by Amy Sandas
His charm had no effect on the girl as she pursed her lush lips in growing distress and shook her head. A few strands of strawberry-blonde hair slid from her chignon to caress her pale cheeks.
“No, not you,” she insisted with a note of distraction. She paused to draw a swift breath and her hands fluttered before she clasped them together and continued in a nervous rush of words. “I do not even know who you are. They are talking about me. About my future. Or rather, whether or not I am to have a chance at a future.”
The smooth feminine texture of her faint accent slid like soft silk over Leif’s senses. If it were possible to bathe in the warmth of the rolling and dipping sounds he would have stripped naked then and there.
“Of course,” she went on, her anxiety seeming to loosen her tongue, “I would not typically listen so rudely to a discussion clearly meant to be private. Such behavior is simply inexcusable. It is just that…the conversation currently taking place in that room is infinitely important. At least to me,” she added slowly as her elfish features folded into a fierce little frown and she tilted her head to eye him critically. “But you don’t really care about any of that, do you?”
Leif blinked, jolted by her sudden sharp perception. In truth, he had only been half-listening to her run off of words. Why did women always feel such a need to explain everything? The entire time she had been talking, his attention had been ensnared by the movement of her lips, the full bottom one in particular, the delightful nervousness in her fluttering hands and the way that in spite of her obvious innocence and utter lack of social polish, or perhaps because of them, she kept her pale-green eyes fastened to his face.
Forcing himself to recall what she had said, he saw no reason not to reply honestly.
“You are right. Your explanations are lost on me. I am in no position to judge another’s behavior. I have done far worse than eavesdropping in my lifetime.” He folded his arms across his chest in a casual posture. “Hell, I’ve done worse already this morning.”
“Afternoon,” the Irish lass corrected, obviously comfortable with having found her voice.
Leif grinned and shook his head. It was not the first time he’d been corrected in such a manner. “I have been out of my bed for barely an hour. It’s morning.”
Her expressive gaze flashed with surprise. “And you have already done worse?”
Leif laughed at the innocent curiosity in her question. He couldn’t help it. The girl was so refreshingly…fresh.
“Irish, you have no idea,” he murmured in a sensual drawl. “I’ve committed half a dozen sins in my mind during the last fifteen minutes alone.”
He kept his voice low in the way women appreciated on a visceral level. Years ago, a female of intimate acquaintance told him she could reach climax by the sound of his whispered words alone. Though he managed to prove her statement true, Leif certainly counted it an exception. Of course, that didn’t stop him from developing an arsenal of vocal variations for use toward other purposes. To relax and sooth, tease or cajole.
Her mouth dropped open at his bold insinuation, but she did not soften to his tone. Perhaps the trick was lost on innocent ears. Her stunningly clear gaze met his with more self-possession than he expected.
“You are a rogue,” she stated with solid conviction.
He smiled at the stony expression that hardened her sweet elfish features. The harshness only accentuated her obvious vulnerability.
“Among other things,” he replied with a careless shrug.
His expression was neutral and his movements relaxed as he lengthened his body and stood from where he had been leaning on the arm of the sofa. His approach was slow as he crossed the boundary of propriety, closing the distance between them that a man with even the slightest sense of social decorum would have maintained.
Her slim posture stiffened as he neared, and though it was subtle, Leif noticed that she pressed her back more securely against the door and the light in her eyes turned wary.
But she didn’t step away, didn’t retreat. He liked that.
Caution wasn’t her only reaction, he noted as he came to stand at her side and lean his shoulder against the solid wooden door. The black centers of her eyes had dilated until there was only a narrow ring of the soft crystalline green surrounding them. Her lips were parted and he could hear the whisper of her breath as it slid swiftly past her teeth.
He drew in the air that drifted in the space between them. Her personal scent soaked his brain and sparked a flash of dark yearning at the back of his skull. The sensation was pleasurable near to the point of discomfort. She smelled like a field of wildflowers after a summer rain. Sweetly delicate, fresh and crisp with a subtle note of tempting earthiness.
Leif’s lips curled into a bitter smirk at the flight of whimsy. Women did not smell of wildflowers. Expensive French perfume, even more expensive French wine, and almost always eventually sweat and sex.
But not rain-soaked wildflowers.
A shadow fell over the bright beauty of the young woman’s eyes. Her teeth closed over her full bottom lip as if she were holding something back, and when she spoke, her voice was cool and masked.
“Do you find this type of thing amusing?”
He cocked a brow at her question. “What type of thing?”
She lowered her fine brows over her expressive gaze and pursed her lips together in a way that should have given her a sour appearance. But Leif looked at the disapproving shape of her full mouth and felt only an intense desire to kiss her. He glanced up from her lips and was stopped by the flash of ire in her gaze.
She was irritated with him.
It took him by surprise—her annoyance and the realization that he had caused it. He did not irritate women. He charmed them. Usually quite effortlessly. He was handsome, roguishly wicked and exceptionally well-versed in all forms of seduction, from soft and sweet to dark and licentious. He knew what he was about. He had been playing this game for many years and with women far more experienced than this pure Irish lass.
Not that he had been trying to seduce her, but if he had been, it should have been easy. Her youth, lack of sophistication, obvious innocence and naiveté. She should have been receptive, warm and practically falling into his arms by now.
“This—” she indicated pertly with a sweeping gesture of her slim hand, “—being inappropriate, shoving me off balance to see how I react.”
The young woman was proving to be disturbingly perceptive. Considering the fact that he often used manipulation and distraction when dealing with members of the fair sex, a perceptive female was not something he relished.
“Is that what I was doing?”
She gave him a gentle little frown that showed more than words could what she thought of his prevarication. “You must think me a foolish woman if you believe I would not notice the glint of ridicule in your gaze or the derision twisting your lips.”
Leif laughed then and watched as her frown deepened. Too perceptive by far.
Rebel Marquess
Amy Sandas
Fate will have her way…
Eliza Terribury is determined to be the first of her sisters to evade her mother’s attempts to shoo her down the aisle. Her novel-writing dreams will wither under the demands placed on a gentleman’s wife.
Saddled with his title at a young age, Michael Gerard, the elusive Marquess of Rutherford, has always done his duty, but he will not be pressured into choosing a wife. He just never expected the rush of attraction every time the impertinent young Eliza crosses his path.
When a completely innocent incident leaves Rutherford’s hands in a compromising position on Eliza’s bare skin, they have no choice but to announce an engagement. Privately, they agree to seek a way out of the unwanted nuptials.
Yet Eliza’s free spirit and understated sensuality stirs Michael’s desire. And Eliza discovers there is more to the arrogant lord than meets the eye, especially when she wonders if it is purely her writer’s imagination that puts his f
ace behind a mysterious highwayman’s mask.
Warning: Contains one haughty lord with the body of a medieval warrior, a seventh daughter with attitude to spare, and one tricky spider with eight legs guided by Fate.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
Rebel Marquess
Copyright © 2014 by Amy Sandas
ISBN: 978-1-61921-839-0
Edited by Heidi Moore
Cover by Cora Graphics
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: April 2014
www.samhainpublishing.com
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
About the Author
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