Amusement is expressed in delicate smiles.
Laughter is too coarse for the elegant lady.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
The age-old question is answered: In battle, marble trumps gold.
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
Juliana looked over the edge of the Duke of Rivington’s box at the Theatre Royale, considering the mass of silk and satin below. Half of the ton appeared to be in attendance at this special presentation of The Lady of Livorno, and the other half was surely put out that they could not secure a ticket.
“My word,” Mariana said, joining her to watch the tableau spread out before them, “I thought autumn was for country houses and hunting trips!”
“Yes, well, whoever decreed such apparently neglected to tell London society this year.”
“This is what happens when Parliament convenes special sessions. We all go mad from the autumn air. Is that wheat in Lady Davis’s hair?” Mariana lifted her opera glasses, inspecting the unfortunate coiffure with a shake of her head before surveying the rest of the boxes in the theatre before the performance began and she would be forced to pretend she did not care for the audience as much as for the company of actors. “Ah. Densmore is here with a woman I’ve never seen before. One can assume she’s a lightskirt.”
“Mari!” She might not have been in London for long, but even Juliana knew that discussion of courtesans was not appropriate conversation for the theatre.
Mariana looked up, eyes twinkling. “Well, it’s true!”
“What is true?” The Duke of Rivington had made his way through the throngs of visitors in search of a moment of his time and ran the back of one finger down his wife’s arm.
Juliana felt a pang of envy at the absentminded affection, barely noticed by husband or wife, and ignored it. Mariana turned to her duke with a brilliant, happy smile. “I was just saying that Densmore must be here with a lady of the evening. I’ve never seen her before.”
Rivington was used to his wife’s boldness, and instead of chastising her he sought the Densmore box, taking a long look at the viscount’s companion. “I think you may be right, sweeting.”
“You see?” Mariana nearly preened with satisfaction. “I’m an excellent judge of character.”
“Either that, or you’re becoming an excellent gossip,” Juliana said wryly.
Rivington laughed loudly. “Much more likely. Miss Fiori, I am afraid I must steal her away for a moment.” He turned back to Mari. “Come and say hello to Lady Allen, would you? I need you to entertain her for a bit while I discuss a matter with her husband.”
Mariana looked over Rivington’s shoulder at the couple in question, a somewhat staid pair, each with pursed lips and unfortunate jowls. Rolling her eyes, she handed her opera glasses to Juliana. “See what else you can discover while I’m gone. I expect a full report when I return.”
She was gone then, through a crowd of people, to do her duty as wife of one of the most revered men in the realm. Juliana watched in wonder as her friend approached the baroness and engaged the woman in conversation. Within moments, Lady Allen was smiling up at Mariana, obviously satisfied with her company.
As much as people talked about Mariana’s marriage as that most rare of things—the love match—it was undeniable that the relationship was as much a brilliant political partnership as it was a romance. Mariana was the very best of ducal wives; that her duke happened to be mad about her was a happy coincidence.
Lasting love was not something with which Juliana was familiar. She was the product of a match devised from fleeting infatuation. Her mother had bewitched her father, from what Juliana could tell, and had deserted them both when she became tired of domesticity. Juliana’s father had never remarried, though he’d had several opportunities to do so—she had always thought that he’d made the most sensible choice. After all, why risk loving again when history suggested that such behavior would end in pain and anger and loss?
In the last several months, she had come to see that love was not a myth—she’d stood happily by as her half brothers had found it. Gabriel and Callie’s love blossomed just as Juliana arrived in England, and she had watched as they resisted it—futilely. When they had succumbed to the emotion, all of London had been surprised, and Juliana had hoped only that their love would not end in sadness. Within months, Nick had found his Isabel, and it was impossible to deny their devotion to each other.
But all love began this way—fiery and passionate and devoted. What happened when fire waned and devotion became tiresome?
She watched as Callie stretched to whisper into Ralston’s ear on the opposite side of the box. Her brother smiled broadly—something he had rarely done when Juliana had arrived in the spring—placing his hand on the small of his wife’s back and leaning down to reply.
From the pink wash that spread over Callie’s cheeks, Juliana imagined her brother’s words were not entirely fit for the theatre.
Something coiled deep within Juliana . . . something that she might have identified as envy if she spent too much time considering it.
But she knew better than to be envious of their love. It was a vague, ephemeral emotion that, within months—years, if one were lucky—would ultimately fade.
And then what?
No, Juliana did not want love.
But passion . . . the kind that made her brother say wicked things to his wife at the theatre . . . that was another thing entirely.
She wouldn’t mind that.
She thought back to the morning two days earlier, to the moment in Hyde Park when the Duke of Leighton had leapt from his horse, eyes flashing with anger and frustration, and kissed her. Thoroughly.
With passion.
And he’d made her want, damn him.
She wanted that of which he’d given her a taste.
Desire. Lust. Sensuality. Even the conflict was compelling.
But not him.
She refused to want him.
She lifted the binoculars and scanned the theatre, searching for something that would serve to redirect her attention. Several boxes away, Viscount Densmore appeared to be leering down the amply filled, alarmingly low-cut bodice of his companion—it appeared Mari had been right about her. A few yards farther, Lady Davis and Lady Sparrow were at risk of falling out of their box as they craned their necks toward some distant point before huddling behind fluttering fans held in the universal position for scandalous conversation. While Juliana had no love for either of the horrible women, she had to admit that they were expert gossips. Tracking their line of sight, she hoped for a welcome distraction.
When she arrived at the reason for their frenzied whispers, she vowed never to gossip again.
There, in the box directly opposite, stood the Duke of Leighton and the grape, in quiet, private conversation. In full view of half of London.
Several feet away from the perfect, poised couple, rounding out the portrait of aristocratic bliss—and very likely sending the rest of the theatre into convulsions of excitement over what was most definitely a sign of impeding marriage—were the Duchess of Leighton and a plump lady and portly gentleman who Juliana could only imagine were the grape’s parents.
Lady Penelope.
She had better start thinking of her as Lady Penelope.
Why? Soon enough she’ll be the Duchess of Leighton.
She ignored the wave of distaste that flooded her at the thought.
What did she care whom he married?
She didn’t.
Why did she care that he had selected someone who was everything Juliana was not? Poised perfection, absolutely no trouble, not even a bit scandalous?
She didn’t.
No? Then why not put down the opera glasses?
She could put down the opera glasses anytime she wanted.
She meant to put down the opera glasses.
He looked up and stared directly at her.
If they had burst into flame, she could not have lowered the opera glasses more quickly.
Or with more carelessness.
The binoculars hit the marble balustrade with a wicked crack, and the gold eyepiece fell to the carpeted floor.
It was dreadfully quiet in the box all of a sudden, as the collected visitors and family turned at the sound, finding Juliana openmouthed, staring at the long enamel handle that remained in her hand.
An enormous wave of embarrassment coursed through her, and Juliana took the first avenue of escape, falling to her knees on the floor of the at once too-dark and utterly not-dark-enough box to retrieve the glasses which . . . devil take them . . . must have bounced under a chair, because they were nowhere to be seen.
Searching blindly under the chairs, it took her a moment to realize that by crawling on the floor of the Duke of Rivington’s theatre box, she’d just made a bad situation much, much worse. Ladies Sparrow and Davis were very likely watching her now, waiting to see how she would extricate herself from this mortifying situation.
And she would not even think about him.
Certainly he had seen it all. And she imagined him lifting one imperious, golden brow in her direction as if to say, Thank goodness it is Ralston who must deal with you and not I.
She cursed under her breath, deciding that this particular situation could not be made worse by a few choice words in Italian.
Her fingers brushed against something cool and smooth, and she grasped the fallen glasses. She lifted her head, to find herself staring at the shins of Callie’s brother, the Earl of Allendale. A gentleman of the highest caliber, Benedick was almost certainly there to help her to her feet.
She was not ready.
He seemed to sense that, instead crouching down beside her. “Shall I pretend to help with the search until you are ready to face them?” he whispered, and the lighthearted amusement in his tone helped to steady her pulse.
She met his clear brown gaze, so like Callie’s, and matched his whisper with her own. “Do you think I might stay here, my lord?”
“For how long?”
“Forever is too long, is it?”
He pretended to consider the question. “Well, as a gentleman, I would be required to remain by your side . . . and I was hoping to see the performance,” he teased. When she smiled, he offered her a hand and some quiet advice. “Keep smiling. If they see that you are embarrassed, you’ll hate yourself for it.”
With a deep breath, she allowed him to lift her to her feet. She could feel hundreds of eyes on her, but she refused to look.
Refused to check to see if one set of those eyes belonged to the arrogant duke opposite them. Through her forced smile, she said, “I’ve caused a scene, haven’t I?”
One side of Lord Allendale’s mouth rose in amusement. “Yes. But it’s a theatre. So take comfort in the fact that you are not the first to do so here.”
“The first to do so from so far above the stage, however.”
He leaned in close, as if to share a secret. “Nonsense. I once saw a viscountess lose her wig because she was leaning too far over the edge.” He gave a mock shudder. “Horrifying.”
She laughed, the sound equal parts amusement and relief. Benedick was handsome and charming and so much kinder than—
Than no one.
“First the Serpentine and now this.”
“You are an adventuress, it would seem,” he teased. “At least in this case, you are in no danger.”
“Really? Why does it feel so much more terrifying?”
Benedick smiled down at her. “Would you like to take a bow?”
Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t!”
“No?”
“It would be—”
“It would make for a far more interesting evening, that is certain.”
And Leighton would hate it.
The thought brought a grin to her face. A real one.
She shook her head. “I think I have caused enough trouble for one evening,” she said to the earl, turning to face the rest of the box. She held up the glasses triumphantly, announcing, “I found them!”
Mariana laughed, clapping her hands twice in a sign that she was thoroughly entertained. Ralston’s smirk indicated that his irritation at her scene was overpowered by his pride that she would not cower in fear of the rest of the ton. Her brother had never cared much for society, and Juliana had that for which to be thankful.
As for the visitors to the box, they seemed to be attempting to recall the proper etiquette for the moment when the sister of a marquess reappeared after spending entirely too long on the floor of a theatre box—not that Juliana believed there was an appropriate amount of time to spend on the floor of a theatre box—the lights in the theatre began to dim, and it was time for the real performance to begin.
Thank God.
Juliana was soon seated at the end of the first row of seats, next to Mariana, who had no doubt returned to Juliana’s side to protect her from further embarrassment. The lights came up on stage, and the play began.
It was impossible for Juliana to focus on the play. It was a farce, and a good one if the audience’s laughter was any indication, but she was struggling with residual nerves, a lingering impulse to flee the theatre, and an unbearable desire to look at the Duke of Leighton’s box.
An unbearable desire that, by the end of the first scene, proved irresistible.
She stole a glance from the corner of her eye and saw him.
Watching the play with avid interest.
Her fingers tightened around the delicate gold binoculars in her hands, reminding her of their existence. Of the ease with which she could see him clearly.
It was entirely reasonable for her to check the state of the most important component of the opera glasses, she reasoned. While the handle was broken, it would certainly be a tragedy if the glasses themselves were ruined as well. Any halfway-decent friend would replace them if they were broken.
Of course she would test the glasses.
She should test the glasses.
It was altogether expected.
She lifted the eyepiece and peered at the stage. No cracked lenses—Juliana could see the brilliant scarlet satin of the lead actress, she could almost make out the individual strands of the thick black moustache worn by the lead actor.
Perfect working order.
But there was no assurance that the glasses had not been broken in some other way.
Perhaps they were now affected by light?
Altogether possible. She would do well to find out.
In the name of friendship.
She swung the glasses as casually as possible in a wide arc from the stage, stopping only when she found his gleaming golden curls. Something on the stage made the audience laugh. He did not laugh . . . did not even smile, until the grape turned to him, as if to check to see that he was enjoying himself. Juliana watched as he forced a smile, leaning close to speak softly in her ear. Her smile grew broader, more natural, and she all of a sudden did not seem so very grapelike.
She seemed quite lovely.
Juliana felt ill.
“Do you see anything of interest?”
She inhaled sharply, nearly dropping the glasses at the whispered question.
She turned to meet Mariana’s gaze. “I—I was merely testing the opera glasses. I wanted to be certain that they were in working condition.”
“Ah.” A small smile played across her friend’s lips. “Because I could have sworn you were looking at the Duke of Leighton.”
“Why would I be doing that?” Juliana said, and the question came out at a near-inhuman pitch. She thrust the broken glasses into Mariana’s lap. “Here. They work.”
Mariana lifted the glasses, making absolutely no attempt to hide that she was looking at the Duke of Leighton. “I wonder why he is with Penelope Marbury?”
“He’s going to marry her,” Juliana grumbled.
Mariana gave Juliana a quick look of surprise. “Really. Well. She’s made the catch of a lifetime.”
The cod served at luncheon must have been off. It was the only reason why she would feel so very . . . queasy.
Mariana returned to her inspection. “Callie tells me that you’ve had several run-ins with him.”
Juliana shook her head, and whispered, “I don’t know what she is talking about. We haven’t run at all. There was a riding incident, but I didn’t think Callie knew about it . . .” She stopped talking as she noted that Mariana had lowered the glasses and was staring at her in shock. “I think I have misunderstood.”
Mariana recovered and said with a triumphant grin. “Indeed you have. How I adore that you still have not mastered English turns of phrase!”
Juliana clasped her friend’s hand. “Mari! You must not repeat it!”
“Oh, I won’t. On one condition.”
Juliana looked to the ceiling for salvation. “What?”
“You must tell me everything! A ‘riding incident’ sounds so very scandalous!”
Juliana did not reply, instead turning resolutely to the stage. She tried to pay attention to the action on the stage but the story—of two lovers avoiding discovery of their clandestine affair—was rather too familiar. She was in the midst of her own farce . . . broken opera glasses and scandalous meetings and all, and she’d just been discovered.
And she was not amused.
“He’s looking at you,” Mariana whispered.
“He is not looking at me,” she replied out of the corner of her mouth.
But she could not help but turn her head.
He was not looking at her.
“He was looking at you.”
“Well, I am not looking at him.”
And she did not look at him.
She did not look during the whole of the first act, as the lovers slammed in and out of doors and the audience howled with laughter, not as the curtain fell on them locked in a passionate embrace, in full view of her husband and his sister . . . who for some reason cared a bit too much about the skirts her brother was chasing.
She did not look as the candles were lit around the theatre, throwing London society back into view, and not as the stream of visitors to the Rivington box began once more and she had the opportunity to look without scrutiny.
She did not look while the Earl of Allendale entertained her during intermission, nor when Mariana suggested they go to the ladies’ salon to repair themselves—a thinly veiled ruse to get Juliana talking—nor after she declared that no, she did not have reason to attend the salon, and Mariana was forced to go alone.
She did not look until the lights had dimmed once more and the audience was settling in for the second act.
And then she wished she hadn’t.
Because he was guiding the grape into her seat, his large hand lingering at her elbow, sliding down her arm as he took his seat beside her.
And she found she could not look away.
The caress was over quickly—although it seemed to Juliana that it stretched out interminably—and Lady Penelope, unmoved, turned to the stage, immediately absorbed in the next act.
The duke, however, looked at Juliana, fully meeting her gaze. Distance and dim lights should have made her somewhat uncertain but, no . . . he was looking at her.
There was no other explanation for the shiver of awareness that shot down her spine.
He knew she had seen the caress.
Had wanted her to see it.
And suddenly there was not enough air in the box.
She stood abruptly, drawing Ralston’s attention as she headed for the exit. She leaned down to speak quietly in his ear, “I find I have something of a headache. I am going into the hallway for some air.”
His gaze narrowed. “Shall I take you home?”
“No no . . . I shall be fine. I will be just outside the box.” She smiled feebly. “Back before you realize that I am gone.”
Ralston hesitated, debating whether he should allow her to leave. “Do not go far. I don’t want you wandering through the theatre.”
She shook her head. “Of course not.”
He stayed her movement with one firm hand on her wrist. “I mean it, sister. I am well aware of the trouble you can find in a theatre during a performance.”
She raised a dark brow in a gesture they shared. “I look forward to hearing more about that soon.”
His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “You’ll have to ask Callie.”
She smiled. “You can be sure that I will.”
And then she was in the hallway, which was empty save a handful of footmen, and she could breathe once more.
There was a cool breeze blowing through the corridor, and she headed instinctively for its source, a large window on the back end of the theatre where the hallway ended abruptly above what must have been the stage. The window had been left open to the October evening, a chair beneath it, as though waiting for her arrival. It was likely too far from the box for Ralston’s taste, but it was a perfectly public place nonetheless.
She sat, leaning on the sill and looking out over the rooftops of London. Candlelight flickered in the windows of the buildings below, and she could just make out a young woman sewing several floors down. Juliana wondered, fleetingly, whether the girl had ever been to the theatre . . . whether she’d ever even dreamed of the theatre.
Juliana certainly hadn’t . . . not like this, with a family of aristocrats that she’d never known existed. Not with jewels and silks and satins and marquesses and earls and . . . dukes.
Dukes who infuriated her and consumed her thoughts and kissed her like she was the last woman on earth.
She sighed, watching as the light from the waxing moon reflected on the tile roofs, still wet from a brief rain that afternoon.
She had started something that she could not finish.
She’d wanted to tempt him with passion—to punish his arrogance by bringing him to his knees—but after the embarrassing episode at the lake, when he’d all but told her that she was the very last thing he would ever find tempting . . .
There were ten days left in their agreement, and he was courting Lady Penelope, planning a lifetime of proper, perfect marriage with a woman who had been reared to be a duchess.
The wager was supposed to end in Leighton’s triumphant set down; so why did it feel like it was Juliana who would be the losing party?
“Why aren’t you in your seat?”
She gave a little start at the words, laced with irritation.
He had followed her.
She should not care that he had sought her out.
Of course, she did.
She turned, attempting to appear calm. “Why aren’t you in your seat?”
He scowled at that. “I saw you leave the box without escort.”
“My brother knows where I am.”
“Your brother has never in his life accepted an ounce of responsibility.” He came closer. “Anything could happen to you out here.”
Juliana made a show of looking down the long, quiet hallway. “Yes. It’s very threatening.”
“Someone should be looking out for your reputation. You could be accosted.”
“By whom?”
He paused at that. “By anyone! By an actor! Or a footman!”
“Or a duke?”
His brows knitted together, and there was a pause. “I suppose I deserve that.”
He did not deserve it. Not really. She turned back to the window. “I did not ask you to come after me.”
There was a long moment of silence, and she was expecting him to leave when he said, softly, “No. You didn’t.”
She snapped her head around at the admission. “Then why are you here?”
He ran a hand through his golden curls and Juliana’s eyes widened at the movement, so uncontrolled and unlike him, a mark of his disquiet.
“It was a mistake.”
Disappointment flared, and she did her best to hide it, instead making a wide sweep of the corridor with one hand. “One easily corrected, Your Grace. I believe your box is on the opposite side of the theatre. Shall I ask a footman to escort you back? Or are you afraid of being accosted?”
His lips pressed into a straight line, the only indication that he had registered the sarcasm in her words. “I don’t mean coming after you, although Lord knows that was likely a mistake as well, albeit an unavoidable one.” He stopped, considering his next words. “I mean all of it. The wager, the two weeks, the morning in Hyde Park . . .”
“The afternoon in Hyde Park,” she added softly, and his gaze flew to hers.
“I would have preferred not to have given the gossipmongers something to discuss, but of course I do not regret saving you.” There was something in the words, irritation mixed with an emotion that Juliana could not quite identify, but it was gone when he continued, coolly, “The rest, though, it cannot continue. I should never have agreed to it to begin with. That was the mistake. I’m beginning to see that you are virtually incapable of behaving with decorum. I should never have humored you.”
Humored her.
The meaning of the words echoed even as he danced around what he was really trying to say.
She was not good enough for him.
She never had been.
And she would never be good enough for the world in which he lived.
As much as she had sworn that she would change his view of her, that she would prove him wrong and make him beg for her forgiveness . . . for her attention . . . the resolve in his tone gave her pause.
She refused to be hurt by him; it would give him too much power over her. Would give them all too much power over her. There were others who did not think her somehow less because she had been born in Italy, because she had been born common, because she struggled with the rules and restrictions of this new world.
She would not be hurt.
She would be angry.
Anger, at least, was an emotion she could master.
And as long as she was angry, he would not win.
“Humored me?” she asked, standing and turning so that they were face-to-face. “You may be accustomed to others simply accepting your view of a situation, Your Grace, but I am not one of your adoring minions.”
His jaw steeled at the words, and she pressed on. “You did not appear to be merely humoring me when you agreed to two weeks; and you most definitely were not merely humoring me in Hyde Park several mornings ago.” Her chin lifted, light and firm with a mix of anger and conviction. “You gave me two weeks. By my count, I still have ten days.”
She stepped closer to him, until they were nearly touching, and heard the shift in his breathing—the tension that would have been imperceptible were she not so close.
Were she not so angry.
Were she not so drawn to him.
“I mean to use them,” she whispered, knowing that she tempted fate and that, with a word of refusal, he could end it all.
The moment stretched into an eternity, until she could no longer meet his unreadable gaze. She lowered her attention to his lips—to their firm, strong lines.
A mistake.
Suddenly, the open window did nothing for the stifling air in the theatre. The memory of his kisses was cloying in the dim hallway . . . the desire for more of them overwhelmed all else.
Her eyes skidded back to his, their amber darkened to a rich oak.
He wants me, too.
The thought sent a shiver of fire through her.
He stepped closer. They were touching now, just barely, the swell of her breasts brushing his wide chest. Her breath caught.
“You don’t need me for your scandals. You’ve got an earl in the palm of your hand.”
Confusion flared at the words and his nearness. “An earl?”
“I saw you with Allendale, laughing and . . . cozy.” The last came out like gravel.
“Allendale?” She repeated like an imbecile, willing her mind clear. What was he talking about? Understanding dawned. “Oh. Benedick.”
Something not altogether safe flashed in his eyes. “You should not refer to him with such familiarity.”
A thread of excitement weaved its way through her. He looked angry. No . . . he looked livid. He looked jealous.
The look was gone before she could savor it, shuttered behind his careful gaze, but courage surged nonetheless, and she gave him a small, teasing smile. “You mean I should not refer to him by his name?”
“Not by that name.”
“You did not ascribe to such rules when we met . . . Simon.” She said his name on a whisper, and the breath of it curled between them like temptation.
He inhaled sharply. “I should have.”
“But you wanted me to think you something you were not.”
“I think we were both guilty of hiding our true identities.”
Sadness flared, mixed with anger. “I did not hide.”
“No? Then why did I believe you were—”
More. She heard the word. Loathed it.
“You seemed to think me enough then.” She lifted her chin, her lips a hairsbreadth from his.
Desire was coming off him in waves. He might not want to want her—but he did. She could feel it.
He leaned in, and she held her breath, waiting for the feel of those unforgiving lips—wanting them with a desperation to which she would never admit.
The world faded away, and there was nothing but this moment, the two of them in a quiet darkness, his golden gaze on hers, his warmth consuming her. His mouth hovered above hers; she could feel his soft breath on her skin and she wanted to scream with the anticipation . . .
“You are a scandal waiting to happen.”
The words were a kiss of breath, their feel running counter to their message. And then he was gone, stepping back, away from her—leaving her alone and unsatisfied and utterly wanting.
“One I cannot afford,” he added.
“You want me.” She winced at the desperation in the accusation; wished, instantly, that she could take it back.
He was stone. “Of course I want you. I would have to be dead not to want you. You’re bright and beautiful, and you respond to me in a way that makes me want to throw you down and bend you to my will.” He stopped, meeting her wide eyes. “But actions have consequences, Miss Fiori. A fact you would do well to remember before running headlong into your childish games.”
She narrowed her gaze. “I am not a child.”
“No? You haven’t any idea what you’re doing. What if you were to teach me about your precious passion, Juliana? What then? What next?”
The question whipped through her. She had no answer.
“You’ve never in your life considered the future, have you? You’ve never imagined what came next, after whatever you are experiencing in the here and now.” He paused, then cut deeper. “If that does not speak to your childishness, nothing does.”
She hated him then. Hated the way he stripped her bare. The way he knew her failings before she knew them herself.
He continued. “I am removing myself from our wager. I should never have agreed to it in the first place. You are a danger to yourself. And to me. And I haven’t the luxury to teach you the lesson you so richly deserve.”
She knew she should acquiesce. Knew she should release him—release them both—from the stupid, damaging agreement that threatened their reputations, their feelings, their reason.
But he made her so irate, she could not let him win.
“You say removing, I say reneging.” The word was a taunt.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I should tell Ralston everything.”
She raised a brow. “And you think that will help your cause?” They faced off in the dimly lit hallway, and Juliana could feel the fury pouring out of him. Reveled in it—it was so rare to see his emotion. She could not resist poking the lion. “Take heart. I should not need so very long to bring you to your knees.”
His eyes grew instantly dark, and she knew that she had gone too far. She thought for a moment that he might shake her, recognized the barely controlled anger in his corded muscles.
“I have bested far worse threats to my reputation than you, Miss Fiori. Do not think for a moment that you will prevail. Temptation is no match for reputation.” He paused. “You want your ten days? Keep them. Do your best.”
“I intend to.”
“Do not expect me to make it easy for you.”
She should have taken pleasure in the way he turned on one heel and left—in the way she had damaged his cool façade.
But as she watched him return to his box—and to the perfect English bride he had selected—it was not triumph that flared.
It was something suspiciously like longing.