The Debutante Is Mine

by Vivienne Lorret

  “I know,” Dovermere said through the open window. “And you are part of it.” His steady gaze gleamed with challenge as the driver spurred the horses.

  Jack hated that look. And the reason was because he’d seen it in his own reflection and knew what it meant. Dovermere wasn’t about to give up.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Shortly after her aunt and cousin left, Lilah stepped into the music room. Her harp waited near the corner, the polished wood frame gleaming like amber. Pale sunlight caressed the curve of the shoulder, neck, and crown.

  Moving into the room, she stroked her fingertips over the strings in a whisper of sound, like a secret told to a dear friend. And this instrument had been her friend, bringing light to the darkest times of her life. She remembered escaping to the music room at home, closing the door, and plucking the strings in order to drown out the constant bellows from her father. Sometimes, it had worked.

  She was thankful that Aunt Zinnia had talked Mother into letting Lilah bring the cherished instrument to town. Otherwise, it would have been sold by Winthrop, along with most of the finer possessions the family had once kept. Her cousin was greedy and was not above using whatever means he had to make his own life easier. Which, apparently, now included spreading rumors that Lilah and he were already betrothed.

  Lilah quickly pulled her hand away from the harp, not wanting to taint her usual enjoyment with thoughts of Winthrop. Typically, playing the harp settled her nerves. Unfortunately, not today.

  Feeling restless, she slipped out to the garden. She didn’t even have a chance to draw in a soothing breath before she heard a strange noise coming from the back portion, just past the arbor. Strange but somewhat familiar. The sound was sharp and broken, like a shovel striking earth and gravel. This was odd because her aunt’s gardener came once a week in the spring, and this was not his day.

  “Monsieur Bouton?” she called but received no answer.

  Curious, she walked the path toward the arbor, passing the bench, and suddenly she stopped.

  Those broad shoulders, dressed only in shirtsleeves and a green waistcoat, were not Monsieur Bouton’s. The lean hips, firm backside, and thickly muscled thighs weren’t his either. After all, the gardener was nearly sixty years old, short, and rather thin. And he typically wore trousers, not well-tailored buckskin breeches and fine leather boots.

  Jack. His name spilled through her mind in the same unbidden tremor that rushed beneath her skin. She did not like it, she told herself. And she refused to admit to having had a secret desire to see him again. The compulsion was as strange to her as her actions had been late last night, when she’d pressed a few primroses between sheets of velum.

  “Mr. Marlowe, I hate to repeat myself each time we meet, but what are you doing here?” She’d intended to sound forceful and displeased, but the airy quality of her voice lacked much force. Those were rather flattering breeches, after all.

  He turned slowly to face her, smirking, as if he was not the least bit surprised by their encounter. Surely, he couldn’t have expected her to come outside to the garden.

  “This was the place for our rendezvous, was it not?”

  Bother. Only now she remembered the challenge he’d issued last evening.

  “I am not at home to you. You did not leave your card. Therefore, I had no way of knowing that you would be here,” she said, needing a clear understanding between them. “Aside from that, why are you using a shovel in my aunt’s garden?”

  It was only then that she looked down and noted a shrub in the ground near his boots. In fact, there were two of them, one on either side of the path.

  “You said you did not like the quick death of cut flowers, so I brought you these,” he explained with a wave of his free hand. “Azaleas to bloom all spring.”

  She’d never blushed so much in her life as she had these past three days. Her hands came up to cool her cheeks. Had he listened to everything she’d said, every scold, every admission? This was unexpected and unfamiliar. She was used to being forgotten. How could she concentrate on her endeavors to transform if Jack Marlowe continued to keep her flabbergasted?

  “Do not thank me, Lilah. I forbid you,” he said, his voice commanding even as amusement lit his eyes.

  What an absurd thing to forbid. Lilah was torn between gritting her teeth and grinning. With effort, she managed the former. “Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. They will remind me of you, especially when our gardener piles horse manure around them.”

  He laughed outright. The hearty rumbling sound plucked a thousand strings inside her at once in a wondrous glissando.

  She did her best to ignore the sensation. The resonant hum made her heart, lungs, and stomach quiver. It would cease soon enough, however. At least, she hoped it would. What a terrible ordeal it would be to suffer this way all the time. Simply horrendous and not at all pleasant.

  While she was busy convincing herself, his laughter died down to a low chuckle as he walked toward the slender wooden door—that usually kept the garden private—and propped the shovel against the ivy-covered wall.

  “Tell me,” he said, walking back to retrieve his coat, “do you unleash your censure on all the men you encounter?”

  “I’ve had no need until recently. Most gentlemen behave as they ought in my presence.”

  He shrugged into the mink-brown garment as if dressing in front of her were a matter of habit. The fit of his waistcoat outlined the musculature of his chest and leanness of his stomach. His wide-legged stance pulled the buckskin indecently taut, displaying every component of his thighs, as well as . . . other parts of him. Parts she did not allow herself to glance at more than once or twice.

  Thankfully, he didn’t appear to notice.

  “Hmm . . . that is what I’d assumed,” he said. “Which leads us to the crux of your problem.”

  “Us?” she scoffed, ignoring the warm flush that covered her entire body and the foolish flutter of her pulse. Ignoring the wealth of intimacy in that small word. Us. “I hardly think you are involved. Only your supreme arrogance has thrust you into matters that are no concern of yours.”

  Adjusting his cuff, he pointed his finger at her and nodded. “You need to do more of that. Whenever you scold me, you come alive. Your eyes sparkle with vehemence, and your lips plump with crimson disdain. It’s surprisingly alluring.”

  Alluring? Lilah stared at him in confusion. She swallowed, her tongue suddenly thick. She wished he would stop surprising her with the things he said. “You cannot say things like that to me. I have no idea what to think of them. And I am absolutely not going to begin scolding the gentlemen of the ton.”

  “Why ever not? I’m certain they deserve it.”

  His smirk did terrible things to her. She squared her shoulders against it and gave her best impression of Aunt Zinnia. “Because I would be known as a shrew.”

  The instant she finished, she saw a gleam of amusement in his gaze. But before he could utter a syllable, she narrowed her eyes in warning. “And if you dare lift those tawny brows even one inch, I will take that shovel and bury you in the garden.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, concealing his mouth and likely a smirk. “That certainly does not sound shrewlike. Not at all. I’m already envious of your future husband.”

  At this monotone declaration, a small laugh bubbled up Lilah’s throat. She couldn’t help it. This entire episode was absurd. With all her talent for worry, she never could have conjured Jack Marlowe. A man like him was unpredictable. He turned her world topsy-turvy.

  “I’m not suggesting that you turn into a harridan,” he continued, tilting his head as if studying a curiosity in an exhibit. “I’m saying that I know the secret to guarantee that you find a husband.”

  Now she laughed in earnest. “Indeed! A man with no wife and little interest in finding one would be an expert?” She affected a gasp. “Or is that your own secret? Have you been caught in a young woman’s web? Are the banns to be read?”

  He grinned and
moved toward her in his easy-limbed manner, all fluidity and strength combined, muscles flexing, stones crunching beneath each step. He stopped within arm’s reach, elbows slightly bent, those large hands of his—not fisted but not relaxed—ready. Always ready. She had no doubt that he could catch her if she stumbled. Or he could haul her against him in an instant.

  His gaze dipped to her mouth. He made her all too aware of her proximity to him, and she didn’t know what she would do if he attempted to kiss her. Well . . . she knew what she should do and that was to let decorum govern her actions. However, that wasn’t what she wanted to do. And just the idea of what it felt like to have his lips on hers sent a jolt of trepidation through her. Her laughter died, and she blinked up at him.

  “No, don’t retreat,” he said, his command so low that it felt like a caress. “Laugh more. Scold more. Passion is the secret.”

  “P-passion?” The stuttered syllables made her lips tingle. Unbearably so. She lifted her fingertips, absently brushing the surface to banish the sensation. “Proper young women do not think of such things.”

  He tsked as if he did not believe her. “Surely you’ve thought of kissing and of what happens afterward.”

  Lilah didn’t appreciate the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. She straightened her shoulders. “Men do not remember my name. When do you suppose that any of them have desired to kiss me?”

  “But you’ve wanted to be kissed.”

  She swallowed and decided not to answer directly. “A young woman does not intend to be kissed unless she is married. Women who kiss indiscriminately are the ones who fall in love with rogues. I know this because my brother was one, and he left his share of broken hearts in his wake.” And that was what had gotten him killed by an angry husband. She sighed, missing Jasper’s wicked laugh and even the way he would warn her against falling in love with someone like him. “Jasper was a romantic, always looking for a new love,” she continued, abandoning her scathing tone for quiet resolve. “Since he was abused so abominably by our father, I can easily forgive him. However, his lesson has taught me caution.”

  “That is why honesty is important from the beginning,” Jack said, stepping toward her until they were toe-to-toe. His gaze turned soft, as if they shared this understanding, and when he spoke, his voice was low and intimate. “I indulge in pleasure for pleasure’s sake alone. I offer no pretense of love, and the women I bed understand this.”

  “I am not going to be one of those women,” she clarified, knowing that she should have been offended that he would mention such a thing. And she was, of course. She was not inordinately curious about what it would be like to . . . indulge in pleasure for pleasure’s sake alone. Not at all.

  “I’m not suggesting your ruination, Lilah.” In the shadowy recesses of his mouth, his tongue flicked over the two syllables of her name as if he knew the flavor of them.

  “Then what”—she wet her lips—“are you suggesting?”

  “Merely that there must be things you are passionate about—hobbies, outings, certain topics of conversation. Unless . . . ” He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “Unless scolding me is the only pleasure in your life. If that is the case, I will gladly continue to pleasure you.”

  She ignored the blatantly seductive double entendre. Ignored the warmth that tunneled deep inside of her. Ignored the slow, heavy pulse that began beating in the same place. “I thought you abhorred society.”

  “Correct.”

  “Yet you continue to encounter me intentionally. Surely the favor you promised Vale has been paid. It could mean nothing to you that I find a husband. Tell me now if I am merely a source of amusement for you.”

  He did not answer her right away. Instead, he studied her, his brow furrowed. “My mother’s life mirrored yours,” he said quietly. So quietly, in fact, it was as if the admission wasn’t meant to be spoken aloud. Proof of that lay within the silence that followed. Then, after a few breaths, he spoke again. “She was married off to a dissipated lord on a neighboring estate. By the time his debts and cruel character were discovered, it was too late. At the same time, she lost the only family she’d had. And while her husband’s debts mounted, he abandoned her and his responsibilities, leaving her to fend for herself.”

  A chill stole over Lilah, and she wrapped her arms around herself to ward it off. This account did mirror her own circumstances somewhat, especially the dishonor and cruelty. For her father, honor of the family name and upholding appearances had been all that mattered. He’d ranted about it ceaselessly until the whole house had quaked.

  “Whatever happened to that man?” she asked Jack.

  “His estate and property were confiscated to pay his debts. Months later, they found him outside of a gaming hell. He was then tried for his crimes and hanged.”

  Lilah let out a breath. “That is good. At least your mother escaped him.”

  Strangely, her own mother had accepted whatever Father had decreed and had stood by his side during whatever reprimand or punishment he’d given. Having witnessed affection between other married people—Ivy’s parents, for example—Lilah had once asked her mother why she never said anything about the way Father treated everyone. Her mother had told her that a woman should never expect happiness as a requirement of marriage, only security.

  Lilah had never told anyone this, but she’d been relieved when her father had died. There was sadness as well. She had loved him as much as their relationship allowed. But more than that, she’d felt despair over never having been loved in return. And after a lifetime of enduring cruelty, she’d hoped that his death had brought an end to his tyranny.

  Unfortunately, he’d continued it from beyond the grave.

  Jack stared at her with a peculiar intensity. “I had not thought of her circumstances in such a way.”

  “It is good that she did not suffer his cruelty for years or even watch her children bear the brunt. For myself, I cannot imagine anything worse.” She realized she’d revealed too much when shock and something akin to anger altered his expression. Before he could ask her about it, she continued. “And Dovermere was kind to her?”

  A muscle twitched above his jaw. “I’ve heard nothing to the contrary. In fact, she claimed to have been happy . . . until the demands of Dovermere’s family coffers led him to abandon her as well.”

  Lilah saw a vulnerability within him that she’d never noticed. He’d been abandoned too, and the scar of it was now as clear as the silver S near his temple. She imagined her own scars were visible to him as well.

  “Mr. Marlowe, I now possess a better understanding of your interference in my affairs, and I am willing to answer the question you posed to me about my”—she cleared her throat, refusing to say the word passion—“hobbies and interests.”

  He inclined his head, the ferocity disappearing from his countenance as he seemingly accepted their shift of topic.

  There was a palpable intimacy between them now, forged from something deeper than mere attraction and curiosity. And because he’d revealed so much about himself, she was willing to give his notion merit. After all, by this point, she would consider any option. “I enjoy playing the harp.”

  He considered her answer without any mockery but with what appeared to be interest instead. “What appeals to you about it?”

  “The sound, I suppose. It’s soothing, beautiful.” She closed her eyes, picturing herself situated on her stool. “I like the scent of the cedar wood, the coolness of the frame when I press my cheek against it, the bite of the strings against my fingertips, and the way my entire body seems to become part of the music.”

  Her eyes sprang open. She hadn’t meant to admit that last part. While she hadn’t heard his step on the path, it felt as if he were standing closer now, his eyes never leaving hers. They were sure and confident, and in that moment, she felt comfortable and secure.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” he chided softly. “Continue just as you were. I could almost see that passion in your expression.”
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  This time, she didn’t close her eyes. It was easier to continue looking at him. “I like how, with the barest touch of my fingertips, music fills the room . . . fills me.”

  “Mmm . . . I would very much enjoy watching you play the harp.” His pupils expanded slowly into the flecks of brown and gold in his irises. “Have you played for anyone else?”

  “My instructor, of course. Friends. Family.”

  “Are you skilled?” he challenged.

  It was improper to be boastful. Nevertheless, she grinned up at him. “I am accomplished.”

  “And there it is—passion,” he said, reaching up with one large hand to cradle her face. He tilted her chin upward, this way and that, his focus solely on her mouth. “Think of your harp the next time you are speaking with a gentleman.”

  The tingling returned, unbearable in its urgency. His thumb swept over the flesh of her bottom lip, not subduing the sensation but amplifying it. He leaned in. She thought he would kiss her. In that instant, she knew she would not stop him. All her professions from a moment ago abandoned her. She was a woman who would kiss indiscriminately. At least with this man. Right now.

  Then, suddenly, he drew back—one step. Two. Three. He stopped to pick up his hat and raked a hand through his hair before settling it atop his head. And he kept walking. Near the garden door, he touched two fingers to the brim. “Never let it be said I am a man without honor, Miss Appleton.”

  And as he disappeared, shovel in hand, she wished he would have called her Lilah.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  That evening, Jack figured out exactly what was wrong with him. The reason that he couldn’t stop entertaining erotic thoughts about Lilah was because he’d been too long without life’s pleasures. After returning to London earlier this week, he hadn’t been to Lady Hudson’s gaming hell or her private rooms upstairs since that first night back. Obviously, he required another visit before he did something foolish . . .