by Kelly Boyce
“My, my, but you have created quite the stir with your new gentleman.” The vulture had stopped circling and swooped in, interrupting Rebecca’s mental musings.
She straightened her spine and imagined herself to be made of the strongest iron. It was a trick Marcus had taught her when she was younger and Nicholas teased her.
“Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Imagine your outsides are made of iron and nothing can penetrate it.”
Funny how she had forgotten that until now, when Lady Susan’s claws attempted to dig deep into her flesh. Funnier still how effective such mental imagery could be. She should thank him for it later, though she doubted he even remembered giving her such advice. It had been so long ago.
“Lord Selward is hardly new,” she said. “Why, he has been paying me attention for over two Seasons.”
Lady Susan clucked and Rebecca imagined her to be a chicken bobbing about the yard. Not such a vulture after all. “Two Seasons and yet no proposal? Well, I wouldn’t fret. Every man needs a diversion or two, does he not?” Lady Susan wrinkled her upturned nose until her face appeared both pinched and scrunched. “Either way, it was not Lord Selward I referred to, but Mr. Bowen. An odd choice, is he not?”
Rebecca opened her fan with a practiced flick and slowly waved it beneath her chin to ward off the flash of anger that coursed through her at the way Lady Susan said Marcus’s name. With distaste. As if he was unworthy. A surge of loyalty raged to the forefront. Marcus’s worth far outweighed Lady Susan’s. She considered him family and she would not allow her family to be disparaged.
“Odd in what way?”
Lady Susan opened her own fan and peered over its edge at the lords and ladies mingling around them. “Mr. Bowen may be the talk of the ton at the moment for the good turn he did Mother—”
“Good turn?” Rebecca glared at Lady Susan. “Is that what we call saving someone’s life at their own peril?” She had been beside herself when she’d heard the news of Marcus’s injury and had hovered on the precipice of fear and hope until word came that he had come through the worst of it and would survive. She’d cried herself to sleep that night, relief sweeping through her and releasing the pent up emotions she’d held in, too afraid to feel or give voice to.
Lady Susan made an unpleasant face. Or perhaps that was her actual face. It was difficult to tell at times. “My point is others will find it unseemly for you to allow him to pay such attentions. He is after all—” She waved a hand. “No one of any consequence, is he?”
The caustic remark scraped along Rebecca’s last nerve. She snapped her fan shut and turned on Lady Susan, anger bubbling over. “Mr. Bowen is a good and honorable man. He is smarter than most and commands the respect of all. He may not be in possession of a title, but he is more of a gentleman than most men I know!”
The truth of it hit home as the words shot out of her mouth. Marcus was a good man despite all his silences and dark looks. He had always treated her with the utmost respect, even when she had heedlessly turned to him for comfort, kissed him, wished for more. Had it not been for his honor, who knew how far things might have gone that night. His kiss had set off a firestorm inside of her that made her crave more, though what all that more entailed she could not say. It did not come with a name, only a sense that filled her and tormented her even after all this time.
An acidic smile stretched across Lady Susan’s face. “My, my. Have your affections turned so quickly? I will be sure to inform Lord Selward he no longer curries your favor.”
Rebecca took a deep breath but made no attempt to dissuade Lady Susan from her course. If she wanted to unknowingly help her convince Lord Selward he had a rival, Rebecca would not stand in her way. That was the point of the exercise after all, was it not?
“I have not settled on one gentleman or the other as yet, but you must do what you feel is right.”
“Lady Susan, Lady Rebecca.” As if drawn by their conversation, Lord Selward reappeared, his gaze bouncing from one of them to the other. The glass of punch he had fetched Rebecca wavered in his hand as if he was unsure of what to do with it now that two ladies stood before him.
“Lord Selward.” Lady Susan’s voice softened until it oozed out of her, so filled with false affection it made Rebecca want to retch. “I understand Lady Berringsford has arranged for the last dance to be a waltz. How very exciting, don’t you think?”
“Indeed,” he said, though in Rebecca’s estimation, excited was the last thing he looked. Uncomfortable would be a more apt description. “A waltz…yes…very…yes.”
“I do so love the waltz,” Lady Susan continued. “Don’t you, Lord Selward?”
“Oh. I suppose…of course, that is to say…”
Rebecca bit the inside of her cheek. Heavens, was it truly so difficult to stop gulping air and stuttering to make a choice? Marcus never hemmed and hawed. He asked the pertinent questions, made a decision then stuck by it. Why Lord Selward could not do the same, went beyond her understanding. Either you loved the waltz or you didn’t. It wasn’t as if they had asked him to give a dissertation on Plato’s opinion of the intellectual consequences of denial.
Lady Susan continued to press the advantage. “Have you promised someone the last dance, my lord?”
Lord Selward’s handsome face took on a reddish cast. “Ah…no…no…I…yes, well…” He took a sip of the punch he had brought for Rebecca then cleared his throat again. And smiled. At least Rebecca thought that’s what it was meant to be. Either that or a grimace. She couldn’t blame him. She had tasted the punch. It was dreadful.
“Ah, Lady Rebecca. There you are.”
She started. With her attentions focused on Lord Selward, she had missed Marcus’s approach. She gifted him with a smile, his presence creating an ease within her. “Mr. Bowen. We were just talking about the last dance. It is to be a waltz.”
“As I have heard.”
“Yes,” Lord Selward said, finally over his verbal lollygagging, at least for the time being. “I thought I might…that is…would you permit me the last dance, Lady Rebecca?”
Lady Susan hissed behind her fan. Rebecca smiled and opened her mouth to accept when Marcus interrupted.
“I’m afraid you are too late, my good man. She has already promised me the last dance.”
Rebecca looked at Marcus in surprise. She had not promised him any such thing. In fact, she had purposely left the dance free in the hope Lord Selward would ask and thereby publically solidify his interest in her. She made to negate Marcus’s claim, but before she could find the words, a sly grin spread across his face. She had never seen such an expression on him before. It altered everything about him, bringing his solemn features to life in a way that quite robbed her of breath.
She closed her mouth and held her tongue, unable to look away.
Next to her, Lord Selward stammered. “B-but you have already danced with her twice.”
“And this will make a third.” Marcus shrugged and grinned wider. He had very straight teeth. He really should smile more often. “When one has the opportunity to dance with a beautiful woman, Selward, he does not worry over the math.”
“But how will it look?”
“I suspect,” Marcus said, as he held out his hand to Rebecca. “It will look as if I am dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room and therefore must be the luckiest of men.”
Rebecca swallowed and blinked, stunned by the dashing stranger standing before her. This wasn’t the Marcus Bowen she knew. This was the pirate king she had once dreamed of.
She slid her hand into his and allowed him to tuck it through his arm as he led her onto the dance floor. She did not recall if she said good-bye to Lord Selward. She had never seen Marcus behave in such a bold manner. The errant knight claiming his princess.
“Why did you do that?” She whispered, once her wits returned. Marcus turned to face her and stepped closer, resting a hand on her waist. It didn’t take long for warmth to spread through the layers of silk and
linen and into her skin until every inch blazed with heat.
She loved the waltz. It possessed a secret decadence that could not be denied. For several moments you stood closer to a man than would normally be permissible and his hands rested in places that, under any other circumstances, would send tongues wagging.
Though tongues were sure to be wagging regardless. Three dances would definitely be noticed.
“I claimed the last dance,” Marcus said as the strains of the waltz threaded around them and they began to move. “Because you wanted to make Lord Selward jealous. Did you not?”
“Yes, but I believe we have accomplished that with the other two dances. He made note of it to me. He wanted to waltz with me. Mission accomplished.”
Marcus shook his head and she had the sudden urge to sink her fingers through the dark waves of his hair to see if it was as soft as it looked. During his convalescence, it had grown a bit longer than fashion dictated, but it suited him. It gave his otherwise buttoned down exterior a hint of unruliness that contradicted the other parts. But such unruliness had never translated into action until now.
He leaned in and she smelled the hint of brandy. Had he been drinking? She breathed it in. Breathed him in. Brandy and sandalwood. Intoxicating.
“Our mission has only just begun.”
“It has?”
She had not been this close to him since their ill-fated kiss. The potency of which rushed back to her now and made her long to return to the gardens, to hide behind the statue of Athena with Marcus and without the prying eyes of the ton. A foolish wish. That moment had come and gone and would not return. Their fates traveled divergent paths.
“Indeed. It is not a dance you seek, but a proposal. Lord Selward is now aware he has a rival for your affections. If you give in now, he will not believe a true threat exists and therefore will have no reason to act. We must make him believe the risk of losing you is very real.”
What he said made perfect sense, but patience had never been a virtue Rebecca embraced with any sense of familiarity. Nor could she deny the risk spending too much time in Marcus’s company created. She gobbled up her time with him like a greedy thief stealing things that did not belong to her. That she was not meant to have. Too much time with Marcus and likely she would not even remember Lord Selward’s name. A dangerous proposition, but not one she had the inner fortitude to change.
“How long do you think it will take?”
Marcus shrugged, no mean feat as they swirled about. She had danced with him before on the rare occasions Nicholas or Huntsleigh convinced him to come out into society, but never the waltz. His agility on the dance floor surprised her, as did the strength in his arms as he held her.
“It could take several weeks.”
“But the Season is almost over!” She must have a proposal before her next birthday; otherwise all of this had been for naught.
“I assume Lord Selward will be in attendance at the annual party at Sheridan Park?”
“Of course, but that’s a month away.” A month of Marcus. Dear heavens. A thrill shot through her, one that had nothing to do with ensuring her and Mother’s future security.
Marcus offered her a small smile. “The time will pass regardless. Have faith. If the man has any sense at all, he will make an offer with all due haste.”
She hoped he was right—almost as much as she wished he could be wrong.
The music swirled around them and Rebecca set aside her pressing problems and followed Marcus’s lead around the dance floor, losing herself in the sensation of being in his arms once again. The power of it had not lessened, nor it seemed, had her need to stay there for as long as possible; to revel in the strength and sense of safety and belonging.
How she wished Father had not been so biased in his beliefs that a man must be a lord to be worthy of her. How different her life would be.
The last strains of the music faded far too quickly. Marcus took a small step away and bowed low over her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips. Despite the barrier of her silk gloves, the heat from his mouth seeped into her veins and ran up her arm, warming her throughout. Had it not robbed her of breath, she would have gasped from the surprise of such a shocking gesture. Had he not claimed they must never kiss again?
Marcus straightened, but continued to hold her hand as he stared into her eyes. He stood close. Too close. She could feel the curious glances of those around them, but she was too lost in the dark depth of his gaze to care. His eyes were a deep, soulful brown. They reminded her of warm chocolate on a cold day where the first decadent sip made you close your eyes and sigh with pleasure. She wanted to fall into them and never land.
“I should not have done that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but his words lacked conviction and for a fleeting moment hope—that most irritating of all emotions—soared within her.
“I suspect it should give Lord Selward proper notice he has a rival.”
Marcus smiled and her heart stuttered for a brief second. It wasn’t a full smile, not the kind you receive when someone is happy to see you after a long absence. No, this was a smile one gave a lover—or so she imagined. Sinful and tempting, full of dark mystery and secret promises. Oh, how she longed to discover all of those things. Likely he would be the most wonderful of teachers.
Did Marcus have a lover? The notion hit her from behind without warning. She had not considered it when she proposed her plan. Nor did she particularly like the thought coming to her now.
“Shall I return you to your mother?”
She nodded. Words failed her at the moment as her brain tried to digest all the new facts and suppositions she had discovered this night about a man she’d thought she knew backward and forward. Strange sensations curled inside her belly creating a lightness that made it feel as if her toes did not even touch the floor. She glanced down just to be sure.
Her feet remained firmly on the ground. Her heart, however—well, that was another matter entirely.
Chapter Four
Marcus headed to his study. Despite the late hour, the events of the night had him too wound up to sleep and the three brandies he’d ingested did not help. His nerves sang and his mind whirled and other parts of him protested against needs not met. Needs unduly disturbed by a certain lady and her foolish requests.
He never should have kissed her. Not the first time, and not tonight, regardless of how chaste the second had been. The moment his lips had touched her gloved hand, long hidden desire rushed to the forefront until it took every last ounce of his will not to drag her back into his arms and kiss that damnable mouth of hers until she begged for air. Or something else.
Shit.
He let out a harsh breath and glanced down at his desk. Everything remained where he’d left it, patiently awaiting his inevitable return. Any other night, he would have dove in once again without a second thought. But tonight, work held no interest for him. His thoughts refused to settle.
His gaze rested on the package Spence had delivered earlier. He’d purposely ignored it. Any dealings with respect to Braemore Manor usually went through Lord Ellesmere first. His employer thought it might be too painful for Marcus to deal directly with the steward who watched over the property. The man who had taken over after his father’s sudden passing.
Yet this package was not addressed to Lord Ellesmere. Marcus’s name graced the package, written in a bold, curling script. Doubtful it came from his family. The MacCumbers lacked the ability to print his name, let alone possess the wherewithal to determine his current location. Nor could they afford the postage to send such a package. Even if they could, they would not spend it on him. They had not cared for him during the brief time he’d lived under their roof and he could imagine no circumstance where that would have changed that.
But who else could it be?
“You could open it and find out,” he muttered to himself, the sound whispering through the quiet room. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the package, solid beneath
his touch. Wood, perhaps? He curled his hand around it and drew it closer. The fire in the hearth snapped and popped, goading him for his cowardice.
“It is not cowardice,” he said, glaring at the fire. “It is—” He searched for the proper word, but in the end cowardice was the only one that remained. Foolish. It was just a package, after all.
Besides, what did he have to fear? The MacCumbers could not hurt him now.
Anger rushed through him. Anger that he had allowed the old memories to filter back in and seep into him like acid.
Marcus had spent eight months with his aunt and uncle being treated as more of a servant than a son. Beaten and starved whenever the whim took them. He’d often thought of running away, but to where? And to whom? He was alone in the world; the only people who’d ever loved him, dead and buried. He pushed the memories back, then grabbed the package. The tie broke with a snap and he ripped the paper away to reveal a plain wooden box.
Resting on top was a piece of folded vellum. Marcus lifted it and flicked it open. It was addressed to him on printed stationery from Wickwire & Hellum, Barristers and Solicitors. He furrowed his brow and leaned forward to turn up the wick on the lamp at the corner of his desk. Light spilled across the feathery writing.
Dear Mr. Bowen,
Please forgive the tardiness with respect to receipt of this package. My father, Alistair Wickwire, Solicitor, recently passed away and the contents were found amongst his belongings. Unfortunately, my father’s ailing health over the past decade allowed several matters to fall to the wayside, this being one of them.
The items contained within this package were given to my father by Mrs. Mary Bowen shortly before her death. She requested it be held in safekeeping until such time as you reached the age of majority, at which time it was to be passed onto you. After a few inquiries to the local magistrate in office at the time of your mother’s passing, I was able to locate you, and in doing so, fulfill your mother’s request.
