She clutched them close to her chest instead, wary. “Why?”

“They’re bruised and bloody. They need cleaning.”

She did not want him touching her. Did not trust herself.

“They are fine.”

He gave a low, frustrated growl, the sound sending a shiver through her. “It is true what they say about Italians.”

She stiffened at the words, dry with the promise of an insult. “That we are superior in all ways?”

“That it is impossible for you to admit defeat.”

“A trait that served Caesar quite well.”

“And how is the Roman Empire faring these days?”

The casual, superior tone made her want to scream. Epithets. In her native tongue.

Impossible man.

They stared at each other for a long minute, neither willing to back down until he finally spoke. “Your brother will be here at any moment, Miss Fiori. And he is going to be livid enough as it is without seeing your bloody palms.”

She narrowed her gaze on his hand, wide and long and oozing strength. He was right, of course. She had no choice but to relinquish.

“This is going to hurt.” The words were her only warning before he ran his thumb over her palm softly, investigating the wounded skin there, now crusted in dried blood. She sucked in a breath at the touch.

He glanced up at the sound. “Apologies.”

She did not reply, instead making a show of investigating her other hand.

She would not let him see that it was not pain that had her gasping for breath.

She had expected it, of course, the undeniable, unwelcome reaction that threatened whenever she saw him. That surged whenever he neared.

It was loathing. She was sure of it.

She would not even countenance the alternate possibility.

Attempting a clinical assessment of the situation, Juliana looked down at their hands, nearly entwined. The room grew instantly warmer. His hands were enormous, and she was transfixed by his fingers, long and manicured, dusted with fine golden hairs.

He ran one finger gently across the wicked bruise that had appeared on her wrist, and she looked up to find him staring at the purpling skin. “You will tell me who did this to you.”

There was a cool certainty in the words, as though she would do his bidding, and he would, in turn, handle the situation. But Juliana knew better. This man was no knight. He was a dragon. The leader of them. “Tell me, Your Grace. What is it like to believe that your will exists only to be done?”

His gaze flew to hers, darkening with irritation. “You will tell me, Miss Fiori.”

“No, I will not.”

She returned her attention to their hands. It was not often that Juliana was made to feel dainty—she towered over nearly all of the women and many of the men in London—but this man made her feel small. Her thumb was barely larger than the smallest of his fingers, the one that bore the gold-and-onyx signet ring—proof of his title.

A reminder of his stature.

And of how far beneath him he believed her to be.

She lifted her chin at the thought, anger and pride and hurt flaring in a hot rush of feeling, and at that precise moment, he touched the raw skin of her palm with the wet linen cloth. She embraced the distraction of the stinging pain, hissing a wicked Italian curse.

He did not pause in his ministrations as he said, “I did not know that those two animals could do such a thing together.”

“It is rude of you to listen.”

One golden brow rose at the words. “It is rather difficult not to listen if you are mere inches from me, shouting your discomfort.”

“Ladies do not shout.”

“It appears that Italian ladies do. Particularly when they are undergoing medical treatment.”

She resisted the urge to smile.

He was not amusing.

He dipped his head and focused on his task, rinsing the linen cloth in the basin of clean water. She flinched as the cool fabric returned to her scoured hand, and he hesitated briefly before continuing.

The momentary pause intrigued her. The Duke of Leighton was not known for his compassion. He was known for his arrogant indifference, and she was surprised he would stoop so low as to perform such a menial task as cleaning the gravel from her hands.

“Why are you doing this?” she blurted at the next stinging brush of linen.

He did not stay his movements. “I told you. Your brother is going to be difficult enough to deal with without you bleeding all over yourself. And my furniture.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I mean why are you doing this? Don’t you have a battalion of servants just waiting to perform such an unpleasant task?”

“I do.”

“And so?”

“Servants talk, Miss Fiori. I would prefer that as few people as possible know that you are here, alone, at this hour.”

She was trouble for him. Nothing more.

After a long silence, he met her gaze. “You disagree?”

She recovered quickly. “Not at all. I am merely astounded that a man of your wealth and prominence would have servants who gossip. One would think you’d have divined a way to strip them of all desire to socialize.”

One side of his mouth tightened, and he shook his head. “Even as I am helping you, you are seeking out ways to wound me.”

When she replied, her tone was serious, her words true. “Forgive me if I am wary of your goodwill, Your Grace.”

His lips pressed into a thin, straight line, and he reached for her other hand, repeating his actions. They both watched as he cleaned the dried blood and gravel from the heel of her palm, revealing tender pink flesh that would take several days to heal.