Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
Page 25
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.
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.
