Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (32 page)

When she came to him, he lifted her into his arms, settling them both in a chair by the fire. He slipped one hand into the opening of her robe running it along her thigh as he pressed a kiss to the column of her neck. “I prefer you naked,” he said, and she wondered at this new, teasing Simon.

She ran her hand up his forearm to his wide, muscled shoulder. “I feel the same,” she confessed. “I thought you could not grow more handsome, but watching you in the firelight . . . you are Hephaestus, all muscle and flame.”

His eyes darkened at the comparison, and he pulled her to him, kissing her soundly before he tucked her to his chest, and said, “That makes you Aphrodite—an apt comparison.”

But Aphrodite and Hephaestus were married.
The thought whispered through her mind.
We have only one night.

No. She would not think on it.

“You are promoting me from siren to goddess, then?”

He chuckled, and she loved the feeling of the sound rumbling beneath her. He captured one of her hands, threading his fingers through hers and bringing it to his lips. “It would seem so, clever girl.”

“You see? I am more than just a walking scandal,” she teased, and immediately regretted the words. She had just affected the most serious scandal of her life. And he knew it. Perhaps he even thought she had done it on purpose—to cause scandal.

She hated the thought.

Hated that she had put it in his head.

She sat up on his lap, desperate to make sure that he did not think ill of her. “Simon . . . you know that I did not . . . this was not . . . I would never tell anyone that this . . . that tonight happened.” She winced at the words, utterly inarticulate. “You shan’t have to worry about another . . .”

He watched her, his amber eyes serious, and she wished she could take it all back—the words, the actions, the night. His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her hand once more. “No more talk of it.”

She hated that she had just become another thing for him to worry about. “I just . . . What I am attempting to say is that no one will ever know.”

He reached out and brushed a lock of her hair back from her cheek. “Juliana,
I
will know.”

Frustration flared. “Well, yes. Of course
we
will know. But I want you to also know that I will never ask anything of you. That I meant it when I proposed one night. One night only.”

Something flashed in his honeyed gaze, something that she could not identify. “We both should have known that one night would not be nearly enough.”

She stilled, the words coursing through her. He wanted more.

So did she.

But he was to be married.

Was he offering what she thought he was offering?

Could she take it?

If it was the only way she could have him . . . would it be enough?

It had to be.

She took a deep breath. “I could be your paramour.”

He went utterly still beneath her. “What did you say?”

“Your mistress.”

His hand clamped onto her thigh with immeasurable force. “Don’t say another word.”

She set her hands to his shoulders, leveraging herself up to face him. “Why? You once suggested I would make a fine mistress.”

He closed his eyes. “Juliana. Stop.”

She ignored him. “Would I not still make a worthy companion?”

“No.”

Pain flared. She was too much of a scandal even to rate as his mistress? “Why not?” She heard the begging in her tone. Hated herself for it.

“Because you deserve better!” he exploded, coming to his feet in a rush and sending her toppling from his lap. He grabbed her to him before she could fall to the floor, lifting her to face him. His hands were on her arms, as though he could shake her into understanding. “I won’t have you as my mistress. I wish I could go back and scrub you clean of the words. I wish I could go back and take a fist to myself for ever even suggesting it.”

The words coursed through her, and she ached for the promise that should come next. Love. Marriage. Family.

The things he had promised to another.

Things he had promised to another because he could not see a future with her.

And suddenly the words were not enough.

“Come to bed with me,” he whispered. “Let me sleep with you in my arms. We shall return you to your own chamber before the house awakes.”

The temptation was nearly undeniable. There was nothing in the world she wanted more than to sleep with him, the sound of his heart beneath her ear.

“I must leave, Simon.”

He reached for her, a smile playing across his lips. “Not yet. Stay a little while longer.”

She shook her head, taking a step back. “I cannot risk—”

I cannot risk any more of my heart.

She took a breath. Tried again. “I cannot risk being caught.”

He watched her carefully, his gaze boring into hers, and she willed him not to see the truth—that she was leaving him.
For good,
as the English liked to say.

But it did not feel good. It felt like torture.

He was still for a long time, as though considering his options, then he nodded once, firmly. “You are right. Tomorrow, I shall speak to Nick.”

“About what?”

“About our marriage.”

Her heart leapt into her throat. “Our marriage?”

He could not marry her.
There was a litany of reasons why.

She was an Italian. A Catholic. Her parentage was questionable at best. Her mother was a disaster. Her father had been a simple merchant. The
ton
barely tolerated her.

He was already engaged to a darling of the Beau Monde.

But even as she thought the words, a thread of hope coiled within, unbidden. Was it possible? Could he choose her, after all? Could they marry? Could she have him, this man she loved until she ached? Could she have what she had come to envy in the couples around her, paired off like doves?

“Don’t look so sad,” he teased. “You’re finally getting your scandal.”

She froze, stepping back from his embrace.

Scandal.

That was what she was to him—the common, scandalous Italian who he married after one night in the country. And someday, when the news about Georgiana was out and he did not have a wife with a pristine reputation by his side, when his children were mocked for having a common mother, when he saw Lady Penelope dancing across some ballroom with a perfect husband, the belle of the ball, he would regret it.

She’d never been more. Never worthy of his companionship. Never a possibility for his wife. She’d never once been anything other than a scandalous distraction from his duty and responsibility. He was a duke, and she was a scandal.

Never his equal.

Never good enough.

And she’d believed it, too. How many times had she compared herself to her mother? How many times had she played into their expectations? Lived up to them? How often had she vied for his irritation and his passion instead of his admiration and respect because she had not believed the latter to be within her reach?

It was more than she could bear.

She loved him.

Sometimes, love was not enough.

His sister’s words echoed in her ears. “I cannot marry you, Simon.”

He smiled at first, before the meaning of her words registered. “What did you say?”

She took a deep breath and met his gaze, that rich, amber gaze that she had come to love so much. “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?” There was confusion and disbelief in the words, then something close to anger.

“If tonight had not happened, would we even be discussing it?”

“I—” He stopped. Started again. “Tonight did happen, Juliana.”

“You’re engaged to another.”

“I shall end it,” he said simply, as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

“What of Lady Penelope? What of her reputation? And what of yours? And your plans to secure your family, your sister, your niece? What of your duty?”

He reached for her as she backed away. “Juliana, I compromised you. We shall marry.”

Not out of love. Not out of respect. Not out of admiration.

“Because this is the way things are done,” she whispered.

“Among other reasons, yes,” he said simply, as though it were obvious.

“I am not what you envisioned in a wife.” He stilled at the words, and she pressed on. “You’ve said it yourself. I am too reckless. Too impulsive. Too much of a scandal. Before tonight, you’d never even considered marrying me.”

“I proposed to you a week ago!” She heard the frustration in his tone as he spun away to fetch his dressing gown.

“Only after Gabriel discovered us in the stables. You proposed out of duty. Just as you do everything. You would have married me, but it would have been beneath you. Just as it would be now.”

He shoved his arms into the silk brocade and turned back to her, eyes dark. When he spoke, his voice was hard as steel. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” she asked, gently. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

He did not reply.

“I’ll never be enough for you. Never good enough, never respectable enough, never proper enough—even if I tried, my past, my family, my blood would all make it impossible for us to be equal. What would they say? What would your mother say?”

“Hang them. Especially my mother.”

She stepped toward him, lifting her hand and touching his square jaw for a fleeting moment before he pulled away from her touch and stepped back, refusing to meet her gaze.

Tears welled as she considered his beautiful, stony countenance, knowing that this was the last time they would be together like this, alone and honest.

One of them, at least, was honest.

“You once accused me of never considering the consequences,” she said, willing him to understand. To see. “Of never thinking of what comes next.”

“What comes next is, we marry.”

She shook her head. “Now you are not considering the consequences. I shall always be your scandal, Simon. Never entirely worthy.”

“That is ridiculous. Of course you would be.” She was struck by how imperious he could sound in that moment as he stood before her clad in nothing but a dressing gown. So ducal, even now.

“No, I wouldn’t be. Not in your eyes. And there would come a day when I was not worthy in my own.” As she spoke the words, she was struck by the realization that she finally understood what it was she wanted from her life. From her future. “I deserve better. I deserve more.”

“You cannot do much better than me. I am a duke.” There was a slight tremor in his voice. Anger.

She brushed away a tear before it could spill over. “That may well be true, Simon. But if it is, it has nothing to do with your being a duke.”

He ignored the words, and they stood there for long moments before she started to leave the room, and he finally spoke. “This is not over, Juliana.”

“Yes, it is.”

She was proud of the strength in the words.

A strength she was not sure she had.

Chapter Eighteen

Matters of the heart are a challenge indeed.

The elegant lady follows the gentleman’s lead.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

By day, late night visits are made more exciting . . .

—The Scandal Sheet, November 1823

S
he’d left him.

It wasn’t possible.

Simon had woken and gone to saddle their horses, wanting to take Juliana riding, wanting to get her away from this house so that he could talk some sense into her, and he’d instead discovered that Lucrezia was missing. A few questions in the stables had revealed that she’d left Townsend Park that morning, under cover of darkness.

Like a coward.

How dare she leave him?

He was not some pup who sought her approval. He was the damned Duke of Leighton! He had half of London falling over itself to do his bidding, and he could not secure the obedience of a single, Italian female.

A single, Italian
madwoman,
more like it.

She accused him of not thinking she was
enough
for him? The woman was entirely too much for him! She made him want to bellow with rage and hit things, then lock her in a room and kiss her senseless, until she gave in.

Until they gave in to each other.

Except, she had refused him.

Twice.

She’d
left him!

And damned if it didn’t make him desire her all the more.

So much that his hands itched with it. He wanted to touch her, to tame her, to take her in his arms and make love to her until they were both exhausted and unable to think of anything beyond their embrace. He wanted to sink into her rich ebony curls, her beautiful eyes, her infinite softness and never return.

He threw open the door to the Townsend Park breakfast room, sending the thick oak crashing into the wall behind and surprising a tableful of ladies during their morning meal as he bore down on St. John, who was calmly buttering his toast. “Where is she?”

Nick took a long sip of tea. “Where is who?”

Simon fought off the urge to pour the contents of the tea service over his head. “Juliana.”

“She’s gone. Left at first light,” St. John said casually. “Have a seat. We’ll bring you some bacon.”

“I don’t want any damned bacon. Why don’t you bring me your sister?”

The statement, inappropriate in a staggering number of ways, was apparently what it took to secure St. John’s attention—and the attention of the half dozen women in the room, who all stopped eating at once. Nick cut a look at Simon and stood, pushing back his chair and coming to his full height. “Perhaps you’d like to apologize to the ladies and join me in the study?”

Finally.

He bowed stiffly to the table of women. “My apologies,” he intoned, before turning on his heel and following Nick from the room.

They did not speak until they were safely inside the earl’s study, but when the door closed behind them, they both started in.

“First, it’s excellent bacon, and I’m not thrilled I had to stop eating it.”

“I don’t have time to play games—”

Nick ignored him and pressed on. “And second, what in the hell were you thinking, speaking in such a manner about my sister?”

“I am going to marry her.”

Nick blinked. “Really? Because I’m fairly certain that neither Ralston nor I have given our permission for you to even court her . . . let alone marry her.”

Fury blazed at the words. “I don’t need your permission. She’s mine.”

Nick’s gaze narrowed. “May I suggest you rephrase that last bit, Duke?”

Simon took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm even as every inch of him wanted to pummel Nick. “I should like to court your sister.”

Nick nodded once. “Much better.”

“Excellent. Where is she?”

“I have not given my permission.”

Simon heard the low growl rising in his throat. He’d never been a violent man, but Juliana’s brothers appeared to be the exception to the rule. “Are you going to give it?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

Simon was through with this family and their insanity. “Why the hell not?” he thundered.

“Any number of reasons. Shall I list them?”

“I don’t imagine I could stop you. I’ve had enough. If she’s headed for London, I can still catch her. I can ride faster than her coach.”

He headed for the door. “You aren’t leaving this house, Leighton. Not in your mood.”

Simon turned back, shocked. “You think I would hurt her?”

“No, but I think you would upset her, and right now, she doesn’t deserve it.”

“You think you can stop me?”

“I know I can. I do not have to remind you of the caliber of security employed by the Park.”

Simon began to pace the room. “I’m a duke! How is it possible that the title opens doors the world over, but in this family, it seems only to count against me?”

Nick grinned. “Our perverse nature. It’s first on my list of reasons why I don’t like the idea of your marrying Juliana.”

“Yes. Being a duchess is a difficult thing indeed.”

Nick ignored the dripping sarcasm. “It would be for her. She would hate it. The Beau Monde would never forgive her for flouting their rules. And your precious reputation would suffer for it.”

He didn’t care. He would slay the dragons of the
ton
for her.

In the mood he was in, he would do it with his bare hands.

Nick pressed on. “And even if she were well behaved—although I’ve never known Juliana to take the meek path—she will never escape the specter of our mother. The
ton
will forever judge her for her parentage. And you will come to resent her for it.”

“It’s not true.” But even as he said the words, he understood why they all would think it. They were true, until recently. Until her. Until she’d taught him that there were things that were infinitely more important than reputation.

“No?” He heard the disbelief in Nick’s voice. Did not like it. “Leighton, for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve made it a mission to stay clear of scandal. You have been raised to avoid excitement. You are cold and unmoving and utterly proper in every way.”

The words rippled through Simon.
Cold. Unmoving.

He did not feel cold or unmoved right now.

She had rocked him to his core.

And then she had left him.

Nick pressed on. “You have lived your whole life keeping your reputation untarnished. For God’s sake, man. You left your
sister
in the country with us rather than face the fact that she had not lived up to your expectations. And you want me to give
my
sister over to you?”

The question hung in the air between them, and Simon knew that Nick was right. He’d spent his entire life judging those with less-than-perfect reputations, less-than-perfect families, less-than-perfect pasts. He had been the Duke of Disdain—swearing that he was above such base and common things as scandal . . . and love.

Until she’d taught him he wanted her bold ideas and her brash laugh and her too-wide smiles and her scandalous nature that was not so scandalous, after all.

He wanted her in his life.

Beside him.

As his duchess.

And it would not be a sacrifice to call her such. It would be an honor.

He loved her.

Juliana changed everything. She made him want all of it. She made him want to face the messy challenge of love. To embrace it. To revel in it. To celebrate it.

He would be proud to have her on his arm.

Would have been long before this morning if he were honest with himself.

He cared only about having her. About marrying her and giving her children and living with her forever . . . and hang the gossips. He didn’t care how big or brutal her brothers could be. They would not stand in his way.

“Juliana’s suffered enough . . .” Nick said, his voice quiet alongside Simon’s raging thoughts. “She doesn’t deserve your charity.”

The words sent him flying across the room, grabbing Nick’s coat and pushing him up against the wall with mighty force, shaking the pictures in their frames. “Don’t you . . . ever . . .” He pulled Nick from the wall and slammed him back again. “Ever . . . refer to what I feel for your sister as
charity.
She is bold and beautiful and brilliant, and you are lucky to breathe the same air she breathes.” His anger was so acute, he could barely get the words out. “She thinks herself unworthy? It is
we
who are unworthy of
her,
and if you call her a scandal one more time, I’ll destroy you. With visceral pleasure.”

They stood there like that for long minutes, Simon breathing heavily, before Nick said, calmly, “Well. That was unexpected.”

Simon took a deep breath, attempted to regain his calm.

Failed.

He loved her.

With stunning, undeniable force.

Simon let Nick go and stepped back.

She was all he wanted. He would give everything for her. Without thought. Without regret.

Because without her, he had nothing.

“I’m going after her. Try to stop me.”

“But Leighton . . .” Nick’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You’re betrothed. To another.”

Betrothed to another.

He cursed, the word harsh and wicked.

He’d forgotten about Penelope.

“I
’ve made a mistake.”

Georgiana lifted Caroline from her cradle and met Simon’s gaze with a feigned look of shock. “Certainly not. Pearsons do not make mistakes. Consider me, if you will. Perfect in every way. A shining example of good behavior.”

“Juliana is gone.”

Georgiana did not appear surprised. “I heard that.”

“I was an idiot.”

She sat in the rocking chair next to Caroline’s cradle. “Go on.”

He did not know where to begin. Did not entirely understand how everything in his life had gotten so completely away from him. “I—” He stopped, dropped into the chair across from his sister, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and said the only thing he could think to say. “I love her.”

“Juliana?”

He nodded, thrusting one hand through his hair.

“Then why are you marrying the wrong woman?”

An ache started deep in his chest at the question—the only question that mattered, to which he did not have an answer. There had been so many excellent reasons when he’d devised the plan, and now it seemed that none of them carried much weight.

“I don’t know.”

Georgiana rocked back and forth in her chair, back and forth, her soft words belying their importance. “You do not love her.”

“I did not
need
to love her. And yet . . .”
And yet he found he could not help but love another.
He put his head in his hands. “I’ve made a mistake,” he repeated.

He could not back out without ruining Penelope, and she did not deserve such treatment.

“Simon . . .” There was a softness in his sister’s voice. Care that he did not deserve.

He loved Juliana.

Juliana, who haunted him with her flashing eyes and her quick wit and her brilliant mind and her fiery temper and those smiles and promises and kisses that made him want to worship her for as long as he drew breath.

“You can have her, Simon. Neither of you is married. Betrothals can be broken.”

He shook his head. “Not without ruining Penelope.”

Georgiana shook her head. “Lady Penelope is daughter to a double marquess with an estate the size of Windsor. You think she cannot find someone else? Someone who might someday care for her with more than passing interest? Someone who is not in love with another?”

Of course someone would marry her. But Simon would not be the one to throw her to the wolves. “I cannot.”

“You are far too gentlemanly for your own good!” Irritation flooded her tone, and Caroline stirred in her arms. Georgiana quieted immediately. “You have it in your power to make both you and Juliana happy. Forever. And, I assure you, Simon, there is no prize in marrying a man who loves another.”

The words, so tempting, shook something free in him. “I don’t care about the scandal. I don’t care about the lady! All I care about is having Juliana in my life! But if I do this, if I ruin Penelope, what will Juliana think of me? How can I ever ask her to trust me with her name if I am so callous with another’s?”