by Joanna Shupe
“I cannot imagine you jealous of any man, Your Grace.”
His hand playfully slapped her buttock. “That’s for using my bloody title. And it’s not a circumstance I readily admit to. However, I feel as if I’ve known you a long time though we’ve just met. I feel quite . . . well, protective of you.”
She smiled, the joy from his declaration gathering in her chest. And then she remembered their circumstances, the ruse she played, and the joy dimmed significantly. Was he so tender, so honest with the other women in his life?
This man was her husband. She felt protective of him, too, though little good that emotion served when he traipsed about Europe bedding different women every night. On the journey over, she’d been prepared to hate him. To fool him, get what she wanted, leave, and forget him when it was through. Leave him to his other women while she raised her son.
But she had not counted on his seductiveness. The way he would lull her into forgetting with pretty words and soft caresses. She would be wise to never fail to remember this was only temporary, that this was purely physical.
So she asked, “And what of your wife?”
He stiffened. “What of her?” His voice had turned brittle. “She’s hardly even my wife.”
“Meaning?”
“It means the marriage was never consummated. And it never will be.”
Her cleft still throbbed from their lovemaking, the delicious soreness between her legs reminding her how untrue his statement was. “Is she ugly, then?”
He sighed, clearly not comfortable with the conversation. “No, she was quite beautiful as I recall. Blond, like an angel. But young. Innocent. We married when she was only sixteen, and I left as soon as the ceremony finished.”
“So why not go back now? Aren’t you curious about her?”
“No,” he snapped, rolling over onto his back. “I am not the least bit curious. My father picked her for me, forced me to marry her with some clever blackmail. I will never, ever be a husband.”
Julia didn’t want to point out that he was a husband, whether he liked it or not. “Surely you want an heir.”
Nick laughed, but it was dry and without mirth. “No, I decidedly do not want a brat. Ever. I wouldn’t give my father the satisfaction. The last thing I want is for the Seaton line to continue.”
“But isn’t yours one of the oldest and most prestigious titles? Why—”
“A title my parents never wanted me to have. It was made quite clear to me that I was not good enough to carry on the family legacy. So no, the line ends with me.”
The small bit of hope for a future together died when she heard the vehemence behind his words. He never wanted children? Heavens, Nick would truly hate her once he discovered what she’d done.
She took a deep breath and turned to face him. He stared at the ceiling, looking grim. She placed a hand on his chest. “You deserve happiness, Nick.”
He didn’t say anything for so long, she was sure he wouldn’t answer. Then he finally whispered, “There are all kinds of happiness. What makes you think I’m not?”
Julia leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek. She laid her head down on his shoulder and lightly stroked the soft, springy hair on his chest.
God, what had she done?
The next morning, Julia awoke, confused as to her surroundings. Then she remembered. Nick’s palazzo. Stretching, she turned and saw the empty space beside her. Nick was gone, already up and about. Part of her was disappointed.
He’d awoken her sometime in the night with tender kisses and soft touches to heat her blood. Their joining had been sweet and slow, a steady, sensual climb before a dizzying burst of pleasure. Nick clung to her afterward, his head on her breast as he fell back asleep.
She had watched him for a long time as he slept, this complicated man who was so unlike what she’d pictured all these years. But she couldn’t get emotionally attached. Yes, he was her husband, but he never wanted to be a proper spouse or father. The instant he learned her identity, learned she was enceinte, he would hate her forever.
And while Julia could not blame him, neither could she back down. This was the only way to secure her future.
A knock sounded at the door. Julia pulled the sheet up over her naked body. “Yes?” she called.
Fiorella poked her head inside. “Signora, are you awake?”
“Fiorella!” Julia cried, sitting up. “You’re here. I didn’t realize you would come as well.”
The young girl walked into the room. “The duke promised to double my wages for the week if I came,” she said, her face glowing with happiness. “Can you imagine? The duke, he is very generous, no?”
Julia nodded. “Yes, he is. Did you bring all my creams and lotions?”
“Yes, signora. Would you prefer to take a bath this morning?”
Julia nearly passed out with relief. Fiorella had her hair dye. “Please, Fiorella. Thank you.”
An hour later, she’d eaten a light breakfast, bathed, and dressed for the day. Her hair was pulled up into a tasteful chignon and she wore a light green striped muslin day dress. Now she was ready to face Nick.
She found him fencing in the ballroom with Fitz.
It was a sight to behold. Both men were shirtless, their naked torsos gleaming with sweat as their chests heaved from the effort. They circled and parried on a large mat, the sound of their foils clanging together in the cavernous space. Fitz had both size and muscle on Nick, but the duke was fast. He managed to evade Fitz’s somewhat clumsy attempts at thrusting while sneaking in quick jabs of his own.
Nick gave her his back and that’s when she saw it: a rather ugly scar near his right shoulder blade, the place where he’d been stabbed in Vienna. Her stomach lurched. Dear God. Simon was right.
Someone had tried to kill her husband.
She must have made a small sound because both men halted and turned to the doorway. A smile broke out over Nick’s handsome face, and he strolled over, the glistening muscles of his upper body rolling and shifting as he approached. “Good morning, my dear.”
“Good morning. Do not let me interrupt,” she said, almost shyly.
“We’re nearly done. Have a seat”—he pointed his foil to a chair against the wall—“and watch me finish this great big lummox off.”
Fitz snorted.
Nick gave her a quick kiss. “For luck,” he said, and turned back to his opponent.
Julia relaxed into a chair, content to observe their exercise. It was a splendid display of virility and strength. Nick moved gracefully, confident in himself and his abilities, his footing sure and quick. The muscles in his arms and back worked under his damp skin. He charged, sweat running down his naked torso, black breeches clinging to his powerful thighs....
Arousal hit her hard, a visceral response to his display. Her lower body warmed and tingled as she remembered sliding against his nakedness. How wonderful his hardness felt inside her, stretching her. God, she wanted to lick him from head to toe.
Even knowing how much he would hate her, how he never wanted a child, Julia couldn’t stop herself from aching for him. The need for this man was like a drug, a powerful opiate she was helpless to control.
And she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the magnificent sight of him. Her skin came alive, itchy and restless, while she watched him prowl and flex. Julia gripped the sides of the chair to keep from throwing herself at him.
Nick heard Juliet let out a soft sigh. He shot her a glance and instantly recognized the signs of arousal on her face. Skin flushed, her lips slightly parted, eyes bright and glassy . . . He found his own body responding accordingly, his groin tightening as blood rushed to his shaft.
She watched him with blazing intensity, clutching the sides of the armchair, and he stared, unable to—
With a whoosh of air, Nick suddenly found himself flat on his back, Fitz’s foil at his throat. Damn it. Nick had let his guard down and his friend took advantage.
“Plannin’ to finish me off, eh?” Fitz backed off
and extended a hand.
Nick cursed and stood up with Fitz’s help. He grimaced. Christ, his shoulder hurt like the devil. He must have landed on it in the fall. “I was distracted,” he mumbled.
“Obviously.” Fitz grinned, tipping his head in Juliet’s direction. He picked up the foils along with his shirt, muttering in Gaelic, and then left.
Deliberately not putting his shirt back on, Nick strolled over to Juliet. Arms crossed, he braced his legs slightly apart and stood in front of her.
The tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips, tempting him. “Did I distract you, Your Grace?”
She’d asked the question innocently enough, but Nick could see the knowledge in her blue eyes.
“You know very well you did, witch. Now what will you do to make it up to me?”
He was curious to see what she would do, the bold vixen. He’d always surrounded himself with women who liked sexual pleasure as much as he did, and as wonderful as those past encounters had been, Juliet put them to shame. Her innocent enthusiasm, her intimate knowledge of the male body . . . it was like she’d been taught exactly where to touch him, how to drive him wild.
Her hands went to the buttons on his trousers and with a sly smile, she popped them slowly, taking her time, one by one, until he sprang free.
In a matter of seconds, Nick forgot all about the fencing match.
The next few days passed quickly. Nick couldn’t remember a time when he felt more satisfied or content. He and Juliet were strangely compatible, even out of bed. They spent almost every minute together, and he didn’t once tire of her presence as he usually did with women in the past.
She knew as much about literature as he did—if not more so. Impressive considering he’d been forced to learn the classics in school and she’d read them on her own. Juliet could also play the pianoforte, which she did for him every night after dinner.
He wanted to do something special for her before the end of their week. Remembering her desire to visit the island of Torcello, he decided to surprise her with a trip. They could spend the late morning sightseeing and then have a picnic. She’d said she needed extra time with her toilette this morning, so Nick arranged everything while he waited.
By the time she came down, the gondola was packed and ready to leave.
With her red hair piled atop her head in lush curls, and wearing a conservative light blue dress, she could be any lady strolling down The Strand. But it was the mischievous, intimate smile she gave him that had his chest tightening with emotion. He didn’t want to feel tenderness for any woman, had avoided romantic entanglements for years. Juliet, however, had somehow slipped past his defenses. He felt . . . affection for her.
Could he convince her to stay longer than their agreed-upon seven days?
When she got to the bottom of the stairs, he bowed. “Madam, your carriage awaits.”
“Carriage?” she asked.
Nick straightened and shrugged. “Well, gondola. It was the best I could do.” He took her hand. “Today we are to be tourists, where we shall ramble about on the island of Torcello.”
“Oh!” Juliet breathed, clutching at him in excitement. “Truly?”
He nodded. “I remembered how you wanted to explore it. And we’ll have a picnic while we’re there.”
Soon they were in the water, gliding north toward the lagoon islands. He and Juliet sat in the enclosed felze, while Fitz and the gondolier were outside, talking softly, as the boat rocked them gently.
“How long will it take to get there?” she asked.
“More than an hour. Torcello is the farthest lagoon island from Venice. It’s also the quietest. Only a small number of people actually live there.”
“What shall we do until we arrive?” She slid him a glance from beneath her lashes, and Nick felt his blood begin to stir.
“Why, I’m not sure.” Turning, he nuzzled her neck just below her earlobe. He happened to know exactly how much she liked it.
She gave a long sigh, and her head fell back against the seat to allow him better access.
“What would you like to do until we get there?” he whispered against her throat.
“Shall we discuss politics? You haven’t taken up your seat in the House of Lords, but I’m sure—”
“I would rather swim to Torcello than discuss politics. I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that, my dear.” He traced the curve of her collarbone with his fingertips, the skin so soft and delicate. She rewarded him with a shiver. Leaning in, he slid his lips down the column of her throat, dropping small kisses as he went. She smelled heavenly, like soap and flowers, and he thought about tasting her everywhere.
“Hmm. No politics, then. What about gossip? I can tell you everything happening in London these days.”
He grunted and continued kissing her neck, and she laughed. “Shall I recite poetry for you?”
“I hate poetry,” he mumbled.
She laughed once more. “As it happens, so do I. Well, that leaves us only one thing.” Her hand found his thigh and began gliding toward his crotch. His shaft rapidly swelling, he held his breath, waiting for her sweet touch. “To talk about ourselves.”
Nick pulled back, aghast. “Talk about ourselves?” His hand shot out and scooped up her knees to place her legs across his lap. “I have a much better idea. Why don’t you talk and I’ll find a way to amuse myself with your body.” He flipped up her skirts and petticoats then ran his fingers up the inside of her thigh until he found her heat.
She was deliciously wet, her body already prepared for him. He dabbled and dallied, his fingers in no hurry whatsoever to ease her torment despite her pleas. Every bit of this ride would be spent driving her wild.
Much later, when they arrived in Torcello, Nick helped Juliet off the gondola. He’d brought her to peak twice on the trip, and she said her legs were not yet steady. He couldn’t contain his smile.
“You could look a little less pleased with yourself, Your Grace,” she muttered as she took his arm.
“If you ‘Your Grace’ me once more, I’ll pleasure you three times on the way home.”
“Promise?” she shot back, devilment dancing in her blue eyes.
He chuckled. “Fitz,” he called. “We’ll return in an hour and a half for lunch.” His friend nodded, and Nick led Julia down the dock toward the island. “I had no idea you would prove so insatiable, Mrs. Leighton.”
“Worried you won’t be able to keep up?”
“Yes,” he returned with exaggerated sincerity, making her laugh. He loved to see her laugh, he realized. “Let’s stop first at the Cathedral to view the mosaics.” He led her toward a giant bell tower.
After they’d studied the mosaics and climbed to the top of the tower, Nick told her, “Now you need to sit on Attila’s Throne.” In the courtyard behind the Cathedral, he showed her a large stone chair.
“And why should I sit there?”
“Because it’s what tourists do, my dear.” He led her to the throne and kept hold of her hand as she sat down. “Locals say if you sit on Attila’s Throne, it means you’ll return to Torcello one day.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss on the inside of her wrist, at the edge of her glove.
She smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back, grinning like an idiot and not caring in the least.
“Someday perhaps you can bring me back,” she said softly.
Nick wasn’t sure how to respond to such a statement. They both knew their liaison wasn’t permanent, but her voice had a strange wistful quality to it—and damn, if he didn’t want to give this woman everything in his power. And that was dangerous indeed.
He decided to ignore it and brought her to her feet instead. “Now let’s eat.”
The rest of the trip had been quite lovely, Julia thought as they drifted back toward Venice. They’d shared a picnic inside an abandoned old palazzo, and afterward Nick had taken her gently on their soft blankets. Their lovemaking had grown less frenetic over the last f
ew days, but certainly no less intense. Once they’d righted their clothing, they had walked a bit more, holding hands and sharing kisses as they explored. All in all, a perfect day.
Once in the gondola, Nick had stretched out in the felze with his head in her lap. A few minutes later, he’d fallen asleep.
Julia smoothed the hair off his forehead. After today, she had two days left with him. Yes, they could still see each other, but for now she was enjoying being at his side both day and night.
His face appeared younger and more peaceful in his sleep. Awake, there was darkness in him, a hurt from his youth that he could not, would not, allow himself to forget. It made him cold and cynical. But there was sweetness as well, the tenderness of a man who had never known love, who craved it more than he even realized.
As they ate, she’d prodded him to tell her about his childhood.
“Not much to tell, really,” he’d said. “I spent it tramping about the estate, escaping my nursemaid whenever possible. I loved to be outside. Still do, whenever I can. Then I went off to Eton and only returned a handful of times in the years following. They hardly cared whether I lived or died by then.”
“Who?” she’d asked.
“The duke and duchess. They washed their hands of me fairly early on. In fact, I cannot remember any tender moments with my parents. Every fond memory I have of my childhood is of my nursemaid and the head gardener, who I used to follow about every chance I got.”
“What of your older brother?”
He popped an olive in his mouth. “We got on well enough, but the tutors kept him busy. ‘A future duke has responsibilities,’ they used to say. Made Harry fairly miserable. We were a pair: one boy with too much attention and the other with none.”
“Oh, Nick,” she’d said sadly.
He shrugged with a casualness she suspected he did not feel. “My parents were miserable people. In some ways, it was better to be left to my own devices, lonely as they were. Harry had to meet with our parents regularly, explain what he’d been learning, and perform like a pet monkey in a shop. I hardly saw them. In fact, one time I counted how long they avoided me. I got up to eighty-nine days.”