The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Curiosity quickly overcame dismay, however, and he broke the inner seal. The letter was written in the same firm but distinctly feminine hand as the direction.

  Dear Sir, whoever you may be,

  Knowing of your concern for the unfortunate poor of this City, I wish to petition you on behalf of some of the most unfortunate of all—the girls of the street. I am attempting to fund a school for their benefit, and would be most appreciative of any assistance you can offer. Donations may be made to Mrs. Hounslow in Gracechurch Street, as she is to organize the school with the assistance of the Bettering Society and a benevolently-minded gentleman by the name of Throgmorton. Thanking you in advance for your charity,

  —A Sympathetic Lady

  Marcus read through the letter three times, committing it to memory, then carefully burned it in the grate and scattered the ashes. Assuming the letter writer was genuine, he was inclined to do as she requested. He still had the money he had taken from two of the crimps, and this seemed a worthy cause.

  More than a little bit curious about this "Sympathetic Lady," he headed for the stables to speak with Gobby, in hopes of discovering more about her.

  CHAPTER 17

  "A girl gave it to you, you say?" Marcus kept his voice low, though he and Gobby were well out of earshot of the other stable hands. "Someone you know?"

  He thought Gobby hesitated before nodding. "I knowed her from Twitchell's. She asked me not to tell her name, but I trust her."

  "And she said a woman gave her the letter. Did she tell you what sort of woman? Was it a lady, or a commoner?"

  "She wouldn't say, milord. Should I not have passed it along, then?"

  Though frustrated, Marcus shook his head. "No, no, it's fine. I just wanted to discover the details, lest it was some sort of scheme to discover the identity of the Saint. It seems to be legitimate enough, however, so I'll see that he gets it."

  "Aye, milord, I figured you would." Gobby's grin told him what he'd already suspected —that the lads were on to him. But it seemed they were willing to keep that knowledge to themselves, not even admitting it to him. That was fine.

  "Do keep your eyes open for any suspicious activity, however. Should you see anyone watching the house or trailing any of the servants, I want you to notify me immediately."

  The boy nodded. "I'll do that, milord, and I'll alert the others, too." Then he gazed up at Marcus speculatively. "Will you be needin' any of us again tonight, think you? Last night went a treat."

  But Marcus shook his head. He was very much hoping to get Quinn back into his bed this evening, and once he had her there, he wouldn't let her go again.

  "Probably not. If I should change my mind, I'll send word." Quinn might refuse, after all, in which case he'd prefer to be out accomplishing something rather than nursing his wounded pride.

  Dressing for dinner, he urged Clarence to hurry with his cravat and was rewarded by seeing Quinn emerge into the hallway just as he stepped from his own room.

  "How fortuitous," he said, stepping to her side. "I was hoping I might have the honor of escorting you down to dinner."

  She started slightly, but then looked up at him with a cool smile. "I would not wish to deny you any honor, my lord." Taking his extended arm, she paced decorously down the hall with him.

  Despite her coolness, his body responded powerfully to her touch. "Again, I wish to apologize for my ill-temper earlier today. I hope I did not spoil the ascension for you."

  "You apologized already, or had you forgotten?" She did not look at him, instead concentrating on the steps as they descended.

  "No, I hadn't forgotten, but . . . I didn't have the impression you truly forgave me." They reached the ground floor and he paused, making her face him. "Will you? Please?"

  She frowned slightly, but met his eyes readily enough. "I cannot hold you responsible for your upbringing or your world, my lord. In truth, you have been less critical of my behavior than perhaps I deserve. But I still do not understand the hostility you displayed toward your brother."

  He led her forward again, into the dining room. "I suppose I should try to explain, though I'm not sure I understand it completely myself." Once they were both seated, he continued. "You have an older brother, do you not? Have you never felt resentment toward him for telling you what to do?"

  "Charles has rarely tried to tell me what to do," she said, picking up her spoon. "If anything, the reverse has been true, particularly when he returned home after college, and had to relearn much about the business."

  She took a mouthful of soup and Marcus watched the spoon enter and leave her mouth, nearly losing the thread of their conversation in his fascination. "Um, I see. Well, it was not that way with me and Peter —or my other brothers. As the youngest, they've all had a tendency to advise, scold, even coddle me. Siblings can be worse than parents in that regard." Certainly no one could accuse his father of coddling!

  "So you felt that today Lord Peter was attempting to do that, to advise, scold and coddle?" She seemed doubtful.

  "Wasn't he? Prying into the details of our marriage, offering advice on how I should go on. Did it not seem so to you?"

  She shook her head. "I thought he was simply being kind, and showing the sort of interest one might expect from a close family member. Of course, he did say something about you embarrassing me, rather than the other way around. Clearly it was intended to amuse me, but I suppose I can see where you might take it amiss."

  So she still thought him too prosaic to be capable of anything remotely embarrassing, Marcus thought, amused himself. If she only knew the truth. Just as well, however. "No, that didn't offend me, particularly," he said truthfully. "It was his platitudes on mutual respect and such, and the implication that I don't appreciate you properly. Because I do, I assure you."

  Just now he was appreciating her rather too much, in fact, as the tightness of his breeches could attest.

  "True respect and appreciation extend beyond the bedchamber," she said, as though she could see his lap through the table. He shifted uncomfortably.

  "Yes, of course," he agreed quickly. "Do you feel that I have shown you a lack of respect? It has not been intentional, if so."

  She regarded him almost sadly, he thought. "No, I'm sure it hasn't been. No doubt you are treating me with all of the respect most wives can expect of their husbands, and perhaps even more."

  "And you wish for something beyond that?" He truly did want to understand, but felt increasingly at a loss.

  "I am quite capable, you know," she said, as though that were some sort of answer. "But I feel as though my abilities may wither away due to lack of use. I . . . should like to be more useful."

  Marcus smiled in relief. "Is that all? That is easily remedied, then. Feel free to take over all management of the household, to redecorate the entire house instead of just your room, whatever you like. I'll put no obstacle in your way. I'm sure you can find enough to do to keep you from boredom."

  She stared at him, the delight he'd hoped his words would produce distinctly lacking. "Boredom? I never said—" But then she stopped with a sigh. "Thank you, my lord. I'm certain I can."

  "Marcus, remember?" he reminded her gently, wondering what he'd said wrong. If she did what he suggested, she'd be more useful than he himself had ever been —well, until his recent forays as the Saint of Seven Dials.

  "Of course. Marcus." She set down her spoon, though her soup was but half finished. "I find I am not particularly hungry after all. In fact, I have a bit of a headache. If you will excuse me?"

  He took her hand in sudden concern. "Are you unwell?" That would explain her moodiness today. "Should I call for a physician?"

  "No, no, I am only a trifle indisposed. I'm certain I'll feel quite myself in the morning." Gently, she pulled her hand from his grasp and stood. "Pray finish your own dinner, Marcus. I'm quite able to make it upstairs on my own."

  He had stood when she did, but now he reluctantly sat back down, since she so clearly wished it.
"Very well. But do not hesitate to ring if you should need anything— anything at all."

  "Thank you. I won't." Then, with that same, sad smile, she left him.

  Frowning after her, Marcus finally admitted what he'd been trying to deny since his near-declaration last night. He'd fallen completely, desperately, head-over-heels in love with his wife. Even if it risked his secret, he was no longer going to attempt to keep her at a distance.

  No, come morning, assuming Quinn was feeling better, he planned to launch an all-out assault on her heart. He would not give up until she loved him as desperately as he loved her. Then he'd show Peter, show the whole world, what a happy marriage looked like.

  * * *

  "You're certain you feel completely recovered?" The tenderness in Marcus's voice, as he helped her from the carriage upon their arrival at Lord and Lady Jeller's Venetian breakfast, threatened to undermine Quinn's resolve to guard her heart from him.

  "Yes, I told you it was merely a passing indisposition. I'm perfectly well today," she replied, stepping onto the wide sweep of lawn surrounding the house. She would not let him cajole her into renewed intimacy. The risk of further hurt was too great.

  The Jeller home was in Chelsea, just beyond Mayfair on the outskirts of London, making it a perfect setting for an outdoor entertainment. Quinn wished she still possessed the innocence to enjoy it. Marcus had taken that from her, along with her sense of purpose. But while the former was gone forever, the latter was being renewed. Polly had promised to have those names for her by dinnertime.

  "This is lovely," she said in spite of herself. She hadn't realized such pastoral beauty existed so near to London.

  "Lord Marcus! Lady Marcus! How delightful of you to come," exclaimed Miss Melks, hurrying forward with her sister Augusta in tow. "The most romantic tales have been circulating, and we were so hoping you would tell us the truth of them."

  "Girls, girls!" Lady Jeller followed her daughters at a more decorous pace. "Let them get fairly out of their carriage before pelting them with questions, do. Welcome, Lord Marcus. I am pleased you were able to attend, and your new bride."

  Marcus swept Lady Jeller a bow and made the appropriate introductions. "I don't know what stories you have heard," he said then, "but I like to think ours is a romantic one."

  He put an arm about Quinn's waist, making her rebellious body thrill with remembered pleasure. She felt herself blushing and realized that would only lend credence to his words.

  "I'm most happy to meet you, Lady Jeller," she said. "I must number your daughters among my first friends in England, as they were so kind to me at my first Society function."

  Lucinda and Augusta smiled and tittered, then converged on her again. "A secret engagement was romantic enough, but a surprise wedding, only days after it came out!" Augusta exclaimed. "You must be very in love." Both girls sighed melodramatically.

  Quinn did not dare meet Marcus's eye, though she felt him looking at her. "We, ah—"

  "Yes, we certainly are," he responded firmly, pulling her close against his side. "And the beauty of such a quick wedding is that now I have the pleasure of paying court to my own wife, to make up for the lack of time I had to do so before our marriage. This way is far more satisfying, as you may imagine."

  The Misses Melks' eyes grew round and they both blushed, then tittered. "Why, you haven't changed a bit, Lord Marcus," Lucinda scolded him teasingly. "Still such a rogue! You're a very lucky woman, Lady Marcus, you are indeed." She then nudged her sister and they moved away, still giggling.

  Quinn looked up at Marcus doubtfully. "Did you not admonish me only yesterday for speaking of our private concerns to your brother?" Marcus, a rogue?

  He met her eyes, his own twinkling very much as a rogue's might. "I already admitted I was wrong in what I said yesterday. Did you have any other fault to find in what I told the Misses Melks?"

  "Other than the fact that it was a complete falsehood?" What had he meant by saying they were in love? She couldn't bring herself to ask directly, so added, "Or have you been courting me without my realizing it?"

  "Not properly," he said, his blue eyes warm on hers. "But I mean to begin —and I hope that you will very much realize it."

  She felt herself pinkening, and could not blame the warmth of the sun, shielded as she was by her new parasol. "You do?" she asked in a small voice, trying to fight the absurd pleasure that welled up in her at the very thought.

  Instead of answering, he led her toward the tents that had been erected over the buffet tables. "Come, my lady. Let us see what dainties I can tempt you with. We'll fill our plates, then find a secluded spot for tender flirtation."

  Quinn had never seen him in this mood outside of his bedchamber, but she could not seem to protest. Smiling and nodding at those people she had already met, Marcus making introductions to those she had not, they proceeded to the tables, where he loaded a tray with generous amounts of food and drink.

  "Hmm. That arbor near the pond looks promising," he said then. "Let's see if it is still unoccupied."

  It was. Grapes nearing ripeness hung in clusters above their heads, thick green leaves screening them from every direction but that of the pond, which stretched before them in idyllic stillness, a single swan gliding across its surface.

  "What a beautiful spot," Quinn said. And romantic, her rebellious heart added. Dangerously so, in fact.

  "It is." Marcus set the tray at one end of the wooden bench beneath the arch of grapevines. "If we should buy an estate of our own, perhaps we can have something similar built." Taking her hand, he sat next to the tray and pulled her down to sit on his other side.

  "Per—perhaps we can." An estate of their own? Quinn had not allowed herself to think seriously of any future they might have together, but suddenly the idea held a powerful appeal. A house in the country, with horses, dogs— perhaps children . . .

  Marcus picked a strawberry from his tray and held it out with a smile. "May I tempt you, my lady?"

  She reached for it, but he shook his head. "No hands. For today, I am your slave. Let me feed you as though you were an Egyptian queen."

  Remembering the friezes they had seen at the Egyptian Hall, Quinn giggled, then, feeling a bit foolish, opened her mouth for the strawberry. He placed it on her tongue, firm and cool, and she bit into it, releasing its sweetness. Holding it by the stem, he brought the remaining half to his own mouth and bit off the rest. The intimacy of sharing the fruit sent an unexpected sizzle of desire through her.

  Already, he was plucking something else from the tray— this time a small bunch of hothouse grapes. "One for you, one for me," he said, alternately popping one into her mouth and then his own. The sweet coolness of the grapes burst in her mouth as she chewed. Quinn had never realized fruit could be so . . . erotic.

  Next he held up a thin slice of melon. "You eat from that end, and I'll eat from this," he suggested. Her eyes locked with his, she obeyed, their faces, their lips, drawing closer and closer as the melon disappeared. He took the last bite himself, then with a quick flick of his tongue, caught a drop of juice that had escaped the corner of her mouth.

  A jolt went through her, and she tried to prepare herself for the assault on her senses his kiss would be—but he was already turning back to the tray. "Ah! A nice counterpoint." He proferred a peeled section of grapefruit, again holding it so that they could eat from either end, though their noses nearly touched.

  After the sweetness of the melon, the tart grapefruit was almost a shock —but not an unpleasant one. This time when they met in the middle he licked the tangy juice from her very lips, his tongue exploring their outline. Quinn's eyes drifted closed from the sheer sensuality of it.

  When he turned away again, still without kissing her, she found her voice. "Is this a courtship, my lord, or a seduction?"

  He looked back at her, a smoky glimmer in his blue eyes. "Which would you prefer?" He held up another strawberry.

  "Never having experienced either, I will reserve
judgment," she replied, opening her mouth for the fruit. This time he treated the strawberry as he had the melon and grapefruit, dangling it between them so that they could bite from opposite sides.

  Quinn chewed and swallowed, her lips a mere hair's breadth from his. His masculine scent seemed to surround her, mingling with the sweetness of the fruit. Unthinkingly, she parted her lips slightly, and he accepted her unspoken invitation, closing the miniscule gap between them.

  Quinn felt as though it had been months since he had kissed her, instead of barely more than a day. She drank in the sensations as one perishing, slaking her thirst. His arms went about her, and she slid her own around his back, fruit and scenery alike forgotten in the passion of their embrace.

  With sudden certainty, she knew that this was right, that the completeness she had missed was to be found only here, in Marcus's arms. And with that certainty came surrender —to him, and to her own feelings, which she had tried so hard to deny.

  He must have felt it, for he deepened the kiss, his hands roaming up and down her back. But when he began to unfasten her gown, sanity abruptly returned.

  "We—we mustn't," she breathed against his still-questing lips. "Not here."

  Raising his head, he glanced around. "No one is watching," he assured her with a grin, and undid another hook at the nape of her neck.

  "Marcus!" she exclaimed, laughing and pulling away. "I begin to think you really are a rogue after all."

  He pulled a tragic face. "Alas, I am discovered at last. But I have heard it said that reformed rogues make the best lovers."

  She stared at him, still doubting. Her staid, stodgy Marcus, a rogue? Truly? She remembered comments from his brother, from those spiteful ladies in the Park, and today from the Misses Melks. Could it be that he was only stodgy around her? Not that he was being the least bit stodgy now . . .

  "From what I have experienced so far, if you truly were a rogue, then that saying is quite accurate," she said, a smile tugging at her lips.