Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart

by Sarah MacLean

  She nodded, and he rocked against her, easing farther and farther into her tight passage, trying to be gentle, watching pain and pleasure war within her as she adjusted to his smooth thrusts, each deeper than the last. He was soon buried to the hilt, and they were both breathing heavily.

  She whispered, “You have the most beautiful eyes.”

  Pleasure coursed through him at the unexpected compliment, and he kissed her long and slow. Pulling back, he smiled, rocking gently against her. “Impossible. They are nothing compared to yours.”

  He was desperate to move. Desperate to take the release for which his body had been begging all night. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her jaw, and said, “Does it hurt, Siren?”

  She shook her head, and when she spoke, he heard something wonderful in her tone. “No . . . it feels . . . Simon, I can feel you . . . everywhere.” She relaxed and pressed up to meet his movements. He hissed his pleasure. She ran her hands down his back to the curve of his buttocks and clasped him tightly to her. “Do that again. Harder.”

  He groaned. She was going to kill him.

  He began to move, deeper, faster, with more power, and she cried her pleasure in his ear, threatening his sanity. In moments, she was whispering his name, her hands tangled in his hair, moving in time to his deep, smooth thrusts. He had never been so ready to take his pleasure, but he would not let go without her. He wanted her with him when he threw himself over the edge.

  They rocked together, sensation building, until they were both gasping for breath.

  “Simon . . . it’s . . . I can’t stop it.”

  “Neither can I,” he pulled out until he was almost gone from her, then returned, sinking into her heat. How had he ever thought he could resist her? “Look at me, love. I want to watch.”

  She did, and her tumble into pleasure was his undoing. He followed her over the precipice with a force he had never before experienced; she was the center of his world—he wanted to stay in her arms, in this moment, in this night forever.

  He collapsed into her arms and lay there for a long moment, breath coming in harsh bursts, before he realized that his weight must be crushing her. Turning, he pulled her to sprawl across him, all soft, glowing skin and silken hair. He could feel her breasts rising and falling against his chest, and he gritted his teeth against the instant awareness that coursed through him.

  He wanted her again. Now.

  He ignored the desire, instead running his fingers across her smooth, bare shoulders, reveling in the little tremor that pushed her closer to him, loving the feel of her naked against him.

  As he held her, soft and warm in his arms, he did not want to think of the future. He wanted to savor her.

  He wanted to savor the now.

  It had been a mistake.

  Even as she reveled in the feel of him beneath her, all firm muscles and warm skin, she knew that she had just made everything worse.

  He had given her everything she had ever imagined—she had never felt so close, so connected, so desired.

  She had never dreamed she would love him with such intensity.

  Tomorrow she would leave him. And he would marry another.

  And Juliana would live knowing that the man she loved would never be hers.

  She shivered at the thought, pressing closer to him, as though she could fuse herself to him, as though she could stay the movement of time.

  He stroked one warm hand down her spine, leaving a trail of fire, and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Are you cold?”

  No.

  It was easier to say yes than to tell the truth.

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  He slid out from beneath her, pulling her up off the bed with him so he could turn down the sheets. He kissed her, full and lush, the caress blazing through her before he turned away to stoke the fire.

  Feeling too vulnerable, she fetched her robe, pulling it on and knotting the sash before she turned back to watch his movements as he crouched before the fire, the muscles of his back rippling with the motion, his massive thighs gleaming in the orange glow—a god of fire.

  When he stood, he looked to the bed. His brow furrowed when he discovered that she was gone, and he immediately sought her out, finding her in the shadows. He raised a hand, beckoning her to him, and she could not resist.

  When she came to him, he lifted her into his arms, settling them both in a chair by the fire. He slipped one hand into the opening of her robe running it along her thigh as he pressed a kiss to the column of her neck. “I prefer you naked,” he said, and she wondered at this new, teasing Simon.

  She ran her hand up his forearm to his wide, muscled shoulder. “I feel the same,” she confessed. “I thought you could not grow more handsome, but watching you in the firelight . . . you are Hephaestus, all muscle and flame.”

  His eyes darkened at the comparison, and he pulled her to him, kissing her soundly before he tucked her to his chest, and said, “That makes you Aphrodite—an apt comparison.”

  But Aphrodite and Hephaestus were married. The thought whispered through her mind. We have only one night.

  No. She would not think on it.

  “You are promoting me from siren to goddess, then?”

  He chuckled, and she loved the feeling of the sound rumbling beneath her. He captured one of her hands, threading his fingers through hers and bringing it to his lips. “It would seem so, clever girl.”

  “You see? I am more than just a walking scandal,” she teased, and immediately regretted the words. She had just affected the most serious scandal of her life. And he knew it. Perhaps he even thought she had done it on purpose—to cause scandal.

  She hated the thought.

  Hated that she had put it in his head.

  She sat up on his lap, desperate to make sure that he did not think ill of her. “Simon . . . you know that I did not . . . this was not . . . I would never tell anyone that this . . . that tonight happened.” She winced at the words, utterly inarticulate. “You shan’t have to worry about another . . .”

  He watched her, his amber eyes serious, and she wished she could take it all back—the words, the actions, the night. His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her hand once more. “No more talk of it.”

  She hated that she had just become another thing for him to worry about. “I just . . . What I am attempting to say is that no one will ever know.”

  He reached out and brushed a lock of her hair back from her cheek. “Juliana, I will know.”

  Frustration flared. “Well, yes. Of course we will know. But I want you to also know that I will never ask anything of you. That I meant it when I proposed one night. One night only.”

  Something flashed in his honeyed gaze, something that she could not identify. “We both should have known that one night would not be nearly enough.”

  She stilled, the words coursing through her. He wanted more.

  So did she.

  But he was to be married.

  Was he offering what she thought he was offering?

  Could she take it?

  If it was the only way she could have him . . . would it be enough?

  It had to be.

  She took a deep breath. “I could be your paramour.”

  He went utterly still beneath her. “What did you say?”

  “Your mistress.”

  His hand clamped onto her thigh with immeasurable force. “Don’t say another word.”

  She set her hands to his shoulders, leveraging herself up to face him. “Why? You once suggested I would make a fine mistress.”

  He closed his eyes. “Juliana. Stop.”

  She ignored him. “Would I not still make a worthy companion?”

  “No.”

  Pain flared. She was too much of a scandal even to rate as his mistress? “Why not?” She heard the begging in her tone. Hated herself for it.

  “Because you deserve better!” he exploded, coming to his feet in a rush and sending her toppling from
his lap. He grabbed her to him before she could fall to the floor, lifting her to face him. His hands were on her arms, as though he could shake her into understanding. “I won’t have you as my mistress. I wish I could go back and scrub you clean of the words. I wish I could go back and take a fist to myself for ever even suggesting it.”

  The words coursed through her, and she ached for the promise that should come next. Love. Marriage. Family.

  The things he had promised to another.

  Things he had promised to another because he could not see a future with her.

  And suddenly the words were not enough.

  “Come to bed with me,” he whispered. “Let me sleep with you in my arms. We shall return you to your own chamber before the house awakes.”

  The temptation was nearly undeniable. There was nothing in the world she wanted more than to sleep with him, the sound of his heart beneath her ear.

  “I must leave, Simon.”

  He reached for her, a smile playing across his lips. “Not yet. Stay a little while longer.”

  She shook her head, taking a step back. “I cannot risk—”

  I cannot risk any more of my heart.

  She took a breath. Tried again. “I cannot risk being caught.”

  He watched her carefully, his gaze boring into hers, and she willed him not to see the truth—that she was leaving him. For good, as the English liked to say.

  But it did not feel good. It felt like torture.

  He was still for a long time, as though considering his options, then he nodded once, firmly. “You are right. Tomorrow, I shall speak to Nick.”

  “About what?”

  “About our marriage.”

  Her heart leapt into her throat. “Our marriage?”

  He could not marry her. There was a litany of reasons why.

  She was an Italian. A Catholic. Her parentage was questionable at best. Her mother was a disaster. Her father had been a simple merchant. The ton barely tolerated her.

  He was already engaged to a darling of the Beau Monde.

  But even as she thought the words, a thread of hope coiled within, unbidden. Was it possible? Could he choose her, after all? Could they marry? Could she have him, this man she loved until she ached? Could she have what she had come to envy in the couples around her, paired off like doves?

  “Don’t look so sad,” he teased. “You’re finally getting your scandal.”

  She froze, stepping back from his embrace.

  Scandal.

  That was what she was to him—the common, scandalous Italian who he married after one night in the country. And someday, when the news about Georgiana was out and he did not have a wife with a pristine reputation by his side, when his children were mocked for having a common mother, when he saw Lady Penelope dancing across some ballroom with a perfect husband, the belle of the ball, he would regret it.

  She’d never been more. Never worthy of his companionship. Never a possibility for his wife. She’d never once been anything other than a scandalous distraction from his duty and responsibility. He was a duke, and she was a scandal.

  Never his equal.

  Never good enough.

  And she’d believed it, too. How many times had she compared herself to her mother? How many times had she played into their expectations? Lived up to them? How often had she vied for his irritation and his passion instead of his admiration and respect because she had not believed the latter to be within her reach?

  It was more than she could bear.

  She loved him.

  Sometimes, love was not enough.

  His sister’s words echoed in her ears. “I cannot marry you, Simon.”

  He smiled at first, before the meaning of her words registered. “What did you say?”

  She took a deep breath and met his gaze, that rich, amber gaze that she had come to love so much. “I cannot marry you.”

  “Why not?” There was confusion and disbelief in the words, then something close to anger.

  “If tonight had not happened, would we even be discussing it?”

  “I—” He stopped. Started again. “Tonight did happen, Juliana.”

  “You’re engaged to another.”

  “I shall end it,” he said simply, as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

  “What of Lady Penelope? What of her reputation? And what of yours? And your plans to secure your family, your sister, your niece? What of your duty?”

  He reached for her as she backed away. “Juliana, I compromised you. We shall marry.”

  Not out of love. Not out of respect. Not out of admiration.

  “Because this is the way things are done,” she whispered.

  “Among other reasons, yes,” he said simply, as though it were obvious.

  “I am not what you envisioned in a wife.” He stilled at the words, and she pressed on. “You’ve said it yourself. I am too reckless. Too impulsive. Too much of a scandal. Before tonight, you’d never even considered marrying me.”

  “I proposed to you a week ago!” She heard the frustration in his tone as he spun away to fetch his dressing gown.

  “Only after Gabriel discovered us in the stables. You proposed out of duty. Just as you do everything. You would have married me, but it would have been beneath you. Just as it would be now.”

  He shoved his arms into the silk brocade and turned back to her, eyes dark. When he spoke, his voice was hard as steel. “Don’t say that.”

  “Why?” she asked, gently. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  He did not reply.

  “I’ll never be enough for you. Never good enough, never respectable enough, never proper enough—even if I tried, my past, my family, my blood would all make it impossible for us to be equal. What would they say? What would your mother say?”

  “Hang them. Especially my mother.”

  She stepped toward him, lifting her hand and touching his square jaw for a fleeting moment before he pulled away from her touch and stepped back, refusing to meet her gaze.

  Tears welled as she considered his beautiful, stony countenance, knowing that this was the last time they would be together like this, alone and honest.

  One of them, at least, was honest.

  “You once accused me of never considering the consequences,” she said, willing him to understand. To see. “Of never thinking of what comes next.”

  “What comes next is, we marry.”

  She shook her head. “Now you are not considering the consequences. I shall always be your scandal, Simon. Never entirely worthy.”

  “That is ridiculous. Of course you would be.” She was struck by how imperious he could sound in that moment as he stood before her clad in nothing but a dressing gown. So ducal, even now.

  “No, I wouldn’t be. Not in your eyes. And there would come a day when I was not worthy in my own.” As she spoke the words, she was struck by the realization that she finally understood what it was she wanted from her life. From her future. “I deserve better. I deserve more.”

  “You cannot do much better than me. I am a duke.” There was a slight tremor in his voice. Anger.

  She brushed away a tear before it could spill over. “That may well be true, Simon. But if it is, it has nothing to do with your being a duke.”

  He ignored the words, and they stood there for long moments before she started to leave the room, and he finally spoke. “This is not over, Juliana.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  She was proud of the strength in the words.

  A strength she was not sure she had.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Matters of the heart are a challenge indeed.

  The elegant lady follows the gentleman’s lead.

  —A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

  By day, late night visits are made more exciting . . .

  —The Scandal Sheet, November 1823

  She’d left him.

  It wasn’t possible.

  Simon had woken and gone to
saddle their horses, wanting to take Juliana riding, wanting to get her away from this house so that he could talk some sense into her, and he’d instead discovered that Lucrezia was missing. A few questions in the stables had revealed that she’d left Townsend Park that morning, under cover of darkness.

  Like a coward.

  How dare she leave him?

  He was not some pup who sought her approval. He was the damned Duke of Leighton! He had half of London falling over itself to do his bidding, and he could not secure the obedience of a single, Italian female.

  A single, Italian madwoman, more like it.

  She accused him of not thinking she was enough for him? The woman was entirely too much for him! She made him want to bellow with rage and hit things, then lock her in a room and kiss her senseless, until she gave in.

  Until they gave in to each other.

  Except, she had refused him.

  Twice.

  She’d left him!

  And damned if it didn’t make him desire her all the more.

  So much that his hands itched with it. He wanted to touch her, to tame her, to take her in his arms and make love to her until they were both exhausted and unable to think of anything beyond their embrace. He wanted to sink into her rich ebony curls, her beautiful eyes, her infinite softness and never return.

  He threw open the door to the Townsend Park breakfast room, sending the thick oak crashing into the wall behind and surprising a tableful of ladies during their morning meal as he bore down on St. John, who was calmly buttering his toast. “Where is she?”

  Nick took a long sip of tea. “Where is who?”

  Simon fought off the urge to pour the contents of the tea service over his head. “Juliana.”

  “She’s gone. Left at first light,” St. John said casually. “Have a seat. We’ll bring you some bacon.”

  “I don’t want any damned bacon. Why don’t you bring me your sister?”

  The statement, inappropriate in a staggering number of ways, was apparently what it took to secure St. John’s attention—and the attention of the half dozen women in the room, who all stopped eating at once. Nick cut a look at Simon and stood, pushing back his chair and coming to his full height. “Perhaps you’d like to apologize to the ladies and join me in the study?”