He swore, low and dark, and rested his head back against his chair as the door to the library opened once more. He kept his eyes closed.

He did not want to face her again. Not her; not what she represented.

There was a delicate throat-clearing. “Your Grace?”

Simon straightened instantly. “Yes, Boggs?”

The butler crossed the room, extending the silver platter in his hand toward Simon. “I apologize for the intrusion. But an urgent message has arrived for you.”

Simon reached for the heavy ecru envelope. Turned it in his hand. Saw Ralston’s seal.

A ripple of tension shot through him.

There was only one reason for Ralston to send him an urgent note.

Georgiana.

Perhaps there was no more time for before.

“Leave me.”

He waited for Boggs to exit the room, until he heard the soft, ominous sound of door against jamb.

Only then did he slide one long finger beneath the seal, feeling the thick weight of the moment deep in his gut. He removed the single sheet of paper, unfolded it with resignation.

Read the two lines of text there.

And released the breath he had not known he had been holding in a short, angry burst, crushing the single page in his wicked grip.

The Serpentine at five o’clock.

I shall dress properly this time.

“Exspecto, Exspectas, Exspectat . . .”

She whispered the Latin words as she skipped stones across the surface of the Serpentine Lake, trying to ignore the sun, sinking toward the horizon.

She should not have sent the note.

“Exspectamus, Exspectatis, Exspectant . . .”

It was well past five. If he had planned to come, he would have already come.

Her companion and maid, Carla, made an indelicate sound of discomfort from her position on a wool blanket several feet away.

“I wait, you wait, she waits . . .”

If he took it to Ralston . . . she’d never be able to leave the house again. Not without a battalion of servants and chaperones and, very likely, Ralston himself.

“We wait, you wait, they wait.”

She tossed another stone and missed her target, wincing at the hollow sound the pebble made as it sank to the bottom of the lake.

“He is not coming.”

She turned at the Italian words, flat and full of truth, and met Carla’s deep brown gaze. The other woman was clutching a woolen shawl to her chest, bracing herself against the autumn wind. “You only say that because you want to return to the house.”

Carla lifted one shoulder and pulled a disinterested frown. “It does not make the words any less true.”

Juliana scowled. “You are not required to stay.”

“I am required to do just that, actually.” She sat down beneath a stout tree. “And I would not mind it if this country weren’t so unbearably cold. No wonder your duke is in such dire need of thaw.”

As if to punctuate the words, the wind picked up again, threatening to take the bonnet from Juliana’s head. She held it down, wincing as its ribbons and lace adornments lashed at her face. It was a wonder that a piece of headwear could be so troublesome and so useless all at once.

The wind lessened, and Juliana felt safe releasing the hat.

“He is not my duke.”

“Oh? Then why are we standing here in the frigid wind, waiting for him?”

Juliana’s gaze narrowed on the young woman. “You know, I’m told English lady’s maids are far more biddable. I’m considering making a switch.”

“I recommend it. I can then return to civilization. Warm civilization.”

Juliana leaned down and picked up another stone. “Ten more minutes.”

Carla sighed, long and dramatic, and Juliana felt a smile tug at her lips. As contrary and immovable as she was, Juliana was comforted by her presence. She was a piece of home in this strange new world.

This bizarre world that was filled with brothers and sisters and rules and regulations and balls and bonnets and incredible, infuriating men.

Men to whom one did not send flirtatious, inviting notes in the middle of the day, on one’s brother’s stationery.

She closed her eyes as a wave of embarrassment coursed through her.

It had been the worst kind of idea, the kind that arrived on a wave of triumph so acute that it turned every thought into a stroke of brilliance. She’d returned to her bedchamber that morning before the rest of Ralston House had risen, drunk on excitement and power from her encounter with Leighton, thrilled that she had shaken that enormous, immovable man to his core.

He’d kissed her.

And it had been nothing like the meek, simpering kisses of the boys she’d known in Italy, stolen as they teasingly lifted her from her father’s merchant ship onto the cobblestone wharf. No . . . this kiss had been the kiss of a man.

The kiss of a man who knew what he wanted.

A man who had never had to ask for what he wanted.

He had tasted just as he had done all those months ago, of strength and power and something both unbearable and irresistible.

Passion.

She’d dared him to discover the emotion but had been unprepared to discover it herself.

It had taken all her energy to mount her horse and leave him there, alone, in the early-morning light.

She had wanted more.

Just as she always did where he was concerned.

And when she returned home, heady with the success of their first interaction and full with the knowledge that she had shaken him to his core, just as she’d promised, she had not been able to resist flaunting her success. Before Ralston had risen, she had crept into his study and written a message for Leighton, more dare than invitation.