Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (3 page)

She would not let him see that it was not pain that had her gasping for breath.

She had expected it, of course, the undeniable, unwelcome reaction that threatened whenever she saw him. That surged whenever he neared.

It was loathing. She was sure of it.

She would not even countenance the alternate possibility.

Attempting a clinical assessment of the situation, Juliana looked down at their hands, nearly entwined. The room grew instantly warmer. His hands were enormous, and she was transfixed by his fingers, long and manicured, dusted with fine golden hairs.

He ran one finger gently across the wicked bruise that had appeared on her wrist, and she looked up to find him staring at the purpling skin. “You will tell me who did this to you.”

There was a cool certainty in the words, as though she would do his bidding, and he would, in turn, handle the situation. But Juliana knew better. This man was no knight. He was a dragon. The leader of them. “Tell me, Your Grace. What is it like to believe that your will exists only to be done?”

His gaze flew to hers, darkening with irritation. “You will tell me, Miss Fiori.”

“No, I will not.”

She returned her attention to their hands. It was not often that Juliana was made to feel dainty—she towered over nearly all of the women and many of the men in London—but this man made her feel small. Her thumb was barely larger than the smallest of his fingers, the one that bore the gold-and-onyx signet ring—proof of his title.

A reminder of his stature.

And of how far beneath him he believed her to be.

She lifted her chin at the thought, anger and pride and hurt flaring in a hot rush of feeling, and at that precise moment, he touched the raw skin of her palm with the wet linen cloth. She embraced the distraction of the stinging pain, hissing a wicked Italian curse.

He did not pause in his ministrations as he said, “I did not know that those two animals could do such a thing together.”

“It is rude of you to listen.”

One golden brow rose at the words. “It is rather difficult not to listen if you are mere inches from me, shouting your discomfort.”

“Ladies do not shout.”

“It appears that Italian ladies do. Particularly when they are undergoing medical treatment.”

She resisted the urge to smile.

He was not amusing.

He dipped his head and focused on his task, rinsing the linen cloth in the basin of clean water. She flinched as the cool fabric returned to her scoured hand, and he hesitated briefly before continuing.

The momentary pause intrigued her. The Duke of Leighton was not known for his compassion. He was known for his arrogant indifference, and she was surprised he would stoop so low as to perform such a menial task as cleaning the gravel from her hands.

“Why are you doing this?” she blurted at the next stinging brush of linen.

He did not stay his movements. “I told you. Your brother is going to be difficult enough to deal with without you bleeding all over yourself. And my furniture.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I mean why are
you
doing this? Don’t you have a battalion of servants just waiting to perform such an unpleasant task?”

“I do.”

“And so?”

“Servants talk, Miss Fiori. I would prefer that as few people as possible know that you are here, alone, at this hour.”

She was trouble for him. Nothing more.

After a long silence, he met her gaze. “You disagree?”

She recovered quickly. “Not at all. I am merely astounded that a man of your wealth and prominence would have servants who gossip. One would think you’d have divined a way to strip them of all desire to socialize.”

One side of his mouth tightened, and he shook his head. “Even as I am helping you, you are seeking out ways to wound me.”

When she replied, her tone was serious, her words true. “Forgive me if I am wary of your goodwill, Your Grace.”

His lips pressed into a thin, straight line, and he reached for her other hand, repeating his actions. They both watched as he cleaned the dried blood and gravel from the heel of her palm, revealing tender pink flesh that would take several days to heal.

His movements were gentle but firm, and the stroke of the linen on the abraded skin grew more tolerable as he cleaned the wounds. Juliana watched as one golden curl fell over his brow. His countenance was, as always, stern and unmoving, like one of her brother’s treasured marble statues.

She was flooded with a familiar desire, one that came over her whenever he was near.

The desire to crack the façade.

She had glimpsed him without it twice.

And then he had discovered who she was—the Italian half sister of one of London’s most notorious rakes, the barely legitimate daughter of a fallen marchioness and her merchant husband, raised far from London and its manners and traditions and rules.

The opposite of everything he represented.

The antithesis of everything he cared to have in his world.

“My only motive is to get you home in one piece, with none but your brother the wiser about your little adventure this evening.”

He tossed the linen into the basin of now-pink water and lifted one of the small pots from the tray. He opened it, releasing the scent of rosemary and lemon, and reached for her hands once more.

She gave them up easily this time. “You don’t really expect me to believe that you are concerned for my reputation?”

Leighton dipped the tip of one broad finger into the pot, concentrating on her wounds as he smoothed the salve across her skin. The medicine combated the burning sting, leaving a welcome, cool path where his fingers stroked. The result was the irresistible illusion that his touch was the harbinger of the soothing pleasure flooding her skin.

Which it wasn’t.

Not at all.

She caught her sigh before it embarrassed her. He heard it nonetheless. That golden eyebrow rose again, leaving her wishing that she could shave it off.

She snatched her hand away. He did not try to stop her.

“No, Miss Fiori. I am not concerned for your reputation.”

Of course he wasn’t.

“I am concerned for my own.”

The implication that being found with her—being linked to her—could damage his reputation stung, perhaps worse than her hands had earlier in the evening.

She took a deep breath, readying herself for their next verbal battle, when a furious voice sounded from the doorway.

“If you don’t take your hands off of my sister this instant, Leighton, your precious reputation will be the least of your problems.”

Chapter Two

There is a reason why skirts are long and bootlaces complex.

The refined lady does not expose her feet. Ever.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

It appears that reformed rakes find brotherly duty something of a challenge . . .

—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823

I
t was quite possible that the Marquess of Ralston was going to kill him.

Not that Simon had anything to do with the girl’s current state.

It was not his fault that she’d landed herself in his carriage after doing battle with, from what he could divine, a holly bush, the cobblestones of the Ralston mews, and the edge of his coach.

And a man.

Simon Pearson, eleventh Duke of Leighton, ignored the vicious anger that flared at the thought of the purple bruise encircling the girl’s wrist and returned his attention to her irate brother, who was currently stalking the perimeter of Simon’s study like a caged animal.

The marquess stopped in front of his sister and found his voice. “For God’s sake, Juliana. What the hell happened to you?”

The language would have made a lesser woman blush. Juliana did not even flinch. “I fell.”

“You fell.”

“Yes.” She paused. “Among other things.”

Ralston looked to the ceiling as though asking for patience. Simon recognized the emotion. He had a sister himself, one who had given him more than his share of frustration.

And Ralston’s sister was more infuriating than any female should be.

More beautiful, as well.

He stiffened at the thought.

Of course she was beautiful. It was an empirical fact. Even in her sullied, torn gown, she put most other women in London to shame. She was a stunning blend of delicate English—porcelain skin, liquid blue eyes, perfect nose, and pert chin—and exotic Italian, all wild raven curls and full lips and lush curves that a man would have to be dead not to notice.

He was not dead, after all.

He was simply not interested.

A memory flashed.

Juliana in his arms, coming up on her toes, pressing her lips to his.

He resisted the image.

She was also bold, brash, impulsive, a magnet for trouble, and precisely the kind of woman he wanted far away from him.

So, of course, she’d landed in his carriage.

He sighed, straightening the sleeve of his topcoat and returning his attention to the tableau before him.

“And how did your arms and face get scratched?” Ralston continued to hound her. “You look like you ran through a rosebush!”

She tilted her head. “I may have done so.”

“
May
have?” Ralston took a step toward her, and Juliana stood to face her brother head-on. Here was no simpering miss.

She was tall, uncommonly so for a female. It was not every day that Simon met a woman with whom he did not have to stoop to converse.

The top of her head came to his nose.

“Well, I was rather busy, Gabriel.”

There was something about the words, so utterly matter-of-fact, that had Simon exhaling his amusement, calling attention to himself.

Ralston rounded on him. “Oh, I would not laugh too hard if I were you, Leighton. I’ve half a mind to call you out for your part in tonight’s farce.”

Disbelief surged. “Call
me
out? I did nothing but keep the girl from ruining herself.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to explain how it is that the two of you were alone in your study, her hands lovingly clasped in your own, when I arrived?”

Simon was instantly aware of what Ralston was doing. And he did not like it. “Just what are you trying to say, Ralston?”

“Only that special licenses have been procured for less.”

His eyes narrowed on the marquess, a man he barely tolerated on a good day. This was not turning out to be a good day. “I’m not marrying the girl.”

“There’s no way I’m marrying him!” she cried at the same moment.

Well. At least they agreed on something.

Wait.

She
didn’t want to marry
him
? She could do a damned sight worse. He was a duke, for God’s sake! And she was a walking scandal.

Ralston’s attention had returned to his sister. “You’ll marry whomever I tell you to marry if you keep up with this ridiculous behavior, sister.”

“You promised—” she began.

“Yes, well, you weren’t making a habit of being accosted in gardens when I made that vow.” Impatience infused Ralston’s tone. “Who did this to you?”

“No one.”

The too-quick response rankled. Why wouldn’t she reveal who had hurt her? Perhaps she had not wanted to discuss the private matter with Simon, but why not with her brother?

Why not allow retribution to be delivered?

“I’m not a fool, Juliana.” Ralston resumed pacing. “Why not tell me?”

“All you need know is that I handled him.”

Both men froze. Simon could not resist. “Handled him how?”

She paused, cradling her bruised wrist in her hand in a way that made him wonder if she might have sprained it. “I hit him.”

“Where?” Ralston blurted.

“In the gardens.”

The marquess looked to the ceiling, and Simon took pity on him. “I believe your brother was asking where on his person did you strike your attacker?”

“Oh. In the nose.” She paused in the stunned silence that followed, then said defensively, “He deserved it!”

“He damn well did,” Ralston agreed. “Now give me his name, and I’ll finish him off.”

“No.”

“Juliana. The strike of a woman is not nearly enough punishment for his attacking you.”

She narrowed her gaze on her brother, “Oh, really? Well, there was a great deal of blood considering it was the mere strike of a woman, Gabriel.”

Simon blinked. “You bloodied his nose.”

A smug smile crossed her face. “That’s not all I did.”

Of course it wasn’t.

“I hesitate to ask . . .” Simon prodded.

She looked to him, then to her brother.
Was she blushing?

“What did you do?”

“I . . . hit him . . . elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“In his . . .” She hesitated, her mouth twisting as she searched for the word, then gave up. “In his
inguine.
”

Had he not understood the Italian perfectly, the circular movement of her hand in an area generally believed to be entirely inappropriate for discussion with a young woman of good breeding would have been unmistakable.

“Oh, dear God.” It was unclear whether Ralston’s words were meant as prayer or blasphemy.

What was clear was that the woman was a gladiator.

“He called me a pie!” she announced, defensively. There was a pause. “Wait. That’s not right.”

“A tart?”

“Yes! That’s it!” She registered her brother’s fists and looked to Simon. “I see that it is not a compliment.”

It was hard for him to hear over the roaring in his ears. He’d like to take a fist to the man himself. “No. It is not.”

She thought for a moment. “Well, then he deserved what he received, did he not?”

“Leighton,” Ralston found his voice. “Is there somewhere my sister can wait while you and I speak?”

Warning bells sounded, loud and raucous.

Simon stood, willing himself calm. “Of course.”

“You’re going to discuss me,” Juliana blurted.

Did the woman
ever
keep a thought to herself?

“Yes. I am,” Ralston announced.

“I should like to stay.”

“I am sure you would.”

“Gabriel . . .” she began, in a soothing tone Simon had only ever heard used with unbroken horses and asylum inmates.

“Do not push your luck, sister.”

She paused, and Simon watched in disbelief as she considered her next course of action. Finally, she met his gaze, her brilliant blue eyes flashing with irritation. “Your Grace? Where will you store me while you and my brother do the business of men?”

Amazing. She resisted at every turn.

He moved to the door, ushering her into the hallway. Following her out, he pointed to the room directly across from them. “The library. You may make yourself comfortable there.”

“Mmm.” The sound was dry and disgruntled.

Simon held back a smile, unable to resist taunting her one final time. “And may I say that I am happy to see that you are willing to admit defeat?”

She turned to him and took a step closer, her breasts nearly touching his chest. The air grew heavy between them, and he was inundated with her scent—red currants and basil. It was the same scent he had noticed months ago, before he had discovered her true identity.
Before everything had changed.

He resisted the impulse to look at the expanse of skin above the rich green edge of her gown instead taking a step back.

The girl was entirely lacking a sense of propriety.

“I may admit defeat in the battle, Your Grace. But never in the war.”

He watched her cross the foyer and enter the library, closing the door behind her, and he shook his head.

Juliana Fiori was a disaster waiting to happen.

It was a miracle that she had survived half a year with the
ton.

It was a miracle they had survived half a year with her.

“She took him out with a knee to the . . .” Ralston said, when Simon returned to the study.

“It would seem so,” he replied, closing the door firmly, as though he could block out the troublesome female beyond.

“What the hell am I going to do with her?”

Simon blinked once. Ralston and he barely tolerated one another. If it were not for the marquess’s twin being a friend, neither of them would choose to speak to the other. Ralston had always been an ass. He was not actually asking for Simon’s opinion, was he?

“Oh, for Chrissakes, Leighton, it was rhetorical. I know better than to ask you for advice. Particularly about sisters.”

The barb struck true, and Simon suggested precisely where Ralston might go to get some advice.

The marquess laughed. “Much better. I was growing concerned by how gracious a host you had become.” He stalked to the sideboard and poured three fingers of amber liquid into a glass. Turning back he said, “Scotch?”

Simon resumed his seat, realizing that he might be in for a long evening. “What a generous offer,” he said dryly.

Ralston walked the tumbler over and sat. “Now. Let’s talk about how you happen to have my sister in your house in the middle of the night.”

Simon took a long drink, enjoying the burn of the liquor down his throat. “I told you. She was in my carriage when I left your ball.”

“And why didn’t you apprise me of the situation immediately?”

As questions went, it was a fairly good one. Simon swirled the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, thinking. Why hadn’t he closed the carriage door and fetched Ralston?

The girl was common and impossible and everything he could not stomach in a female.

But she was fascinating.

She had been since the first moment he’d met her, in the damned bookshop, buying a book for her brother. And then they’d met again at the Royal Art Exhibition. And she’d let him believe . . .

“Perhaps you would tell me your name?” he had asked, eager not to lose her again. The weeks since the bookshop had been interminable. She had pursed her lips, a perfect moue, and he had sensed victory. “I shall go first. My name is Simon.”

“Simon.” He had loved the sound of it on her tongue, that name he had not used publicly in decades.

“And yours, my lady?”

“Oh, I think that would ruin the fun,” she had paused, her brilliant smile lighting the room. “Don’t you agree, Your Grace?”

She had known he was a duke. He should have recognized then that something was wrong. But instead, he had been transfixed. Shaking his head, he had advanced upon her slowly, sending her scurrying backward to keep her distance, and the chase had enthralled him. “Now, that is unfair.”

“It seems more than fair. I am merely a better detective than you.”