As though doors, like everything else, bent to his will.
She watched as he entered the brightly lit foyer beyond, a large brown dog lumbering to greet him with cheerful exuberance.
Well. So much for the theory that animals could sense evil.
She smirked at the thought, and he turned halfway back almost instantly, as though she had spoken aloud. His golden curls were once more cast into angelic relief, as he said, “In or out, Miss Fiori. You are trying my patience.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he had already disappeared from view. And so she chose the path of least resistance.
Or, at least, the path that was least likely to end in her ruin on a London sidewalk in the middle of the night.
She followed him in.
As the door closed behind her and the footman hurried to follow his master to wherever masters and footmen went, Juliana paused in the brightly lit entryway, taking in the wide marble foyer and the gilded mirrors on the walls that only served to make the large space seem more enormous. There were half a dozen doors leading this way and that, and a long, dark corridor that stretched deeper into the town house.
The dog sat at the bottom of the wide stairway leading to the upper floors of the home, and under his silent canine scrutiny, Juliana was suddenly, embarrassingly aware of the fact that she was in a man’s home.
Unescorted.
With the exception of a dog.
Who had already been revealed to be a poor judge of character.
Callie would not approve. Her sister-in-law had specifically cautioned her to avoid situations of this kind. She feared that men would take advantage of a young Italian female with little understanding of British stricture.
“I’ve sent word to Ralston to come and fetch you. You may wait in the—”
She looked up when he stopped short, and met his gaze, which was clouded with something that, if she did not know better, might be called concern.
She did, however, know better.
“In the—?” she prompted, wondering why he was moving toward her at an alarming pace.
“Dear God. What happened to you?”
“Someone attacked you.”
Juliana watched as Leighton poured two fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler and walked the drink to where she sat in one of the oversized leather chairs in his study. He thrust the glass toward her, and she shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“You should take it. You’ll find it calming.”
She looked up at him. “I am not in need of calming, Your Grace.”
His gaze narrowed, and she refused to look away from the portrait of English nobility he made, tall and towering, with nearly unbearable good looks and an expression of complete and utter confidence—as though he had never in his life been challenged.
Never, that was, until now.
“You deny that someone attacked you?”
She shrugged one shoulder idly, remaining quiet. What could she say? What could she tell him that he would not turn against her? He would claim, in that imperious, arrogant tone, that had she been more of a lady . . . had she had more of a care for her reputation . . . had she behaved more like an Englishwoman and less like an Italian . . . then all of this would not have happened.
He would treat her like all the rest.
Just as he had done since the moment he had discovered her identity.
“Does it matter? I’m sure you will decide that I staged the entire evening in order to ensnare a husband. Or something equally ridiculous.”
She had intended the words to set him down. They did not.
Instead, he raked her with one long, cool look, taking in her face and arms, covered in scratches, her ruined dress, torn in two places, streaked with dirt and blood from her scored palms.
One side of his mouth twitched in what she imagined was something akin to disgust, and she could not resist saying, “Once more, I prove myself less than worthy of your presence, do I not?”
She bit her tongue, wishing she had not spoken.
He met her gaze. “I did not say that.”
“You did not have to.”
He threw back the whiskey as a soft knock sounded on the half-open door to the room. Without looking away from her, the duke barked, “What is it?”
“I’ve brought the things you requested, Your Grace.” A servant shuffled into the room with a tray laden with a basin, bandages, and several small containers. He set the burden on a nearby low table.
“That is all.”
The servant bowed once, neatly, and took his leave as Leighton stalked toward the tray. She watched as he lifted a linen towel, dipping one edge into the basin. “You did not thank him.”
He cut a surprised glance toward her. “The evening has not exactly put me in a grateful frame of mind.”
She stiffened at his tone, hearing the accusation there.
Well. She could be difficult as well.
“Nevertheless, he did you a service.” She paused for effect. “Not to thank him makes you piggish.”
There was a beat before her meaning became clear. “Boorish.”
She waved one hand. “Whatever. A different man would have thanked him.”
He moved toward her. “Don’t you mean a better man?”
Her eyes widened in mock innocence. “Never. You are a duke, after all. Surely there are none better than you.”
The words were a direct hit. And, after the terrible things he’d said to her in the carriage, a deserved one.
“A different woman would realize that she is squarely in my debt and take more care with her words.”
“Don’t you mean a better woman?”
He did not reply, instead taking the seat across from her and extending his hand, palm up. “Give me your hands.”