He lifted his head at the sound, his shadowed eyes searching hers. “Is this . . .”

Her fingers stretched into his soft golden curls, pulling him back to her. “It is perfect.”

He growled his satisfaction at her answer, moving his hands to cup her face in his palms, tilting her head to the perfect angle, and taking her mouth in a single stark claiming that stole her breath. As he tormented her with deep, luxurious kisses that made it impossible to think or speak or do anything but feel.

Her legs turned to water, and he caught her, lifting her off her feet as though she weighed nothing at all. She met his force with her own, desperate to wrap around him even as her legs became tangled in silk and cotton. She kicked out, nearly hitting him in the shin, and he lifted his mouth from hers, curious.

“There is too much fabric in these damned gowns,” she said, frustrated.

He set her down and one strong, warm hand stroked down her neck to the wide bare expanse of skin there. “I find there is the right amount in certain places.” He ran one finger along the edge of her dress, setting her skin on fire. “This gown is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

She pressed toward him, unable to stop herself. Knowing that it was utterly wanton behavior. “I had it made for you.” She kissed him again, nipping his bottom lip before she added, “I thought you would like it. I thought you would not be able to resist it.”

“You thought right. But, I am coming to see your point. Entirely too much fabric.” And then he pulled the edge of the gown down, revealing the pebbled, aching tip of one breast. “So beautiful.” The whisper was dark and velvet, and she watched as he traced a single finger in a circle there once, twice. Then the finger moved, tilting her chin up to meet his dark gaze. “Yes or no?”

It was an imperious question, spoken as though he was gifting her with one fleeting moment to decide what she wanted before he took the lead once more and she tumbled, headfirst, into the world of which he was master.

“Yes,” she whispered, her fingers threading into his hair and pulling him to her. “Yes, Simon.”

Something flashed, dark and unhinged in his eyes, and he lowered his head, taking her lips in a searing kiss before he tracked his lips down her throat and across the pale skin of her breast. Her fingers flexed in his curls.

Yes. Simon.

He was in control.

He was ruining her for all others.

And she did not care.

His tongue brushed against the devastatingly sensitive skin at the tip of her breast, and she bit her lip, arching. Acquiescing.

“Juliana?”

If the barn had gone up in flames, she could not have been more shocked than she was by the sound of her brother calling her name.

Simon went instantly rigid, straightening and immediately restoring the edge of her dress to its proper place as he did so, and she scrambled to push past him, fumbling with her skirts, spinning in a circle to get her bearings as she said, “In—in here, Gabriel.” She finally picked up the hard-bristled brush again, and said, loudly, “And she particularly enjoys it when I brush her flanks firmly.”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you—what are you doing in the stables alone in the middle of the—” Ralston stepped into the stall and froze, taking in first Simon, then Juliana. It did not take him long to read the situation.

Correctly.

When he moved, he was like lightning.

Ignoring Juliana’s gasp, he stormed past her and grasped the lapels of Simon’s topcoat, pulling him away from the wall where he had leaned, attempting to appear casual. Ralston spun the duke around, throwing him out the stall door and into the wall opposite, sending the horses stabled along the corridor into a chorus of nervous whinnies.

“Gabriel!” she cried, following them into the hallway in time to see her brother grasp Simon’s cravat in one hand and deliver a powerful blow to the jaw with the other.

“I’ve wanted to do that for twenty years, you arrogant bastard,” Ralston growled.

Why wasn’t Simon fighting back?

“Gabriel, stop!”

Her brother didn’t listen. “On your feet.”

Simon stood, rubbing his fast-bruising jaw with one hand. “You received the first one for free, Ralston.”

Ralston’s shoulders were tensed, his fists raised and ready for battle. If he was feeling anything like Juliana had been feeling when she left the house, he would not stop until one or both of them were unconscious; considering Leighton’s flashing eyes and tensed muscles, Juliana imagined it would be both of them.

“I shall pay the fee for the rest with pleasure,” Ralston stormed at the duke again, getting in a quick jab before Leighton blocked the next blow and sent Ralston’s head snapping back with a wicked hook.

Juliana winced at the sound of flesh on flesh and, without thinking, intervened.

“No! No one is paying any fee! Not now, not ever!” Juliana pushed between them, both hands up—a referee in a perverse boxing match.

“Juliana, get out of the way.” Leighton’s words were soft and dark.

“Speak to her with such familiarity again, and I’ll see you at dawn,” Ralston said, furious. “In fact, give me one reason not to call you out right now.”

“Because we’ve had enough scandal for one evening, Gabriel,” Juliana answered. “Even I can see that.”

And like that, the fight went out of him.

She did not lower her hands until he lowered his. But when he did, she said, “Nothing happened.”

He gave a little humorless laugh, meeting Leighton’s gaze over her head. She saw the murderous glint in his eyes. “You forget I have not always been an old married man, sister. I know when nothing has happened. Ladies do not look like you do when nothing has happened. Men like Leighton do not happily take punches when nothing has happened.”