It would be paradise.

He’d wanted her from the first moment he’d seen her, young and fresh and so very different than the porcelain dolls who were paraded before him by mothers who reeked of desperation.

And for a fleeting moment, he’d thought he might be able to have her. He’d thought she was an exotic, foreign jewel, precisely the kind of wife that would so well match the Duke of Leighton.

Until he’d realized her true identity and the fact that she was entirely lacking in the pedigree required of his duchess.

Even then, he’d considered making her his. But he did not think that Ralston would take well to his sister’s becoming mistress to any duke, much less a duke he took particular pleasure in disliking.

The path of his thoughts was interrupted—blessedly—by the thunder of another set of hoofbeats. Leighton eased back in his saddle, slowing once more and looking across the meadow to see a horse and rider in full gallop, coming toward him at a reckless pace, even for a rider with such obvious skill. He paused, impressed by the synchronized movement of master and beast. His eyes tracked the long, graceful legs and pistoning muscles of the black, then turned to the form of the rider, at one with his horse, leaning low over the creature’s neck, whispering his encouragement.

Simon made to meet the rider’s gaze, to nod his appreciation, one master horseman to another. And froze.

The eyes he met were a brilliant blue, sparkling with a mix of defiance and satisfaction.

Surely he had conjured her up.

For there was absolutely no possible way that Juliana Fiori was here, in Hyde Park, at dawn, dressed in men’s clothing, riding a horse at breakneck speed, as though she were on the track at Ascot.

Without thinking, he brought his mount to a stop, unable to do anything but watch as she charged toward him, either unaware of or uninterested in the disbelief and fury surging within him, the emotions waging powerful, unsettling war for primary position in his mind.

She was upon him then, stopping so quickly that he knew immediately that this was not the first time she had ridden her mount so hard or so fast or so well. He watched, speechless, as she peeled off one black glove and stroked the long column of the horse’s neck, whispering words of encouragement in soft, breathless Italian to the massive animal as it leaned into her touch. She curved her long fingers into the beast’s pelt, rewarding it with a deep scratch.

Only then, once the horse had been properly praised, did she turn to him, as though this was a perfectly normal, entirely appropriate meeting. “Your Grace. Good morning.”

“Are you a madwoman?” The words were harsh and graveled, their sound foreign to his own ears.

“I’ve decided that if London . . . and you . . . are so convinced of my questionable character, there is no reason to worry so much about it, is there?” She waved a hand in the air as though she were discussing the possibility of being caught in the rain. “Lucrezia has not had such a run since we arrived. And she adored it . . . did you not, carina?” She leaned low again, murmuring to the horse, which preened at the loving words of her mistress and snorted her pleasure at being so well praised.

Not that he could blame the beast.

He shook off the thought. “What are you doing here? Do you have any idea what might happen if you were caught? What are you wearing? What would possess you to . . .”

“Which of those questions would you like me to answer first?”

“Do not test me.”

She was not intimidated. “I already told you. We are out for a ride. You know as well as I that there is little risk of our being seen at this hour. The sun is barely awake itself. And as for how I am dressed . . . don’t you think it better that I dress as a gentleman? That way, if someone were to see me, they would think nothing of it. Far less than they would if I were out in a riding habit. That, and it’s much less fun to ride sidesaddle, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

She slid the hand she had bared down the long length of her thigh, underscoring her attire, and he could not help but track the movement, taking in the shapely curve of her leg, tucked tightly against the flank of the horse. Tempting him.

“Can’t you, Your Grace?”

He snapped his gaze up to meet hers, recognizing the smug amusement there. He did not like it. “Can’t I what?”

“Can’t you imagine that it’s less fun to ride sidesaddle? So proper. So . . . traditional.”

Familiar irritation flared and with it, sanity. He took a long look around them, checking the wide-open expanse of meadow for other riders. It was empty. Thank God. “What would possess you to take such a risk?”

She smiled then, slowly, with the triumph of a cat whiskers-first in a bowl of cream. “Because it feels wonderful. Why else?”

The words were a blow to the head, soft and sensual and utterly confident.

And entirely unexpected.

“You should not say such things.”

Her brows knitted together. “Why not?”

“It is inappropriate.” He knew the words were asinine even as he spoke them.

She gave a long-suffering sigh. “We’re rather past that, are we not?” When he did not reply, she pressed on, “Come now, Your Grace, you are not here on your horse, the sky still streaked with night, because you find riding merely agreeable. You are here because you agree that it feels wonderful.” He pressed his lips together in a thin line, and she gave a knowing little laugh that sent a shiver of awareness through him. She pulled on her glove, and he watched the movement—transfixed by the precise way she fitted the leather to the delicate web of her fingers. “You may deny it, but I saw it.”