Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (8 page)

He waited for Boggs to exit the room, until he heard the soft, ominous sound of door against jamb.

Only then did he slide one long finger beneath the seal, feeling the thick weight of the moment deep in his gut. He removed the single sheet of paper, unfolded it with resignation.

Read the two lines of text there.

And released the breath he had not known he had been holding in a short, angry burst, crushing the single page in his wicked grip.

The Serpentine at five o’clock.

I shall dress properly this time.

“Exspecto, Exspectas, Exspectat . . .”

She whispered the Latin words as she skipped stones across the surface of the Serpentine Lake, trying to ignore the sun, sinking toward the horizon.

She should not have sent the note.

“Exspectamus, Exspectatis, Exspectant . . .”

It was well past five. If he had planned to come, he would have already come.

Her companion and maid, Carla, made an indelicate sound of discomfort from her position on a wool blanket several feet away.

“I wait, you wait, she waits . . .”

If he took it to Ralston . . . she’d never be able to leave the house again. Not without a battalion of servants and chaperones and, very likely, Ralston himself.

“We wait, you wait, they wait.”

She tossed another stone and missed her target, wincing at the hollow sound the pebble made as it sank to the bottom of the lake.

“He is not coming.”

She turned at the Italian words, flat and full of truth, and met Carla’s deep brown gaze. The other woman was clutching a woolen shawl to her chest, bracing herself against the autumn wind. “You only say that because you want to return to the house.”

Carla lifted one shoulder and pulled a disinterested frown. “It does not make the words any less true.”

Juliana scowled. “You are not required to stay.”

“I am required to do just that, actually.” She sat down beneath a stout tree. “And I would not mind it if this country weren’t so unbearably cold. No wonder your duke is in such dire need of thaw.”

As if to punctuate the words, the wind picked up again, threatening to take the bonnet from Juliana’s head. She held it down, wincing as its ribbons and lace adornments lashed at her face. It was a wonder that a piece of headwear could be so troublesome and so useless all at once.

The wind lessened, and Juliana felt safe releasing the hat.

“He is not my duke.”

“Oh? Then why are we standing here in the frigid wind, waiting for him?”

Juliana’s gaze narrowed on the young woman. “You know, I’m told English lady’s maids are far more biddable. I’m considering making a switch.”

“I recommend it. I can then return to civilization.
Warm
civilization.”

Juliana leaned down and picked up another stone. “Ten more minutes.”

Carla sighed, long and dramatic, and Juliana felt a smile tug at her lips. As contrary and immovable as she was, Juliana was comforted by her presence. She was a piece of home in this strange new world.

This bizarre world that was filled with brothers and sisters and rules and regulations and balls and bonnets and incredible, infuriating men.

Men to whom one did not send flirtatious, inviting notes in the middle of the day, on one’s brother’s stationery.

She closed her eyes as a wave of embarrassment coursed through her.

It had been the worst kind of idea, the kind that arrived on a wave of triumph so acute that it turned every thought into a stroke of brilliance. She’d returned to her bedchamber that morning before the rest of Ralston House had risen, drunk on excitement and power from her encounter with Leighton, thrilled that she had shaken that enormous, immovable man to his core.

He’d kissed her.

And it had been nothing like the meek, simpering kisses of the boys she’d known in Italy, stolen as they teasingly lifted her from her father’s merchant ship onto the cobblestone wharf. No . . . this kiss had been the kiss of a man.

The kiss of a man who knew what he wanted.

A man who had never had to ask for what he wanted.

He had tasted just as he had done all those months ago, of strength and power and something both unbearable and irresistible.

Passion.

She’d dared him to discover the emotion but had been unprepared to discover it herself.

It had taken all her energy to mount her horse and leave him there, alone, in the early-morning light.

She had wanted more.

Just as she always did where he was concerned.

And when she returned home, heady with the success of their first interaction and full with the knowledge that she had shaken him to his core, just as she’d promised, she had not been able to resist flaunting her success. Before Ralston had risen, she had crept into his study and written a message for Leighton, more dare than invitation.

A harsh gust of wind blew through the meadow, sending white-edged ripples across the surface of the lake. Carla protested colorfully as Juliana turned her back to the blunt force of the wind, clutching her cloak tightly together.

She should not have sent the note.

She skipped a stone across the water.

It had been a terrible idea.

And another.

What had made her think he would come? He was no fool.

And another.

Why didn’t he come?

“Enough,
idiota.
He doesn’t come because he has a brain in his head. Unlike you.” She muttered the words aloud to the lake.

She’d had enough of waiting for him. It was freezing and the light was waning and she was going home. Immediately.

Tomorrow, she would consider her next course of action—she was by no means giving up. And she had one week and five days to do everything she could to bring the arrogant man down.

The fact that he’d ignored her summons would only serve to urge her on.

Her commitment renewed, Juliana turned and made her way toward the tree where her companion sat. “
Andiamo.
Let’s go home.”

“Ah,
finalmente,
” said the maid in a happy little burst as she leapt to her feet. “I thought you would never give up.”

Give up.

The words rankled. She was not giving up. She was simply ensuring that she had all her fingers and toes for the next battle.

As though the elements had sensed her conviction, the wind blew again, harsh and angry, and Juliana reached to secure her bonnet just as the silly thing flew off her head. With a little squeak, she turned to watch it fly toward the lake, tumbling across the water like one of the stones that Juliana had skipped earlier. It landed, unbelievably, on the far end of a wide fallen log, the long ribbons floating in the dark cold lake, taunting her.

Carla snickered, and Juliana turned to meet the maid’s twinkling brown eyes. “You are lucky I do not send you to fetch it.”

One of Carla’s dark eyebrows raised. “I am amused at the suggestion that I would do such a thing.”

Juliana ignored the impertinent remark and returned her attention to the bonnet, taunting her from its resting place. She would not allow a piece of millinery to get the better of her.
Something
would go right this afternoon.

Even if she had to march into the middle of the Serpentine Lake to make it so.

Removing her cloak, Juliana headed for the log, stepping up and throwing her arms wide for balance to make her way to the ill-behaved headwear mocking her from several yards away.

“
State attenta,
” Carla called out, and Juliana ignored the urging for care, singularly focused on the bonnet. The wind began to pick up, teasing at the blue frills on the hat, and Juliana stilled, waiting to see if the hat would blow away.

The wind slowed.

The hat remained.

Well. As her sister-in-law, Isabel, would say, now it was the principle of the thing.

Juliana continued her journey before the hat was sacrificed to the gods of the Serpentine.

Just a few more feet.

And then she’d have the bonnet in hand and she could go home.

Nearly there.

She crouched slowly, shifting her balance and reaching out. The tips of her fingers touched a curl of blue satin.

And then the hat was gone, blown off the log, and in a moment of frustration Juliana forgot her precarious position and lunged.

The waters of the Serpentine were as cold as they appeared. Colder.

And deeper.

She came up sputtering and swearing like a Veronese dockworker to Carla’s raucous laughter. Instinctively, she rolled her body to face shore, only to find her skirts entangled in her legs, pulling her under.

Confusion flared and she kicked out, breaking the surface again briefly, gasping for air and not entirely understanding what was happening.

Something was wrong.

She was an expert swimmer, why couldn’t she stay afloat?

She kicked once more, her legs caught in a mass of muslin and twill, and she realized that the heavy skirts were weighing her down. She could not reach the surface.

Panic flared.

She extended her arms again, kicking wildly in one last desperate attempt at air.

To no avail.

Her lungs were on fire, straining under the burden of holding in the last of her precious air . . . air she knew she was about to—

She exhaled, the sound of the air bubbles rising to the surface of the lake punctuating her fate.

I am going to drown.

The words drifted through her mind, eerily calm.

And then something strong and warm grasped one of her outstretched hands, jerking her up . . . until she could—

Thank God.

She could breathe.

Juliana took a great, gasping breath, coughing and sputtering and heaving, focusing on nothing but breathing as she was pulled from the deeper water until her feet touched firm, blessed ground.

Not that her legs could hold her upright.

She collapsed into her savior, wrapping her arms around a warm, sturdy neck—a rock in a sea of uncertainty.

It took a few moments for her to come back to place and time—to hear Carla keening like a Sicilian grandmother from the lakeshore, to feel the cold bite of wind on her face and shoulders, to register the movement of her rescuer as he held her, chest deep in the water, as she trembled—either from the cold or the fear or both.

His hands stroked along her back, and he whispered soft, calm words into her hairline. In Italian.

“Just breathe . . . I’ve got you . . . You are safe now . . . Everything is all right.” And somehow, the words convinced her. He
did
have her. She
was
safe. Everything
would
be all right.

She felt his chest rise and fall against her as he took a deep, calming breath. “You’re safe,” he repeated. “You little fool . . .” he whispered, the tone just as soothing as ever, “. . . I have you now.” His hands stroked rhythmically down her arms and up her spine. “What in hell were you doing in the lake? What if I hadn’t been here? Shh . . . I’ve got you now.
Sei al sicura.
You’re safe.”

It took her a moment to recognize the tenor, and when she did, she snapped her attention to him, looking at him with clear eyes for the first time.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Simon.

Disheveled and soaked to the skin, his blond hair turned dark with the water that dripped down his face, he looked the opposite of the poised, perfect duke she had come to expect him to be. He looked sodden and unkempt and winded . . .

And wonderful.

She said the first thing that came to her mind. “You came.”

And he’d saved her.

“Just in time, it seems,” he replied in Italian, understanding that she was not ready for English.

A fit of coughing overtook her, and she could do nothing but hold on to him for several minutes. When she was once more able to breathe, she met his steady gaze, his eyes the color of fine brandy.

He’d saved her.

A shiver rippled through her at the thought, and the tremor spurred him to action. “You are cold.”