Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (2 page)

“I had little choice, you know.” She immediately hated herself for saying it aloud.

Especially to him.

He snapped his head toward her just as a lamppost in the street beyond cast a shaft of silver light through the carriage window, throwing him into stark relief. She tried not to notice him. Tried not to notice how every inch of him bore the mark of his excellent breeding, of his aristocratic history—the long, straight patrician nose, the perfect square of his jaw, the high cheekbones that should have made him look feminine but seemed only to make him more handsome.

She gave a little huff of indignation.

The man had ridiculous cheekbones.

She’d never known anyone so handsome.

“Yes,” he fairly drawled, “I can imagine it is difficult attempting to live up to a reputation such as yours.”

The light disappeared, replaced by the sting of his words.

She’d also never known anyone who was such a proper ass.

Juliana was thankful for her shadowy corner of the coach as she recoiled from his insinuation. She was used to the insults, to the ignorant speculation that came with her being the daughter of an Italian merchant and a fallen English marchioness who had deserted her husband and sons . . . and dismissed London’s elite.

The last was the only one of her mother’s actions for which Juliana had even a hint of admiration.

She’d like to tell the entire lot of them where they could put their aristocratic rules.

Beginning with the Duke of Leighton. Who was the worst of the lot.

But he hadn’t been at the start.

She pushed the thought aside. “I should like you to stop this carriage and let me out.”

“I suppose this is not going the way that you had planned?”

She paused. “The way I had . . . planned?”

“Come now, Miss Fiori. You think I do not know how your little game was to have been played out? You, discovered in my empty carriage—the perfect location for a clandestine assignation—on the steps of your brother’s ancestral home, during one of the best attended events in recent weeks?”

Her eyes went wide. “You think I am—”

“No. I
know
that you are attempting to trap me in marriage. And your little scheme, about which I assume your brother has no knowledge considering how asinine it is, might have worked on a lesser man with a lesser title. But I assure you it will not work on me. I am a
duke.
In a battle of reputation with you, I would most certainly win. In fact, I would have let you ruin yourself quite handily back at Ralston House if I were not unfortunately indebted to your brother at the moment. You would have deserved it for this little farce.”

His voice was calm and unwavering, as though he’d had this particular conversation countless times before, and she was nothing but a minor inconvenience—a fly in his tepid, poorly seasoned bisque, or whatever it was that aristocratic British snobs consumed with soup spoons.

Of all the arrogant, pompous . . .

Fury flared, and Juliana gritted her teeth. “Had I known this was
your
vehicle, I would have avoided it at all costs.”

“Amazing, then, that you somehow missed the large ducal seal on the outside of the door.”

The man was infuriating. “It is amazing, indeed, because I’m sure the seal on the outside of your carriage rivals your conceit in size! I assure you,
Your Grace
”—she spit the honorific as if it were an epithet—“if I were after a husband, I would look for one who had more to recommend him than a fancy title and a false sense of importance.” She heard the tremor in her voice but could not stop the flood of words pouring from her. “You are so impressed with your title and station, it is a miracle you do not have the word ‘Duke’ embroidered in silver thread on all of your topcoats. The way you behave, one would think you’d actually done something to earn the respect these English fools afford you instead of having been sired, entirely by chance, at the right time and by the right man, who I imagine performed the deed in exactly the same manner of all other men. Without finesse.”

She stopped, the pounding of her heart loud in her ears as the words hung between them, their echo heavy in the darkness.
Senza finezza.
It was only then that she realized that, at some point during her tirade, she had switched to Italian.

She could only hope that he had not understood.

There was a long stretch of silence, a great, yawning void that threatened her sanity. And then the carriage stopped. They sat there for an interminable moment, he still as stone, she wondering if they might remain there in the vehicle for the rest of time, before she heard the shifting of fabric. He opened the door, swinging it wide.

She started at the sound of his voice, low and dark and much much closer than she was expecting.

“Get out of the carriage.”

He spoke Italian.

Perfectly.

She swallowed. Well. She was not about to apologize. Not after all the terrible things that he’d said. If he was going to throw her from the carriage, so be it. She would walk home. Proudly.

Perhaps someone would be able to point her in the proper direction.

She scooted across the floor of the coach and outside, turning back and fully expecting to see the door swing shut behind her. Instead, he followed her out, ignoring her presence as he moved up the steps of the nearest town house. The door opened before he reached the top step.

As though doors, like everything else, bent to his will.

She watched as he entered the brightly lit foyer beyond, a large brown dog lumbering to greet him with cheerful exuberance.

Well. So much for the theory that animals could sense evil.

She smirked at the thought, and he turned halfway back almost instantly, as though she had spoken aloud. His golden curls were once more cast into angelic relief, as he said, “In or out, Miss Fiori. You are trying my patience.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he had already disappeared from view. And so she chose the path of least resistance.

Or, at least, the path that was least likely to end in her ruin on a London sidewalk in the middle of the night.

She followed him in.

As the door closed behind her and the footman hurried to follow his master to wherever masters and footmen went, Juliana paused in the brightly lit entryway, taking in the wide marble foyer and the gilded mirrors on the walls that only served to make the large space seem more enormous. There were half a dozen doors leading this way and that, and a long, dark corridor that stretched deeper into the town house.

The dog sat at the bottom of the wide stairway leading to the upper floors of the home, and under his silent canine scrutiny, Juliana was suddenly, embarrassingly aware of the fact that she was in a man’s home.

Unescorted.

With the exception of a dog.

Who had already been revealed to be a poor judge of character.

Callie would not approve.
Her sister-in-law had specifically cautioned her to avoid situations of this kind. She feared that men would take advantage of a young Italian female with little understanding of British stricture.

“I’ve sent word to Ralston to come and fetch you. You may wait in the—”

She looked up when he stopped short, and met his gaze, which was clouded with something that, if she did not know better, might be called concern.

She did, however, know better.

“In the—?” she prompted, wondering why he was moving toward her at an alarming pace.

“Dear God. What happened to you?”

“S
omeone attacked you.”

Juliana watched as Leighton poured two fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler and walked the drink to where she sat in one of the oversized leather chairs in his study. He thrust the glass toward her, and she shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“You should take it. You’ll find it calming.”

She looked up at him. “I am not in need of calming, Your Grace.”

His gaze narrowed, and she refused to look away from the portrait of English nobility he made, tall and towering, with nearly unbearable good looks and an expression of complete and utter confidence—as though he had never in his life been challenged.

Never, that was, until now.

“You deny that someone attacked you?”

She shrugged one shoulder idly, remaining quiet. What could she say? What could she tell him that he would not turn against her? He would claim, in that imperious, arrogant tone, that had she been more of a lady . . . had she had more of a care for her reputation . . . had she behaved more like an Englishwoman and less like an Italian . . . then all of this would not have happened.

He would treat her like all the rest.

Just as he had done since the moment he had discovered her identity.

“Does it matter? I’m sure you will decide that I staged the entire evening in order to ensnare a husband. Or something equally ridiculous.”

She had intended the words to set him down. They did not.

Instead, he raked her with one long, cool look, taking in her face and arms, covered in scratches, her ruined dress, torn in two places, streaked with dirt and blood from her scored palms.

One side of his mouth twitched in what she imagined was something akin to disgust, and she could not resist saying, “Once more, I prove myself less than worthy of your presence, do I not?”

She bit her tongue, wishing she had not spoken.

He met her gaze. “I did not say that.”

“You did not have to.”

He threw back the whiskey as a soft knock sounded on the half-open door to the room. Without looking away from her, the duke barked, “What is it?”

“I’ve brought the things you requested, Your Grace.” A servant shuffled into the room with a tray laden with a basin, bandages, and several small containers. He set the burden on a nearby low table.

“That is all.”

The servant bowed once, neatly, and took his leave as Leighton stalked toward the tray. She watched as he lifted a linen towel, dipping one edge into the basin. “You did not thank him.”

He cut a surprised glance toward her. “The evening has not exactly put me in a grateful frame of mind.”

She stiffened at his tone, hearing the accusation there.

Well. She could be difficult as well.

“Nevertheless, he did you a service.” She paused for effect. “Not to thank him makes you piggish.”

There was a beat before her meaning became clear. “Boorish.”

She waved one hand. “Whatever. A different man would have thanked him.”

He moved toward her. “Don’t you mean a better man?”

Her eyes widened in mock innocence. “Never. You are a duke, after all. Surely there are none better than you.”

The words were a direct hit. And, after the terrible things he’d said to her in the carriage, a deserved one.

“A different woman would realize that she is squarely in my debt and take more care with her words.”

“Don’t you mean a better woman?”

He did not reply, instead taking the seat across from her and extending his hand, palm up. “Give me your hands.”

She clutched them close to her chest instead, wary. “Why?”

“They’re bruised and bloody. They need cleaning.”

She did not want him touching her. Did not trust herself.

“They are fine.”

He gave a low, frustrated growl, the sound sending a shiver through her. “It is true what they say about Italians.”

She stiffened at the words, dry with the promise of an insult. “That we are superior in all ways?”

“That it is impossible for you to admit defeat.”

“A trait that served Caesar quite well.”

“And how is the Roman Empire faring these days?”

The casual, superior tone made her want to scream. Epithets. In her native tongue.

Impossible man.

They stared at each other for a long minute, neither willing to back down until he finally spoke. “Your brother will be here at any moment, Miss Fiori. And he is going to be livid enough as it is without seeing your bloody palms.”

She narrowed her gaze on his hand, wide and long and oozing strength. He was right, of course. She had no choice but to relinquish.

“This is going to hurt.” The words were her only warning before he ran his thumb over her palm softly, investigating the wounded skin there, now crusted in dried blood. She sucked in a breath at the touch.

He glanced up at the sound. “Apologies.”

She did not reply, instead making a show of investigating her other hand.