"You will wish for some refreshment," he said pleasantly.
Juliana remained where she was. "What is this place?"
"My house. Be pleased to alight." The touch of flint she'd heard before laced the pleasant tones. Juliana glanced up the street, then down at the groom, who was staring impassively ahead. What choice did she have?
She gave the duke her hand and stepped out of the carriage. "Good girl," he said with an approving smile, and she wanted to kick him. Instead she twitched her hand out of his and marched up the steps to the open front door, leaving him to follow.
A footman bowed as she swept past him into a marbletiled hall. Juliana forgot her anger and apprehension for a moment as she gazed around, taking in the delicate plaster molding on the high ceiling, the massive chandeliers, the dainty gilt furniture, the graceful sweep of the horseshoe staircase. Forsett Towers, where she'd grown up, was a substantial gentleman's residence, but this house was in a different class altogether.
"Bring refreshment to the morning room," the duke instructed over his shoulder, slipping an arm around Juliana's waist and sweeping her ahead of him toward the stairs. "Tea, lemonade, cakes for the lady. Sherry for myself."
"I imagine your servants are accustomed to your entertaining unchaperoned ladies," Juliana stated frigidly as she was borne up the stairs with such dexterity that her feet merely skimmed the ground.
"I have no idea whether they are or not," the duke responded. "They're paid to do my bidding, that's all that concerns me." He opened a door onto a small parlor, sunny and cheerful with yellow silk wallpaper and an Aubusson carpet. "I have it in mind that this should be your own private parlor. Do you think you would care for it?" A hand in the small of her back propelled her forward even as she wondered if she'd heard him aright
"It's pleasant and quiet, overlooking the garden at the back," he continued, gesturing to the window. "If you wished to change the decor, then, of course, you must do whatever pleases you."
Juliana told herself that this was some dream… some ghastly, twisted nightmare that would all fall apart in a moment like a broken jigsaw puzzle. But he'd turned back to her and was smiling as he took her hands and drew her toward him. Her eyes fixed on his mouth, thin but so beautifully sculpted. There was amusement and understanding in the deep-set gray eyes, and something else-a flicker of desire that set her blood frothing again. And then she was lost in the warmth and scent of his skin as his mouth took hers, without hesitation, with assertion. And she was responding in the same way, without will or thought. His mouth still on hers, he ran a fingertip over the rich swell of her breasts above her decolletage. She moaned against his lips, and when his finger slid into the deep valley between her breasts, her stomach contracted violently with a wild hunger that she couldn't put words to. Instead she pressed herself against him, a deep, primitive triumph flowing through her as she felt his hardness rising against her belly.
A tap at the door broke the charmed circle, and Juliana jumped back with a little cry of alarm. She turned away, blushing, her hand covering her tingling lips, as the footman placed a tray on the sideboard and asked the duke if there was anything else he needed. Tarquin responded as coolly as if nothing untoward had happened in the last minutes. Juliana, vividly remembering the feel of his erection pushing so urgently against her couldn't believe he could sound so matter-of-fact. She was relatively hazy about male anatomy, but surely such a manifestation couldn't be comfortably ignored.
She jumped when his hand touched her shoulder. Spinning round, she saw that the room was now empty. Tarquin laughed at her startled expression. "Mignonne, you are delightful." He caressed her mouth with his forefinger. "I do believe we are going to enjoy ourselves."
"No!" she cried, finding her voice at last. "No. I won't let you do this to me." She flung herself away from him just as the door opened without ceremony.
"The footman said you were in here, Tarquin, I wanted… Oh, I do beg your pardon." Quentin's eyes ran over Juliana in one quick, all-encompassing assessment. "I didn't realize you had company," he said steadily. "Catlett should have told me."
"Allow me to present Miss Juliana Beresford, as she likes to be known." Tarquin took her hand, drawing her forward. "Juliana, this is my half brother, Lord Quentin Courtney. I'm sure you'll be getting to know him quite well."
Juliana was too flustered for a moment to do more than stare at the new arrival. Then she realized that he was bowing to her, and hastily she curtsied. "I give you good day, my lord."
Quentin surveyed her gravely, and she felt her blush deepen. She wondered if her lips were marked by the duke's kiss, if this man could detect something on her, something that would give away the shameless arousal that still pulsed in her belly. Was there an aura? A scent, perhaps? Unable to bear his gaze any longer, she turned away.
"Is it fair to the poor child to bring her here unchaperoned, Tarquin?" Quentin's voice was harshly reproving. "If she was seen on the street, her reputation will be compromised."
A flicker of hope sprang into Juliana's disordered mind. Perhaps in this mad world she had found a champion. "My lord, His Grace does not believe I have a reputation that could be compromised," she said in a low, plaintive voice. Slowly she turned and raised her eyes to the somber-suited man, noting the strong physical Resemblance between the two men. "Are you perhaps a man of the cloth?" she asked, guessing from his dark, modestly cut coat and plain starched stock.
"I am, child." Quentin took a step toward her, but suddenly she flung herself to the floor at his feet, clasping his knees with a sob.
"Oh, sir, save me. Please, I beg you. don't let the duke have his wicked way with me." Ignoring the strange, strangled sound from the duke standing behind her, she burst into wrenching sobs.
"Oh, hush, child. Hush. Pray don't distress yourself so." Quentin bent to lift her to her feet. "Tarquin, this has got to stop! I won't permit this to go one step further." He stroked Juliana's bent head and handed her his handkerchief. "Dry your eyes, my dear. You have nothing to fear in this house."
Juliana took the handkerchief with a mumble and buried her face in the starched folds, every muscle strained to sense how the duke was reacting.
"Tarquin?" Quentin demanded. "You must let her go."
"Certainly."
Juliana's head shot up at this. She regretted it immediately when the duke caught her chin and turned her face toward him. "That was quite a performance, mignonne, I congratulate you. Real tears, too." He smudged the track of a tear on her cheek with his thumb. "Not many, but a respectable showing."
"Oh, you are loathsome!" she whispered, tugging her head free. "Let me go."
"But of course." He strode to the door and opened it. "You're free to go where you wish… except, of course, back to Russell Street. Mistress Dennison will have no incentive to continue to provide you with hospitality."
Juliana stared, uncomprehending. Was he really going to permit her to walk out of the house after everything that had been said?
"You may keep the clothes you have on your back, since the ones you arrived in appear to have been mislaid," he continued with an amiable smile that gave no hint of his inner uncertainty. Would she call his bluff? Or had he judged her correctly? Impulsive and yet far from irrational. Stubbornly defiant and yet clearheaded and intelligent.
Juliana looked down at her bronze silk gown, the fringe of the silk shawl. Where could she possibly go in such finery? She couldn't hire herself out as a servant dressed like this.