Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke's Heart (Love By Numbers #3)(8)

She thought for a moment. “Well, then he deserved what he received, did he not?”

“Leighton,” Ralston found his voice. “Is there somewhere my sister can wait while you and I speak?”

Warning bells sounded, loud and raucous.

Simon stood, willing himself calm. “Of course.”

“You’re going to discuss me,” Juliana blurted.

Did the woman ever keep a thought to herself?

“Yes. I am,” Ralston announced.

“I should like to stay.”

“I am sure you would.”

“Gabriel . . .” she began, in a soothing tone Simon had only ever heard used with unbroken horses and asylum inmates.

“Do not push your luck, sister.”

She paused, and Simon watched in disbelief as she considered her next course of action. Finally, she met his gaze, her brilliant blue eyes flashing with irritation. “Your Grace? Where will you store me while you and my brother do the business of men?”

Amazing. She resisted at every turn.

He moved to the door, ushering her into the hallway. Following her out, he pointed to the room directly across from them. “The library. You may make yourself comfortable there.”

“Mmm.” The sound was dry and disgruntled.

Simon held back a smile, unable to resist taunting her one final time. “And may I say that I am happy to see that you are willing to admit defeat?”

She turned to him and took a step closer, her br**sts nearly touching his chest. The air grew heavy between them, and he was inundated with her scent—red currants and basil. It was the same scent he had noticed months ago, before he had discovered her true identity. Before everything had changed.

He resisted the impulse to look at the expanse of skin above the rich green edge of her gown instead taking a step back.

The girl was entirely lacking a sense of propriety.

“I may admit defeat in the battle, Your Grace. But never in the war.”

He watched her cross the foyer and enter the library, closing the door behind her, and he shook his head.

Juliana Fiori was a disaster waiting to happen.

It was a miracle that she had survived half a year with the ton.

It was a miracle they had survived half a year with her.

“She took him out with a knee to the . . .” Ralston said, when Simon returned to the study.

“It would seem so,” he replied, closing the door firmly, as though he could block out the troublesome female beyond.

“What the hell am I going to do with her?”

Simon blinked once. Ralston and he barely tolerated one another. If it were not for the marquess’s twin being a friend, neither of them would choose to speak to the other. Ralston had always been an ass. He was not actually asking for Simon’s opinion, was he?

“Oh, for Chrissakes, Leighton, it was rhetorical. I know better than to ask you for advice. Particularly about sisters.”

The barb struck true, and Simon suggested precisely where Ralston might go to get some advice.

The marquess laughed. “Much better. I was growing concerned by how gracious a host you had become.” He stalked to the sideboard and poured three fingers of amber liquid into a glass. Turning back he said, “Scotch?”

Simon resumed his seat, realizing that he might be in for a long evening. “What a generous offer,” he said dryly.

Ralston walked the tumbler over and sat. “Now. Let’s talk about how you happen to have my sister in your house in the middle of the night.”

Simon took a long drink, enjoying the burn of the liquor down his throat. “I told you. She was in my carriage when I left your ball.”

“And why didn’t you apprise me of the situation immediately?”

As questions went, it was a fairly good one. Simon swirled the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, thinking. Why hadn’t he closed the carriage door and fetched Ralston?

The girl was common and impossible and everything he could not stomach in a female.

But she was fascinating.

She had been since the first moment he’d met her, in the damned bookshop, buying a book for her brother. And then they’d met again at the Royal Art Exhibition. And she’d let him believe . . .

“Perhaps you would tell me your name?” he had asked, eager not to lose her again. The weeks since the bookshop had been interminable. She had pursed her lips, a perfect moue, and he had sensed victory. “I shall go first. My name is Simon.”

“Simon.” He had loved the sound of it on her tongue, that name he had not used publicly in decades.

“And yours, my lady?”

“Oh, I think that would ruin the fun,” she had paused, her brilliant smile lighting the room. “Don’t you agree, Your Grace?”

She had known he was a duke. He should have recognized then that something was wrong. But instead, he had been transfixed. Shaking his head, he had advanced upon her slowly, sending her scurrying backward to keep her distance, and the chase had enthralled him. “Now, that is unfair.”

“It seems more than fair. I am merely a better detective than you.”

He paused, considering her words. “It does appear that way. Perhaps I should simply guess your identity?”

She grinned. “You may feel free.”

“You are an Italian princess, here with your brother on some diplomatic visit to the King.”