Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart by Sarah MacLean Page A

by a basic, primal urge to wrap himself around her and hold her until she was warm again.
    Which of course, he could not do.
    They had an audience—and the chatter would be loud enough without his adding fuel to its fire.
    He cursed softly, and the sound was lost on the wind as he moved toward her, unable to stop himself from closing the gap between them. He turned her to ensure that he caught the full force of the gale—protecting her from the cold gust.
    If only he could protect himself from her.
    When he spoke, he knew the words were too rough. Knew they would sting. “Why must you constantly test me?”
    “I do care, you know. I do care what you think.”
    “Then why?”
    “Because you expect me to fail. You expect me to do wrong. To be reckless. To ruin myself.”
    “Why not work to prove me wrong?”
    “But don’t you see? I am proving you wrong. If I choose recklessness, where is the failure? If I choose it for myself, you cannot force it upon me.”
    There was a long pause. “Perversely, that makes sense.”
    She smiled, small and sad. “If only I actually wanted it this way.”
    The words settled, and a hundred questions ran through his mind before she shivered in his arms. “You’re freezing.”
    She looked up at him, and he caught his breath at her brilliant blue eyes. “H-how are you n-not?”
    He was not even close to cold. He was on fire. Her clothes were soaking wet and ruined, her hair had come loose from its fastenings, and she should have looked like a bedraggled child. Instead, she looked stunning. The clothes molded to her shape, revealing her lush curves, the water only emphasizing her stunning features—high cheekbones, long, spiked lashes framing enormous blue eyes, porcelain skin. He tracked one drop of water down the curve of her neck to the hollow of her collarbone, and he had an intense desire to taste the droplet on his tongue.
    She was alive.
    And he wanted her.
    Thankfully, she shivered again before he could act on the unacceptable desire.
    He had to get her home before she caught pneumonia.
    Or before he went entirely mad.
    He turned to her maid. “Did you come by carriage?” he asked in quick Italian.
    “No, Your Grace.”
    “It will be faster if I take your mistress home in my curricle. Meet us at Ralston House.” He clasped Juliana’s elbow and began to steer her toward a nearby rise.
    “You j-just assume that she will follow your orders?” Juliana asked, her tone suggesting the very idea was ridiculous. He ignored her, instead meeting the maid’s gaze.
    “Yes, Your Grace.” She dropped into a quick curtsy and hurried away.
    He returned his attention to Juliana, who scowled.
    Her irritation returned some of his sense. And some of his anger. Last night and this morning, her impulsive behavior had risked her reputation. This afternoon, it had risked her life.
    And he would not have it.
    They walked several yards in silence before he spoke, “You could have died.”
    She gave the briefest of hesitations, and he thought perhaps she would apologize again. It would not be entirely unwarranted.
    He sensed the tensing of her shoulders, the straightening of her spine. “But I did not.” She tried for a smirk. Failed. “Twelve lives, remember?”
    The words were rife with defiance—of him, of nature, of fate itself. And if they had not made him so irate, he might have found room to admire her tenacity of spirit.
    Instead, he wanted to shake her.
    He resisted the impulse. Barely.
    They reached his curricle, and he lifted her, shivering, into the vehicle, then climbed in beside her.
    “I shall ruin your seat.”
    Her words, so ridiculous in light of everything that had happened in the past few minutes, set him off. He paused in the act of lifting the reins and turned an incredulous gaze toward her. “It is a wonder that you are able to find concern for my upholstery when you seem to care so little for things of much more import.”
    Her dark brows arched perfectly. “Such