And perhaps she did.
He ran his tongue along her full, bottom lip, and when she gasped at the sensation, he did not wait, taking her mouth again, stroking deep, thinking of nothing but her. And then she was kissing him back, matching his movements, and he was lost in the feel of her—her hands moving with torturous slowness along his arms until they finally, finally reached his neck, her fingers threading into his hair, the softness of her lips, and the maddening, magnificent little sounds she made at the back of her throat as he claimed her.
And it was a claiming—primitive and wicked.
She pressed closer to him, the swell of her breasts pressing high on his chest, and pleasure flared. He deepened the kiss, running his hands down her back to pull her against him where he wanted her most. The breeches afforded her a freedom of movement that no skirts ever could have, and he palmed one long lovely thigh, hitching her leg up until she cradled the throbbing length of him at her warm core.
He broke the kiss on a soft groan as she rocked against him in a rhythm that set him aflame. “You are a sorceress.” In that moment, he was an innocent lad chasing after his first bit of skirt, desire and excitement and something far more base colliding deep within in a tumult of sensation.
He wanted her laid bare right here, on the dirt path at the center of Hyde Park, and he did not care who saw them.
He took the soft lobe of her ear between his teeth, worrying the flesh there until she called out high and clear, “Simon!”
The sound of his given name punctuating the quiet dawn brought him back to reality. He pulled back, dropping her leg as though it burned. He stepped away, breathing heavily, watching as confusion chased desire from her countenance.
She stumbled at the instant loss of him, unable to bear her own weight with so little warning. He reached out to catch her, to steady her.
The moment she regained her footing, she pulled her arm from his and took a long step backward. Her gaze shuttered, the emotion there cooling, and he wanted to kiss her again, to bring the desire back.
She turned away from him before he could act on the desire, heading for her mount, still at the center of the pathway. He watched, unmoving, as she lifted herself up into the saddle with practiced ease. She looked down at him from above with all the grace of a queen.
He should apologize.
He had mauled her in the middle of Hyde Park. If someone had come upon them—
She stopped the thought with her words. “It seems you are not so immune to passion as you think, Your Grace.”
And with a cool flick of her wrist she was off like a shot, her horse thundering up the path from which they had come.
He watched as she disappeared, listening for the break in the hoofbeats as she took the felled tree once more . . .
Hoping the fleeting silence would drown out the echo of his title on her lips.
Chapter Five
One never knows where ruffians might lurk.
Elegant ladies do not leave the house alone.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
Remarkable, is it not, the decisions that can be made over a still-smoking rifle?
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
The Marquess of Needham and Dolby took careful aim at a red grouse and pulled the trigger on his rifle. The report sounded loud and angry in the afternoon air.
“Damn. Missed it.”
Simon refrained from pointing out that the marquess had missed all five of the creatures at which he’d aimed since suggesting that they converse outside, “like men.”
The portly aristocrat took aim and fired once more, the sound sending a shiver of irritation through Simon. No one hunted in the afternoon. Certainly no one who was such a poor shot should be so interested in hunting in the afternoon.
“Blast it!”
Another miss. Simon had begun to fear for his own well-being. If the older man wanted to shoot up the gardens of his massive estate on the banks of the Thames, far be it from Simon to dissuade him of the activity, but he could not help but regret his proximity to such ineptitude.
Apparently, even the marquess had his limits. With a muttered curse, he passed the rifle off to a nearby footman and, hands clasped stoutly behind his back, started down a long, winding path away from the house. “All right, Leighton, we might as well get down to it. You want to marry my eldest.”
Bad shot or no, the marquess was no fool.
“I believe that such a match would benefit both our families,” he said, matching the older man’s stride.
“No doubt, no doubt.” They walked in silence for several moments before the marquess continued, “Penelope will make a fine duchess. She’s not horse-faced, and she knows her place. Won’t make unreasonable demands.”
They were the words that Simon wanted to hear. They underscored his selection of the lady for the role of his future wife.
So why did they so unsettle him?
The marquess continued. “A fine, sensible girl—ready to do her duty. Good English stock. Shouldn’t have any trouble breeding. Doesn’t have any illusions about marriage or the other fanciful things some girls think they deserve.”
Like passion.
A vision flashed, unheeded, unwelcome—Juliana Fiori, smirking around her words. Not even a frigid duke can live without heat.
Nonsense.
He stood by his statement from the night before—passion had no place in a good English marriage. And it seemed that Lady Penelope would agree.
Which made her the ideal candidate for his wife to be.
She was entirely suitable.
Precisely what he needed.
We all need passion.
The words were a whisper at the back of his mind, the mocking tone, lilting with an Italian accent.
He gritted his teeth. She had no idea what he needed.
With a curt nod, Simon said, “I am happy to hear that you approve a match.”
“Of course I do. It’s a fine marriage. Two superior British lines of aristocracy. Equals in reputation and in stock,” the marquess said, removing the glove from his right hand and extending it to Simon.
As Simon shook the hand of his future father-in-law, he wondered if the marquess would feel differently once the secrets of Leighton House were aired.
The Leighton stock would not carry such a pristine reputation, then.
Simon only hoped that the marriage would lend enough weight for them all to survive the scandal.
They turned back toward Dolby House, and Simon released a long, slow breath.
One step closer. All he had to do was propose to the lady, and he would be as prepared as he could be.
The marquess cut him a glance. “Penelope is at home—you are welcome to speak with her now.”
Simon understood the meaning behind the words. The marquess wanted the match announced and completed. It was not every day that a duke went looking for a wife.
He considered the possibility. There was, after all, no reason to postpone the inevitable.
Two weeks.
He’d given her two weeks.
It had been a ridiculous thing for him to do—he could use those weeks—could have been planning a wedding during their course. Could have been married before the end of them if he’d insisted upon it.
And instead, he’d offered them up to Juliana’s silly game.
As though he had time for her games and reckless behavior and improper attire and—
Irresistible embraces.
No. This morning had been a mistake. One that would not be repeated.
No matter how much it wanted repeating.
He shook his head.
“You disagree?”
The marquess’s words pulled Simon from his reverie. He cleared his throat. “I should like to court her properly, if you’ll allow it.”
“No need for it, you know. It’s not as if it’s a love match.” Vastly entertained by the idea, the marquess laughed big and brash from the depths
of his overhanging midsection. Simon did his best to keep his irritation from showing. When the laughter died down, his future father-in-law said, “I’m just saying that everyone knows you’re not one for silly emotions. Penelope won’t expect courting.”
Simon tilted his head. “Nevertheless.”
“It makes no difference to me how you do it, Leighton,” said the older man, running his wide hands over his wider girth. “My only advice is that you begin as you mean to go on with her. Wives are much easier to manage if they know what to expect from a marriage.”
The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby was a lucky woman indeed, Simon thought wryly. “I shall take that under advisement.”
The marquess nodded once. “Shall we have a brandy? Drink to an excellent match?”
There was little Simon wanted to do less than spend more time with his future father-in-law. But he knew better than to dismiss the request. He could no longer afford to live above this particular fray.
He would never be able to again.
After a pause, he said, “I would enjoy that very much.”
Two hours later, Simon was back at his town house, in his favorite chair, hound at his feet, feeling far less triumphant than he would have expected to be. The meeting could not have gone better. He was to be aligned with a family of high regard and impeccable reputation. He had not seen Lady Penelope—had not wanted to see her, frankly—but all was well, and he imagined it was only a matter of securing the lady’s agreement before they were officially affianced.
“I assume that the outcome of your visit was satisfactory.”
He stiffened at the words, turning to meet his mother’s cold gray eyes. He had not heard her enter. He rose to his feet. “It was.”
She did not move. “The marquess has given his consent.”
He moved to the sideboard. “He has.”
“It is early for drink, Leighton.”
He turned back, a tumbler of scotch in his hand. “Consider it celebratory.”
She did not speak, nor did her gaze leave him. He wondered what she was thinking. Not that he had ever understood what lurked beneath the icy exterior of this woman who had given him life.
“Soon, you will be a mother-in-law,” he paused. “And a dowager.”
She did not rise to his bait. She never had.
Instead, she gave a single curt nod, as though everything were settled. As though everything were simple. “When do you plan on procuring a special license?”
Two weeks.
He closed his eyes against the thought, taking a drink to cover his hesitation. “Don’t you think that I should speak to Lady Penelope first?”
The duchess sniffed once, as though the question insulted several of her senses. “It’s not as though dukes of marriageable age are a common occurrence, Leighton. She’s about to make the best match in years. Just get it done.”
And there it was, in the cool, unmoving tenor of his mother’s words. Get it done. The demand . . . the expectation that a man like Simon would do whatever it took to ensure the safety and honor of his name.
He returned to his chair and deliberately relaxed into it—a feat of strength considering his frustration—taking a minuscule amount of pleasure in his mother’s stiffening at his outward calm. “I needn’t behave like an animal, Mother. I shall court the girl. She deserves some emotion, don’t you think?”
She did not move, her cool gaze showing nothing of her thoughts, and Simon realized that he’d never once been the recipient of his mother’s praise. He wondered, fleetingly, if she had the capacity for praise. Likely not. There was little need for emotion in the aristocracy. Lesser still where their offspring were concerned.
Emotion was for the masses.
He’d never seen her in a state of feeling. Never happy, never sad, never angry, never entertained. He’d once heard her say that amusements were for those with less pedigree than theirs. When Georgiana had been a child, all laughter and good nature, and the duchess had barely been able to suffer her. “Try not to sound so common, child,” she would say, lip just barely curled in the closest approximation to distaste he’d ever seen her display. “Your sire is the Duke of Leighton.”
Georgiana would grow serious then, a sliver of her exuberance gone forever.
He stiffened at the memory, long buried. No wonder his sister had fled when she’d discovered her situation. Their mother showed no sign of maternal love on the best of days.
He had not been much better.
“You are the sister to the Duke of Leighton!”
“Simon . . . it was a mistake.”
He’d barely registered her whisper. “Pearsons do not make mistakes!”
And he had left her there, in the backwoods of Yorkshire.
Alone.
When he had told their mother about the scandal that loomed, she had not moved; her breathing had not changed. Instead, she’d watched him with those cool, all-knowing eyes, and said, “You must marry.”
And they had never spoken of Georgiana again.
Regret flashed.
He ignored it.
“Sooner than later, Leighton,” the duchess said. “Before.”
Someone with less understanding of the duchess would think she had failed to complete the thought. Simon knew better. His mother did not use extraneous words. And he understood perfectly what she meant.
She did not wait for his response, knowing intuitively that her demand would be heeded. Instead, she turned on her heel and left the room, its contents gone from her mind before the door to the library closed behind her.
Trusting that Leighton would do what was needed to be done.
Before.
Before their secrets were discovered.
Before their name was dragged through the mud.
Before their reputation was ruined.
If he’d been told four months ago that he would be rushing toward marriage to shore up the reputation of the family, he would have laughed, long and imperious, and sent the informant packing.
Of course, four months ago, things had been different.
Four months ago, Simon had been the most sought after bachelor in Britain, with no expectations of a change in that stature.
Four months ago, nothing could have touched him.
He swore, low and dark, and rested his head back against his chair as the door to the library opened once more. He kept his eyes closed.
He did not want to face her again. Not her; not what she represented.
There was a delicate throat-clearing. “Your Grace?”
Simon straightened instantly. “Yes, Boggs?”
The butler crossed the room, extending the silver platter in his hand toward Simon. “I apologize for the intrusion. But an urgent message has arrived for you.”
Simon reached for the heavy ecru envelope. Turned it in his hand. Saw Ralston’s seal.
A ripple of tension shot through him.
There was only one reason for Ralston to send him an urgent note.
Georgiana.
Perhaps there was no more time for before.
“Leave me.”
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 . . .”
&nb
sp; 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.”
Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart Page 7