Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
Page 27
He found himself comforted by the fire in her. He cut her a glance. “The lake. Why were you in there in the first place?”
“I told you. I followed my hat.”
“Your hat.”
“I like the hat. I did not want to lose it.”
“Your brother would have bought you a new hat. I would have bought you a dozen if it would have kept me from having to . . .”
He stopped.
From having to watch you nearly die.
“I wanted that one,” she said, quietly. “And I am sorry you had to rescue me . . . or that you shall have to replace this upholstery . . . or buy new boots . . . or whatever other trouble my situation has caused you.”
“I didn’t say—”
“No, because you are too proper to finish the sentence, but that’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? That you would buy me a dozen bonnets if it would keep you from having to keep me out of trouble? Again?”
She sneezed again.
And the sound nearly did him in.
He nearly stopped the carriage and yanked her to him and gave her the thrashing she deserved for taunting him . . . and then terrifying him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he pulled the carriage to a stop in front of Ralston House with all decorum, despite the anger and frustration roiling within.
“And now we have arrived,” she said, peevishly, “and your tiresome position as savior may be passed off to another.”
He threw down the reins and descended from the carriage, biting his tongue, refusing to correct her view of the situation—refusing to allow himself to be pulled further into the maelstrom of emotion that this woman seemed to call into being every time she came near.
Last night, she’d labeled him emotionless.
The idea seemed utterly laughable today.
By the time he reached her side of the carriage, she had already helped herself down and was heading toward the door. Obstinate female.
He gritted his teeth as she turned back from the top step, looking down at him with all the self-confidence of a queen despite her sodden, bedraggled clothes and her hair, collapsed around her. “I am sorry that I have so inconvenienced you on what I can only imagine was a perfectly planned day. I shall do my best to avoid doing so in the future.”
She thought him inconvenienced?
He had been many things that afternoon, but inconvenienced was not one of them. The tepid word didn’t come close to how he felt.
Irate, terrified, and completely unbalanced, yes. But not even close to inconvenienced.
The entire afternoon made him want to hit something. Hard.
And he imagined that the conversation he was about to have with her brother would do little to combat that impulse.
But he would be damned if she would see that.
“See that you do,” he said in his most masterful tone as he started up the steps after her, rejecting the impulse to leave her there, summarily, on her doorstep, and get as far from her as he possibly could. He would see her inside. And only then he would get as far from her as he possibly could. “As I told you yesterday, I haven’t time for your games.”
Simon was there. In the house. With her brother.
He had been for nearly three-quarters of an hour.
And they had not called for her.
Juliana stalked the perimeter of the Ralston House library, the petticoats of her amethyst skirts whipping about her legs.
She couldn’t believe that neither of them had even thought that perhaps she would like to be a part of the discussion of her afternoon adventure. With a little huff of displeasure, she headed for the window of the library, which looked out on Park Lane and the blackness of Hyde Park beyond.
Of course they hadn’t called for her. They were imperious, infuriating men, two more annoying of whom could not be found in all of Europe.
An enormous carriage sat outside the house, lanterns blazing, waiting for its owner. Leighton’s crest was emblazoned on the door to the massive black conveyance, boasting a wicked-looking hawk complete with feather in its talon—spoils of battle, no doubt.
Juliana traced the shield on the glass. How fitting that Leighton was represented by a hawk. A cold, solitary, brilliant animal.
All calculation and no passion.
He had barely cared that she’d nearly died, instead saving her with cool calculation and bringing her home without a moment’s pause for what could have been a most tragic occurrence.
That wasn’t exactly true.
There had been a moment in the Park during which he’d seemed to be concerned for her welfare.
Just for a moment.
And then he’d simply seemed to want to be rid of her.
And the trouble she caused.
Depositing her unceremoniously in the foyer of Ralston House and leaving her to face her brother alone, he’d said with all calm, “Tell Ralston I shall return this evening. Dry.”
He had returned, of course—Leighton was nothing if not true to his word—and she would wager that the two men were laughing at her expense even now in Ralston’s study, drinking brandy or scotch or whatever infuriating, aristocratic males drank. She’d like to pour a vat of that liquor over their combined heads.
She looked down at the dress with disgust. She’d chosen it for him, knowing she looked lovely in purple. She’d wanted him to see that. Wanted him to notice her.
And not because of their wager.
This time, she had wanted him to regret the things he had said to her.
I haven’t time for your games.
It had been a game at the start—the letter, the blatant invitation—but once she’d fallen into the lake, once he’d rescued her, any playfulness had disappeared along with her bonnet, lost to the bottom of the Serpentine.
“I told you. I followed my hat.”
“Your hat.”
“I like the hat. I did not want to lose it.”
“Your brother would have bought you a new hat. I would have bought you a dozen if it would have kept me from having to . . .”
He stopped.
From having to watch you nearly die.
“I wanted that one,” she said, quietly. “And I am sorry you had to rescue me . . . or that you shall have to replace this upholstery . . . or buy new boots . . . or whatever other trouble my situation has caused you.”
“I didn’t say—”
“No, because you are too proper to finish the sentence, but that’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? That you would buy me a dozen bonnets if it would keep you from having to keep me out of trouble? Again?”
She sneezed again.
And the sound nearly did him in.
He nearly stopped the carriage and yanked her to him and gave her the thrashing she deserved for taunting him . . . and then terrifying him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he pulled the carriage to a stop in front of Ralston House with all decorum, despite the anger and frustration roiling within.
“And now we have arrived,” she said, peevishly, “and your tiresome position as savior may be passed off to another.”
He threw down the reins and descended from the carriage, biting his tongue, refusing to correct her view of the situation—refusing to allow himself to be pulled further into the maelstrom of emotion that this woman seemed to call into being every time she came near.
Last night, she’d labeled him emotionless.
The idea seemed utterly laughable today.
By the time he reached her side of the carriage, she had already helped herself down and was heading toward the door. Obstinate female.
He gritted his teeth as she turned back from the top step, looking down at him with all the self-confidence of a queen despite her sodden, bedraggled clothes and her hair, collapsed around her. “I am sorry that I have so inconvenienced you on what I can only imagine was a perfectly planned day. I shall do my best to avoid doing so in the future.”
She thought him inconvenienced?
He had been many things that afternoon, but inconvenienced was not one of them. The tepid word didn’t come close to how he felt.
Irate, terrified, and completely unbalanced, yes. But not even close to inconvenienced.
The entire afternoon made him want to hit something. Hard.
And he imagined that the conversation he was about to have with her brother would do little to combat that impulse.
But he would be damned if she would see that.
“See that you do,” he said in his most masterful tone as he started up the steps after her, rejecting the impulse to leave her there, summarily, on her doorstep, and get as far from her as he possibly could. He would see her inside. And only then he would get as far from her as he possibly could. “As I told you yesterday, I haven’t time for your games.”
Simon was there. In the house. With her brother.
He had been for nearly three-quarters of an hour.
And they had not called for her.
Juliana stalked the perimeter of the Ralston House library, the petticoats of her amethyst skirts whipping about her legs.
She couldn’t believe that neither of them had even thought that perhaps she would like to be a part of the discussion of her afternoon adventure. With a little huff of displeasure, she headed for the window of the library, which looked out on Park Lane and the blackness of Hyde Park beyond.
Of course they hadn’t called for her. They were imperious, infuriating men, two more annoying of whom could not be found in all of Europe.
An enormous carriage sat outside the house, lanterns blazing, waiting for its owner. Leighton’s crest was emblazoned on the door to the massive black conveyance, boasting a wicked-looking hawk complete with feather in its talon—spoils of battle, no doubt.
Juliana traced the shield on the glass. How fitting that Leighton was represented by a hawk. A cold, solitary, brilliant animal.
All calculation and no passion.
He had barely cared that she’d nearly died, instead saving her with cool calculation and bringing her home without a moment’s pause for what could have been a most tragic occurrence.
That wasn’t exactly true.
There had been a moment in the Park during which he’d seemed to be concerned for her welfare.
Just for a moment.
And then he’d simply seemed to want to be rid of her.
And the trouble she caused.
Depositing her unceremoniously in the foyer of Ralston House and leaving her to face her brother alone, he’d said with all calm, “Tell Ralston I shall return this evening. Dry.”
He had returned, of course—Leighton was nothing if not true to his word—and she would wager that the two men were laughing at her expense even now in Ralston’s study, drinking brandy or scotch or whatever infuriating, aristocratic males drank. She’d like to pour a vat of that liquor over their combined heads.
She looked down at the dress with disgust. She’d chosen it for him, knowing she looked lovely in purple. She’d wanted him to see that. Wanted him to notice her.
And not because of their wager.
This time, she had wanted him to regret the things he had said to her.
I haven’t time for your games.
It had been a game at the start—the letter, the blatant invitation—but once she’d fallen into the lake, once he’d rescued her, any playfulness had disappeared along with her bonnet, lost to the bottom of the Serpentine.
