Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
Page 100
“I love you, Juliana. I love the way you have turned my entire life upside down, and I am not certain I could live without you now that I have lived with you.”
He moved again, and she caught her breath as her great, proud duke lowered himself to his knees before her. “You once told me that you would bring me to my knees in the name of passion.”
“Simon . . .” She was crying freely now, and she stepped forward, placing her hands on his head, running her fingers through his hair. “Amore, no, please.”
“I am here. On my knees. But not in the name of passion,” He took her hands in both of his and brought them to his lips, kissing her, worshipping her. “I am here in the name of love.”
He looked up at her, his countenance so very stark and serious in the dimly lit hallway. “Juliana . . . please, be my wife. I swear I will spend the rest of my days proving that I am worthy of you. Of your love.”
He kissed her hands again, and whispered, “Please.”
And then she was on her knees as well, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Yes.” She pressed her lips to his. “Yes, Simon, yes.”
He returned the kiss, his tongue sliding into her hot, silken heat, stroking until they both required air. “I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered against her lips, pulling her to him, as though he could bring her close enough that they would never be apart again.
“No, I am sorry. I should not . . . I left you there . . . at the ball. I didn’t see until now . . . how much it meant.”
He kissed her again. “I deserved it.”
“No . . . Simon, I love you.”
They stayed there for long minutes, wrapped in each other, whispering their love, making promises for the future, touching, reveling, celebrating in one another.
And that was how Ralston found them.
He opened the door to the library, the lush golden glow from the candles beyond flooding the hallway and illuminating the lovers.
“You had better get a special license, Leighton.”
Simon smiled, bold and brash, and Juliana caught her breath at him—her angel—the handsomest man in England. In all of Europe. “I already have one.”
Ralston raised a black brow. “Excellent. You have two minutes to compose yourself before we go downstairs and discuss this.” Juliana smiled at the words, and Ralston caught her gaze. “You, sister, are not invited.”
He closed the door to Simon and Juliana’s laughter.
An hour later, Simon exited Ralston House, having made all the appropriate arrangements with his—he winced—future brother-in-law. He supposed it was only right that he was finally tied to this raucous family, the only people in England who did not care that he was a duke. Rather, the only people who had never cared. Now most of London would happily turn their backs on the House of Leighton for fear of being touched by its scandal.
And he found he did not care much about it.
He had a healthy niece and a woman who loved him, and suddenly those things seemed like more than enough.
He had wanted desperately to say good night to Juliana, but she had been nowhere to be found as he was leaving, and Ralston seemed disinclined to allow Simon abovestairs to seek her out. He supposed he could not blame the marquess; after all, he was not exactly good at keeping his hands off of his soon-to-be wife.
But they were to be married in less than a week, and he would bear the loss of her tonight, even if it brought with it an all-too-familiar and utterly unpleasant ache.
He waved the coachman off his duty and opened the door to his carriage—the one where it had all begun weeks ago. Lifting himself up and in, he took his seat and swung the door closed, rapping the roof quickly to set the coach in motion.
It was only then that he noticed that he was not alone.
Juliana smiled from the other end of the seat. “You did not think I would let you leave without saying good night, did you?”
He quashed a flash of intense pleasure and affected his most ducal tone. “We are going to have to discuss your penchant for stowing away in carriages.”
She moved toward him slowly, and a wave of awareness shot through him. “Only one carriage, Your Grace. Only yours. This time, I checked the seal before entering. Tell me, what do you plan to do with me now that I am here?”
He watched her intently for a long moment before leaning in, stopping a hairsbreadth from kissing her. “I plan to love you, Siren.” He wrapped one hand around her waist, hauling her onto his lap so that she was above him.
She looked down at him with wicked intensity. “Say it again.”
He grinned. “I love you, Juliana.”
His hands were stroking up her sides, tracking over her shoulders, tilting her head to bare her neck. He pressed a soft kiss to the skin at the base of her throat, where her pulse was pounding.
“Again.” She sighed.
He whispered the words against her lips—a promise—and claimed her mouth, his hands stroking, pressing everywhere.
She opened for him, matching his long, slow kisses stroke for stroke. For the first time, there was no urgency in the caresses—no sense of their being stolen from another time. From another woman.
She pulled back at the thought, lifting her head. “Penelope,” she said.
“We must discuss this now?” One of his hands was headed for the full swell of her breast, and she bit back a sigh of pleasure as it reached its destination.
“No.” She scrambled off his lap and onto the seat across from him.
He followed her, coming to his knees in front of her, the carriage rocking them together. “Yes.”
He moved again, and she caught her breath as her great, proud duke lowered himself to his knees before her. “You once told me that you would bring me to my knees in the name of passion.”
“Simon . . .” She was crying freely now, and she stepped forward, placing her hands on his head, running her fingers through his hair. “Amore, no, please.”
“I am here. On my knees. But not in the name of passion,” He took her hands in both of his and brought them to his lips, kissing her, worshipping her. “I am here in the name of love.”
He looked up at her, his countenance so very stark and serious in the dimly lit hallway. “Juliana . . . please, be my wife. I swear I will spend the rest of my days proving that I am worthy of you. Of your love.”
He kissed her hands again, and whispered, “Please.”
And then she was on her knees as well, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Yes.” She pressed her lips to his. “Yes, Simon, yes.”
He returned the kiss, his tongue sliding into her hot, silken heat, stroking until they both required air. “I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered against her lips, pulling her to him, as though he could bring her close enough that they would never be apart again.
“No, I am sorry. I should not . . . I left you there . . . at the ball. I didn’t see until now . . . how much it meant.”
He kissed her again. “I deserved it.”
“No . . . Simon, I love you.”
They stayed there for long minutes, wrapped in each other, whispering their love, making promises for the future, touching, reveling, celebrating in one another.
And that was how Ralston found them.
He opened the door to the library, the lush golden glow from the candles beyond flooding the hallway and illuminating the lovers.
“You had better get a special license, Leighton.”
Simon smiled, bold and brash, and Juliana caught her breath at him—her angel—the handsomest man in England. In all of Europe. “I already have one.”
Ralston raised a black brow. “Excellent. You have two minutes to compose yourself before we go downstairs and discuss this.” Juliana smiled at the words, and Ralston caught her gaze. “You, sister, are not invited.”
He closed the door to Simon and Juliana’s laughter.
An hour later, Simon exited Ralston House, having made all the appropriate arrangements with his—he winced—future brother-in-law. He supposed it was only right that he was finally tied to this raucous family, the only people in England who did not care that he was a duke. Rather, the only people who had never cared. Now most of London would happily turn their backs on the House of Leighton for fear of being touched by its scandal.
And he found he did not care much about it.
He had a healthy niece and a woman who loved him, and suddenly those things seemed like more than enough.
He had wanted desperately to say good night to Juliana, but she had been nowhere to be found as he was leaving, and Ralston seemed disinclined to allow Simon abovestairs to seek her out. He supposed he could not blame the marquess; after all, he was not exactly good at keeping his hands off of his soon-to-be wife.
But they were to be married in less than a week, and he would bear the loss of her tonight, even if it brought with it an all-too-familiar and utterly unpleasant ache.
He waved the coachman off his duty and opened the door to his carriage—the one where it had all begun weeks ago. Lifting himself up and in, he took his seat and swung the door closed, rapping the roof quickly to set the coach in motion.
It was only then that he noticed that he was not alone.
Juliana smiled from the other end of the seat. “You did not think I would let you leave without saying good night, did you?”
He quashed a flash of intense pleasure and affected his most ducal tone. “We are going to have to discuss your penchant for stowing away in carriages.”
She moved toward him slowly, and a wave of awareness shot through him. “Only one carriage, Your Grace. Only yours. This time, I checked the seal before entering. Tell me, what do you plan to do with me now that I am here?”
He watched her intently for a long moment before leaning in, stopping a hairsbreadth from kissing her. “I plan to love you, Siren.” He wrapped one hand around her waist, hauling her onto his lap so that she was above him.
She looked down at him with wicked intensity. “Say it again.”
He grinned. “I love you, Juliana.”
His hands were stroking up her sides, tracking over her shoulders, tilting her head to bare her neck. He pressed a soft kiss to the skin at the base of her throat, where her pulse was pounding.
“Again.” She sighed.
He whispered the words against her lips—a promise—and claimed her mouth, his hands stroking, pressing everywhere.
She opened for him, matching his long, slow kisses stroke for stroke. For the first time, there was no urgency in the caresses—no sense of their being stolen from another time. From another woman.
She pulled back at the thought, lifting her head. “Penelope,” she said.
“We must discuss this now?” One of his hands was headed for the full swell of her breast, and she bit back a sigh of pleasure as it reached its destination.
“No.” She scrambled off his lap and onto the seat across from him.
He followed her, coming to his knees in front of her, the carriage rocking them together. “Yes.”
