And with a cool flick of her wrist she was off like a shot, her horse thundering up the path from which they had come.

He watched as she disappeared, listening for the break in the hoofbeats as she took the felled tree once more . . .

Hoping the fleeting silence would drown out the echo of his title on her lips.

Chapter Five

One never knows where ruffians might lurk.

Elegant ladies do not leave the house alone.

—A Treatise on the Most Exquisite of Ladies

Remarkable, is it not, the decisions that can be made over a still-smoking rifle?

—The Scandal Sheet, October 1823

The Marquess of Needham and Dolby took careful aim at a red grouse and pulled the trigger on his rifle. The report sounded loud and angry in the afternoon air.

“Damn. Missed it.”

Simon refrained from pointing out that the marquess had missed all five of the creatures at which he’d aimed since suggesting that they converse outside, “like men.”

The portly aristocrat took aim and fired once more, the sound sending a shiver of irritation through Simon. No one hunted in the afternoon. Certainly no one who was such a poor shot should be so interested in hunting in the afternoon.

“Blast it!”

Another miss. Simon had begun to fear for his own well-being. If the older man wanted to shoot up the gardens of his massive estate on the banks of the Thames, far be it from Simon to dissuade him of the activity, but he could not help but regret his proximity to such ineptitude.

Apparently, even the marquess had his limits. With a muttered curse, he passed the rifle off to a nearby footman and, hands clasped stoutly behind his back, started down a long, winding path away from the house. “All right, Leighton, we might as well get down to it. You want to marry my eldest.”

Bad shot or no, the marquess was no fool.

“I believe that such a match would benefit both our families,” he said, matching the older man’s stride.

“No doubt, no doubt.” They walked in silence for several moments before the marquess continued, “Penelope will make a fine duchess. She’s not horse-faced, and she knows her place. Won’t make unreasonable demands.”

They were the words that Simon wanted to hear. They underscored his selection of the lady for the role of his future wife.

So why did they so unsettle him?

The marquess continued. “A fine, sensible girl—ready to do her duty. Good English stock. Shouldn’t have any trouble breeding. Doesn’t have any illusions about marriage or the other fanciful things some girls think they deserve.”

Like passion.

A vision flashed, unheeded, unwelcome—Juliana Fiori, smirking around her words. Not even a frigid duke can live without heat.

Nonsense.

He stood by his statement from the night before—passion had no place in a good English marriage. And it seemed that Lady Penelope would agree.

Which made her the ideal candidate for his wife to be.

She was entirely suitable.

Precisely what he needed.

We all need passion.

The words were a whisper at the back of his mind, the mocking tone, lilting with an Italian accent.

He gritted his teeth. She had no idea what he needed.

With a curt nod, Simon said, “I am happy to hear that you approve a match.”

“Of course I do. It’s a fine marriage. Two superior British lines of aristocracy. Equals in reputation and in stock,” the marquess said, removing the glove from his right hand and extending it to Simon.

As Simon shook the hand of his future father-in-law, he wondered if the marquess would feel differently once the secrets of Leighton House were aired.

The Leighton stock would not carry such a pristine reputation, then.

Simon only hoped that the marriage would lend enough weight for them all to survive the scandal.

They turned back toward Dolby House, and Simon released a long, slow breath.

One step closer. All he had to do was propose to the lady, and he would be as prepared as he could be.

The marquess cut him a glance. “Penelope is at home—you are welcome to speak with her now.”

Simon understood the meaning behind the words. The marquess wanted the match announced and completed. It was not every day that a duke went looking for a wife.

He considered the possibility. There was, after all, no reason to postpone the inevitable.

Two weeks.

He’d given her two weeks.

It had been a ridiculous thing for him to do—he could use those weeks—could have been planning a wedding during their course. Could have been married before the end of them if he’d insisted upon it.

And instead, he’d offered them up to Juliana’s silly game.

As though he had time for her games and reckless behavior and improper attire and—

Irresistible embraces.

No. This morning had been a mistake. One that would not be repeated.

No matter how much it wanted repeating.

He shook his head.

“You disagree?”

The marquess’s words pulled Simon from his reverie. He cleared his throat. “I should like to court her properly, if you’ll allow it.”

“No need for it, you know. It’s not as if it’s a love match.” Vastly entertained by the idea, the marquess laughed big and brash from the depths of his overhanging midsection. Simon did his best to keep his irritation from showing. When the laughter died down, his future father-in-law said, “I’m just saying that everyone knows you’re not one for silly emotions. Penelope won’t expect courting.”

Simon tilted his head. “Nevertheless.”

“It makes no difference to me how you do it, Leighton,” said the older man, running his wide hands over his wider girth. “My only advice is that you begin as you mean to go on with her. Wives are much easier to manage if they know what to expect from a marriage.”