She laughed, liking that he had switched to her native tongue, enjoying the privacy it afforded them. “You would have been shocked by young Juliana. I was always dirty, always coming home with a new discovery, getting in trouble for yelling in the courtyard, snatching biscotti from the kitchens—wreaking havoc.”
He raised a brow. “And you think all that surprises me?”
She smiled and dipped her head. “I suppose not.”
“And as you grew older? Did you break a string of hearts on these festival evenings?” He should not ask such a thing. It was not appropriate.
But this night, there were no rules. This night was easier. This night, questions were allowed.
She tilted her head up to the sky with a low, liquid laugh and the long column of her neck was illuminated by the distant fire. He resisted the urge to press his lips to the delicate skin there and turn the laugh into a sigh of pleasure.
When she looked back at him, there was mischief in her eyes.
“Ah,” he said, stretching his legs out in front of him. “I see I am not so far off.”
“There was one boy,” she said. “Vincenzo.”
Simon was hit with a wave of emotion, curiosity and jealousy and intrigue all at once. “Tell me the story.”
“Every year in Verona, in April, there is the feast of San Zeno. The city prepares for weeks and celebrates like it is Christmas. One year . . .” She trailed off, as if she was uncertain whether she should continue.
He had never wanted to hear the rest of a story so much. “You cannot stop now. How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
Seventeen. As fresh-faced and beautiful as she was now. “And Vincenzo?”
She shrugged. “Not much older. Eighteen, perhaps?”
Simon remembered himself at eighteen, remembered the way he had thought of women . . . the things he had wanted to do with them.
Still wanted to do with them. With her.
He had an intense desire to do this unknown Italian boy harm.
“The young people in the town were enlisted to help with preparations for the festival, and I had been carrying food to the churchyard for much of the morning, Each time I arrived a new plate in hand, Vincenzo was there, eager to help.”
I imagine he was, Simon thought as she continued.
“This went on for an hour . . . four or five trips from the house to the church . . . I had saved the largest tray for last—an enormous platter of cakes for the celebration. I left the house, my hands full, and cut through a narrow alley leading to the church, and there, alone, leaning against one wall, was Vincenzo.”
A vision flashed, a lanky, dark-haired young Italian—eyes bright with desire—and Simon’s hands fisted.
“I thought he was there to take the plate from me.”
“I don’t imagine he was.” His voice had gone to gravel.
She shook her head with a little laugh. “No. He wasn’t. He reached for the plate, and when I made to give it to him, he stole a kiss.”
He loathed this boy. Wanted him dead.
“I hope you hit him in the inguine.”
Her eyes went wide. “Mr. Pearson!” she teased, switching back to English. “How very harsh of you!”
“It sounds like the pup deserved it.”
“Suffice it to say, I handled the situation.”
Pleasure shot through him. Good girl. He should have known she would take care of herself. Even if he wished he could have done it for her. “What did you do to him?”
“Sadly, Vincenzo now has a reputation for kissing with the enthusiasm of a slobbering dog.”
Simon laughed, loud and unrestrained. “Well done.”
She grinned. “We women are not so helpless as you think, you know.”
“I never thought you helpless. Indeed, I have thought you a gladiator from the beginning,” he said, offering her the skein of wine.
She smiled wide at the words. “Un gladiatore? I like that very much,” she said before drinking.
“Yes, I imagine you would.” He watched her drink, and when she lowered the flask, added, “I confess, I am very happy that he did not know how to kiss.”
She smiled, and he was transfixed by the motion of her tongue as she reached out to lick a lingering droplet of wine from her lips. “You needn’t worry. He is no competition for you.”
The words came out casually before she realized their implication. The air thickened between them almost immediately, and she dipped her head, color washing over her cheeks. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“You have said it now,” he teased, his voice low and filled with the need that was coursing through him—the need to take her in his arms and prove her correct. “I shan’t allow you to withdraw.”
She looked up, through her long, ebony lashes, and he was struck by her lush beauty. A man could spend a lifetime looking at her.
“I don’t withdraw.”
His pulse pounded at the words, and he wished they were anywhere but here, in this crowded square, with her brother and half of Yorkshire within shouting distance.
He stood, knowing that if he did not, he would not be responsible for his actions. Reaching down, he offered her a hand and pulled her to her full height. He was awash in the smell of her—that strange, exotic blend of red currants and basil. She lifted her face to his, the orange glow of the bonfire flickering across her skin, and he saw the emotion in her gaze, knew that if he took her lips here—in this public place—in front of everyone, she would not push him away.
The temptation was acute.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered what would happen if he did it—if he branded her as his here, in the middle of this country square. It would change everything in an instant. Honor would demand that they marry, and Georgiana’s scandal would take second place to the Duke of Leighton’s throwing over the daughter of a double marquess to wed an Italian merchant’s daughter of questionable legitimacy.