Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart (Love By Numbers #3)(7)

He was not dead, after all.

He was simply not interested.

A memory flashed.

Juliana in his arms, coming up on her toes, pressing her lips to his.

He resisted the image.

She was also bold, brash, impulsive, a magnet for trouble, and precisely the kind of woman he wanted far away from him.

So, of course, she’d landed in his carriage.

He sighed, straightening the sleeve of his topcoat and returning his attention to the tableau before him.

“And how did your arms and face get scratched?” Ralston continued to hound her. “You look like you ran through a rosebush!”

She tilted her head. “I may have done so.”

“May have?” Ralston took a step toward her, and Juliana stood to face her brother head-on. Here was no simpering miss.

She was tall, uncommonly so for a female. It was not every day that Simon met a woman with whom he did not have to stoop to converse.

The top of her head came to his nose.

“Well, I was rather busy, Gabriel.”

There was something about the words, so utterly matter-of-fact, that had Simon exhaling his amusement, calling attention to himself.

Ralston rounded on him. “Oh, I would not laugh too hard if I were you, Leighton. I’ve half a mind to call you out for your part in tonight’s farce.”

Disbelief surged. “Call me out? I did nothing but keep the girl from ruining herself.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to explain how it is that the two of you were alone in your study, her hands lovingly clasped in your own, when I arrived?”

Simon was instantly aware of what Ralston was doing. And he did not like it. “Just what are you trying to say, Ralston?”

“Only that special licenses have been procured for less.”

His eyes narrowed on the marquess, a man he barely tolerated on a good day. This was not turning out to be a good day. “I’m not marrying the girl.”

“There’s no way I’m marrying him!” she cried at the same moment.

Well. At least they agreed on something.

Wait.

She didn’t want to marry him? She could do a damned sight worse. He was a duke, for God’s sake! And she was a walking scandal.

Ralston’s attention had returned to his sister. “You’ll marry whomever I tell you to marry if you keep up with this ridiculous behavior, sister.”

“You promised—” she began.

“Yes, well, you weren’t making a habit of being accosted in gardens when I made that vow.” Impatience infused Ralston’s tone. “Who did this to you?”

“No one.”

The too-quick response rankled. Why wouldn’t she reveal who had hurt her? Perhaps she had not wanted to discuss the private matter with Simon, but why not with her brother?

Why not allow retribution to be delivered?

“I’m not a fool, Juliana.” Ralston resumed pacing. “Why not tell me?”

“All you need know is that I handled him.”

Both men froze. Simon could not resist. “Handled him how?”

She paused, cradling her bruised wrist in her hand in a way that made him wonder if she might have sprained it. “I hit him.”

“Where?” Ralston blurted.

“In the gardens.”

The marquess looked to the ceiling, and Simon took pity on him. “I believe your brother was asking where on his person did you strike your attacker?”

“Oh. In the nose.” She paused in the stunned silence that followed, then said defensively, “He deserved it!”

“He damn well did,” Ralston agreed. “Now give me his name, and I’ll finish him off.”

“No.”

“Juliana. The strike of a woman is not nearly enough punishment for his attacking you.”

She narrowed her gaze on her brother, “Oh, really? Well, there was a great deal of blood considering it was the mere strike of a woman, Gabriel.”

Simon blinked. “You bloodied his nose.”

A smug smile crossed her face. “That’s not all I did.”

Of course it wasn’t.

“I hesitate to ask . . .” Simon prodded.

She looked to him, then to her brother. Was she blushing?

“What did you do?”

“I . . . hit him . . . elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“In his . . .” She hesitated, her mouth twisting as she searched for the word, then gave up. “In his inguine.”

Had he not understood the Italian perfectly, the circular movement of her hand in an area generally believed to be entirely inappropriate for discussion with a young woman of good breeding would have been unmistakable.

“Oh, dear God.” It was unclear whether Ralston’s words were meant as prayer or blasphemy.

What was clear was that the woman was a gladiator.

“He called me a pie!” she announced, defensively. There was a pause. “Wait. That’s not right.”

“A tart?”

“Yes! That’s it!” She registered her brother’s fists and looked to Simon. “I see that it is not a compliment.”

It was hard for him to hear over the roaring in his ears. He’d like to take a fist to the man himself. “No. It is not.”