The Marquess and the Maiden (Lords of Vice)

by Robyn DeHart

  It wasn’t indecent, but more skin than was proper. Her mouth dried. When her eyes finally reached his face, she found him smirking at her, one brow arched in a question.

  “You asked to see me,” she said, tilting her chin. Though the movement usually made her feel a modicum taller, in his presence, it did nothing.

  “My mother has suggested I should shave and cut my hair. I recall you have also said as much.” He walked toward her until he stood right in front of her.

  She barely reached his chest. “It is a good idea, especially considering how some of the girls in London spoke about you at that last ball.” She looked up at him and gracious if it wasn’t as if she were staring directly into the sun. Why did he have to be so beautiful? It was maddening. “It makes you look old,” she lied.

  He held up a hand. “Do not repeat what they said.”

  Harriet swallowed a laugh. She suspected no one would be fond of being compared to Ebenezer Scrooge. “Well, you might be a miser, but you’re not old, and we need to show them that. I seem to remember you having quite a handsome face.”

  He smiled slowly, a wolf appraising his next meal. “You think me handsome?”

  “Your face.”

  “That is the same thing.”

  “It is of no consequence.”

  “On the contrary. When the woman I want to marry declares she finds me attractive, it is of monumental consequence.”

  “You are not still on about that?”

  “Sweet Harriet, let us not fight.” He pointed behind her. “Look, it is all set up for you.”

  She turned to find a chair and a tea cart that had been temporarily turned into a barber’s station. “I am to watch you get shaved?”

  He walked to the chair and lowered himself down. “No, you are to shave me. And cut my hair.”

  Something about the tone in his voice and the angle of his shoulders told her arguing would be futile and only delay the inevitable.

  Harriet circled him, scissors in hand. She stood behind him and grabbed a length of his hair. It was softer than she’d expected, and she had to resist the urge to simply run her fingers through all of it. She swallowed.

  “How short do you want it?”

  “You decide. I’m at your mercy.”

  She made her first cut and watched the lock fall to the ground. Standing this close to him she could smell him, woodsy and masculine. She had the outrageous urge to lean forward and inhale him, to imprint his scent to her memory.

  Instead, she continued to trim, cropping his hair short. Most of the dark blond locks fell to the floor while others got caught in the hem of her dress. She supposed it was best that she and her mother had come to Brookhaven a day before the rest of the guests arrived. She moved around to the front of him, having to position herself to stand between his thighs to get close enough.

  Heat pulsed through her entire body despite the gentle breeze blowing in from the surrounding hills. His intense blue gaze caught hers and with it, her breath. He was beautiful. Long hair, bearded, however he came, simply beautiful. She forced her eyes back to his hair and continued her task until she finished.

  She took a step back and surveyed her work.

  He reached up and ran a hand along his head. “Christ, you practically scalped me.”

  “You said you were at my mercy.”

  “Are you attempting to make me unattractive so none of the other women will want me?”

  “Good heavens, no. Besides, there is naught I could do to make you less attractive.”

  He smiled, a grin so self-assured and arrogant she had a thought to smack him. It wasn’t entirely his fault; she was the one who continued to preen his feathers, as it were.

  She felt the weight of his gaze as if he could see beneath her layers of clothing, leaving her feeling bare and exposed. Setting down the scissors, she turned and retrieved the basin and moved it closer. “Now the shave.” The faster she finished, the sooner she could step away from his penetrating gaze.

  She tugged on the bottom of the coarse beard and cut as close to his skin as she could. “Are you certain you don’t want your valet to do this?”

  “No, he’s busy getting everything else ready for the weekend. I must have the proper clothes to bride hunt.”

  “Your clothes have never been an issue.” What was the matter with her? She might as well be flirting with all the compliments she was paying him. “I’m pleased to hear you’re finally taking this seriously,” she said, trying to recover.

  “I’ve always been serious about it, Harriet.”

  Serious about you.

  But that’s not what he meant, and she should not think such things. She ignored the kick her pulse took at his words and continued until she was finally able to lather up his face to use the blade. “I’ll endeavor to not cut you.”

  “If you do, do it right, and make it quick.”

  She chuckled and again stepped into the cove between his thighs. It was too intimate. He was too big. Too much maleness with his hard, muscular body and the woodsy scent of him. Every fiber of her body came alert; her senses heightened. The scrape of the razor across his face, his slow and steady breathing—she felt as if she were drowning in oxygen, she was breathing so quickly, her heart pounding in her chest. Though she knew if she sped through this she would likely cut him, and she didn’t want that. “Hold your mouth like this.” She tried to show him.

  His lips kicked up in a grin. “I do actually know how to get shaved. I even know how to do it myself.”

  She frowned. “Then why are we going through this exercise in futility?”

  His thighs tightened on her body, effectively pinning her between his legs. “Because I want your hands on me, and this seemed the most legitimate way to make that happen.”

  She sucked in a breath and held up her hands in an effort to end their contact.

  “Please continue. I promise not to ravish you, sweet Harriet. At least not today.” He obeyed her instruction and tightened his lips so she could shave around his mouth.

  When she was done, she wiped his face clean of the shaving lotion with a damp towel, then she took in the entirety of her work. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, and he gave her a lazy smile.

  She died.

  If she thought he’d been beautiful before, she hadn’t understood the full meaning of the word. Foolishly, she wished she hadn’t shaved him. Now there would be no hiding his handsome face from the rest of the women. They’d see what they’d overlooked, and they’d all want him.

  She wanted to scream that she’d seen him first…that she’d recognized his beauty before anyone else. But that was ridiculous. She held no claim to him nor did she want one.

  She let herself brush the smoothness of his cheek. “You’ll have no problems garnering the attention of plenty of prospective brides.”

  “Do I have your attention?” he asked.

  “You are handsome, my lord. Certainly, you know that already.”

  “I’m pleased to hear you think so.” He leaned forward, wrapped his arms around her body, and pulled her closer. “Kiss me.”

  “I will do no such thing.” She twisted in an effort to put some distance between them and very nearly threw herself forward onto his lap.

  “You have kissed me with my beard. Do you not want to know if it feels different now?”

  “You are ridiculous.” She shook her head. “Why is tormenting me your favorite hobby?”

  “Because when you get angry with me, you get this little V furrow right here between your eyes.” He rubbed his thumb against the spot in question. “And your color heightens and your breathing quickens and it causes your magnificent breasts to move toward me.” His gaze dipped down, and he grinned. “Yes, just like that.”

  She tried to move backward, out of the tight vise of his thighs, but his hold on her was too strong. She hated that she was so short that while he was seated in front of her they were nearly eye level. She hated that his request for a kiss had her bod
y so alert that she could now feel the fabric of her chemise against the tips of her aching breasts. And above all else, she hated that she desperately wanted him to lean in and simply take what he said he wanted, because she certainly could not do something so brazen as to reveal to him that she wanted his kisses. Craved his kisses.

  Good heavens.

  “Harriet,” he said, his voice a low growl. His large hand cradled her face, his thumb ran over her bottom lip. “I don’t think you understand what you do to me.” Then his other hand was holding her face and pulling her forward, and his lips were on hers. Soft and gentle. Teasing and playful. And then he slanted his mouth and consumed her.

  Everything disappeared except the feel of his lips, the taste of him, the warm roughness of his hands on her face.

  His tongue explored, and she gently moved hers against his. He growled and somehow pulled her even closer. Every nerve ending in her body sparked to life. God help her, but she had the most shameless desire to straddle his lap and sit directly upon him. Even with that thought burning through her, still she could not pull away.

  Her hands gripped the hard cords of his muscled shoulders, and she wanted to know what the rest of him felt like. She suspected his body would look as if carved from the finest of marble, every muscle defined and featured. A perfect male specimen.

  A small mewling noise caught her attention, and then she realized it was her making that sound. As if she’d become a cat begging for his attention. She ended the kiss and stepped away from him then, her hands to her mouth.

  “My lord, I do not understand this game you’re playing. If it is to teach me some sort of lesson, I do wish you would explain yourself.”

  He stood. His masculine form towered over her, and she inhaled sharply. His piercing blue eyes scalded her as he stared. “If you don’t want a man to kiss you, then perhaps you shouldn’t rub your breasts all over him.”

  She sucked in a breath. “I did no such thing.”

  His eyes dropped to her cleavage. “Love, the entire time you were cutting my hair, they were either pressed to my back or in my face.” He held up a hand to stop her from speaking. “I’m not complaining. I happen to like your breasts.” He licked his lips, then traced one finger across the outer swell of her right breast. “I’d like to spend more time with them, actually.”

  With every ounce of strength, she pulled herself away. “You are deplorable.” Then she turned on her heel and fled for the sanctuary of the house. And she could have sworn she heard him chuckle.

  Chapter Ten

  “You do know that you shouldn’t have invited me to this party of yours,” Benedict said.

  “And you know that I don’t actually care a whit about what I should and shouldn’t do,” Oliver said. “I did not think I would be able to survive the weekend without you here.”

  “I’m touched.”

  “You’re a bastard.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Benedict took a swallow of his champagne and winced. “I never did care for this drink.” He nodded to the room before them, people milling about at the refreshments table, couples dancing. “Are you going to tell me which one she is or should I guess?”

  Before Oliver could answer his mother was swiftly walking toward him. “We have a bit of a problem,” she said once she reached him.

  “What?”

  “It would seem that our neighbors, the Manchesters, whom I invited out of courtesy…” She glanced at Benedict. “Hello, Benedict, I did not realize you were coming.” She smiled. “Always lovely to see you.”

  “Lady Davenport,” he said.

  “In any case, the Manchesters had house guests and they brought them along.”

  “Why does any of this matter?” Oliver asked. Then he looked up at the French doors where the guests were arriving. “Son of a bitch!”

  “Yes, well, that is what I was trying to tell you,” his mother said. “I can’t believe she’d actually show her face in this house.”

  He could. This was precisely like Catherine to come into his home and gloat. She’d no doubt heard of his bride hunting. “Let us go and welcome our guests, Mother.” He linked her arm in his elbow and caned his way over to the people who’d just arrived. He made certain to hit that cane on the floor nice and loud so she could hear it, so she could watch him painfully walk toward her.

  Catherine met his gaze and sucked in a breath. Her eyes warmed, and her lips parted. “My lord,” she said with a curtsy. Her husband stood staid beside her, handsome and tall and perfect.

  “Davenport,” he nodded.

  “Burgess,” Oliver said. He turned his gaze back to Catherine. “I did not realize we’d invited you.”

  “You’ll have to excuse our intrusion,” Catherine said. “We were guests of the Manchesters, and they insisted we come along.”

  His mother smiled, though he noticed it looked as if it were made of glass and could break at any moment. “Welcome,” she bit out. “Goodness, Catherine, when was the last time I saw you?”

  It was not an authentic question. Of course, they all knew when it had been. When she’d seen that Oliver was crippled and she’d turned tail and ran.

  The woman didn’t even have the decency to blush. “I can’t recall. It has been years. You both look well.” Her eyes took in the length of Oliver and, if he wasn’t mistaken, he could have sworn he saw desire in their depths. “Quite well.” She licked her lips and gave him a seductive grin.

  When he looked at her, he felt nothing, not even anger or hatred, just nothing, as if she were a stranger he passed on the street.

  Suddenly he wanted Harriet at his side. He’d seen Catherine now, up close and real, with her perfect husband at her side, who was practically glaring a hole through Oliver’s chest. He, in turn, wanted to parade his own choice around, flaunt Harriet’s seductive curves in front of Catherine and her tall, lithe frame. But he couldn’t do that. Not yet, at least.

  “Invited or not, I suppose you’re here now. Do enjoy your evening,” Oliver said, then pulled his mother away.

  “I cannot believe she’s here,” his mother said.

  “Of course you can, Mother. This is entirely her. Catherine heard I was on the bride hunt and she came out to watch.”

  “She was flirting with you while standing right beside her husband. That woman has no shame.”

  “No, she doesn’t.” He needed to see Harriet, to bask in her warmth and light for a while and rub off the sensation that seeing Catherine had left behind. He had no feelings for the woman. She was a coldhearted bitch. But seeing her certainly reminded him of everything he was not—a whole man with a perfect form and the ability to dance and many other things she’d deemed so important that she’d backed out of their betrothal. His mother scurried off to meet other guests, leaving him to look for Harriet.

  He had no trouble locating her. She was a beacon to his damaged ship, her golden gown accenting the pale curls atop her head. He reached her side and pulled at her elbow. “Harriet, I need to speak with you.”

  Her cinnamon-colored eyes looked up into his face, and she nodded. She walked out onto the balcony with him.

  “What is the matter?” she asked once they were outside. Concern filled her gaze, and she placed a gloved hand on his forearm. “Oliver?”

  The cool air and her presence calmed him immediately. “A ghost.” Nothing more.

  “What did you want to speak with me about?”

  He pulled her farther into the shadows of the balcony. There were only a few people who had wandered outside, since the ball had barely begun. People were mostly inside eating or dancing, but he needed something else.

  It was easy enough to hide her body with his own, she was so small, her head barely coming to his chest. He slid his hand to the side of her face.

  “You look beautiful tonight,” he said.

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  Then he bent his head and kissed her. Just a taste was what he told himself he needed. Just a reminder that she
was here, and this desire between them was hot and thick and always at the ready. He wondered when he’d ever get enough of her. When her soft curves wouldn’t tantalize him. When her pliant mouth wouldn’t tempt him. When she wouldn’t taste so damned good.

  His tongue swept into her mouth, and she gripped the lapels of his waistcoat, pulling him closer. She wanted him with a ferocity that met his own and that nearly tipped him over the edge. He slowed down their kiss before he did something to embarrass himself. He pressed his forehead to hers and held it there. Just them, close like this, in the cool evening.

  This was what mattered. Not Catherine and her rejection. Hell, it hadn’t taken him long to be thankful she’d walked out on him. But rejection was rejection and it still stung, even if he didn’t want her anymore. Obviously his own rejection of Harriet still clouded how she saw him now.

  Yet he was determined to have her. No matter what. He knew she wanted him as well, she’d admitted as much. But for that damned notion of love, she refused to allow herself to accept his proposal.

  “Tell me about joining the Ladies of Virtue,” he said quietly.

  She nodded. “Let us walk so we are not hidden here and tempted.”

  He held his arm out to her and led her down the lantern-lit path that wound to the gardens, the pond, and the maze. Brookhaven had been his playground as a child, all of those elements his favorites.

  “I was approached nearly four years ago by Lady Somersby; she’s the leader. She interviewed me extensively before explaining her interest.” She went on, telling him about how the woman had created the organization when she was younger after posing undercover as the queen and needing skills to protect herself. “Her idea bloomed into not only wanting women to protect themselves, but also acknowledging that we can aid in the removal of criminals just as men can. Oftentimes, more effectively because we can do so less noticeably.”