She stopped, the pounding of her heart loud in her ears as the words hung between them, their echo heavy in the darkness. Senza finezza. It was only then that she realized that, at some point during her tirade, she had switched to Italian.
She could only hope that he had not understood.
There was a long stretch of silence, a great, yawning void that threatened her sanity. And then the carriage stopped. They sat there for an interminable moment, he still as stone, she wondering if they might remain there in the vehicle for the rest of time, before she heard the shifting of fabric. He opened the door, swinging it wide.
She started at the sound of his voice, low and dark and much much closer than she was expecting.
“Get out of the carriage.”
He spoke Italian.
Perfectly.
She swallowed. Well. She was not about to apologize. Not after all the terrible things that he’d said. If he was going to throw her from the carriage, so be it. She would walk home. Proudly.
Perhaps someone would be able to point her in the proper direction.
She scooted across the floor of the coach and outside, turning back and fully expecting to see the door swing shut behind her. Instead, he followed her out, ignoring her presence as he moved up the steps of the nearest town house. The door opened before he reached the top step.
As though doors, like everything else, bent to his will.
She watched as he entered the brightly lit foyer beyond, a large brown dog lumbering to greet him with cheerful exuberance.
Well. So much for the theory that animals could sense evil.
She smirked at the thought, and he turned halfway back almost instantly, as though she had spoken aloud. His golden curls were once more cast into angelic relief, as he said, “In or out, Miss Fiori. You are trying my patience.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he had already disappeared from view. And so she chose the path of least resistance.
Or, at least, the path that was least likely to end in her ruin on a London sidewalk in the middle of the night.
She followed him in.
As the door closed behind her and the footman hurried to follow his master to wherever masters and footmen went, Juliana paused in the brightly lit entryway, taking in the wide marble foyer and the gilded mirrors on the walls that only served to make the large space seem more enormous. There were half a dozen doors leading this way and that, and a long, dark corridor that stretched deeper into the town house.
The dog sat at the bottom of the wide stairway leading to the upper floors of the home, and under his silent canine scrutiny, Juliana was suddenly, embarrassingly aware of the fact that she was in a man’s home.
Unescorted.
With the exception of a dog.
Who had already been revealed to be a poor judge of character.
Callie would not approve. Her sister-in-law had specifically cautioned her to avoid situations of this kind. She feared that men would take advantage of a young Italian female with little understanding of British stricture.
“I’ve sent word to Ralston to come and fetch you. You may wait in the—”
She looked up when he stopped short, and met his gaze, which was clouded with something that, if she did not know better, might be called concern.
She did, however, know better.
“In the—?” she prompted, wondering why he was moving toward her at an alarming pace.
“Dear God. What happened to you?”
“Someone attacked you.”
Juliana watched as Leighton poured two fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler and walked the drink to where she sat in one of the oversized leather chairs in his study. He thrust the glass toward her, and she shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“You should take it. You’ll find it calming.”
She looked up at him. “I am not in need of calming, Your Grace.”
His gaze narrowed, and she refused to look away from the portrait of English nobility he made, tall and towering, with nearly unbearable good looks and an expression of complete and utter confidence—as though he had never in his life been challenged.
Never, that was, until now.
“You deny that someone attacked you?”
She shrugged one shoulder idly, remaining quiet. What could she say? What could she tell him that he would not turn against her? He would claim, in that imperious, arrogant tone, that had she been more of a lady . . . had she had more of a care for her reputation . . . had she behaved more like an Englishwoman and less like an Italian . . . then all of this would not have happened.
He would treat her like all the rest.
Just as he had done since the moment he had discovered her identity.
“Does it matter? I’m sure you will decide that I staged the entire evening in order to ensnare a husband. Or something equally ridiculous.”
She had intended the words to set him down. They did not.
Instead, he raked her with one long, cool look, taking in her face and arms, covered in scratches, her ruined dress, torn in two places, streaked with dirt and blood from her scored palms.
One side of his mouth twitched in what she imagined was something akin to disgust, and she could not resist saying, “Once more, I prove myself less than worthy of your presence, do I not?”
She bit her tongue, wishing she had not spoken.
He met her gaze. “I did not say that.”
“You did not have to.”
He threw back the whiskey as a soft knock sounded on the half-open door to the room. Without looking away from her, the duke barked, “What is it?”
“I’ve brought the things you requested, Your Grace.” A servant shuffled into the room with a tray laden with a basin, bandages, and several small containers. He set the burden on a nearby low table.
“That is all.”
The servant bowed once, neatly, and took his leave as Leighton stalked toward the tray. She watched as he lifted a linen towel, dipping one edge into the basin. “You did not thank him.”
He cut a surprised glance toward her. “The evening has not exactly put me in a grateful frame of mind.”
She stiffened at his tone, hearing the accusation there.
Well. She could be difficult as well.
“Nevertheless, he did you a service.” She paused for effect. “Not to thank him makes you piggish.”
There was a beat before her meaning became clear. “Boorish.”
She waved one hand. “Whatever. A different man would have thanked him.”
He moved toward her. “Don’t you mean a better man?”
Her eyes widened in mock innocence. “Never. You are a duke, after all. Surely there are none better than you.”
The words were a direct hit. And, after the terrible things he’d said to her in the carriage, a deserved one.
“A different woman would realize that she is squarely in my debt and take more care with her words.”
“Don’t you mean a better woman?”
He did not reply, instead taking the seat across from her and extending his hand, palm up. “Give me your hands.”
She clutched them close to her chest instead, wary. “Why?”
“They’re bruised and bloody. They need cleaning.”
She did not want him touching her. Did not trust herself.
“They are fine.”
He gave a low, frustrated growl, the sound sending a shiver through her. “It is true what they say about Italians.”
She stiffened at the words, dry with the promise of an insult. “That we are superior in all ways?”
“That it is impossible for you to admit defeat.”
“A trait that served Caesar quite well.”
“And how is the Roman Empire faring these days?”
The casual, superior tone made her want to scream. Epithets. In her native tongue.
Impossible man.
They stared at each other for a long minute, neither willing to back down
until he finally spoke. “Your brother will be here at any moment, Miss Fiori. And he is going to be livid enough as it is without seeing your bloody palms.”
She narrowed her gaze on his hand, wide and long and oozing strength. He was right, of course. She had no choice but to relinquish.
“This is going to hurt.” The words were her only warning before he ran his thumb over her palm softly, investigating the wounded skin there, now crusted in dried blood. She sucked in a breath at the touch.
He glanced up at the sound. “Apologies.”
She did not reply, instead making a show of investigating her other hand.
She would not let him see that it was not pain that had her gasping for breath.
She had expected it, of course, the undeniable, unwelcome reaction that threatened whenever she saw him. That surged whenever he neared.
It was loathing. She was sure of it.
She would not even countenance the alternate possibility.
Attempting a clinical assessment of the situation, Juliana looked down at their hands, nearly entwined. The room grew instantly warmer. His hands were enormous, and she was transfixed by his fingers, long and manicured, dusted with fine golden hairs.
He ran one finger gently across the wicked bruise that had appeared on her wrist, and she looked up to find him staring at the purpling skin. “You will tell me who did this to you.”
There was a cool certainty in the words, as though she would do his bidding, and he would, in turn, handle the situation. But Juliana knew better. This man was no knight. He was a dragon. The leader of them. “Tell me, Your Grace. What is it like to believe that your will exists only to be done?”
His gaze flew to hers, darkening with irritation. “You will tell me, Miss Fiori.”
“No, I will not.”
She returned her attention to their hands. It was not often that Juliana was made to feel dainty—she towered over nearly all of the women and many of the men in London—but this man made her feel small. Her thumb was barely larger than the smallest of his fingers, the one that bore the gold-and-onyx signet ring—proof of his title.
A reminder of his stature.
And of how far beneath him he believed her to be.
She lifted her chin at the thought, anger and pride and hurt flaring in a hot rush of feeling, and at that precise moment, he touched the raw skin of her palm with the wet linen cloth. She embraced the distraction of the stinging pain, hissing a wicked Italian curse.
He did not pause in his ministrations as he said, “I did not know that those two animals could do such a thing together.”
“It is rude of you to listen.”
One golden brow rose at the words. “It is rather difficult not to listen if you are mere inches from me, shouting your discomfort.”
“Ladies do not shout.”
“It appears that Italian ladies do. Particularly when they are undergoing medical treatment.”
She resisted the urge to smile.
He was not amusing.
He dipped his head and focused on his task, rinsing the linen cloth in the basin of clean water. She flinched as the cool fabric returned to her scoured hand, and he hesitated briefly before continuing.
The momentary pause intrigued her. The Duke of Leighton was not known for his compassion. He was known for his arrogant indifference, and she was surprised he would stoop so low as to perform such a menial task as cleaning the gravel from her hands.
“Why are you doing this?” she blurted at the next stinging brush of linen.
He did not stay his movements. “I told you. Your brother is going to be difficult enough to deal with without you bleeding all over yourself. And my furniture.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I mean why are you doing this? Don’t you have a battalion of servants just waiting to perform such an unpleasant task?”
“I do.”
“And so?”
“Servants talk, Miss Fiori. I would prefer that as few people as possible know that you are here, alone, at this hour.”
She was trouble for him. Nothing more.
After a long silence, he met her gaze. “You disagree?”
She recovered quickly. “Not at all. I am merely astounded that a man of your wealth and prominence would have servants who gossip. One would think you’d have divined a way to strip them of all desire to socialize.”
One side of his mouth tightened, and he shook his head. “Even as I am helping you, you are seeking out ways to wound me.”
When she replied, her tone was serious, her words true. “Forgive me if I am wary of your goodwill, Your Grace.”
His lips pressed into a thin, straight line, and he reached for her other hand, repeating his actions. They both watched as he cleaned the dried blood and gravel from the heel of her palm, revealing tender pink flesh that would take several days to heal.
His movements were gentle but firm, and the stroke of the linen on the abraded skin grew more tolerable as he cleaned the wounds. Juliana watched as one golden curl fell over his brow. His countenance was, as always, stern and unmoving, like one of her brother’s treasured marble statues.
She was flooded with a familiar desire, one that came over her whenever he was near.
The desire to crack the façade.
She had glimpsed him without it twice.
And then he had discovered who she was—the Italian half sister of one of London’s most notorious rakes, the barely legitimate daughter of a fallen marchioness and her merchant husband, raised far from London and its manners and traditions and rules.
The opposite of everything he represented.
The antithesis of everything he cared to have in his world.
“My only motive is to get you home in one piece, with none but your brother the wiser about your little adventure this evening.”
He tossed the linen into the basin of now-pink water and lifted one of the small pots from the tray. He opened it, releasing the scent of rosemary and lemon, and reached for her hands once more.
She gave them up easily this time. “You don’t really expect me to believe that you are concerned for my reputation?”
Leighton dipped the tip of one broad finger into the pot, concentrating on her wounds as he smoothed the salve across her skin. The medicine combated the burning sting, leaving a welcome, cool path where his fingers stroked. The result was the irresistible illusion that his touch was the harbinger of the soothing pleasure flooding her skin.
Which it wasn’t.
Not at all.
She caught her sigh before it embarrassed her. He heard it nonetheless. That golden eyebrow rose again, leaving her wishing that she could shave it off.
She snatched her hand away. He did not try to stop her.
“No, Miss Fiori. I am not concerned for your reputation.”
Of course he wasn’t.
“I am concerned for my own.”
The implication that being found with her—being linked to her—could damage his reputation stung, perhaps worse than her hands had earlier in the evening.
She took a deep breath, readying herself for their next verbal battle, when a furious voice sounded from the doorway.
“If you don’t take your hands off of my sister this instant, Leighton, your precious reputation will be the least of your problems.”
Chapter Two
There is a reason why skirts are long and bootlaces complex.
The refined lady does not expose her feet. Ever.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
It appears that reformed rakes find brotherly duty something of a challenge . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
It was quite possible that the Marquess of Ralston was going to kill him.
Not that Simon had anything to do with the girl’s current state.
It was not his fault that she’d landed herself in his carriage after doing battle with, from what he could divine, a holly bush, the cobblestones of t
he Ralston mews, and the edge of his coach.
And a man.
Simon Pearson, eleventh Duke of Leighton, ignored the vicious anger that flared at the thought of the purple bruise encircling the girl’s wrist and returned his attention to her irate brother, who was currently stalking the perimeter of Simon’s study like a caged animal.
The marquess stopped in front of his sister and found his voice. “For God’s sake, Juliana. What the hell happened to you?”
The language would have made a lesser woman blush. Juliana did not even flinch. “I fell.”
“You fell.”
“Yes.” She paused. “Among other things.”
Ralston looked to the ceiling as though asking for patience. Simon recognized the emotion. He had a sister himself, one who had given him more than his share of frustration.
And Ralston’s sister was more infuriating than any female should be.
More beautiful, as well.
He stiffened at the thought.
Of course she was beautiful. It was an empirical fact. Even in her sullied, torn gown, she put most other women in London to shame. She was a stunning blend of delicate English—porcelain skin, liquid blue eyes, perfect nose, and pert chin—and exotic Italian, all wild raven curls and full lips and lush curves that a man would have to be dead not to notice.
He was not dead, after all.
He was simply not interested.
A memory flashed.
Juliana in his arms, coming up on her toes, pressing her lips to his.
He resisted the image.
She was also bold, brash, impulsive, a magnet for trouble, and precisely the kind of woman he wanted far away from him.
So, of course, she’d landed in his carriage.
He sighed, straightening the sleeve of his topcoat and returning his attention to the tableau before him.
“And how did your arms and face get scratched?” Ralston continued to hound her. “You look like you ran through a rosebush!”