Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart
Page 81
He watched her for a long moment, and she willed him to accept her offer. This night, in this simple town in the English countryside, without gossip or scandal. A bonfire and a fair and a few hours of ease.
Tomorrow, next week, next month might all be horrible. Would likely be horrible.
But she would have now.
With him.
All she had to do was reach out and take it.
“I’ve enough for both of us, Simon,” she whispered. “Why not live for tonight?”
Please.
He hovered on the brink of answering, and she wondered if he would turn her away—knew he should turn her away. Her heart pounded in her chest as she watched the muscles in his jaw twitch, preparing for speech.
But before he could answer, the church bells on the far side of the square began to chime—an explosion of sound. Her eyes went wide as the people around them let up a powerful, raucous cheer. “What is happening?” she asked.
There was a beat, as though he had not heard the question right away. Before he offered her his arm. “The bonfire. It’s about to begin.”
Why not live for tonight?
The words echoed in Simon’s mind as they stood in the heat of the blazing bonfire.
One evening.
One moment that would be theirs, together, here in the country. Without responsibility or worry . . . just this Bonfire Night, and nothing more.
But what if he wanted more?
He could not have it.
Just one evening. Just this evening.
Once again, Juliana was issuing a challenge.
This time, he was afraid that if he accepted, he would never survive.
He turned slightly, just enough to take her in. She was in profile, staring at the bonfire, a look of glee upon her face. Her black hair was gleaming in the firelight—a riot of reds and oranges, a magnificent, vibrant thing. And her skin glowed with the heat of the fire and her excitement.
She sensed his gaze, turning toward him. When she met his eyes, he caught his breath.
She was beautiful.
And he wanted this night. He wanted whatever he could get of her.
He leaned down, his lips close to her ear, and resisted the urge to kiss her there, where she smelled so wonderfully like Juliana. “I would like the potion.”
She pulled back, her blue eyes navy in the darkness. “You are certain?”
He nodded.
Her lips curved in a wide, welcome smile, open and unfettered, and he felt that he had experienced a wicked blow to the head. “What now?”
An excellent question. People had begun to wander away from the fire; they were returning to the rest of the excitements on the square. He offered her an arm. “Would you take a turn about the green with me?”
She considered his arm for a long moment, and he understood her hesitation, saw the trepidation in her gaze when she met his gaze. “One evening.”
Every bit of him screamed that it wouldn’t be enough.
But it would have to be.
And he would not allow himself to think on what came tomorrow.
He dipped his head. Acquiesced. “One evening.”
And then her hand was on his arm, warm and firm, and they were moving away from the fire. The light faded, but the heat stayed, blazing hotter than before.
They walked in silence before she said, waving back at the pyre, “I confess, I am honored. All this, for Catholics.”
A crisp wind ripped through the square, pressing her closer to him, and he resisted the urge to wrap one arm around her. “For a specific Catholic,” he said. “Guy Fawkes nearly blew up Parliament and killed the king. Bonfire Night is a celebration of the foiling of the plot.”
She turned toward him, interested. “The man at the top of the fire . . . that is your Guy?” He nodded, and she turned to finger a bolt of cloth in one of the stalls. “He does not look so dangerous.”
He laughed.
She looked over her shoulder at the sound. “I like to hear you laugh, Your Grace.”
He resisted the title. “Not Your Grace tonight. If I get an evening of freedom and ease, I don’t want to be a duke.” He did not know where the words came from, but their truth was undeniable.
She inclined her head in his direction. “A reasonable request. Then who are you tonight?”
He did not have to think. He gave a little bow in her direction and she laughed, the sound like music in the darkness. “Simon Pearson. No title. Just the man.”
For one evening, he could imagine that the man was enough.
“You expect people to believe that you are a mere mister?”
If it was a game, why could he not make the rules? “Is this potion magic or not?”
She smiled softly, returning her hand to his arm. “It might be magic after all.”
They moved on in silence, past a sweets cart and a booth where pork and chicken pasties were for sale. “Are you hungry?” he asked. When she nodded, he purchased two of the savory treats and a skein of wine, and turned back to her with a smile. “Mr. Pearson would like to have an impromptu picnic.”
The smile widened to a grin. “Well, I would not like to disappoint him. Not on Bonfire Night.”
They moved to a more secluded part of the green, where they sat upon a low bench and ate, watching the revelers. A collection of children ran past—chasing or being chased—their laughter trailing behind them.
Juliana sighed, and the sound rippled through him, soft and lovely. “These evenings were my favorites as a little girl,” she said, her voice lilting with her Italian accent. “Festivals meant an evening when things did not have to be so proper.”
He imagined her as a little girl, too tall for her age, with dirty knees and a mass of wild curls tangling in the breeze, and he smiled at the picture. He leaned in, and said in Italian, “I would have liked to have known you then. To have seen young Juliana in her element.”
Tomorrow, next week, next month might all be horrible. Would likely be horrible.
But she would have now.
With him.
All she had to do was reach out and take it.
“I’ve enough for both of us, Simon,” she whispered. “Why not live for tonight?”
Please.
He hovered on the brink of answering, and she wondered if he would turn her away—knew he should turn her away. Her heart pounded in her chest as she watched the muscles in his jaw twitch, preparing for speech.
But before he could answer, the church bells on the far side of the square began to chime—an explosion of sound. Her eyes went wide as the people around them let up a powerful, raucous cheer. “What is happening?” she asked.
There was a beat, as though he had not heard the question right away. Before he offered her his arm. “The bonfire. It’s about to begin.”
Why not live for tonight?
The words echoed in Simon’s mind as they stood in the heat of the blazing bonfire.
One evening.
One moment that would be theirs, together, here in the country. Without responsibility or worry . . . just this Bonfire Night, and nothing more.
But what if he wanted more?
He could not have it.
Just one evening. Just this evening.
Once again, Juliana was issuing a challenge.
This time, he was afraid that if he accepted, he would never survive.
He turned slightly, just enough to take her in. She was in profile, staring at the bonfire, a look of glee upon her face. Her black hair was gleaming in the firelight—a riot of reds and oranges, a magnificent, vibrant thing. And her skin glowed with the heat of the fire and her excitement.
She sensed his gaze, turning toward him. When she met his eyes, he caught his breath.
She was beautiful.
And he wanted this night. He wanted whatever he could get of her.
He leaned down, his lips close to her ear, and resisted the urge to kiss her there, where she smelled so wonderfully like Juliana. “I would like the potion.”
She pulled back, her blue eyes navy in the darkness. “You are certain?”
He nodded.
Her lips curved in a wide, welcome smile, open and unfettered, and he felt that he had experienced a wicked blow to the head. “What now?”
An excellent question. People had begun to wander away from the fire; they were returning to the rest of the excitements on the square. He offered her an arm. “Would you take a turn about the green with me?”
She considered his arm for a long moment, and he understood her hesitation, saw the trepidation in her gaze when she met his gaze. “One evening.”
Every bit of him screamed that it wouldn’t be enough.
But it would have to be.
And he would not allow himself to think on what came tomorrow.
He dipped his head. Acquiesced. “One evening.”
And then her hand was on his arm, warm and firm, and they were moving away from the fire. The light faded, but the heat stayed, blazing hotter than before.
They walked in silence before she said, waving back at the pyre, “I confess, I am honored. All this, for Catholics.”
A crisp wind ripped through the square, pressing her closer to him, and he resisted the urge to wrap one arm around her. “For a specific Catholic,” he said. “Guy Fawkes nearly blew up Parliament and killed the king. Bonfire Night is a celebration of the foiling of the plot.”
She turned toward him, interested. “The man at the top of the fire . . . that is your Guy?” He nodded, and she turned to finger a bolt of cloth in one of the stalls. “He does not look so dangerous.”
He laughed.
She looked over her shoulder at the sound. “I like to hear you laugh, Your Grace.”
He resisted the title. “Not Your Grace tonight. If I get an evening of freedom and ease, I don’t want to be a duke.” He did not know where the words came from, but their truth was undeniable.
She inclined her head in his direction. “A reasonable request. Then who are you tonight?”
He did not have to think. He gave a little bow in her direction and she laughed, the sound like music in the darkness. “Simon Pearson. No title. Just the man.”
For one evening, he could imagine that the man was enough.
“You expect people to believe that you are a mere mister?”
If it was a game, why could he not make the rules? “Is this potion magic or not?”
She smiled softly, returning her hand to his arm. “It might be magic after all.”
They moved on in silence, past a sweets cart and a booth where pork and chicken pasties were for sale. “Are you hungry?” he asked. When she nodded, he purchased two of the savory treats and a skein of wine, and turned back to her with a smile. “Mr. Pearson would like to have an impromptu picnic.”
The smile widened to a grin. “Well, I would not like to disappoint him. Not on Bonfire Night.”
They moved to a more secluded part of the green, where they sat upon a low bench and ate, watching the revelers. A collection of children ran past—chasing or being chased—their laughter trailing behind them.
Juliana sighed, and the sound rippled through him, soft and lovely. “These evenings were my favorites as a little girl,” she said, her voice lilting with her Italian accent. “Festivals meant an evening when things did not have to be so proper.”
He imagined her as a little girl, too tall for her age, with dirty knees and a mass of wild curls tangling in the breeze, and he smiled at the picture. He leaned in, and said in Italian, “I would have liked to have known you then. To have seen young Juliana in her element.”
