Surprisingly, it was Gillian who returned them to the matter of concern. “He wants to court you?”
“He does.” She reached for the small, leather volume and she flipped open the cover.
“Why?” Honoria asked and the rudeness of such a question brought Phoebe’s head up. “Not because you’re not lovely, because you are, and clever and kind, but Rutland does not have use for any of that.” She wrinkled her nose. “Well, but for the exception of the lovely part.”
Phoebe bristled. How dare Honoria presume to know anything about Edmund? “I’ve come to find that we have shared interests.” And as two people condemned by Society, shared experiences. “He enjoys more than the world sees.” Just as she, whom polite Society expected should have no interests beyond the fabric of her gown or the pursuits deemed ladylike that had never held any appeal for her. “And there is no harm in allowing him to court me and seeing if there could be more.” Phoebe dropped her gaze to the book and her heart started at the two words inked upon that ivory velum page.
Dream, Phoebe…
She snapped the book closed, lest her friends see this piece she’d not share. “I do not care to debate Ed—Lord Rutland’s merits with you.” Not anymore. “I appreciate your concerns and will be cautious with my heart, but neither will I judge a man on rumor alone.” Considering the matter settled, she sat back in her seat while her friends dutifully turned the conversation to matters that were not Edmund and, therefore, far safer.
*
The garish dandy in his silly satin breeches had his gaze fixed on Edmund. Seated as he was, as he always was, with his back pressed against the wall, allowing him a vantage of the entire scandalous hell, he narrowed his eyes on the young man who’d been staring for the better part of an hour. The lad blanched and yanked his gaze away.
Promptly dismissing the pup, Edmund took a swallow of his brandy and instead focused his attentions on the lean, lithe young lady with thick auburn tresses who’d occupied the better part of his thoughts since he’d taken his leave of her that morning—Phoebe.
He stared into the contents of his glass seeing her. The deep shade put him in mind of her silken curls, those curls he still longed to see fanned out upon his bed. With a silent curse at those fanciful musings, musings that he, the Marquess of Rutland, certainly did not have, Edmund took another drink. His lips pulled in an involuntary grimace that had nothing to do with the burn of liquor and everything to do with those damned romantic, nonsensical thoughts about a lady and her satiny soft skin and the glimmer in her clear blue eyes… He tossed back the remaining contents of his drink.
Edmund passed the empty glass back and forth between his hands, fixing on the lingering droplets that clung to the edge of his tumbler. In this moment he could not sort out who he hated more—himself or Phoebe—for slipping past his defenses and burrowing a place inside him that he’d not known existed; a place of hope, where revenge didn’t dwell.
You smile and then it is as though you remind yourself that you do not want to smile and this muscle twitches…
A chill ran through him at how eerily accurate those words had been and, more terrifying, for the truth of them. After having been forced to witness his mother tupping her husband’s brother, he’d seen the inherent ugliness in life. The lesson, however, had proven a useful one. If his parents, the people who’d given him life, were capable of such vile depravity then certainly such ugliness dwelled within him, too. Time had proven that as fact. Edmund swiped the bottle of brandy from the table and splashed several fingerfuls into the glass. He wanted to hate Phoebe. Nay, he didn’t want to feel anything where she was concerned. Revenge could not be fully exacted when a man felt any hint of emotion. But with four damned meetings, she’d become, God help him—a young woman. A young woman beyond her silly, white skirts and attendance at polite social functions. Now, she was a woman who dreamed of travel and her damned Vikings and the Captain Cooks of the world. What was more, when she looked at him, she didn’t see the monster Society took him for, the beast he truly was. He’d infiltrated her world, much the way her marauding Vikings had, and fed her words of falsities, all to exact revenge upon her friend. And through this pretend courtship and the orchestrated meetings, some great shift had occurred, and it threatened to plunge him into the precipice of madness.
For, God help him, that foolish, careless youth who’d opened his heart to a woman and had it flayed open for all to see, still lived. Despite Edmund’s confidence that he’d long ago buried the inherent weakness to feel…anything, Phoebe’s smile and boldness and talks of love and hope proved that he still felt. His mind skirted away from just precisely what he felt.
He swirled the contents of his glass. The irony was not lost on him. He, who used every man, woman, or servant who could advance his plans for wealth or retribution through the years, would not use Phoebe. In the end, she’d defeated him. How could he truly move forward with his plans for the prickly Miss Honoria Fairfax when another brown-haired, whimsical miss would forever occupy his thoughts? In marrying Margaret’s niece, nay, in trapping her, by nature of her relationship with Phoebe, he’d consign himself to a world where he would never be free of Miss Phoebe Barrett. Just like the scar he carried on his leg, she would remain a mark reminding him of his weakness.
Filled with a seething fury with himself, he picked his head up. His gaze collided with the blond dandy across the club. Even with the distance between them, he detected the up and down movement of the young man’s throat. He glared at the youth. However, instead of looking away as he’d done the better part of the afternoon, the lad angled his chin up and with a shocking boldness, held Edmund’s stare. Fear, trepidation, and determination warred within the young man’s eyes as he shoved himself up from his seat and made his way through Forbidden Pleasures.
Edmund narrowed his gaze even further as it became apparent with the lad’s long-legged gait that he sought him out. The young man stopped before his table. “H-hullo.”
In a sign of deliberate disrespect, Edmund reclined in his chair and remained seated.
“M-may I?”
“May you what?” he asked on a steely whisper. But for the ladies trapped in their empty, miserable marriages who desired the wickedness found in his arms, people did not seek him out—that was unless they required something of him.
“S-sit?”
Ah, yes. It began to make sense. The lad required a favor. Favors oft proved lucrative ventures that increased his coffers and power.
Then in another surprising move, without permission granted, the young man tugged out the seat and settled himself into the chair, effectively obstructing Edmund’s unrestricted view of the club.
He stared at the youth dispassionately.
“Y-you probably know who I am.”
Actually, he hadn’t a bloody inkling as to who this fragrance-doused dandy was. He remained silent, while the lad fidgeted back in forth, scrutinizing him through narrowed eyes. The bold yet fearful stranger couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen years of age. With thick wax coating his blond hair, he was not someone Edmund recognized, nor cared to know. And yet… He continued to study him. There was something vaguely familiar in those cautious, yet determined, blue eyes.
At the stretch of awkward silence, the dandy cleared his throat. “Er…I expect you should know me and if you don’t then it was time to introduce myself for proprietary’s sake.”
Proprietary’s sake? Edmund gave even less of a jot about propriety as he did for the gossip hurled about him through Society’s parlors and receiving rooms.
“You don’t say much, do you?” he blurted. “Yet, the ladies do seem to favor you.” That piece was spoken more to himself, as though he puzzled through an incongruity of life.
Edmund’s lips tugged at the consternation in the boy’s tone. You smile, and then it is as though you remind yourself that you do not want to smile and this muscle twitches… He promptly pressed his lips into a hard, comfortable, and safe line.
His patience thoroughly exhausted, he snapped, “What do you want?”
The lad jumped. “M-my sister,” he squeaked, his voice cracking. A flush stained his cheeks and he glanced quickly about as though determining whether anyone had heard his outburst. Which was an impossibility. Men didn’t even keep tables near Edmund’s. They knew to cut even a wide berth in the hells he frequented. Then the boy squared his shoulders. “I am here to speak to you about my sister.”
“Your sister?” He rolled his shoulders. Ah, so he must have dallied with this protective younger brother’s sister at some point. Edmund picked up his brandy and took a sip.
The young man nodded, eying the bottle of brandy a moment, and then returning his attention to Edmund. “They say you don’t have honorable intentions toward ladies.”
“I don’t,” he said flatly, eliciting a frown from the young pup. Edmund made it a point to avoid those simpering, virginal debutantes.
He scratched his brow. “That is what they warned.” They? The gossips? The ton? Anyone and everyone? And more, did the blasted fop think Edmund gave a bloody damn about the unknown lady’s identity? “But my sister believes you’ve honorable intentions toward her despite it. She says—”
“I don’t,” he cut in. Silence met that emotionless pronouncement. He expected the young man to leave, but he remained, frowning, drumming his fingertips on the tabletop. Edmund took another sip.
“Phoebe is usually more sensible than this.”
He choked on his swallow as the boy’s words registered.
“Are you all right?” Concern lined the young man’s face.
He ignored the question. By God, this bold, protective lad was, in fact, Phoebe’s brother. “You’re Miss Barrett’s brother?” Lord Waters’ son?
A smile lit the other man’s face—carefree and innocent. Edmund hadn’t worn that expression himself in more than twenty-five years. Yet, the offspring of that reprobate Waters should. Interesting. “So, you do know her.”
“I know her,” he said, his tone gruff. And he wanted to know a whole lot more of her in a way that would have no brother smiling.
Then the lad’s grin dipped, replaced with a perplexity. “But you’re not courting her?” He scratched his brow. “Because she said…” His words trailed off and Edmund took another long sip to keep from asking what the hell Phoebe had said. The young man made to rise. “Well, if you’ll excuse me. It wasn’t my intention to—”
“Sit,” he bit out as he, who’d been previously annoyed by the pup’s presence, now gritted his teeth to keep from asking questions about Phoebe.
The young man promptly reclaimed his seat.
“I am…” he forced the remainder of that lie out through tight lips, “courting your sister.” Though that false courtship was only launched to slip past her defenses and, thus, her friend’s, and then orchestrate a meeting with the young woman he’d sought to trap.
“Oh.” Then Phoebe’s brother smiled again. “Brilliant.”
Did he truly believe a man of Edmund’s reputation courting his innocent, trusting and hopeful sister was brilliant? It spoke ill of the man’s intelligence.
“I suppose you should call me Barrett, because of our connection and all.” Their connection? The young man looked at him expectantly.
“Rutland,” he said grudgingly.
Barrett beamed. “I suppose you’re wishing to know more about my sister, if you’re to properly court her and all, that is.”
Young Barrett supposed a lot. And yet, what was this insatiable need to know every last detail about the innocent miss?
Without awaiting a confirmation, Phoebe’s brother launched into a list about the lady’s interest. “She enjoys Captain Cook,” he supplied unhelpfully. Edmund had already gleaned the lady’s love of travel and those great explorers. “She wishes to travel.” Yes, she’d said as much. “Her favorite color is blue.” A useless detail and yet…somehow oddly intriguing. It raised more questions than it answered. What did the lady like about the color? Did it put her in mind of the summer sky or the seas she only dreamed of traveling in her mind? Barret drummed his glove-encased fingertips upon the table. “What else? She detests needlepoint and is dreadful upon the pianoforte but quite appreciates taking in a performance.”
As the youth prattled on and on, a slow-burning fury built steadily in Edmund’s chest. Phoebe’s brother would be so forthcoming with details about the lady? Would he do the same for any gentleman who came after Edmund? Perhaps the next man would be the one who lay between her legs and knew the satiny softness of her skin… A growl climbed up his throat until he wanted to choke the life out of that nameless man, as well as Barrett, for ushering in the thought of Phoebe with another. “Enough,” he snapped.
Barrett went silent, his eyes unblinking in his face.
Edmund finished his brandy. The sight of Phoebe’s brother and the manner in which he’d embroiled himself with this family was too much…when nothing was, or ever had been, too much. “I’ve business to see to.” He stood, gritting his teeth at the knotted tension of the broken muscles in his leg. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course, of course.”
Mindful of the fearful stares turned on him, Edmund took his leave of Forbidden Pleasures.
Phoebe detested needlepoint, loved music, loathed playing, and she liked the color blue. And why did he hate that he would never know more of the lady than that?
Chapter 10
From her position in the back corner of Lord and Lady Essex’s ballroom, Phoebe surveyed the crowd.
“I detest these events.”
For a moment, seated between Gillian and Honoria, Phoebe believed she’d inadvertently spoken aloud.
“Oh, do hush Honoria. They are sometimes enjoyable,” Gillian said with her ever cheerful optimism. Then, that like opinion on mindless events was one of the reasons she and Honoria had become fast friends early on. They both detested the inanity of being on display. Only Phoebe was openly vocal in her belief and desire for more. As her friends’ squabbling filled her ears, Phoebe skimmed her gaze over to where her mother stood speaking to their hostess.
With her mother’s auburn tresses and blue eyes, the viscountess and her patent smile may as well have been a reflection of an older Phoebe twenty years from this moment. A chill stole through her as she confronted the tedium of her safe, predictable existence. A passionless world known by her mother. How many balls and soirees had she attended before this very one, where she’d stared off distracted thinking of her books and far-off places she’d never herself been?
You deserve more in your dreams and for them, Phoebe…
He was her dream. That truth momentarily stunned Phoebe. Edmund, Lord Rutland, in his kisses and discourse had come to matter so very much. He’d shown her desires she carried in her own heart.
As Gillian and Honoria continued their debate on just how enjoyable these events were, Phoebe ignored them. Fiddling with the fabric of her dress, she searched the ballroom for the hint of his familiar frame. Her black panther. The frozen, forever snarling Marquess of Rutland. She smoothed her palm over her satin skirts. How was it that only she saw more of him and in him?
A man so feared and reviled by society, who did not judge her peculiar interests in Captain Cook and those oddities most lords would have scratched their heads at. Where her mother had evinced the proper, dutiful wife even as her husband scandalized the ton with his gaming and whoring, Phoebe wished for more than that cold, loveless match. She ached for a control of her world, when the woman who’d given her life had none of her own. And in their discourse, Edmund had demonstrated that he was, in fact, a man who would never discourage her free thoughts or bid for control of her fate. It was why she loved him. She stilled her distracted movements. Her heart thumped to a slow halt and then picked up a panicked rhythm. Phoebe closed her eyes a moment. Oh, God. I love him.
As though the fates were in approval, a loud buzz went up amidst the crowd.
“W
hat is he doing here?”
There was only one person who could elicit such contempt from Honoria. Phoebe followed her friend’s angry stare to the front of the room. A fluttering stirred in her belly.
Edmund. What was he doing here, this man who hid in shadows and sneered at lords and ladies? He is here for you. Phoebe clung to that hopeful whispering in her mind.
She stared at him with an unrepentant boldness. Attired in his familiar midnight black evening coat and breeches, he could rival the evening sky with his imposing strength. He strode down the marble stairs and did not bother with niceties for their host and hostess.
Gillian nudged Phoebe in the side. “You are staring,” she whispered.
Everyone was staring. He was that sleek, black panther but very much alive and very much dangerous for the hold he possessed upon her senses and heart.
“At the very least close your mouth,” Honoria said with a frown in her voice.
Phoebe immediately pressed her lips together, but it was impossible not to stare. With his towering height and broad, powerful frame, he cut an impressive figure amidst lesser lords; mere mortals in his presence. Lords and ladies stepped out of his way as he cut a purposeful swath through the crowd. All the while he flicked a hard, furious stare about the ballroom. The apathy etched in the chiseled planes of his face indicated his displeasure at being at Lady Essex’s annual event. Yet, he came anyway. Why would he, if not for…?
Edmund’s gaze locked on hers.
For her…
He slowed his stride. The space between them could not diminish the passion that darkened his eyes. The desire in their dark brown, nearly black, depths evoked the remembrance of the physical feeling of being in his arms while hunger had fueled their kisses and touch at the curiosity shop. She swallowed hard.
The Heart of a Scoundrel Page 12
