bargain in days. Not since he’d left for Yorkshire. He did a quick calculation of time. “Two weeks tonight. Yes.”
And you have kept your promise to show me passion.
He did not say the words. Did not have a chance to.
“I have not brought you to your knees.”
She’d done worse. It felt like she’d ripped his heart from his chest.
“Somewhere, my plan went wrong,” she said, her voice so soft he could barely hear it in the darkness. “Because instead of your discovering that passion is everything, I discovered that passion is nothing without love.”
What was she saying?
Was it possible she . . .
He reached for her, his fingers brushing her arms as she pulled away, retreating farther into the darkness. “What does that mean?”
A little, humorless laugh sounded, and he wanted desperately to see her face.
“Juliana?” He could barely make out her silhouette in the darkness.
“Don’t you see, Simon?” There was a tremor in her voice, and he hated it. “I love you.”
It was not until he heard the words on her tongue, in her beautiful, lyric accent, that he realized how very much he had wanted her to say them. She loved him. The thought washed over him, pleasure and pain, and all he could think was that he would die if she wasn’t in his arms.
He wanted nothing more than to hold her.
He did not know what would come after that, but it was a beginning.
She loved him.
Her name on his lips, he moved toward her, certain that for this moment—this evening—she was his.
He pulled her into his arms, and she struggled against his grip. “No. Let me go.”
“Say it again,” he said; he’d never wanted anything so much. He had no right to it. But he wanted it anyway.
“No.” He heard the regret in her tone. “I should not have said it to begin with.”
He smiled. He couldn’t help it. “Obstinate female.” He pulled her closer, one hand following the delicate curve of her throat, tilting her face toward his. “Say it again.”
“No.”
He kissed her, taking her lips with strength and purpose, and she yielded instantly to him. He groaned at her sweetness—the taste of wine and spice on her lips—but pulled back before he lost himself in her. “Say it again.”
She gave a little huff of displeasure. “I love you.”
He did not care that she sounded tortured. The words sent fire blazing through him. “With feeling, Siren.”
She hesitated, and he thought she might pull away before she seemed to give herself up to the moment, her hands on his arms, stroking up to the nape of his neck, fingers in his curls, stroking in that way that set him aflame. Her mouth was a hairsbreadth from his, and when she spoke, her voice was low and soft and perfect.
“Ti amo.”
And as she said the words in her native tongue, he heard the truth. And it slew him. In that moment, he would have given her anything she asked for . . . as long as she never stopped loving him.
“Kiss me again,” she whispered.
The request was unnecessary; his lips were already on hers.
Again and again he took her mouth, searching for the perfect angle, molding her against him and stroking deep in long, slow kisses that threatened his strength and his sanity. They kissed as though they had an eternity, long and languid, and she matched him move for move, rough when he was rough, gentle when he gentled.
She was perfect.
They were perfectly matched.
“Juliana,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice as he paused between kisses. “God, you are beautiful.”
She laughed, and the sound went straight to his core. “It is dark. You cannot see.”
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 breasts, 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.
<
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.