Hated that she had put it in his head.

She sat up on his lap, desperate to make sure that he did not think ill of her. “Simon . . . you know that I did not . . . this was not . . . I would never tell anyone that this . . . that tonight happened.” She winced at the words, utterly inarticulate. “You shan’t have to worry about another . . .”

He watched her, his amber eyes serious, and she wished she could take it all back—the words, the actions, the night. His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her hand once more. “No more talk of it.”

She hated that she had just become another thing for him to worry about. “I just . . . What I am attempting to say is that no one will ever know.”

He reached out and brushed a lock of her hair back from her cheek. “Juliana, I will know.”

Frustration flared. “Well, yes. Of course we will know. But I want you to also know that I will never ask anything of you. That I meant it when I proposed one night. One night only.”

Something flashed in his honeyed gaze, something that she could not identify. “We both should have known that one night would not be nearly enough.”

She stilled, the words coursing through her. He wanted more.

So did she.

But he was to be married.

Was he offering what she thought he was offering?

Could she take it?

If it was the only way she could have him . . . would it be enough?

It had to be.

She took a deep breath. “I could be your paramour.”

He went utterly still beneath her. “What did you say?”

“Your mistress.”

His hand clamped onto her thigh with immeasurable force. “Don’t say another word.”

She set her hands to his shoulders, leveraging herself up to face him. “Why? You once suggested I would make a fine mistress.”

He closed his eyes. “Juliana. Stop.”

She ignored him. “Would I not still make a worthy companion?”

“No.”

Pain flared. She was too much of a scandal even to rate as his mistress? “Why not?” She heard the begging in her tone. Hated herself for it.

“Because you deserve better!” he exploded, coming to his feet in a rush and sending her toppling from his lap. He grabbed her to him before she could fall to the floor, lifting her to face him. His hands were on her arms, as though he could shake her into understanding. “I won’t have you as my mistress. I wish I could go back and scrub you clean of the words. I wish I could go back and take a fist to myself for ever even suggesting it.”

The words coursed through her, and she ached for the promise that should come next. Love. Marriage. Family.

The things he had promised to another.

Things he had promised to another because he could not see a future with her.

And suddenly the words were not enough.

“Come to bed with me,” he whispered. “Let me sleep with you in my arms. We shall return you to your own chamber before the house awakes.”

The temptation was nearly undeniable. There was nothing in the world she wanted more than to sleep with him, the sound of his heart beneath her ear.

“I must leave, Simon.”

He reached for her, a smile playing across his lips. “Not yet. Stay a little while longer.”

She shook her head, taking a step back. “I cannot risk—”

I cannot risk any more of my heart.

She took a breath. Tried again. “I cannot risk being caught.”

He watched her carefully, his gaze boring into hers, and she willed him not to see the truth—that she was leaving him. For good, as the English liked to say.

But it did not feel good. It felt like torture.

He was still for a long time, as though considering his options, then he nodded once, firmly. “You are right. Tomorrow, I shall speak to Nick.”

“About what?”

“About our marriage.”

Her heart leapt into her throat. “Our marriage?”

He could not marry her. There was a litany of reasons why.

She was an Italian. A Catholic. Her parentage was questionable at best. Her mother was a disaster. Her father had been a simple merchant. The ton barely tolerated her.

He was already engaged to a darling of the Beau Monde.

But even as she thought the words, a thread of hope coiled within, unbidden. Was it possible? Could he choose her, after all? Could they marry? Could she have him, this man she loved until she ached? Could she have what she had come to envy in the couples around her, paired off like doves?

“Don’t look so sad,” he teased. “You’re finally getting your scandal.”

She froze, stepping back from his embrace.

Scandal.

That was what she was to him—the common, scandalous Italian who he married after one night in the country. And someday, when the news about Georgiana was out and he did not have a wife with a pristine reputation by his side, when his children were mocked for having a common mother, when he saw Lady Penelope dancing across some ballroom with a perfect husband, the belle of the ball, he would regret it.

She’d never been more. Never worthy of his companionship. Never a possibility for his wife. She’d never once been anything other than a scandalous distraction from his duty and responsibility. He was a duke, and she was a scandal.

Never his equal.

Never good enough.

And she’d believed it, too. How many times had she compared herself to her mother? How many times had she played into their expectations? Lived up to them? How often had she vied for his irritation and his passion instead of his admiration and respect because she had not believed the latter to be within her reach?