Which was still extraordinarily ducal.
He wore buckskin breeches and tall, brown riding boots, a white linen shirt, and a green topcoat, but there was nothing elaborate about the clothes—his cravat was uncomplicated, his coat simple and unassuming. A cap rather than a hat was pulled down over his brow and, while he was wearing gloves, he did not carry the cane that was required in town.
This was Simon with a nod to the country.
A Simon she could love.
Then she would give him up. To his reputation and his propriety and his responsibility and all the things she had come to love about him.
But tonight, they were in the country. And things were simpler.
Perhaps she could convince him of it.
The thought unstuck her. She began to move.
Toward him.
He straightened. “Are you buying magic potions?”
“Yes.” She tossed a look over her shoulder at the woman, now standing just outside the stall.
She smiled her toothy grin. “You see how quickly it works, milady?”
Juliana could not help but smile. “Indeed. Thank you.”
Simon looked uncomfortable. “What did she sell you?”
She met his gaze for a long moment.
It was now or never.
“What if I said she sold me one evening?”
His brow furrowed. “One evening of what?”
She gave a little shrug. “Simplicity. Ease. Peace.”
One side of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “I would say, let’s buy a lifetime of it.”
Juliana thought about the conversation long ago, when they had discussed the perfect Leighton lineage—the reputation he protected, the honor he valued. She recalled the pride in his voice, the heavy responsibility that was understood.
What must it be like to bear such a burden?
Difficult enough to be tempted by a night of freedom.
Juliana shook her head. “We can’t have a lifetime. Just one evening. Just this evening.”
He watched her for a long moment, and she willed him to accept her offer. This night, in this simple town in the English countryside, without gossip or scandal. A bonfire and a fair and a few hours of ease.
Tomorrow, next week, next month might all be horrible. Would likely be horrible.
But she would have now.
With him.
All she had to do was reach out and take it.
“I’ve enough for both of us, Simon,” she whispered. “Why not live for tonight?”
Please.
He hovered on the brink of answering, and she wondered if he would turn her away—knew he should turn her away. Her heart pounded in her chest as she watched the muscles in his jaw twitch, preparing for speech.
But before he could answer, the church bells on the far side of the square began to chime—an explosion of sound. Her eyes went wide as the people around them let up a powerful, raucous cheer. “What is happening?” she asked.
There was a beat, as though he had not heard the question right away. Before he offered her his arm. “The bonfire. It’s about to begin.”
Why not live for tonight?
The words echoed in Simon’s mind as they stood in the heat of the blazing bonfire.
One evening.
One moment that would be theirs, together, here in the country. Without responsibility or worry . . . just this Bonfire Night, and nothing more.
But what if he wanted more?
He could not have it.
Just one evening. Just this evening.
Once again, Juliana was issuing a challenge.
This time, he was afraid that if he accepted, he would never survive.
He turned slightly, just enough to take her in. She was in profile, staring at the bonfire, a look of glee upon her face. Her black hair was gleaming in the firelight—a riot of reds and oranges, a magnificent, vibrant thing. And her skin glowed with the heat of the fire and her excitement.
She sensed his gaze, turning toward him. When she met his eyes, he caught his breath.
She was beautiful.
And he wanted this night. He wanted whatever he could get of her.
He leaned down, his lips close to her ear, and resisted the urge to kiss her there, where she smelled so wonderfully like Juliana. “I would like the potion.”
She pulled back, her blue eyes navy in the darkness. “You are certain?”
He nodded.
Her lips curved in a wide, welcome smile, open and unfettered, and he felt that he had experienced a wicked blow to the head. “What now?”
An excellent question. People had begun to wander away from the fire; they were returning to the rest of the excitements on the square. He offered her an arm. “Would you take a turn about the green with me?”
She considered his arm for a long moment, and he understood her hesitation, saw the trepidation in her gaze when she met his gaze. “One evening.”
Every bit of him screamed that it wouldn’t be enough.
But it would have to be.
And he would not allow himself to think on what came tomorrow.
He dipped his head. Acquiesced. “One evening.”
And then her hand was on his arm, warm and firm, and they were moving away from the fire. The light faded, but the heat stayed, blazing hotter than before.
They walked in silence before she said, waving back at the pyre, “I confess, I am honored. All this, for Catholics.”
A crisp wind ripped through the square, pressing her closer to him, and he resisted the urge to wrap one arm around her. “For a specific Catholic,” he said. “Guy Fawkes nearly blew up Parliament and killed the king. Bonfire Night is a celebration of the foiling of the plot.”
She turned toward him, interested. “The man at the top of the fire . . . that is your Guy?” He nodded, and she turned to finger a bolt of cloth in one of the stalls. “He does not look so dangerous.”
He laughed.
She looked over her shoulder at the sound. “I like to hear you laugh, Your Grace.”
He resisted the title. “Not Your Grace tonight. If I get an evening of freedom and ease, I don’t want to be a duke.” He did not know where the words came from, but their truth was undeniable.
She inclined her head in his direction. “A reasonable request. Then who are you tonight?”
He did not have to think. He gave a little bow in her direction and she laughed, the sound like music in the darkness. “Simon Pearson. No title. Just the man.”
For one evening, he could imagine that the man was enough.
“You expect people to believe that you are a mere mister?”
If it was a game, why could he not make the rules? “Is this potion magic or not?”
She smiled softly, returning her hand to his arm. “It might be magic after all.”
They moved on in silence, past a sweets cart and a booth where pork and chicken pasties were for sale. “Are you hungry?” he asked. When she nodded, he purchased two of the savory treats and a skein of wine, and turned back to her with a smile. “Mr. Pearson would like to have an impromptu picnic.”
The smile widened to a grin. “Well, I would not like to disappoint him. Not on Bonfire Night.”
They moved to a more secluded part of the green, where they sat upon a low bench and ate, watching the revelers. A collection of children ran past—chasing or being chased—their laughter trailing behind them.
Juliana sighed, and the sound rippled through him, soft and lovely. “These evenings were my favorites as a little girl,” she said, her voice lilting with her Italian accent. “Festivals meant an evening when things did not have to be so proper.”
He imagined her as a little girl, too tall for her age, with dirty knees and a mass of wild curls tangling in the breeze, and he smiled at the picture. He leaned in, and said in Italian, “I would have liked to have known you then. To have seen young Juliana in her element.”
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.