by Gaelen Foley
“Aye, there’s a whole row of the blackguards.”
His apparent ambivalence about his forebears puzzled her. Intrigued, Daphne spent a few minutes studying the various Rotherstone lords. Their clothing reflected different periods, but that same guarded intensity had obviously been passed down through the bloodlines over time. Some of the marquesses were shown in court robes for their official portraits. Others wore military uniforms, while a few were portrayed in gentlemanly country clothes with a horse and an estate behind them.
But one small detail in some of the portraits caught her eye: a white Maltese cross adorned with some obscure insignia. “What is that?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
“What is what?”
She pointed to the symbol, sometimes shown on the clothing, sometimes obscurely tucked away into a corner of the painting. “That.”
“Oh—that’s just one of their honorifics. Different members of my line have been inducted into several noble orders. Many of them are hereditary. Basically meaningless, but you know, funny robes and whatnot. The occasional odd ceremony once a decade or whenever the ruling monarch takes the whim.”
“I see.” They had come to the end of the room, where a rectangular Persian carpet defined a small seating area arranged in front of the plain white fireplace.
The whole gallery was a feast for the eyes, but her scanning gaze was drawn to the fantastic jeweled broadsword on display above the mantelpiece.
A low exclamation escaped her. “How…marvelous.” She moved toward the fireplace and stared up at the gleaming steel blade.
He came to stand by her side, and then looked at her quizzically. “Miss Starling: You are very wise.”
She looked at him in surprise. “I am?”
“You have sounded out the most valuable piece in my entire collection.”
“This?” She pointed to the sword. “Even more than the Leonardo?”
“To me, it is.”
“Why? Where did you get it?”
When he looked up at it, she stared at his noble profile. “It was handed down to me by my father, and his father before him—and so it has been, for some six hundred years. It belonged to the first Lord Rotherstone. He was a warrior-baron, a knight, at the time of Richard the Lionheart. He took this sword with him to the Holy Land, and with it, slew a hundred of Saladin’s Mamluks in the fight to free Jerusalem.”
“Really?” she breathed. “This very sword?”
“Yes.” He turned again to her with a trace of amusement around the corners of his eyes at her enthusiasm for this bit of family history.
“And now you have it,” she echoed.
He nodded, coming closer.
Well, his willingness to join the fray in Bucket Lane certainly made sense now, she thought. He had the battle instinct in his blood.
“Have you ever tried it out?” she asked with a flirtatious look askance, glancing back at the Crusader’s sword.
“You really think I go around smiting people, don’t you?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Sorry?” He was staring at her mouth.
He stepped nearer.
She furrowed her brow. “Why is it that when you don’t wish to answer a question…” Her words trailed off as he laid his hands gently on both sides of her neck at its base, where it met the angle of her shoulders. “My lord—”
“I’m sorry, but I have to do this,” he whispered, then he lowered his head and kissed her.
His lips were soft, but the short scruff of his beard was sharp and prickly. It both hurt and startled her; she jerked back automatically, and looked up into his eyes.
He paused, trailing a fingertip gently over her chafed chin. He smiled at her ever so subtly. Then he approached again even more carefully, tilting his head at a wider angle so as not to scrape her. This time he brought no pain, only sweetness, pleasure.
She closed her eyes, slowly exploring the sensations of delight that infused her as his lips played against hers. Growing light-headed, she rested her hands on his chest to steady herself; vaguely, she gripped the lapels of his silk waistcoat.
“Daphne.” He breathed her name, and when she responded with a faint, intoxicated smile, he deepened the enchantment, tasting her with the tip of his tongue, a slow, seductive caress.
She groaned barely audibly, yielding to the coaxing pressure of his lips parting hers. When she opened her mouth uncertainly, he accepted the invitation with smooth and unhesitating ease. Now he was in full control, ruling her senses with the light pressure of his thumbs stroking up the sides of her neck, in time with the mesmerizing glide of his tongue on hers.
He tasted of sugary lemon and French Champagne.
Her head was in a whirl, her heart racing as the Marquess of Rotherstone stole her breath and gave her back his own. The sound of his breathing was deep, its rhythm slowed.
Under his spell of his kiss, she was not sure how or when he had maneuvered her toward the wall nearby, out of the range of vision of any servants who might have happened past the long gallery, shielded, also, from the window and the view of passersby on the street below.
A folded shutter was on one side of her, the ornate frame of some painting on the other, but his kiss and his towering frame filled her world, in front of her, above her, around her. His tongue was in her mouth, teaching her an entirely new way of being in his power, by means of the mindless pleasure he could give her.
At the moment, she was all too happy to submit, even though she had the distant feeling that she was getting in over her head. His kiss was exquisite, paradisiacal, transporting her.
His hand moved gently down the curve of her throat to her heaving chest, his warm fingertips alighting between the lace folds of her neckline. They rested there and then began to stroke, right above the heart they caused to flutter so. Her senses clamored to touch him in return.
Still lost in their kiss, she reached up and molded her hands tentatively against the hard, wide angle of his solid shoulders. He seemed to welcome it. From there, she inched her palms downward over the silk waistcoat that stretched over his chest; she could feel his heart pounding.
Next she explored the strong arms that held her, reveling in the virile power of his iron biceps through his thin white shirtsleeves.
At last, she cupped her hand against his face, marveling at the wonder of its hard planes and angles, his steely jaw, smooth-shaved, and then his square chin with the rougher texture of his short goatee.
He turned his head and kissed her palm. But when he bent lower and began to kiss her neck, Daphne welcomed him, leaning her head back against the gallery’s red wall.
With closed eyes, she cradled his head to her, running her fingers through his dark, tousled hair. She melted against him as he kissed her neck without restraint now, the chafing of his beard against her highly sensitized skin bringing a very different effect—not pain, but wild pleasure. She wanted to feel it everywhere, against her skin, her breasts.
Her fingers splayed through his hair in a rougher caress; she gripped his head against her, urging him on, though he needed no coaxing.
He leaned closer against the full length of her body, so warm and strong and exciting, pressing his thigh between her legs—a subtle caress that made her shudder violently.
Indecent thoughts, wanton yearnings gripped her.
Meanwhile, the gently blowing sheers that framed the shuttered windows floated past them and wrapped around them like a whisper of white bedsheets, diffusing the afternoon light.
He shifted against her in the most intoxicating fashion, arousing her to a state of feverish lust. She was weak and shaky, and obviously quite mad, for she would have liked nothing better than to lift her skirts and let him have his wicked way with her at once.
This, observed the last remaining shred of logic in her brain, was clearly why unchaperoned visits were verboten between courting couples.
But Daphne knew deep in her core that she could never feel
this way toward any other man.
He came back up from devouring her neck, hot and hazy-eyed, hair tousled, lips damp and slightly swollen, his face flushed. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, but as he met her aching stare, he just shook his head, a silver-tongued charmer at an utter loss for words.
He didn’t have to speak. She could not have agreed with him more. She ran her hands up his chest, adoring him.
He looked into her eyes, then cupped her face between his palms and claimed her mouth again. The unbridled hunger in his kiss set her pulse racing anew; she wanted more.
She arched her body in restless sensuality, pinned deliciously between him and the wall. The instant flames that her sinuous motion aroused in his eyes made her go still, suddenly reminded that she was indeed playing with fire.
“God,” he whispered more to himself than to her, “you could wield such power over me.” Staring hungrily at her, he came back for more.
“Me?” she asked innocently. “How? Like this?” She wrapped her arms around him and met his searing kiss in reckless abandon.
When she heard his low groan of pleasure it was almost more than she could bear. Her heart was slamming, her body afire with undreamed sensations, her core crying out for a completion she had heard of only once or twice in euphemistic whispers.
Max, she knew, the wicked Marquess of Rotherstone, could teach her everything.
With all his worldly elegance and suave expertise, fairly radiating sex, what better tutor could she hope for to instruct her in every wondrous pleasure that a woman could discover with a man?
But not yet, her swooning conscience reminded her.
Not until she married him—and wasn’t that a case of out of the frying pan, into the fire?
All of a sudden, he tore his lips away from hers and stared toward the door, as still as a wolf in a forest hearing some distant sound.
“Someone’s coming,” he breathed.
“What?” she cried in a hushed tone, still panting with desire.
“Dodsley.”
“Oh—!” She shot out of his arms, whirling away from him, and turning her to the distant doorway so the butler would not see the guilt written all over her face, not to mention her immediate, crimson blush. At once, she hurried to tidy her rumpled appearance with shaking hands.
Nearby, Max took a deep breath and did the same.
He cleared his throat and suddenly looked completely nonchalant, just as his old butler hurried into view.
Still wishing she could hide, Daphne was taken aback by his convincing mask of business-as-usual.
“My lord!”
“Yes, what is it?” he clipped out, with only a trace of annoyance in his deep voice.
“My lord, please forgive the interruption. But you have visitors—”
“Visitors?” he bit back angrily. “Dodsley!”
“I crave your pardon, sir! I could not—that is, they say it’s very urgent.”
His low, infuriated huff made her think he must have some idea who it was.
“Tell the bastards I am not at home,” he ordered at the same time his butler said: “The lady refuses to go until she sees you, sir!”
Hearing both their words, Daphne stopped. She looked from Dodsley to his scowling master.
“Lady?” she echoed. Surprise and indignation promptly overrode her embarrassment. Good God, how great of an error had she just made? Was he not the Demon Marquess, after all, leading member of the Inferno Club? To be sure, she had just had a taste of his libertine talents for herself.
Heaven only knew how many female visitors such a man invited into his house on any given day.
She backed away from him with a piercing stare.
At that moment, the echo of light, running footsteps came pounding up the marble stairs. In the next heartbeat, a small boy ran headlong into the room, and came barreling straight toward him.
“Uncle Max!”
chapter 9
Oh, bloody hell,” he uttered under his breath.
“You said a curse!” the small lad shouted as he charged up to Max, stopped short, and craned his neck to stare at him.
Folding his arms across his chest, Max acknowledged the diminutive intruder with no more than a raised eyebrow.
“It’s not Their Lordships calling, sir,” Dodsley said in a long-suffering tone. “I was trying to say it is Lady Thurloe and the, er, children.” Poor Dodsley went hurrying after the boy, who ran off again, tearing through the gallery, hollering like a wild savage. “Young master, I beg you, mind the statues, please!”
Daphne looked on in bewilderment as a lady in a blue carriage dress and an elaborate hat came flouncing into the doorway.
“Why, look! There he is: my infamous brother!”
“Mama, what does ‘infamous’ mean?” asked the neat little girl who held the woman’s hand, as docile in her manner as the boy was wild.
“Infamous, Flora,” the lady replied, leading her daughter into the gallery, “means the sort of man who comes back to London and never even bothers to call on his own sister, who has not seen him in three full years!”
“No, Bea,” he replied uncomfortably, “I’m sure it’s only been two.”
Meanwhile, Dodsley caught one of the Roman amphorae and righted it with a frantic look as the boy went charging past it.
“Infamous,” the lady continued, propping one hand grandly on her hip, “means commanding one’s butler to tell one’s relatives that one is not at home, when one most obviously is.”
“You mean Uncle Max told a lie, Mama?”
“Papa says he tells loads of ’em!”
“That will do, Timothy. Over here. Right now!”
Daphne watched her in wonder as the lady captured her son by his wrist as he zoomed past.
“As for you, brother,” she resumed, securely holding a child’s hand in each of her own. “I heard you were at the Edgecombe ball. How strange that I did not see you there! Oh, yes, you scoundrel. I was in attendance!” she informed him reproachfully in answer to his chagrined look. “Of course, I went home early. My Paul does not stay out past eleven.”
“I arrived late,” he answered, faltering slightly. “Well, I would have looked for you if I had known!” he added with a trace of guilt.
“If you had remembered I exist? Honestly, brother! If we had known you were coming, Paul and I would have stayed to greet you. How long have you been in Town?” she demanded.
“Not very long,” he mumbled evasively.
“Well, you can’t escape us now, can you? Infamous, I say, dodging us since you arrived!” As she spoke, the little girl released her hand and walked demurely to look at a painting of some horses on the wall.
Daphne was still standing there awkwardly, until the child noticed her and offered a shy smile. She returned it, quite chagrined at her predicament. To think that these children could have walked in on what they had been doing! She wanted to die.
“At any rate,” their mother continued in a brisk tone, “we are leaving London for the countryside tomorrow, and we won’t be back in Town until the spring, so the least that you can do is acknowledge your niece and nephew before we go. Do you believe how big they’re getting, Max? Flora, come away from that—lady.”
Her crisp tone and the fact that she had ignored Daphne from the moment she arrived made it obvious what assumptions the woman had already drawn about her brother’s female companion of this afternoon. Daphne was mortified.
“Careful, Bea, it isn’t how it looks.”
“I’m sure.” The woman eyed her skeptically.
His face hardened. “Beatrice, Countess of Thurloe, allow me to present the Honorable Miss Daphne Starling.” He squared his shoulders and added: “My future wife.”
At his bold announcement, Daphne glanced at him in alarm. She was unsettled to hear him stating it as though it were hard fact. To be sure, Lady Thurloe looked equally astonished.
“Max!” she exclaimed in almost breathless tone
. “Is this true? This is not one of your pranks?”
“Of course not it’s not a prank,” he said with a scowl. “If it weren’t for Daphne, I wouldn’t have gone to the Edgecombe ball in the first place.”
“But I am amazed!” She took a step closer. “You’re getting married and you didn’t tell me?”
Oh, dear. This was quickly going from bad to worse. Daphne knew she should speak up and clarify things, but as the cold, hard breeze of sanity returned in a whoosh after the fevered madness of his kiss, it was all too clear that the least scandalous, perhaps the only nonscandalous, acceptable excuse for her presence here in Lord Rotherstone’s house, alone with him, was the imminent ringing of wedding bells.
The only problem was, she had not yet agreed to the match. Or perhaps she was only fooling herself.
Before she could conjure some alternative credible explanation, Lady Thurloe brushed off her fleeting hurt at her brother’s neglect in favor of open rejoicing. “Oh, Max!” She clapped her gloved hands together, fingers clasped. “Miss Starling—Daphne, is it? May I call you Daphne? Oh, but I thought I recognized you! Goodness, when I first saw you here, knowing him, I nearly thought—but never mind that! Of course—you are Lord Starling’s beautiful daughter whom everyone adores!”
“I-I don’t know if that is quite the case, Lady Thurloe,” Daphne stammered.
“Call me Beatrice. Oh, my dear—sister! Let me embrace you!” She sailed forward and gave Daphne a polite but enthusiastic hug, and an airy peck on both cheeks. “My dear, dear girl! Oh, Lud, but you will have your work cut out for you.” Lady Thurloe laughed as she hugged her. “Promise me you will torment him!”
“I promise.” Daphne glowered at Max over his sister’s shoulder before the woman released her again.
Lady Thurloe stepped back and paused as she passed a wry but chiding look from Max to Daphne and back again. “Oh, my. So, the two of you in here alone…I do declare! Rather naughty, tsk, tsk.” She wagged a finger at them with a knowing giggle. “Never fear, my lips are sealed. Flora, Timothy, come over here and meet your future auntie! Isn’t she lovely? Oh, this is too exciting! My dear brother, I am so happy for you! We’ve been waiting so long for you to come home and settle down at last!”
