He stopped. They were words that he had heard countless times—one of his mother’s favorite sayings. “Did she say that to you?”
“Haven’t you said it to me?” She lifted her chin, proud and defiant.
“No.”
One side of her mouth kicked up. “Not in so many words. It bears true for you, doesn’t it? Looking down at the lesser creatures from up on high. Blood will out—the very motto of the Duke of Disdain.”
The Duke of Disdain.
He’d heard it before, of course, the epithet that was whispered as he passed. He’d simply never given it much thought. Never realized the aptness of the name. Never realized the truth of it.
Emotion was for the masses.
It had always been easier to be the Duke of Disdain than to let them see the rest of him. The part that was not so disdainful.
He hated that Juliana knew the nickname. Hated that she thought of him that way. He met her glittering blue gaze and read the anger and defensiveness there. He could deal with those responses from her. But not the sadness.
He could not bear her sadness.
She read his thoughts, and her eyes flashed fury. “Don’t. Don’t you dare pity me. I don’t want it.” She tried to shake off his grip. “I’d rather have your disinterest.”
The words shocked him into letting her go. “My disinterest?”
“That’s what it is, is it not? Boredom? Apathy?”
He’d had enough.
“You think my feelings toward you apathetic?” His voice shook, and he advanced on her. “You think you bore me?”
She blinked under the heat of his words, stepping back toward the side of the stall. “Don’t I?”
He shook his head slowly, continuing toward her, stalking her in the small space. “No.”
She opened her mouth then closed it, not knowing what to say.
“God knows you are infuriating . . .” Nervousness flared in her eyes. “And impulsive . . .” Her back came up against the wall, and she gave a little squeak, even as he advanced. “And altogether maddening . . .” He placed one hand to her jaw, carefully lifting her face to his, feeling the leap of her pulse under his fingertips. “And thoroughly intoxicating . . .” The last came out on a low growl, and her lips parted, soft and pink and perfect.
He leaned close, his lips a fraction from hers.
“No . . . you are not boring.”
Chapter Ten
Hay and horses make for unpleasant eau de toilette.
The stables are no place for a exquisite lady.
—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies
Across our great nation, vicars draft sermons on the prodigal son . . .
—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823
Juliana had been enthralled by him as he’d crossed the stall, stalking her until she could go no farther, caging her with his long arms, and touching her—giving her the contact that she had not known she yearned for until that moment. And his voice, that low, dark rumble of whiskey and velvet, had scrambled her thoughts, making her forget why she was here in this dark stable to begin with.
He had hovered there, a breath away, waiting for her. Waiting as though he could have stood for hours, for days, while she considered her options, while she decided what to do next.
But she did not need days or hours.
She barely needed seconds.
She did not know what would happen later that evening or tomorrow or next week. She did not know what she wanted to happen. Except this. She wanted him. She wanted this moment, in the darkened stables. She wanted a heartbeat of passion that would last her through whatever was to come.
He was enormous, his wide shoulders blocking out the dim light from the lantern on the wall of the stables, casting him into harsh, wicked shadow. She could not see his eyes but imagined their amber depths flashing with barely contained passion.
Perhaps it was not the case . . . but she preferred to believe that he could not get enough of her.
She placed her hands on him, feeling her way up his arms, reveling in the way that his muscles rippled beneath the wool of his coat, wishing that there were less fabric between them. Her fingers traced over broad, tense shoulders, to his neck, where she finally, finally connected with warm, soft skin. He bent his head as she tangled her hands in his soft, golden curls, either to afford her better access or because he no longer had the strength to resist.
She liked the idea of the latter.
His lips were at her ear now, his breath coming in ragged bursts, and she delighted in the sound, so contrary to his normal, cool countenance.
“You do not sound bored.”
He gave a harsh laugh and tortured her with a whisper at her ear. “If I had a hundred years to describe how I feel right now, bored would not make an appearance.”
She turned her head at the words, her gaze colliding with his. “Be careful, Simon. You shall make me like you. And then where will we be?”
He did not answer, and she waited for him to close the distance between them. Marveled at his control when he did not. His endless, unwavering control.
She could not match it. Did not try.
She pressed her lips to his and gave herself up to his kiss.
The moment their lips touched, Simon moved. He inhaled deeply and wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in the heat and strength and scent of him—fresh lemon and tobacco flower.
He pulled her closer, his grip strong and powerful, his hands setting her aflame. There was something different about this kiss from the one that morning in Hyde Park . . . that had been a kiss of frustration and fury, fear and anger.
This kiss was an exploration.
It sought and found, chased and captured. It was a kiss that suggested they had an eternity during which to learn each other, and when his tongue ran rough-smooth across her bottom lip, sending wave after wave of sensation rocketing through her, she hoped they did have an eternity. Surely, it would take that long for her to tire of this. Of him. She gasped at the feel of him, so powerful, so wicked.