Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart (9 page)

He lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the water to the lake’s edge, where Carla was near hysteria.

The maid released a torrent of Italian. “
Madonna!
I thought you were gone! Drowned! I screamed and screamed! I was desperate for help!“ To Simon, still in Italian, “I curse the fact I cannot swim! If only I could return to my youth and learn!” Then back to Juliana, clutching her to her chest. “
Mi Julianina!
Had I known . . . I would never have let you out onto that log! Why, the thing is obviously the devil’s own oak left behind!” Then, back to Simon, “Oh! Thank the heavens that you were here!” The flow of words stopped abruptly. “
Late.
”

If Juliana had not been so cold, she would have laughed at the disdain that coated the last of the maid’s words. True, he had been late. But he had come. And if he hadn’t—

But he had.

She stole a glance at him. He had not missed Carla’s insinuation that if he had arrived on time, all of this might have been avoided. He stilled, his face firm and unmoving, like that of a Roman statue.

His clothes were plastered to him—he had not removed his coat before entering the lake, and the layers he wore seemed to blend together. Somehow, the sodden clothing made him seem larger, more dangerous, immovable. She watched a droplet of water slither down his forehead, and itched to brush it away.

To kiss it away.

She ignored the thought, certain that it was the product of her close encounter with death and nothing else, and redirected her gaze to his mouth, set in a firm, straight line.

And she instantly wanted to kiss that instead.

A muscle twitched at the corner of his lips, the only sign of his irritation.

More than irritation.

Anger.

Possibly fury.

Juliana shivered and told herself it was from the wind and the water and not the man who towered over her. She wrapped her arms about herself to ward off the cold and thanked Carla softly when the maid rushed to collect the cloak she had cast off prior to her adventure and place it over her shoulders. The garment did nothing to combat the cold air or the cold look with which Leighton had fixed her, and she shivered again, huddling into the thin twill.

Of all the men in all of London, why did
he
have to be the one to save her?

Turning her attention to a nearby rise, she saw a handful of people clustered together, watching. She could not make out their faces, but she was certain that they knew precisely who she was.

The story would be all over London by tomorrow.

She was flooded with emotion . . . exhaustion and fear and gratitude and embarrassment and something more base that twisted inside her and made her feel like she might be sick all over his once-perfect, now-destroyed boots.

All she wanted was to be alone.

Willing her shivering to subside, she met his gaze once more, and said, “Th-thank you, Your G-grace.” She was rather impressed that this close to having died by drowning, she was able to achieve cool politeness. In English no less. She stood with the help of Carla, and said the words that she desperately wanted not to say. “I am in your debt.”

She turned on one heel and, thinking only of a warm bath and warmer bed, set off for the entrance to the Park.

His words, spoken in perfect Italian, stopped her in her tracks.

“Do not thank me yet. I’ve never in my life been so livid.”

Chapter Six

Water is for boiling and cleansing—never for amusement.

Refined ladies take care not to splash in their bath.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

We’re told of exciting discoveries in our very own Serpentine . . .

—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823

S
imon ignored the thickness in his tone, the anger that he could barely contain.

The girl had nearly killed herself, and she thought this was
over
?

She was very likely cold and exhausted and in some kind of shock, but she was more addlepated than he imagined if she thought he would allow her to trot home without a single explanation for her unreasonable, irrational, life-threatening behavior. He saw the combination of fear and desperation in her gaze.
Good.
Perhaps she would think twice before repeating today’s actions.

“You are not going to tell Ralston, are you?”

“Of course I am going to tell Ralston.”

She took a step toward him, switching to English. She was skilled at pleading in her second language. “But why? It shall only upset him. Needlessly.”

Disbelief took his breath. “
Needlessly?
On the contrary, Miss Fiori. Your brother most definitely
needs
to know that you require a chaperone who will prevent you from behaving with reckless abandon.”

She threw up her hands. “I was not behaving recklessly!”

She was mad.
“Oh, no? How would you describe it?”

Silence fell, and Juliana considered the question. She nibbled the corner of her lower lip as she thought and, against his will, he was drawn to the movement. He watched the way her lips pursed, the crisp white edge of her teeth as she worried the soft pink flesh. Desire slammed through him hard and fast, and he stiffened at the blinding emotion. He did not want her. She was a madwoman.

A stunning, goddess of a madwoman
.

He cleared his throat.

Nevertheless.

“It was entirely reasonable behavior.”

He blinked. “You climbed out onto a tree trunk,” he paused, irritation flaring again with the words.

She was unable to keep her gaze from the tree trunk in question. “It seemed perfectly sturdy.”

“You fell into a
lake.
” He heard the fury in his voice.

“I didn’t expect it to be so deep!”

“No, I don’t imagine you did.”

She clung to her defense. “I mean, it did not seem to be like any lake I’ve ever encountered.”

“That’s because it’s not like any lake you’ve ever encountered.”

She looked back at him. “It’s not?”

“No.” He said, barely able to contain his irritation. “It isn’t a real lake. It is man-made.”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

Did it matter?

“As I was not alive for the event, I could not hazard a guess.”

“Leave it to the
English
to fabricate a lake,” she tossed over her shoulder to Carla, who snickered.

“And leave it to the
Italians
to fall into it!”

“I was retrieving my hat!”

“Ah . . . that makes it all much more logical. Do you even know how to swim?”

“Do I know how to
swim
?” she asked, and he took more than a little pleasure in her offense. “I was raised on the banks of the Adige! Which happens to be a
real
river.”

“Impressive,” he said, not at all impressed. “And tell me, did you ever
swim
in said river?”

“Of course! But I wasn’t wearing”—she waved a hand to indicate her dress—“sixteen layers of fabric!”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t
swim
in sixteen layers of fabric!”

“No?”

“No!”

“Why not?”
He had her now.

“Because you will drown!”

“Ah,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “Well, at least we’ve learned something today.”

Her eyes narrowed, and he had the distinct impression that she wanted to kick him.
Good.
Knowing that she was furious made him feel slightly more stable.

Dear God. She’d nearly drowned.

He’d never been so terrified in all his life as when he’d come over the ridge—berating himself for allowing this fiery, emotional Italian to direct his afternoon, knowing that he should be at home, living his orderly life—and seen the horrifying tableau below: the maid, shrieking for help; the unmistakable ripples on the surface of the lake; and the billows of sapphire fabric marking the spot where Juliana was sinking.

He’d been certain that he was too late.

“I told you.” Her words stopped the direction of his thoughts. “I had every good reason to go out there. If not for the wind and these heavy clothes, I would have been just fine.”

As if to underscore her point, the wind picked up then, and her teeth began to chatter. She wrapped her arms around herself and suddenly she looked so . . .
small.
And fragile. The utter opposite of how he thought of her, bright and bold and indestructible. And in that moment, his anger was thoroughly overpowered by a basic, primal urge to wrap himself around her and hold her until she was warm again.

Which of course, he could not do.

They had an audience—and the chatter would be loud enough without his adding fuel to its fire.

He cursed softly, and the sound was lost on the wind as he moved toward her, unable to stop himself from closing the gap between them. He turned her to ensure that he caught the full force of the gale—protecting her from the cold gust.

If only he could protect himself from her.

When he spoke, he knew the words were too rough. Knew they would sting. “Why must you constantly test me?”

“I do care, you know. I do care what you think.”

“Then why?”

“Because you expect me to fail. You expect me to do wrong. To be reckless. To ruin myself.”

“Why not work to prove me wrong?”

“But don’t you see? I
am
proving you wrong. If I
choose
recklessness, where is the failure? If I choose it for myself, you cannot force it upon me.”

There was a long pause. “Perversely, that makes sense.”

She smiled, small and sad. “If only I actually wanted it this way.”

The words settled, and a hundred questions ran through his mind before she shivered in his arms. “You’re freezing.”

She looked up at him, and he caught his breath at her brilliant blue eyes. “H-how are you n-not?”

He was not even close to cold. He was on fire. Her clothes were soaking wet and ruined, her hair had come loose from its fastenings, and she should have looked like a bedraggled child. Instead, she looked stunning. The clothes molded to her shape, revealing her lush curves, the water only emphasizing her stunning features—high cheekbones, long, spiked lashes framing enormous blue eyes, porcelain skin. He tracked one drop of water down the curve of her neck to the hollow of her collarbone, and he had an intense desire to taste the droplet on his tongue.

She was alive.

And he wanted her.

Thankfully, she shivered again before he could act on the unacceptable desire.

He had to get her home before she caught pneumonia.

Or before he went entirely mad.

He turned to her maid. “Did you come by carriage?” he asked in quick Italian.

“No, Your Grace.”

“It will be faster if I take your mistress home in my curricle. Meet us at Ralston House.” He clasped Juliana’s elbow and began to steer her toward a nearby rise.

“You j-just assume that she will follow your orders?” Juliana asked, her tone suggesting the very idea was ridiculous. He ignored her, instead meeting the maid’s gaze.

“Yes, Your Grace.” She dropped into a quick curtsy and hurried away.

He returned his attention to Juliana, who scowled.

Her irritation returned some of his sense. And some of his anger. Last night and this morning, her impulsive behavior had risked her reputation. This afternoon, it had risked her life.

And he would not have it.

They walked several yards in silence before he spoke, “You could have died.”

She gave the briefest of hesitations, and he thought perhaps she would apologize again.
It would not be entirely unwarranted.

He sensed the tensing of her shoulders, the straightening of her spine. “But I did not.” She tried for a smirk. Failed. “Twelve lives, remember?”

The words were rife with defiance—of him, of nature, of fate itself. And if they had not made him so irate, he might have found room to admire her tenacity of spirit.

Instead, he wanted to shake her.

He resisted the impulse. Barely.

They reached his curricle, and he lifted her, shivering, into the vehicle, then climbed in beside her.

“I shall ruin your seat.”

Her words, so ridiculous in light of everything that had happened in the past few minutes, set him off. He paused in the act of lifting the reins and turned an incredulous gaze toward her. “It is a wonder that you are able to find concern for my upholstery when you seem to care so little for things of much more import.”

Her dark brows arched perfectly. “Such as?”

“Such as your person.”

She sneezed, and he cursed, “And now you’re going to fall ill if you don’t keep warm, you daft female.”

He reached behind them for a traveling rug, and thrust it at her.

She took it and covered herself. “Thank you,” she said firmly, before looking away and staring straight ahead.

He set the curricle in motion after a long moment, wishing he’d been less forceful. More courteous.

He did not feel at all courteous. Did not think he could muster courtesy.

They exited Hyde Park before she spoke, and he barely heard her over the sound of hoofbeats against the cobblestones. “You needn’t speak to me as though I am half-witty.”

He could not resist. “I believe you mean half-
witted.
”

She turned away, and he heard an irritated Italian curse over the wind. After a long moment, she said, “I did not
plan
to drown myself.”

There was sulking in her tone, and he felt a slight twinge of sympathy for her. Perhaps he should not be so hard on her. But, damned if he could stop. “Plan or no, if I hadn’t come along, you would have drowned.”

“You came,” she said simply, and he recalled that as she had coughed up water and trembled with relief in the moments after he’d rescued her, she’d whispered the same words.
You came.

He’d tried not to.

He’d thrown away her reckless note—the cleverly disguised missive that had fooled everyone into thinking that the Marquess of Ralston had sent the correspondence—tossed it into a wastepaper basket in his study.

He’d pretended it wasn’t there as he read the rest of his correspondence.

And still as he discussed a handful of outstanding issues with his man of business.

And even as he had opened the package that arrived from his mother less than an hour after she had left him—the package that had contained the Leighton sapphire, the betrothal ring that had been worn by generations of Duchesses of Leighton.

Even then, as he’d placed the ring on his desk, in full view, that crumpled piece of paper taunted him, spreading Juliana throughout his orderly, disciplined house. Everywhere he looked, he saw her missive, and he’d wondered what she would do if he did not respond.

He’d imagined that she would not think twice about assuming a more scandalous course of action—and then her bold, black scrawl had been replaced with her bold, black curls and her flashing blue eyes. And they’d been in his bedchamber . . .

He had called for his curricle and driven entirely too fast for a man who was determined to avoid her.

And he’d almost been too late.

His hands tightened on the reins, and the horses shifted uneasily under the tension. He forced himself to relax.

“And aren’t you lucky that I came? I nearly didn’t. Sending me such a message was both immodest and infantile.” He did not give her an opportunity to reply, his next words exploding on a wave of irritation. “What would possess you to dive into a frigid lake?”