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For eleven generations, that rule had gone unchallenged.
Until now.
Over the last several months, Leighton had done all he could to ensure that his character was untainted. He had dismissed his mistress, thrown himself into his work in Parliament, and attended scores of functions hosted by those who held sway over the ton’s perception of character. He had danced reels. Taken tea. Shown himself at Almack’s. Called on the most respected families of the aristocracy.
Spread a reasonable and accepted rumor that his sister was in the country, for the summer. And then for autumn. And, soon enough, for the winter.
But it was not enough. Nothing would be.
And that knowledge—the keen understanding that he could never entirely protect his family from the natural course of events—threatened his serenity.
There was only one thing left.
An unimpeachable, proper wife. A future darling of the ton.
He was scheduled to meet with Lady Penelope’s father that day. The Marquess of Needham and Dolby had approached Leighton the prior evening and suggested they meet “to discuss the future.” Leighton had seen no reason to wait, as the faster he had the marquess’s agreement that a match would be suitable, the faster he would be prepared to face the tongues that could begin wagging at any moment.
A half smile played across his lips. The meeting was mere formality. The marquess had come barely short of proposing to Leighton himself.
It would not have been the first proposal he received that evening.
Nor the most tempting.
He sat up straight in his saddle, reining in the horse, regaining control once more. A vision flashed, Juliana facing him like a warrior on the balcony of Weston House—tossing out her challenge as though it was nothing more than a game. Let me show you that not even a frigid duke can live without heat.
The words echoed around him in her lilting Italian accent, as though she were there, whispering in his ear once more. Heat.
He closed his eyes against the thought, giving the horse rein again, as though the biting wind at his cheeks would combat the word and its effect upon him.
She’d baited him. And he’d been so irate at the arrogance in her tone—at her certainty that every tenet upon which his life was built was laughable—that he’d wanted nothing more in that moment than to prove her wrong. He’d wanted to prove her insistence that his world contained nothing of value was as ridiculous as her silly dare.
So he’d given her two weeks.
It had not been an arbitrary length of time. He would give her two weeks to try her best with him, and he would show her at the end of the time, that reputation ruled the day. He would send the announcement of his impending nuptials to the Times, and Juliana would learn that passion was a tempting . . . and ultimately unfulfilling path.
If he hadn’t accepted her ridiculous challenge, she would have no doubt found someone else to needle into her plans—someone with less of a debt to Ralston and less of an interest in keeping her from ruin.
He’d done her a favor, really.
Let her do her worst.
Please.
The wicked word flashed, and with it a vision of Juliana as temptress. Her long, naked limbs tangled in his linen sheets, her hair spread like satin across his pillow, her eyes, the color of Ceylon sapphires, promising him the world as her full lips curved, and she whispered his name, reaching for him.
For a moment, he allowed himself the fantasy—all it would ever be—imagining what it would be like to ease her down, to lie across her long, lush body and bury himself in her hair, in her skin, in the hot, welcome core of her and give himself up to the passion she held so dear.
It would be paradise.
He’d wanted her from the first moment he’d seen her, young and fresh and so very different than the porcelain dolls who were paraded before him by mothers who reeked of desperation.
And for a fleeting moment, he’d thought he might be able to have her. He’d thought she was an exotic, foreign jewel, precisely the kind of wife that would so well match the Duke of Leighton.
Until he’d realized her true identity and the fact that she was entirely lacking in the pedigree required of his duchess.
Even then, he’d considered making her his. But he did not think that Ralston would take well to his sister’s becoming mistress to any duke, much less a duke he took particular pleasure in disliking.
The path of his thoughts was interrupted—blessedly—by the thunder of another set of hoofbeats. Leighton eased back in his saddle, slowing once more and looking across the meadow to see a horse and rider in full gallop, coming toward him at a reckless pace, even for a rider with such obvious skill. He paused, impressed by the synchronized movement of master and beast. His eyes tracked the long, graceful legs and pistoning muscles of the black, then turned to the form of the rider, at one with his horse, leaning low over the creature’s neck, whispering his encouragement.
Simon made to meet the rider’s gaze, to nod his appreciation, one master horseman to another. And froze.
The eyes he met were a brilliant blue, sparkling with a mix of defiance and satisfaction.
Surely he had conjured her up.
For there was absolutely no possible way that Juliana Fiori was here, in Hyde Park, at dawn, dressed in men’s clothing, riding a horse at breakneck speed, as though she were on the track at Ascot.
Without thinking, he brought his mount to a stop, unable to do anything but watch as she charged toward him, either unaware of or uninterested in the disbelief and fury surging within him, the emotions waging powerful, unsettling war for primary position in his mind.
She was upon him then, stopping so quickly that he knew immediately that this was not the first time she had ridden her mount so hard or so fast or so well. He watched, speechless, as she peeled off one black glove and stroked the long column of the horse’s neck, whispering words of encouragement in soft, breathless Italian to the massive animal as it leaned into her touch. She curved her long fingers into the beast’s pelt, rewarding it with a deep scratch.
Only then, once the horse had been properly praised, did she turn to him, as though this was a perfectly normal, entirely appropriate meeting. “Your Grace. Good morning.”
“Are you a madwoman?” The words were harsh and graveled, their sound foreign to his own ears.
“I’ve decided that if London . . . and you . . . are so convinced of my questionable character, there is no reason to worry so much about it, is there?” She waved a hand in the air as though she were discussing the possibility of being caught in the rain. “Lucrezia has not had such a run since we arrived. And she adored it . . . did you not, carina?” She leaned low again, murmuring to the horse, which preened at the loving words of her mistress and snorted her pleasure at being so well praised.
Not that he could blame the beast.
He shook off the thought. “What are you doing here? Do you have any idea what might happen if you were caught? What are you wearing? What would possess you to . . .”
“Which of those questions would you like me to answer first?”
“Do not test me.”
She was not intimidated. “I already told you. We are out for a ride. You know as well as I that there is little risk of our being seen at this hour. The sun is barely awake itself. And as for how I am dressed . . . don’t you think it better that I dress as a gentleman? That way, if someone were to see me, they would think nothing of it. Far less than they would if I were out in a riding habit. That, and it’s much less fun to ride sidesaddle, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
She slid the hand she had bared down the long length of her thigh, underscoring her attire, and he could not help but track the movement, taking in the shapely curve of her leg, tucked tightly against the flank of the horse. Tempting him.
“Can’t you, Your Grace?”
He snapped his gaze up to meet hers, recognizing the smug amusement there. He did not like it. “Can’t I
what?”
“Can’t you imagine that it’s less fun to ride sidesaddle? So proper. So . . . traditional.”
Familiar irritation flared and with it, sanity. He took a long look around them, checking the wide-open expanse of meadow for other riders. It was empty. Thank God. “What would possess you to take such a risk?”
She smiled then, slowly, with the triumph of a cat whiskers-first in a bowl of cream. “Because it feels wonderful. Why else?”
The words were a blow to the head, soft and sensual and utterly confident.
And entirely unexpected.
“You should not say such things.”
Her brows knitted together. “Why not?”
“It is inappropriate.” He knew the words were asinine even as he spoke them.
She gave a long-suffering sigh. “We’re rather past that, are we not?” When he did not reply, she pressed on, “Come now, Your Grace, you are not here on your horse, the sky still streaked with night, because you find riding merely agreeable. You are here because you agree that it feels wonderful.” He pressed his lips together in a thin line, and she gave a knowing little laugh that sent a shiver of awareness through him. She pulled on her glove, and he watched the movement—transfixed by the precise way she fitted the leather to the delicate web of her fingers. “You may deny it, but I saw it.”
He could not resist. “Saw what?”
“Envy.” She pointed a long finger at him in a gesture he should have found insolent. “Before you knew it was me on this horse . . . you wanted to be me. You wanted to give your horse full rein and ride . . . with passion.” With a flick of the reins, she pointed her horse toward the wide expanse of meadow, empty and waiting.
He watched her closely, unable to look away from her, from the way she fairly shimmered with energy and power.
He knew what was coming.
He was ready for it.
“I’ll race you to the Serpentine.” The words were a soft lilt of Italian, left hanging in the air behind her as she was already moving. Within seconds, she was at a full gallop.
Without thinking, he was after her.
His mount was faster, stronger, but Simon kept the creature in check, watching Juliana. She rode like a master, moving with her horse, leaning low over the mare’s neck. He could not hear, but he knew she was talking to the beast, giving her soft words of encouragement, of praise . . . gifting her with freedom to run as fast as she wished.
From his position two lengths behind, his eyes traced Juliana’s long, straight spine, the full curve of her backside, the way her thighs clenched and released, giving silent, irresistible commands to the horse beneath her.
Desire hit him hard and intense.
He rejected it almost instantly.
It was not her. It was the situation.
And then she looked back over her shoulder, her blue eyes glittering when she confirmed that he had followed her. That he was behind her. She laughed, the sound traveling on the biting wind and the early-morning sunshine, wrapping around him as she returned her attention to the race.
He gave his horse full rein, relinquishing control to the beast.
He passed her in seconds, beginning the wide arc that followed along a densely wooded area of the Park, leading down through the meadow to the curve of the Serpentine Lake. He gave himself up to the movement—to the way that the world tipped and slid away, leaving nothing but man and steed.
She was right.
It felt wonderful.
He looked back, unable to stop himself from looking for her, several lengths behind, and watched as she peeled off, guiding her mount off the path he had chosen, barely slowing down as she disappeared into the wooded thicket beyond.
Where in damnation was she headed?
He hauled up on the reins, his horse lifting off its front legs to follow the command, turning nearly in midair. And then he was after her, charging into the woods seconds behind her.
The morning sun had not reached beyond the trees, but the lack of light did not stop Simon from riding hard down the dimly lit path that had been barely visible from the meadow. Emotion rose in his throat, part fury, part fear, as the path twisted and turned, teasing him with glimpses of Juliana ahead.
He followed a particularly sharp turn and paused at the top of a long, shadowed straightaway, where she was urging her mount on, toward an enormous felled tree that blocked the path.
With terrifying clarity, he saw her purpose. She was going to jump it.
He called her name in a harsh shout, but she did not slow, did not turn back.
Of course she didn’t.
His heart stopped as horse and rider took to the air in perfect form, clearing the barrier with feet to spare. They landed and tore around a corner on the far side of the tree, and Simon swore, vivid and angry, and leaned into his mount, desperate to get to her.
Someone needed to take the girl in hand.
He cleared the tree trunk without concern, wondering how long she would keep him on this chase, each long stride of the horse beneath him making him more and more irate.
Coming around the turn, he pulled up hard on the reins.
There, in the middle of the path, was Juliana’s mare, calm and collected.
And riderless.
He leapt down from his horse before the animal had come to a full stop, calling her name once into the still morning air before he saw her, leaning against a tree to one side of the path, hands on her knees as she caught her breath, cheeks red with exertion and cold, eyes bright with excitement and something he did not have the patience to identify.
He stormed toward her. “You reckless female!” he thundered. “You could have killed yourself!”
She did not flinch in the face of his anger; instead, she smiled. “Nonsense. Lucrezia has leapt much higher, much more treacherous obstacles.”
He stopped mere feet from her, fists clenched. “I don’t care if she’s the devil’s own steed. You were asking to be hurt.”
She uncrossed her arms, spreading them wide. “But I am unharmed.”
The words did nothing to settle him. Instead, they made him more irritated. “I can see that.”
One side of her mouth tilted up in an expression many would have found endearing. He found it annoying. “I am more than unharmed. I am quite exhilarated. Did I not tell you we had twelve lives?”
“You cannot survive twelve scandals, though, and you are well on your way. Anyone could have found you.” He could hear the peevishness in his tone. He hated himself for it.
She laughed, the sound bright in the shadowed grove. “It’s been two minutes.”
“If I hadn’t followed you, you might have been set upon by thieves.”
“This early?”
“It might be late for them.”
She shook her head slowly, taking a step toward him. “But you did follow me.”
“But you did not know I would.” He did not know why it mattered. But it did.
She stepped closer, cautiously, as though he were a wild animal.
He felt like an animal. Out of control.
Simon took a deep breath and was inundated with her scent.
“Of course you were going to follow me.”
“Why would you think that?”
She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Because you wanted to.”
She was close enough to touch, and his fingers flexed at his side, itching to reach for her, to pull her to him and prove her right. “You’re wrong. I followed you to keep you from getting into more trouble.” She was looking up at him with her bright eyes and her full lips, curved in a small smile that promised endless secrets. “I followed you because your impulsiveness is a danger to yourself and others.”
“You are sure?”
The entire conversation was getting away from him. “Of course I am,” he said, casting about for proof. “I haven’t time for your little games, Miss Fiori. I’m to meet with Lady Penelope’s father today.”
He
r gaze flickered away for the briefest of instants before returning to his. “You’d best be off, then. You would not want to miss such an important appointment.”
He read the dare in her eyes.
Go.
He wanted to.
He was going to.
One strand of long black hair had come loose from her cap, and he reached for it instinctively. He should have pushed it back from her face—should not have touched it to begin with—but once he had it in his grasp, he could not stop himself from wrapping it once, twice around his fist, watching it cut a swath across the soft leather of his riding glove, wishing he could feel the silken strand against his skin.
Her breath quickened, and his gaze fell to the rise and fall of her chest beneath her coat. The men’s clothing should have renewed his fury, but instead it sent a powerful rush of desire through him. A mere handful of buttons kept her from him—buttons that could easily be dispatched, leaving her in nothing but the linen of her shirt, which could be freed from breeches, providing access to soft female skin beyond.
His gaze returned to hers, and that’s when he saw it. Gone were the bold challenge and the smug satisfaction, replaced with something raw and powerful, immediately identifiable.
Desire.
Suddenly, he saw how he could regain control of the moment. Of himself.
“I think you wanted me to follow you.”
“I—” Her voice caught, and she stopped. He felt the heady triumph of a hunter who had spied his first prey. “I did not care.”
“Liar.” The word was whispered, low and dark in the heavy morning air. He tugged on the lock of hair, pulling her toward him, until mere inches separated them.
Her mouth opened on a quick intake of breath, stealing his attention.
And when he saw those wide lush lips barely parted, begging for him, he did not resist. He did not even try.
She tasted like spring.
The thought exploded through him as he settled his lips on hers, lifting his hands to cup her cheeks, tilting her toward him, affording him better access to her. He could have sworn she gasped his name . . . the sound soft and breathy and intoxicating as hell. He pulled her more tightly against him, pressing her to him. She came willingly, moving against him as though she knew what he wanted before he did.
