And when he’d held her in his warm, strong arms and whispered soft words of Italian to her—that had felt more serious than anything she’d ever felt before.

But he’d scolded her, then, all cool and unwavering, as though the whole episode had been a colossal waste of his time and energy.

As though she were nothing but trouble.

And she hadn’t felt much like playing games any longer.

Of course, she’d never tell him that. What purpose would it serve except to place a self-satisfied smirk on his face and give him the upper hand—as usual. And she couldn’t bear to do that, either.

Instead, she was waiting patiently in the library, resisting the urge to rush down to her brother’s study and discover just how much of her reckless behavior Leighton had recounted—and just how much trouble she was in.

Below, the coachman moved, leaping down from his seat, and hurrying to open the carriage door wide for his master. She knew she should turn away from the window, but then Leighton appeared, his golden curls gleaming briefly in the lanternlight before disappearing beneath his hat.

He stopped before the open door and she could not look away; spying was an irresistible temptation. He turned to speak to the coachman, squaring his shoulders against the wind that swirled leaves from the Park about his feet and lashed at his greatcoat. A lesser man would have shown some kind of response to such a violent gust—a wince, a grimace—but not the great Duke of Leighton. Not even nature could distract him from his course.

She watched the movement of his lips as he spoke and wondered what he was saying, where he was going. She leaned forward, her forehead nearly touching the mottled glass pane, as though she might be able to hear him if she were an inch closer.

The coachman nodded once and dipped his head, stepping back to hold the door.

He was leaving.

The duke did not need a step to climb into his great black carriage, he was large and strong enough to manage without one, and she watched as he reached for the handle to pull himself up, wishing that, just once, he would miss his mark, or stumble, or look anything less than he always did—perfect.

He paused, and she held her breath. Perhaps the action was not so easy after all. He turned his head. And looked straight at her.

She gasped and stepped back from the window immediately, hot embarrassment washing through her at having been caught, followed instantly by irritation at having been embarrassed.

It was he who should be embarrassed, not her.

It was he who had insulted her that afternoon, it was he who had come to speak with her brother that evening and not asked to see or speak with her.

She could have taken ill. Did he not care for her well-being?

Apparently not.

She would not let him scare her away. It was her house, after all. She had every right to look out the window. It was looking in windows that was rude.

And, besides, she had a wager to win.

She took a deep breath and returned to her place.

He was still looking up at her.

When she met his warm, amber gaze, gleaming in the light of the house, he raised one imperious, golden brow, as if to claim victory in their silent battle.

Resistance flared, hot and powerful. She would not allow him to win.

She crossed her arms firmly over her chest in a manner utterly improper for a lady and raised a brow of her own, hoping to surprise him, prepared to stand there all night, until he backed down.

It was not surprise she found as she looked down at him, however. Something lightened in the firm, angled lines of his face as he watched her—something vaguely like humor—before he turned and, with perfect precision, lifted himself into his carriage.

She did not waver as the coachman closed the door, hiding the duke from her view. She secretly hoped that he was watching her from behind the darkened windows of the conveyance as she released a long peal of laughter.

Whether he had allowed it or not, she had won.

And it felt wonderful.

“Juliana? May I come in?”

Her laughter was cut short as her sister-in-law entered, her head peeking around the edge before the door opened wide. Juliana spun toward her visitor, dropping her arms and dropping quickly to sit on the wide bench beneath the window. “Of course. I was . . .” She waved one hand in the air. “It is not important. What is it?”

Callie approached, a half smile on her face, to join Juliana. “I came to confirm that you are feeling well, and it sounds as though you are quite recovered from your adventure. I am so very happy that you are safe,” she added, taking Juliana’s hand. “I never thought I would say it, but thank goodness for the Duke of Leighton.”

Juliana did not miss the dryness in her sister-in-law’s tone. “You do not like him.”

“The duke?” Callie sat next to Juliana, her eyes shuttering. “I do not know him. Not really.”

Juliana recognized the evasion. “But . . . ?”

Callie considered her words for a long moment before speaking. “I will say that he—and his mother, for that matter—has always seemed arrogant, imperious, and unmoving in a way that makes him appear uncaring. To my knowledge, he has an interest in only one thing—his reputation. I’ve never cared for people with such rigid opinions.” She paused, then confessed, “No. I did not like him, until today. Now that he has rescued you, I think I shall have to reevaluate my opinion of the duke.”

Juliana’s heart pounded as she considered her sister-in-law’s words.

He has an interest in only one thing—his reputation.

“I think I shall host a dinner party,” Silence met the pronouncement, until Callie prodded, “Would you like to know why I am hosting a dinner party?”