Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart

by Sarah MacLean

  If only he could protect himself from her.

  When he spoke, he knew the words were too rough. Knew they would sting. “Why must you constantly test me?”

  “I do care, you know. I do care what you think.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because you expect me to fail. You expect me to do wrong. To be reckless. To ruin myself.”

  “Why not work to prove me wrong?”

  “But don’t you see? I am proving you wrong. If I choose recklessness, where is the failure? If I choose it for myself, you cannot force it upon me.”

  There was a long pause. “Perversely, that makes sense.”

  She smiled, small and sad. “If only I actually wanted it this way.”

  The words settled, and a hundred questions ran through his mind before she shivered in his arms. “You’re freezing.”

  She looked up at him, and he caught his breath at her brilliant blue eyes. “H-how are you n-not?”

  He was not even close to cold. He was on fire. Her clothes were soaking wet and ruined, her hair had come loose from its fastenings, and she should have looked like a bedraggled child. Instead, she looked stunning. The clothes molded to her shape, revealing her lush curves, the water only emphasizing her stunning features—high cheekbones, long, spiked lashes framing enormous blue eyes, porcelain skin. He tracked one drop of water down the curve of her neck to the hollow of her collarbone, and he had an intense desire to taste the droplet on his tongue.

  She was alive.

  And he wanted her.

  Thankfully, she shivered again before he could act on the unacceptable desire.

  He had to get her home before she caught pneumonia.

  Or before he went entirely mad.

  He turned to her maid. “Did you come by carriage?” he asked in quick Italian.

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “It will be faster if I take your mistress home in my curricle. Meet us at Ralston House.” He clasped Juliana’s elbow and began to steer her toward a nearby rise.

  “You j-just assume that she will follow your orders?” Juliana asked, her tone suggesting the very idea was ridiculous. He ignored her, instead meeting the maid’s gaze.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” She dropped into a quick curtsy and hurried away.

  He returned his attention to Juliana, who scowled.

  Her irritation returned some of his sense. And some of his anger. Last night and this morning, her impulsive behavior had risked her reputation. This afternoon, it had risked her life.

  And he would not have it.

  They walked several yards in silence before he spoke, “You could have died.”

  She gave the briefest of hesitations, and he thought perhaps she would apologize again. It would not be entirely unwarranted.

  He sensed the tensing of her shoulders, the straightening of her spine. “But I did not.” She tried for a smirk. Failed. “Twelve lives, remember?”

  The words were rife with defiance—of him, of nature, of fate itself. And if they had not made him so irate, he might have found room to admire her tenacity of spirit.

  Instead, he wanted to shake her.

  He resisted the impulse. Barely.

  They reached his curricle, and he lifted her, shivering, into the vehicle, then climbed in beside her.

  “I shall ruin your seat.”

  Her words, so ridiculous in light of everything that had happened in the past few minutes, set him off. He paused in the act of lifting the reins and turned an incredulous gaze toward her. “It is a wonder that you are able to find concern for my upholstery when you seem to care so little for things of much more import.”

  Her dark brows arched perfectly. “Such as?”

  “Such as your person.”

  She sneezed, and he cursed, “And now you’re going to fall ill if you don’t keep warm, you daft female.”

  He reached behind them for a traveling rug, and thrust it at her.

  She took it and covered herself. “Thank you,” she said firmly, before looking away and staring straight ahead.

  He set the curricle in motion after a long moment, wishing he’d been less forceful. More courteous.

  He did not feel at all courteous. Did not think he could muster courtesy.

  They exited Hyde Park before she spoke, and he barely heard her over the sound of hoofbeats against the cobblestones. “You needn’t speak to me as though I am half-witty.”

  He could not resist. “I believe you mean half-witted.”

  She turned away, and he heard an irritated Italian curse over the wind. After a long moment, she said, “I did not plan to drown myself.”

  There was sulking in her tone, and he felt a slight twinge of sympathy for her. Perhaps he should not be so hard on her. But, damned if he could stop. “Plan or no, if I hadn’t come along, you would have drowned.”

  “You came,” she said simply, and he recalled that as she had coughed up water and trembled with relief in the moments after he’d rescued her, she’d whispered the same words. You came.

  He’d tried not to.

  He’d thrown away her reckless note—the cleverly disguised missive that had fooled everyone into thinking that the Marquess of Ralston had sent the correspondence—tossed it into a wastepaper basket in his study.

  He’d pretended it wasn’t there as he read the rest of his correspondence.

  And still as he discussed a handful of outstanding issues with his man of business.

  And even as he had opened the package that arrived from his mother less than an hour after she had left him—the package that had contained the Leighton sapphire, the betrothal ring that had been worn by generations of Duchesses of Leighton.

  Even then, as he’d placed the ring on his desk, in full view, that crumpled piece of paper taunted him, spreading Juliana throughout his orderly, disciplined house. Everywhere he looked, he saw her missive, and he’d wondered what she would do if he did not respond.

  He’d imagined that she would not think twice about assuming a more scandalous course of action—and then her bold, black scrawl had been replaced with her bold, black curls and her flashing blue eyes. And they’d been in his bedchamber . . .

  He had called for his curricle and driven entirely too fast for a man who was determined to avoid her.

  And he’d almost been too late.

  His hands tightened on the reins, and the horses shifted uneasily under the tension. He forced himself to relax.

  “And aren’t you lucky that I came? I nearly didn’t. Sending me such a message was both immodest and infantile.” He did not give her an opportunity to reply, his next words exploding on a wave of irritation. “What would possess you to dive into a frigid lake?”

  “I didn’t dive,” she pointed out. “I fell. It was a mistake. Although I suppose you never make those.”

  “Not life-threatening ones, usually, no.”

  “Well. We cannot all be as perfect as you are.”

  She was changing the topic, and he was in no mood to allow it. “You did not answer my question.”

  “Was there an inquiry hidden in all of that judgment? I did not notice.”

  He found himself comforted by the fire in her. He cut her a glance. “The lake. Why were you in there in the first place?”

  “I told you. I followed my hat.”

  “Your hat.”

  “I like the hat. I did not want to lose it.”

  “Your brother would have bought you a new hat. I would have bought you a dozen if it would have kept me from having to . . .”

  He stopped.

  From having to watch you nearly die.

  “I wanted that one,” she said, quietly. “And I am sorry you had to rescue me . . . or that you shall have to replace this upholstery . . . or buy new boots . . . or whatever other trouble my situation has caused you.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “No, because you are too proper to finish the sentence, but that’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?
That you would buy me a dozen bonnets if it would keep you from having to keep me out of trouble? Again?”

  She sneezed again.

  And the sound nearly did him in.

  He nearly stopped the carriage and yanked her to him and gave her the thrashing she deserved for taunting him . . . and then terrifying him.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, he pulled the carriage to a stop in front of Ralston House with all decorum, despite the anger and frustration roiling within.

  “And now we have arrived,” she said, peevishly, “and your tiresome position as savior may be passed off to another.”

  He threw down the reins and descended from the carriage, biting his tongue, refusing to correct her view of the situation—refusing to allow himself to be pulled further into the maelstrom of emotion that this woman seemed to call into being every time she came near.

  Last night, she’d labeled him emotionless.

  The idea seemed utterly laughable today.

  By the time he reached her side of the carriage, she had already helped herself down and was heading toward the door. Obstinate female.

  He gritted his teeth as she turned back from the top step, looking down at him with all the self-confidence of a queen despite her sodden, bedraggled clothes and her hair, collapsed around her. “I am sorry that I have so inconvenienced you on what I can only imagine was a perfectly planned day. I shall do my best to avoid doing so in the future.”

  She thought him inconvenienced?

  He had been many things that afternoon, but inconvenienced was not one of them. The tepid word didn’t come close to how he felt.

  Irate, terrified, and completely unbalanced, yes. But not even close to inconvenienced.

  The entire afternoon made him want to hit something. Hard.

  And he imagined that the conversation he was about to have with her brother would do little to combat that impulse.

  But he would be damned if she would see that.

  “See that you do,” he said in his most masterful tone as he started up the steps after her, rejecting the impulse to leave her there, summarily, on her doorstep, and get as far from her as he possibly could. He would see her inside. And only then he would get as far from her as he possibly could. “As I told you yesterday, I haven’t time for your games.”

  Simon was there. In the house. With her brother.

  He had been for nearly three-quarters of an hour.

  And they had not called for her.

  Juliana stalked the perimeter of the Ralston House library, the petticoats of her amethyst skirts whipping about her legs.

  She couldn’t believe that neither of them had even thought that perhaps she would like to be a part of the discussion of her afternoon adventure. With a little huff of displeasure, she headed for the window of the library, which looked out on Park Lane and the blackness of Hyde Park beyond.

  Of course they hadn’t called for her. They were imperious, infuriating men, two more annoying of whom could not be found in all of Europe.

  An enormous carriage sat outside the house, lanterns blazing, waiting for its owner. Leighton’s crest was emblazoned on the door to the massive black conveyance, boasting a wicked-looking hawk complete with feather in its talon—spoils of battle, no doubt.

  Juliana traced the shield on the glass. How fitting that Leighton was represented by a hawk. A cold, solitary, brilliant animal.

  All calculation and no passion.

  He had barely cared that she’d nearly died, instead saving her with cool calculation and bringing her home without a moment’s pause for what could have been a most tragic occurrence.

  That wasn’t exactly true.

  There had been a moment in the Park during which he’d seemed to be concerned for her welfare.

  Just for a moment.

  And then he’d simply seemed to want to be rid of her.

  And the trouble she caused.

  Depositing her unceremoniously in the foyer of Ralston House and leaving her to face her brother alone, he’d said with all calm, “Tell Ralston I shall return this evening. Dry.”

  He had returned, of course—Leighton was nothing if not true to his word—and she would wager that the two men were laughing at her expense even now in Ralston’s study, drinking brandy or scotch or whatever infuriating, aristocratic males drank. She’d like to pour a vat of that liquor over their combined heads.

  She looked down at the dress with disgust. She’d chosen it for him, knowing she looked lovely in purple. She’d wanted him to see that. Wanted him to notice her.

  And not because of their wager.

  This time, she had wanted him to regret the things he had said to her.

  I haven’t time for your games.

  It had been a game at the start—the letter, the blatant invitation—but once she’d fallen into the lake, once he’d rescued her, any playfulness had disappeared along with her bonnet, lost to the bottom of the Serpentine.

  And when he’d held her in his warm, strong arms and whispered soft words of Italian to her—that had felt more serious than anything she’d ever felt before.

  But he’d scolded her, then, all cool and unwavering, as though the whole episode had been a colossal waste of his time and energy.

  As though she were nothing but trouble.

  And she hadn’t felt much like playing games any longer.

  Of course, she’d never tell him that. What purpose would it serve except to place a self-satisfied smirk on his face and give him the upper hand—as usual. And she couldn’t bear to do that, either.

  Instead, she was waiting patiently in the library, resisting the urge to rush down to her brother’s study and discover just how much of her reckless behavior Leighton had recounted—and just how much trouble she was in.

  Below, the coachman moved, leaping down from his seat, and hurrying to open the carriage door wide for his master. She knew she should turn away from the window, but then Leighton appeared, his golden curls gleaming briefly in the lanternlight before disappearing beneath his hat.

  He stopped before the open door and she could not look away; spying was an irresistible temptation. He turned to speak to the coachman, squaring his shoulders against the wind that swirled leaves from the Park about his feet and lashed at his greatcoat. A lesser man would have shown some kind of response to such a violent gust—a wince, a grimace—but not the great Duke of Leighton. Not even nature could distract him from his course.

  She watched the movement of his lips as he spoke and wondered what he was saying, where he was going. She leaned forward, her forehead nearly touching the mottled glass pane, as though she might be able to hear him if she were an inch closer.

  The coachman nodded once and dipped his head, stepping back to hold the door.

  He was leaving.

  The duke did not need a step to climb into his great black carriage, he was large and strong enough to manage without one, and she watched as he reached for the handle to pull himself up, wishing that, just once, he would miss his mark, or stumble, or look anything less than he always did—perfect.

  He paused, and she held her breath. Perhaps the action was not so easy after all. He turned his head. And looked straight at her.

  She gasped and stepped back from the window immediately, hot embarrassment washing through her at having been caught, followed instantly by irritation at having been embarrassed.

  It was he who should be embarrassed, not her.

  It was he who had insulted her that afternoon, it was he who had come to speak with her brother that evening and not asked to see or speak with her.

  She could have taken ill. Did he not care for her well-being?

  Apparently not.

  She would not let him scare her away. It was her house, after all. She had every right to look out the window. It was looking in windows that was rude.

  And, besides, she had a wager to win.

  She took a deep breath and returned to her place.

  He
was still looking up at her.

  When she met his warm, amber gaze, gleaming in the light of the house, he raised one imperious, golden brow, as if to claim victory in their silent battle.

  Resistance flared, hot and powerful. She would not allow him to win.

  She crossed her arms firmly over her chest in a manner utterly improper for a lady and raised a brow of her own, hoping to surprise him, prepared to stand there all night, until he backed down.

  It was not surprise she found as she looked down at him, however. Something lightened in the firm, angled lines of his face as he watched her—something vaguely like humor—before he turned and, with perfect precision, lifted himself into his carriage.

  She did not waver as the coachman closed the door, hiding the duke from her view. She secretly hoped that he was watching her from behind the darkened windows of the conveyance as she released a long peal of laughter.

  Whether he had allowed it or not, she had won.

  And it felt wonderful.

  “Juliana? May I come in?”

  Her laughter was cut short as her sister-in-law entered, her head peeking around the edge before the door opened wide. Juliana spun toward her visitor, dropping her arms and dropping quickly to sit on the wide bench beneath the window. “Of course. I was . . .” She waved one hand in the air. “It is not important. What is it?”

  Callie approached, a half smile on her face, to join Juliana. “I came to confirm that you are feeling well, and it sounds as though you are quite recovered from your adventure. I am so very happy that you are safe,” she added, taking Juliana’s hand. “I never thought I would say it, but thank goodness for the Duke of Leighton.”

  Juliana did not miss the dryness in her sister-in-law’s tone. “You do not like him.”

  “The duke?” Callie sat next to Juliana, her eyes shuttering. “I do not know him. Not really.”

  Juliana recognized the evasion. “But . . . ?”

  Callie considered her words for a long moment before speaking. “I will say that he—and his mother, for that matter—has always seemed arrogant, imperious, and unmoving in a way that makes him appear uncaring. To my knowledge, he has an interest in only one thing—his reputation. I’ve never cared for people with such rigid opinions.” She paused, then confessed, “No. I did not like him, until today. Now that he has rescued you, I think I shall have to reevaluate my opinion of the duke.”