The Heart of a Scoundrel

by Christi Caldwell

  “Edmund,” he automatically corrected. The lady was wrong in that regard as well—everyone knew the devil didn’t have a soul.

  “Edmund,” she whispered. Phoebe stole a glance about. Ah, so she had at least some sense to know they shouldn’t be viewed conversing, unchaperoned, in this public manner. She slipped by him and walked the length of the giant elephant, running her gloved fingertips over the ropes about the massive creature.

  He trailed after her, allowing her the freedom of the slight distance, and the sense of control she strove for—strove and failed.

  When she reached the back middle portion of the gray beast, she froze beside a tall column.

  Edmund stopped and stared at her expectantly.

  “Would you find me silly if I say I detest London?”

  He frowned as she confirmed his earlier suppositions. “I would say you are truthful and wise,” he said, giving her the first truthful words he’d spoken in either of their exchanges up to this point. He closed the remaining distance between them and then stopped when but the span of a hand separated them. “I also detest London.” And that was the second truthful piece he’d imparted. A sudden unease filtered through him at this sense of being exposed before her—when he never laid any part of himself bare before anyone.

  She clung to his words. “The insincerity, the glittering opulence, the cruel gossips, and unkind words and whispers. What person would prefer such a place?”

  In short, she spoke of a world Edmund had always been suited for. An increasingly familiar disquiet continued to roll through him; powerful and volatile and all the more terrifying for it. “If you could go anywhere, Phoebe,” he said, shifting the conversation to this woman who represented a means to an end of the one chapter in his life that had seen him defeated.

  A wistful smile played upon her lips and he stilled at the sincerity of that unabashed expression. Had he ever been so unrestrained? One time, yes. Before he’d confronted the vile depravity of his own parents, and then everyone else around him.

  “Wales.”

  Wales. When presented the possibility, even imagined, to go anywhere—the decadent halls of Paris, the crystalline waters of the Caribbean, the wonders of the Orient—she would choose Wales. It spoke to the lady’s imagination…or rather lack, thereof.

  Merriment danced in her eyes. “By your expression you find exception with my choice.” Hers was a statement.

  Edmund leaned against the pillar. “I gather there is nothing you do without purpose, and certainly a woman of reason…has her…reasons.”

  She dropped her voice to a soft, husky whisper. “Anglesey.” That whisper washed over him, drowned out her word, his question, their discourse. All he heard, felt, or saw was her and the eager gleam in her eyes. Some unidentifiable force of emotion slammed into him, something more potent than lust for the unfamiliarity of it—a desire to crave something with such ferocity for nothing more than the mere unjaded want of it; sentiments not driven by revenge or power.

  Desperate to fill the void left by her whispery soft utterance, he repeated, “Anglesey.”

  With a widening smile on her lips, she nodded once. “The great Vikings and their raid upon Anglesey, and Rhodri Mawr’s ultimate defeat of the leader Gorm.”

  He flicked a gaze over her, discovering the new, next, unexpected bit about Phoebe Barrett. She was a bloodthirsty thing. “And you are intrigued by the ruthlessness of the Vikings?”

  “Not their ruthlessness.” She gesticulated wildly with her hands until he had to look away or become dizzy from her frantic movements. “They were seafarers.”

  “They were raiders,” he said bluntly.

  “And traders,” she continued as though he’d not spoken.

  Ah, it made sense. The lady would make something romantic of a bloodthirsty, savage lot bent upon conquering and destruction. A thrill of inevitable victory coursed through him. Where Miss Honoria Fairfax would wisely and safely keep him at arm’s length, Phoebe, in her unjaded innocence and naiveté would wander into the darkened corners of the Egyptian Hall and weave romantic tales of savages who’d slaughter, rape and pillage.

  By the slight downturn of her lips at the corner, she’d followed the direction of his thoughts on her Viking raiders. “They traveled the Mediterranean and North Africa, the Middle East and Central Asia.”

  She spoke with the same excitement and enthusiasm as a tutor imparting a favorite lesson to his charges. The muscles of his lips tugged and pulled and then, for the first time in more years than he remembered, an honest smile formed, tight and stiff from the lack of use.

  “What is it?” she blurted.

  Edmund schooled his features. He ran the pad of his thumb over her plump, lower lip. “Oh, Phoebe, you’d go to Wales to be closer to your Vikings, instead of spreading your wings and daring to dream of those sapphire waters of the Mediterranean or the opulent beauty of the Far East.” He relished the rapid rise and fall of her chest that hinted at her body’s awareness of him. “You deserve more in your dreams and for them,” he said quietly and claimed her lips in a faint kiss.

  This meeting of mouths was only part of his ultimate plan to ensnare her in his trap. Yet, if that were so, then why did desire course through him, filling him with this pained hunger to make her his, to mark her when he’d learned to never want anything of a woman beyond the immediacy of his and his lover’s immediate desires? Phoebe leaned into him, reaching up on tiptoe and returning his kiss with boldness no innocent had a right to. He wrapped his hand about her and dragged her closer to his chest, so that the generous mounds of her breasts crushed against him. A desperate little moan escaped her and Edmund angled his head, deepening the kiss and swallowing that breathy sound of her desire. He wanted her. Now. He wanted to layer her to the pillar that served as her only protection from ruin and take her here, hard and fast, so that her moans became screams as she found fulfillment.

  The tinkling giggles of ladies from somewhere within the museum penetrated the momentary spell Phoebe had cast upon him. Reality reared its unpleasant head. He set her away with alacrity. Panic pounded in his chest as he, who prided himself on his mastery over self-control, had succumbed to his hungering for the breathless, wide-eyed innocent before him. “Go,” he commanded gruffly.

  “I—”

  “Go,” he ordered again, his tone harsher than he intended.

  She squared her jaw and, for a moment, it appeared as though she intended to defy his orders. And for an even briefer moment, he wanted her to do exactly that. But then she spun on her heel and ran from him as though the devil trailed on her heels…and as Edmund stared after her, he supposed the devil, in fact, did.

  Chapter 6

  Phoebe strode quickly down the perimeter of Egyptian Hall, returning to Captain Cook’s map and the other handful of artifacts that no longer sung to her soul, called back this time by the words Edmund had revealed—words that had served as a window into his troubled soul—that had proven they were kindred spirits, of sorts. She paused beside a column, borrowing strength from the massive, white pillar, all the while praying her friends were so engrossed in their own explorations they’d not noted her disappearance. Her skin pricked with awareness and she brought her shoulders back—he studied her. He’d commanded her to leave, but he hovered in the shadows, his gaze burning a mark onto her skin. She closed her eyes a moment. Her friends were correct. This senseless attraction to Edmund was imprudent and dangerous and all things rash. Yet, when he spoke to her, his own thoughts echoing her heart’s wishes and sentiments, she forgot the need to use caution where the famed rogue was concerned.

  Her friends stepped into her path.

  “Where were you?” Honoria snapped.

  Phoebe pressed a hand to her racing heart. “You frightened me,” she said, praying her world-wary friend did not take in the color on her cheeks and piece together some man, nay, a specific man she’d expressly warned her against, had set her pulse to racing once again.

  Honor
ia planted her arms akimbo and took another step closer. “Why are you blushing?” Of course, ever the guarded one of their trio, she missed few details.

  Their friend, Gillian, ever the maker of peace within their group, shifted nervously back and forth upon her feet, glancing at the ceiling, the column behind Phoebe, Captain Cook’s map—anywhere but at her friends who never quarreled—until now. Now it seemed they did it with a staggering frequency.

  Honoria clearly tired of Phoebe’s silence. “I saw him,” she hissed. “I saw him in the museum moments ago.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she returned, as with that one lie, Phoebe descended into some dark, unfamiliar plane of her and Honoria’s friendship. Her friend narrowed her eyes.

  “You would lie to me?” Shock, hurt, and pain all underscored that question.

  Even Gillian, who strove to avoid any and all conflicts, pursed her lips. “Not well-done of you, Phoebe.” She shook her head. “Not well-done of you at all.”

  Guilt rolled through her. “What would you have me say?” She held her palms up. “You’ve already judged him just as the rest of Society has and found him lacking.”

  “Not lacking.” Honoria held a finger up. “Evil. Vile. Reprehensible—”

  “Stop,” Phoebe cut in, her tone sharper than she intended. As the victim of Society’s cruel gossip through the years, she’d long ago vowed not to listen to the gossips’ opinion on another person’s worthiness or, in this case, unworthiness. “Who are we to pass judgment?” She stole a glance about to be sure there were no interlopers in this charged exchange. “My father is one of the most reprehensible letches in London. He is a faithless coward, a profligate gambler, and by Society’s accounts, I am no better than he because of my connection to him.” She paused, as the familiar hurt of living in the whispers of her father’s scandals struck at her with a pain she suspected would always be there. “We’ve all been judged,” she said softly to her friends. Not once had anyone looked at her, truly looked at her, as anything more than an extension of the dishonorable man who’d sired her. Phoebe folded her arms and hugged herself. There had been nothing in Edmund’s eyes or his kiss, which had given any hint that he’d judged her worthiness by her father’s shameful ways. “He is no different than any of us,” she said, looking between her friends. By the tightness of their lips and the concern in their eyes, they appeared unfazed by her passionate defense of the gentleman.

  “He is nothing like us,” Honoria spat. “It is not his family members’ worthiness that is called into question, but the gentleman himself. The papers purport he’s done scandalous things with scandalous women and—” She drew in a slow, steadying breath and stole a glance about at their very public surroundings. Young ladies did not speak of scandalous things and scandalous women as Honoria now did. “Stay away from him, Phoebe. No good can ever come to be with a dark devil such as Rutland.”

  Phoebe set her jaw at a mutinous angle. Gillian placed a staying hand upon her, stopping the rebuttal on her lips. “We do not want to see you hurt.”

  Oh, dear. She was being schooled on matters of practicality by Gillian. “I’ll not be unwise,” she reassured them.

  “You already have been. Twice,” Honoria stated her words as matter-of-fact with no real malice. “For the Marquess of Rutland.”

  Gillian gently squeezed her hand, calling Phoebe’s attention away from the disgust in Honoria’s eyes. “He is not rumored to be a nice gentleman, Phoebe.”

  She pulled her hand back and Gillian flinched as though she’d been struck physically. “Rumors,” Phoebe said again, annoyed with her friends’ inability to see that in their unfavorable opinion of the marquess, they were no different than every other arbiter who’d come before them, holding others in judgment, and ultimately finding them wanting for crimes not truly known—crimes that might not truly be crimes, but manipulated truths. “I do not doubt there are dark pieces to the marquess,” she conceded. The hard glint in those brown eyes, the gold flecks hinted at something desolate, and even as that raised the guards she’d built about her these years to protect herself, the walls were flimsy, because the gentle touch of his lips and his whispered words revealed more and, God help her, she wanted to know all.

  “And?” Honoria prodded.

  Phoebe gave her head a clearing shake. “And I will be cautious.” She glanced over Gillian’s shoulder at the Captain Cook exhibit. “Nor has the marquess expressed any interest in me.” Though, that wasn’t altogether true. There had been his kiss. Nay, his two kisses.

  “Good,” Gillian said.

  “Not good,” Honoria corrected, frowning at Gillian. “Don’t you see, Phoebe, if he was an honorable gentleman, if he was good and trustworthy and desiring something meaningful with you, he’d not meet you in these clandestine spots and steal away with you. He’d court you openly, publicly. He’d pay you visits and bring you flowers and make those honorable intentions clear.”

  Phoebe troubled the flesh of her lower lip. There was truth to her friend’s words and yet, “Our meetings have been mere chance. He does not steal away with me.” A dangerous excitement swirled inside.

  Honoria took a step closer. “Nothing he does is by chance and without purpose.” The unease roused by her friend’s pronouncement stirred to life Phoebe’s misgivings once more.

  “What purpose could he have of me or with me?” She knew him not at all. Until their meeting in Lady Delenworth’s gardens, she’d never paid attention to the man whispered about. She didn’t have time for whispers.

  Honoria lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “One can never be certain where the marquess is concerned.” She leaned close, lowering her voice. “But he toys with people’s lives as though they are pawns upon a chessboard.”

  Phoebe resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her friend’s over-dramatic statements on the powerful Marquess of Rutland. “I will be careful,” she promised, desperate to put to rest the matter of Edmund’s suitability or integrity. “I will not be hurt.” Nor was it likely their paths would cross again.

  “Come along,” Gillian murmured, ending any further discourse. “There is still much to see.”

  Phoebe trailed along at a slower, contemplative pace behind her friends. It was unlikely she and the marquess would again meet. For a rogue did not have any use or need of an innocent young lady in the market for a husband. And she’d wager her very own happiness that he had little interest in marriage. She stole a last glance back at that enormous pillar they’d hidden behind a short while ago. They might have shared interests and passions, but it was as Honoria said, a confirmed bachelor who studiously avoided ton events had little use for one such as Phoebe.

  *

  Even with Phoebe and her friends’ furtive whispers, from his place in the shadows of the museum, Edmund was aware of every word exchanged.

  Her erroneous defense of him and his intentions, and her friend, the woman he’d ultimately trap—the cynical, mistrustful Miss Honoria Fairfax. With the exception of their dark coloring, the ladies were foils in every way. Margaret’s niece with her cynicism was a vastly better match for a monster who’d ruin anyone and everyone on his quest for revenge.

  He used the ladies’ distraction to take in Phoebe. She folded her arms close to her person, as though shielding herself from her friend’s disapproving words. Any other moment before this one, with any other woman, his gaze would be drawn to the generous expanse of her breasts, mentally stripping her of those modest white skirts. Instead, he fixed on that protective way in which she held herself. Mayhap she sought to shield herself from the truth she knew…a trusting hope in him, that he had no right to, while ultimately knowing as someone inherently good that there was no good in his soul, even as she willed there to be more of him.

  Phoebe moved her gaze about the museum, searching, lingering on the place they’d stolen to a short while ago. She thought of him. Unwisely, he thrilled at her preoccupation with him, and for reasons that somehow moved deeper
, beyond the revenge he’d exact upon Margaret and the niece she so loved—the woman who, when this plan was complete, would find herself his wife.

  He eyed Honoria with an objective eye. Brown hair, lean frame, yet a large bosom, nondescript features. His gaze wandered back to Phoebe, whose luxuriant, silken tresses put to mind images of those chocolate waves cascading over his sheets, wrapped about them in a silken curtain. He wanted her and, by the flare of desire in her eyes and the bold way in which she’d returned his kiss, the lady wanted him as well. Suddenly, the annoyance she’d represented, the necessary pawn upon his chessboard, as Honoria had accurately stated mere moments ago, proved a welcome diversion.

  Edmund stayed along the perimeter of Egyptian Hall as he made his way out of the museum. When he stepped outside the building, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness of the afternoon sun. He scanned the clogged roadways in search of his carriage and then bounded down the steps toward the waiting conveyance. His driver pulled the door open.

  “My clubs,” Edmund said in clipped tones as he climbed inside the carriage.

  The old servant nodded once and then closed the door with a quiet click. A moment later, the black lacquer carriage lurched forward, moving slowly through the busy London streets. Edmund yanked open the curtain and eyed the passing roads until the fashionable streets gave way to the vicious, seamy side of the city. Some of the tension pressing on his chest since he’d momentarily envisioned more with Miss Phoebe Barrett eased with the familiarity of the dark underbelly of the world where no sensible person dared venture. Pickpockets lurked in the streets. Whores lingered on the corners, lifting their tattered skirts to those who’d risk their life and foolishly stroll these streets unarmed. This was his world. This was the world he’d truly been born to and comfortably belonged.

  Because…lords, ladies, or common thieves and whores in the den of sin—ultimately they were all the same. All that mattered was survival—social survival, one’s actual physical survival, and in some cases, emotional survival.