“You know as well as I, Lady Sparrow, that I am whatever you and your”—she waved a lazy hand in the direction of the group—“harpies decide to make me. Italian, Spanish, gypsy, changeling. I welcome whichever mantle you choose . . . as long as you do not make me English.”
She watched as understanding dawned in their shocked faces.
“For surely there is nothing worse than being one of you.”
He had pretended not to see her arrive.
Just as he had pretended not to care when she’d laughed and danced in the arms of the Earl of Allendale.
Just as he’d pretended not to count the minutes she spent in the ladies’ salon.
Instead, he had feigned vast interest in the conversation around him—in the opinions of the men who were eager to share his thoughts on the military-spending bill, and to garner the respect and support of the Duke of Leighton.
But when she quietly exited the ballroom, heading down a long, dark corridor toward the back of the house, where God only knew who or what might be waiting for her, he could not pretend any longer.
And so he crossed the ballroom, politely dismissing those who thought to stop him in conversation, and followed Juliana into the recesses of the ancestral home of the woman to whom he was betrothed.
The second woman to whom he had proposed marriage in the past twenty-four hours.
The only one who had accepted his suit.
Juliana had refused him.
He was still unable to wrap his head around the ridiculous truth.
She hadn’t even considered the possibility of marrying him.
She’d simply turned to her brother and suggested in a tone that most people reserved for children and servants, that Simon Pearson, eleventh Duke of Leighton, knew not what he was saying.
As though he offered himself up in marriage to anyone who came along.
He should be thrilled with this turn of events . . . after all, everything was now going according to plan. He was marrying the impeccable Lady Penelope, and, within moments, would align their two families, officially shoring up his defenses in preparation for the attacks that would come when scandal hit.
He passed several closed, locked doors before the hallway curved to the right, and he stopped in complete darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. Once he could make out the doors down the long stretch of hall, he continued.
He should think himself the luckiest of men that he had avoided a terrible match with Juliana Fiori.
He should be down on his knees, thanking his Maker for a narrow miss.
Instead, he was following her into the darkness.
He did not like the metaphor.
She was a sorceress.
She’d seemed so fragile there in that small stall, brushing her horse, talking to herself in soft, self-deprecating tones.
What man could resist such a tableau?
Ralston might have thought Leighton the perpetrator, the years-older gentleman taking advantage of a barely out twenty-year-old. Certainly, Simon had played into the role . . . and he’d accepted the fists and the accusations, and he’d proposed.
And as much as he tried to convince himself that he did it out of a sense of what was right, the truth was that in the moment, he’d done it because he’d wanted her. Wanted to brand her as his and finish what they had started.
The kiss had felt like nothing he had ever experienced. The softness of her skin, the feel of her fingers in his hair, the way she turned him inside out with a little sigh, the way he grew hard and aching with the mere memory of the way she whispered his name, the way she begged him to taste her on those soft, pink . . .
He opened a door, looking into a dark room. Pausing, listening. She was not there. He closed the door with a curse.
He’d never felt this way. Never been so consumed with frustration or desire or . . .
Passion.
He froze at the word, shaking his head.
What was he doing?
This was the final moment before his engagement to Lady Penelope was made public . . . before the gates closed and locked on all other paths save this one—down which lay his future duchess and their life together. And he was following another woman down a dark hallway.
It was time for him to remember who he was.
Penelope would make a sound wife. And an excellent duchess.
A vision flashed—not Penelope. Nothing like Penelope. Ebony curls and eyes the color of the Aegean Sea. Full, ripe lips that whispered his name like a prayer. A laugh that carried on the wind as Juliana rode away from him in Hyde Park, teased him at dinner, on the streets of London, in her stables.
She lived with passion. And she would love with it as well.
He ignored the thought.
She was not for him.
He turned around. Resolute. Saw the light in the darkness, marking the corridor returning to the ballroom. Headed for it.
Just as she spoke from the shadows.
“Simon?”
His given name, in her lilting Italian, breathy with surprise, was a siren’s call.
He turned to her.
“What are you—”
He grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her into the first room he found, and closed the door behind them, quickly, sealing them inside a conservatory.
She backed up, toward the large bay window and a pool of silver moonlight, managing only a few steps before she kicked a cello. She cursed in a whisper of Italian that was too loud to even be called a whisper, as she lunged to keep it from crashing to the ground.
If he weren’t so furious with her for intruding on his space and his thoughts and his life, he might have laughed.
But he was too busy worrying that her brother might happily disembowel him if they were discovered in what would never be believed to be a coincidentally compromising position.
The woman was impossible.
And he was thrilled that she was there.
A problem, that.
“What are you doing following me down a darkened hallway?” she hissed.
“What are you doing heading down a darkened hallway?”
“I was attempting to find some peace!” She turned away, headed for the window, muttering in Italian. “In this entire city, is there a single place where I am not plagued with company?”
Simon did not move, taking perverse pleasure in her agitation. He should not be the only one to be rattled. “It is you who should not be here, not I.”
“Why, does the house come with the bride?” she snapped before switching to English. “And how is it that you speak Italian so well?”
“I find it is not worth doing anything if one does not do it well.”
She offered him a long-suffering look. “Of course you would say that.”
There was a long silence. “Dante.”
“What about him?”
One side of his mouth lifted at her peevishness. “I have a fondness for him. And so, I learned Italian.”
She turned to him, her black hair gleaming silver, the long column of her throat porcelain in the moonlight. “You learned Italian for Dante.”
“Yes.”
She returned her attention to the gardens beyond the window. “I suppose I should not be surprised. Sometimes I think the ton is a layer of hell.”
He laughed. He could not help it. She was magnificent sometimes. When she was not infuriating.
“Shouldn’t you be out there instead of here, sulking about in the darkness?”
“I think you mean skulking.” She need not know how close she was to the truth in her error.
She set the sheet music on the stand with a huff of irritation. “Fine. Skulking. It is a silly word, anyway.”
It was a silly word, but he found he liked the way she said it.
He liked the way she said many things.
Not that he had any right to.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked.
She sat on the piano bench, squinting into the darkness, trying to see him. “I wanted to be alone.”
He was taken aback by her honesty. “Why?”
She shook her head. “It’s not important.”
Suddenly, nothing in the world seemed so important. He stood, knowing he should not move closer to her.
Moved closer to her anyway.
“The gossip,” he said. Of course it was the gossip. She would certainly bear the brunt of it.
She gave a little half laugh, making room for him on the piano bench. The movement was so natural—as though she hadn’t thought for a moment.
As though he belonged there.
He sat, knowing it was a terrible idea.
Knowing nothing good could come of his being this close to her.
“Apparently, I am not her daughter, but rather a cunning gypsy who has pulled the linen over your eyes.” She smiled at the words, finally meeting his gaze.
She might have been a gypsy then, with streaks of silver moonlight in her hair, and a soft, sad smile in her beautiful blue eyes turned black with the night. She was bewitching.
He swallowed. “Wool.”
She was confused. “Wool?”
“Pulled the wool over our eyes,” he corrected, his fingers itching to touch her, to smooth back a curl that had come loose at her temple. “You said linen.”
She tilted her head, the column of her throat lengthening as she considered the words. “In Italian, it is lana. I was confused.”
“I know.” He was feeling confused himself.
She sighed. “I shall never be one of you.”
“Because you cannot tell the difference between linen and wool?” he teased. He did not want her to be sad. Not now. Not in this quiet moment before everything changed.
She smiled. “Among other things.” Their gazes met for a long moment and he steeled himself against the desire to touch her. To run his fingers across her smooth skin and pull her close and finish what they had started the night before. She must have sensed it, because she broke the connection, turning away. “So you are betrothed.”
He didn’t want to discuss it. Didn’t want it to be real. Not here.
“I am.”
“And the announcement shall be made tonight.”
“It shall.”
She met his gaze. “You will have your perfect English marriage after all.”
He leaned back, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “You are surprised?”
One shoulder lifted in an elegant shrug. He was coming to like those shrugs that spoke volumes. “The game was never one I could win.”
He was surprised. “Are you admitting defeat?”
“I suppose so. I release you from the wager.”
It was precisely what he had expected her to do. What he’d wanted her to do. “That does not sound like the warrior I have come to know.”
She gave him a small wry smile. “Not so much a warrior any longer.”
His brows snapped together. “Why not?”
“I—” She stopped.
He would have given his entire fortune to hear the rest of the sentence. “You—?” he prompted.
“I came to care too much about the outcome.”
He froze, watching her, taking in the way her throat worked as she swallowed, the way she fiddled with a piece of trim on her rose-colored gown. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” She did not meet his gaze. Instead, shaking her head once more. “I am sorry that you felt that you had to watch over me. I am sorry that Gabriel hit you. I am sorry that I came to be something you . . . regret.”
Regret.
The word was a blow more painful than anything Ralston had delivered.
He had felt many things for her in the past week . . . in the past months. But regret had never been one of them.
“Juliana—” Her name came out like gravel as he reached for her, knowing that when he had her in hand, he might not let her go.
She stood before he could touch her. “It would be a problem if we were discovered. I must go.”
He stood, too. “Juliana. Stop.”
She turned, taking a step back, into the darkness, placing herself just out of reach. “We are not to speak. Not to see each other,” she rattled, as though the words could build a wall between them.
“It is too late for that.” He stepped toward her. She stepped back. “Ralston will be looking for me.”
He advanced. “Ralston can wait.”
She hurried backward. “And you have a fiancée to claim.”
“She can wait as well.”
She stopped, finding her strength. “No she can’t.”
He did not want to talk about Penelope.
He met her, toe-to-toe. “Explain yourself.” The whisper was low and dark.
“I—” She looked down, giving him the top of her head. He wanted to bury his face in those curls, in the smell and feel of her.
But first, she would explain herself.
She did not speak for an eternity—so long that he thought she might not. And then she took a deep breath, and said, “I told you not to make me like you.” The words were full of defeat.
“You like me?” She looked up, her blue eyes reflecting the light from the window behind him, and he caught his breath at her beauty. He lifted a hand, ran the backs of his fingers across her cheek. She closed her eyes at the caress.
“Yes.” The whisper was plaintive and soft, barely audible. “I don’t know why. You’re a horrible man.” She leaned into him. “You’re arrogant and irritating, and you have a temper.”
“I do not have a temper,” he said, lifting her face toward him, so he could look his fill. She opened her eyes and gave him a look of complete disbelief, and he amended, “Only when I am around you.”
“You think you are the most important man in all of England,” she continued, her voice a thread of sound in the darkness, punctuated by little catches in her words as his fingers trailed along the line of her jaw. “You think you’re right all the time. You think you know everything . . .”