Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (29 page)

But it would have to be.

And he would not allow himself to think on what came tomorrow.

He dipped his head. Acquiesced. “One evening.”

And then her hand was on his arm, warm and firm, and they were moving away from the fire. The light faded, but the heat stayed, blazing hotter than before.

They walked in silence before she said, waving back at the pyre, “I confess, I am honored. All this, for Catholics.”

A crisp wind ripped through the square, pressing her closer to him, and he resisted the urge to wrap one arm around her. “For a specific Catholic,” he said. “Guy Fawkes nearly blew up Parliament and killed the king. Bonfire Night is a celebration of the foiling of the plot.”

She turned toward him, interested. “The man at the top of the fire . . . that is your Guy?” He nodded, and she turned to finger a bolt of cloth in one of the stalls. “He does not look so dangerous.”

He laughed.

She looked over her shoulder at the sound. “I like to hear you laugh, Your Grace.”

He resisted the title. “Not Your Grace tonight. If I get an evening of freedom and ease, I don’t want to be a duke.” He did not know where the words came from, but their truth was undeniable.

She inclined her head in his direction. “A reasonable request. Then who are you tonight?”

He did not have to think. He gave a little bow in her direction and she laughed, the sound like music in the darkness. “Simon Pearson. No title. Just the man.”

For one evening, he could imagine that the man was enough.

“You expect people to believe that you are a mere mister?”

If it was a game, why could he not make the rules?
“Is this potion magic or not?”

She smiled softly, returning her hand to his arm. “It might be magic after all.”

They moved on in silence, past a sweets cart and a booth where pork and chicken pasties were for sale. “Are you hungry?” he asked. When she nodded, he purchased two of the savory treats and a skein of wine, and turned back to her with a smile. “Mr. Pearson would like to have an impromptu picnic.”

The smile widened to a grin. “Well, I would not like to disappoint him. Not on Bonfire Night.”

They moved to a more secluded part of the green, where they sat upon a low bench and ate, watching the revelers. A collection of children ran past—chasing or being chased—their laughter trailing behind them.

Juliana sighed, and the sound rippled through him, soft and lovely. “These evenings were my favorites as a little girl,” she said, her voice lilting with her Italian accent. “Festivals meant an evening when things did not have to be so proper.”

He imagined her as a little girl, too tall for her age, with dirty knees and a mass of wild curls tangling in the breeze, and he smiled at the picture. He leaned in, and said in Italian, “I would have liked to have known you then. To have seen young Juliana in her element.”

She laughed, liking that he had switched to her native tongue, enjoying the privacy it afforded them. “You would have been shocked by young Juliana. I was always dirty, always coming home with a new discovery, getting in trouble for yelling in the courtyard, snatching
biscotti
from the kitchens—wreaking havoc.”

He raised a brow. “And you think all that surprises me?”

She smiled and dipped her head. “I suppose not.”

“And as you grew older? Did you break a string of hearts on these festival evenings?” He should not ask such a thing. It was not appropriate.

But this night, there were no rules. This night was easier. This night, questions were allowed.

She tilted her head up to the sky with a low, liquid laugh and the long column of her neck was illuminated by the distant fire. He resisted the urge to press his lips to the delicate skin there and turn the laugh into a sigh of pleasure.

When she looked back at him, there was mischief in her eyes.

“Ah,” he said, stretching his legs out in front of him. “I see I am not so far off.”

“There was one boy,” she said. “Vincenzo.”

Simon was hit with a wave of emotion, curiosity and jealousy and intrigue all at once. “Tell me the story.”

“Every year in Verona, in April, there is the feast of
San Zeno
. The city prepares for weeks and celebrates like it is Christmas. One year . . .” She trailed off, as if she was uncertain whether she should continue.

He had never wanted to hear the rest of a story so much. “You cannot stop now. How old were you?”

“Seventeen.”

Seventeen. As fresh-faced and beautiful as she was now. “And Vincenzo?”

She shrugged. “Not much older. Eighteen, perhaps?”

Simon remembered himself at eighteen, remembered the way he had thought of women . . . the things he had wanted to do with them.

Still wanted to do with them. With her.

He had an intense desire to do this unknown Italian boy harm.

“The young people in the town were enlisted to help with preparations for the festival, and I had been carrying food to the churchyard for much of the morning, Each time I arrived a new plate in hand, Vincenzo was there, eager to help.”

I imagine he was,
Simon thought as she continued.

“This went on for an hour . . . four or five trips from the house to the church . . . I had saved the largest tray for last—an enormous platter of cakes for the celebration. I left the house, my hands full, and cut through a narrow alley leading to the church, and there, alone, leaning against one wall, was Vincenzo.”

A vision flashed, a lanky, dark-haired young Italian—eyes bright with desire—and Simon’s hands fisted.

“I thought he was there to take the plate from me.”

“I don’t imagine he was.” His voice had gone to gravel.

She shook her head with a little laugh. “No. He wasn’t. He reached for the plate, and when I made to give it to him, he stole a kiss.”

He loathed this boy. Wanted him dead.

“I hope you hit him in the
inguine.
”

Her eyes went wide. “Mr. Pearson!” she teased, switching back to English. “How very harsh of you!”

“It sounds like the pup deserved it.”

“Suffice it to say, I handled the situation.”

Pleasure shot through him. Good girl. He should have known she would take care of herself. Even if he wished he could have done it for her. “What did you do to him?”

“Sadly, Vincenzo now has a reputation for kissing with the enthusiasm of a slobbering dog.”

Simon laughed, loud and unrestrained. “Well done.”

She grinned. “We women are not so helpless as you think, you know.”

“I never thought you helpless. Indeed, I have thought you a gladiator from the beginning,” he said, offering her the skein of wine.

She smiled wide at the words. “
Un gladiatore?
I like that very much,” she said before drinking.

“Yes, I imagine you would.” He watched her drink, and when she lowered the flask, added, “I confess, I am very happy that he did not know how to kiss.”

She smiled, and he was transfixed by the motion of her tongue as she reached out to lick a lingering droplet of wine from her lips. “You needn’t worry. He is no competition for you.”

The words came out casually before she realized their implication. The air thickened between them almost immediately, and she dipped her head, color washing over her cheeks. “I didn’t mean . . .”

“You have said it now,” he teased, his voice low and filled with the need that was coursing through him—the need to take her in his arms and prove her correct. “I shan’t allow you to withdraw.”

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.”