Her skin was so soft.
He should leave the room. It was wrong for him to be here with her. If they were caught, she would be ruined, and he would have no choice but to leave her in ruin. He had been engaged mere hours.
This was all wrong.
He should go.
A gentleman would go.
“You covered all that with ‘arrogant.’ ” He traced the column of her neck.
“I—” She gasped as he pressed a soft kiss to the base of her throat. “I thought you might need further explanation.”
“Mmm,” he spoke against the skin of her shoulder. “An excellent point. Go on.”
She took a deep breath as his lips and tongue played up the side of her neck. “What were we discussing?”
He smiled at her ear before he took the soft, velvety lobe between his teeth. “You were telling me all the reasons that you should not like me.”
“Oh . . .” The word turned into a little moan as he tongued the sensitive skin of her ear. She clutched his forearms at the sensation. “Yes. Well. Those are the major reasons.”
“And yet, you like me anyway.” He moved, pressing soft kisses along the edge of her gown, easing down the smooth expanse of skin there, her chest rising and falling as she gasped for breath. She did not reply for a long while, and he slid a finger beneath the silk, stroking, seeking, until he found what he was looking for, hard and ready for him. “Juliana?”
“Yes, damn you, I like you.”
He rewarded her by pulling the gown down and baring the rose-tipped breast to the moonlight. “There’s something you should know,” he whispered, the words coming from far away.
“Yes?”
He blew a long stream of cool air across her puckered nipple, loving the way it tightened more, begging for his mouth.
He would taste her tonight.
Once, before he went back to his staid, respectable existence.
Just once.
A rush of pleasure coursed through him, and he grew hard and heavy at the thought.
“Simon”—she sighed—“you torture me.”
He palmed one of her perfect breasts, rolling his thumb across its tip, reveling in the way she gave herself up to sensation.
“What is it?” she asked, the words broken around her pleasure.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“What should I know?”
He smiled at the question, dragging his gaze up to meet hers—heavy-lidded and gorgeous.
One more taste of her. One last taste.
“I like you, too.”
Chapter Twelve
Music is the sound of the gods.
The delicate lady plays the pianoforte to perfection.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
We are assured that there is still time for the wedding of the season . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
He lifted her in his arms, turned, and carried her back to the piano bench. Setting her down on the hard wooden seat, he came to his knees before her, cupping her face and tilting her to receive his kiss.
His hands came to her breasts, lifted them, bared them, stroked across their peaks, pinching lightly until she gasped, and he rewarded the sound, giving her everything she had not known she wanted. She whispered his name as he suckled the pebbled tip of one breast, sending excitement coursing through her. She plunged her fingers into his lush golden curls, holding him to the spot where he wreaked havoc on her flesh and her emotions.
He groaned at the feel of her hands in his hair, and the sound rippled through her like pleasure.
She knew she should not allow it.
Knew she risked everything.
Did not care.
As long as he did not stop.
He clasped her to him, worshipping her with lips and tongue and the wicked hint of teeth as his hands stroked down the length of her, pressing her closer and closer to him, until she thought they might become one.
“Simon . . .” she whispered his name and he stopped, lifting his head, his eyes flashing with heat.
“God, Juliana,” he reached out one hand, stroking down one side of her cheek, and she turned her head impulsively, placing a warm, soft kiss on the pad of his thumb, tracing a circle there with her tongue before biting the flesh softly.
He growled at the sensation, pulling her to him for a kiss that was more claiming than caress. When he ended it, they were both breathing heavily, and her hands had found their way inside his topcoat to stroke his broad, firm chest.
“I want . . .” she started, the words breaking off as he returned his attention to her breasts, taking a nipple between his lips, rolling the tight peak between tongue and teeth until she could not think.
When he released her, he flashed a wolfish grin, and she could not help but reach out for him, letting her fingers play across his lips—as though touching the elusive smile could burn it into her memory. He took the tip of one finger into his mouth, sucking on it until she gasped. “What do you want, love?”
The endearment curled between them, and she was struck by a pang of longing . . . she wanted him. For more than a stolen moment in this dark, private place . . . for more than two weeks . . .
I want you to want me.
To choose me.
“Come closer.” She spread her legs, knowing that she was being wanton. Knowing that if they were caught, she would be ruined, and he would walk away to be with his future bride. But she did not care. She wanted to feel him against her. She did not care that there were layers of fabric between them. Did not care that they would never be as close as she wanted.
His eyes closed briefly as though he were steeling himself against her, and she thought for a moment that he might refuse. But when he opened them, she saw desire flare there in the stunning amber depths, then he groaned his pleasure and gave her what she wanted, pressing closer.
“You are my siren,” he said, running his hands along her thighs and down her calves, feeling the shape of her even as the silk of her gown kept them both from what they wanted. “My temptress . . . my sorceress . . . I cannot resist you, no matter how I try. You threaten to send me over the edge.”
His hands came to her ankles, and she flinched at the instant, intense pleasure of his touch. Her eyes widened. “Simon, I don’t—”
“Shh,” he said, as his hands smoothed slowly up the inside of her legs, setting her stockings aflame. “I’m showing you what I mean.”
His fingertips reached the lacy, scalloped edge of the stockings high on her thigh, and they both groaned at the feel of skin on skin. She snapped her legs closed, trapping his hands between her warm thighs.
She couldn’t.
He shouldn’t.
He leaned forward and placed his forehead on hers. “Juliana, let me touch you.”
How could she resist such temptation?
She relaxed, opening her thighs, knowing that she was a wanton.
Not caring.
He smiled, his hands climbing higher and higher. “You are not wearing drawers.”
She shook her head, barely able to speak through the anticipation. “I don’t like them. We don’t—in Italy.”
He took her mouth in a wicked kiss. “Have I mentioned how I adore the Italians?”
The sentiment, so counter to every argument they’d ever had, made her laugh. Then his fingers reached her core, feathering over the soft hair there, parting, seeking, and sending a shock of sensation through her. And the laugh turned to a moan.
His mouth was at her ear now, and he whispered wicked things as his fingers sought. Found. She did not know what she wanted. Only that—
“Simon . . .” she whispered.
He slid one finger deep into her core, and she closed her eyes at the caress, leaning back at the sensation, the piano keys sighing beneath her movement.
“Yes,” she whispered, embarrassed and bold all at once.
“Yes,” he repeated, as a second finger joined the first, and his thumb did wicked, wonderful things, circling the secret folds of her.
She bit her lip. “Stop . . . don’t stop.”
His grin was wide and wicked. “Which one?”
He stroked deep, and she grasped his arm tightly, whispering. “Don’t. Don’t stop.”
He shook his head, watching her. “I couldn’t if I tried.” Holding her gaze, he worked her in time with the movement of her hips, with the soft discordant tinkling of the piano keys beneath her. Everything faded except the feel of him, the strong, corded muscles of his arms, the magnificent way he touched her, driving her harder and faster toward something she did not understand and did not entirely trust.
She sat straight up, and he was there, one hand capturing her face, holding her to his lips. “I am here,” he whispered against her.
Was he, really?
She stiffened, shaking her head, rocketing toward pleasure. “No. Simon . . .”
“Take it, Juliana.” The demand crashed through her, so imperious that she could not follow it. She gasped at the pleasure, and he took her lips again, feeding her unbearable desire for more, for him where she ached and needed more than she would ever imagine, his beautiful amber gaze her anchor in the storm.
When he had wrung the last of her pleasure from her, he placed a soft kiss on the high arch of one cheek and righted her skirts, pulling her to him as she regained her strength. He held her there, quiet and unmoving for long minutes. Five. Maybe more.
Before she remembered where they were.
And why.
She pushed him back, away from her. “I must return.” She stood, wondering how long she would be able to suffer this interminable evening.
The worst was yet to come.
“Juliana,” he said, and she heard the plea in his voice, for what, she did not know. She waited, eager for him to say something that would make it better. That would make it right.
When he did not, she spoke. “You are to be married.”
He lifted his hands. Paused. Dropped them in frustration. “I am sorry. I should not have—I should have—”
She flinched at the words—she couldn’t help it. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t apologize.” She moved to the door, had one hand on the handle when he spoke again.
“Juliana. I cannot—” He halted. Rethought. “I am marrying Lady Penelope. I have no choice.”
There it was again, his cool, masterful tone.
She let her forehead rest on the cool mahogany of the door, so close that she could smell the rich stain on the wood.
He spoke again. “There are things you cannot understand. I must.”
She laid her palm flat against the door, resisting the horrible temptation to throw herself at his feet and beg him to have her. No. She had more pride than that. There was only one way to survive this. With dignity intact.
“Of course you must,” she whispered.
“You don’t understand.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But it is not important. Thank you for the lesson.”
“The lesson?”
This was her chance to have the last word.
To at least feel like she had won.
“Passion is not everything, is it?” She was proud of the lightness in her tone, the way she tossed the words at him as though they did not matter. As though he had not just thrown her world into upheaval.
Again.
But she did not trust herself to look at him. That would have been too challenging a part to play.
Instead, she opened the door and slipped into the hallway, not feeling at all like she’d won.
Feeling like she’d lost terribly.
She had, after all, broken the most important of her rules.
She had wanted more than she could have.
She had wanted him, and more . . . she had wanted him to want her.
In the name of something bigger than tradition, bolder than reputation, more important than a silly title.
She hovered at the entrance to the ballroom, watching the swirling silks, the way the men walked, danced, spoke with the undeniable sense of entitlement and purpose, the long, graceful lines of the women, who knew without question that they belonged.
Here, nothing trumped the holy trinity of tradition, reputation, and title.
And for someone like her—who laid claim to none of the three—someone like him—who held all three with a casual right—was utterly, undeniably, out of reach.
And she had been wrong to even pretend to reach for him.
She could not have him.
She took a deep, stabilizing breath.
She could not have him.
“Oh, good. I found you. We must talk,” Mariana whispered from her elbow, where she had materialized. “Apparently ours is not the only gossip to be had today.”
Juliana blinked. “Our gossip?”
Mariana cut her a quick, irritated look. “Really, Juliana. You shall have to get past the idea that you own all the trouble in our family. We’re a family. It’s our burden to bear as well.” Juliana did not have time to appreciate the sentiment as Mariana was already pressing on. “Apparently, there is another major event taking place tonight. One you will not like. Leighton is to be—”
“I know.” Juliana cut off her friend. She didn’t think she could bear hearing it again. Not even from Mariana.
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
Mariana’s brows snapped together. “When?”
She shrugged one shoulder, hoping it would be enough for her sister-in-law’s sister.
Apparently not. “Juliana Fiori! When did he tell you?”
She should have told her that Ralston told her. Or that she’d overheard it in the ladies’ salon. Usually, she was quicker.
Usually, she hadn’t just had her heart broken.
Her heart was not broken, was it?