by Darcy Burke
Damn, he made a solid argument. Every defense turned to ash on her tongue. Really, what was the point? In this instance, the point was entirely her parents. It was one thing for her neighbors to see the marquess calling and quite another for her parents, who were already displeased with her, to do so. However, at least one of her neighbors would presumably gossip about Ripley’s presence, and that would surely reach her parents’ ears. Or her mother’s, anyway.
She seized on the only protest she could possibly make. “Just because I am a self-declared spinster doesn’t mean I wish to tarnish my reputation by entertaining rogues and scoundrels.”
“I’m afraid I am both of those.”
“Precisely.”
He smiled slowly, like a cat who’d cornered a mouse. “And since you entered into a wager with me about kissing, I must submit that you are too. A rogue, certainly.”
He’d neatly turned that around on her. Her heart fluttered as it began to pick up speed once more. “I am not a rogue. I’m…enterprising.”
A laugh leapt from his too-seductive mouth. “So this is merely an investment?”
She nodded. “I have several.”
“What an intriguing notion, investing in your own ability to withstand temptation. You must have an extremely high opinion of yourself.”
She sucked in a breath because he couldn’t be more wrong. Until she’d left London after refusing to marry Sainsbury, she’d believed herself to be nearly worthless. She couldn’t attract a husband, and when she finally did, he was of an exceptionally loathsome caliber. Going to stay with her great-aunt had been the wisest thing she could have done. Great-Aunt Maria’s kindness and encouragement toward independence had gently but firmly set Phoebe on a path to improved self-esteem. But to say she had a high opinion of herself, extremely or otherwise, was laughable.
“Hardly. What I do know is that men are not to be trusted, particularly those who seek to flatter and beguile with the intent to seduce.”
“You think seduction is my ultimate goal.”
“What else could it be?” Angry with herself for playing this game with him, Phoebe turned and went to the glass doors that led out to the garden. She kept her back to him as she worked to regain control of her emotions.
It was a long moment before he spoke. “I’m not going to seduce you,” he said quietly. “Not unless you ask me to. The same as the kiss.”
She heard him move, and her body tensed—with anticipation and apprehension. But she didn’t feel him nearby. Pivoting, she saw that he’d gone to the settee near the fireplace and settled himself in the corner. With his arm draped along the back, he looked utterly comfortable and, somehow, commanding. She couldn’t look away from the line of his arm, the breadth of his shoulders, the tightening of his breeches over his crossed legs.
“Have you ever been friends with a man?” he asked.
“No. Why would I be?” It was silly when you thought about it, that young unmarried women were not really allowed to even be friends with a man. And why not? They were half the population.
“Will you allow me to be your friend? I am forever in your debt for stopping to tend my wound, so it really would be easier if we were friends. Don’t you agree?” His lips curled into a placid, nonthreatening smile. Even so, she couldn’t help but wonder at his ulterior motive.
“I’m afraid I will always be wondering when you plan to pounce.” She nearly flinched when she said it. He wasn’t behaving like a predator. However, she refused to be naïve.
He withdrew his arm from the back of the settee and uncrossed his legs. Fixing his gaze on her with powerful intensity, he said, “I will never pounce. Not unless you invite me to. I will repeat that to you as many times as necessary to gain your trust. Not all men are awful.”
She wanted to remain unmoved, but it was difficult in the face of his earnest concern. “Thank you.”
He settled back, once again adopting his nonchalant posture. “Now, tell me, will you be at the Duke of Halstead’s wedding on Tuesday?”
His abrupt change of topic would have been jarring if it wasn’t so thoughtful. Assuming he realized how agitated she’d been. He had an astounding ability to put her at ease.
“I will—and at the breakfast at Brixton Park.”
“Excellent. I will see you there. I must admit I like weddings, provided they aren’t my own.”
“I had my own wedding once.” Everything had been planned to the last detail—the ceremony, the breakfast…the rest of her life. Turning her back on all of it had taken more courage than she’d thought she possessed. “Rather, I would have.”
“Do you wish you’d gone through with it?” he asked with utter candor and without a hint of pity.
Phoebe was entranced. She moved away from the window and sat in her favorite chair. “No, not with that bridegroom.” She didn’t hide her contempt. “My dress was quite beautiful.” Her great-aunt had paid for the expensive silk as a wedding gift. Phoebe had apologized profusely for wasting it. Great-Aunt Maria had insisted she wear the gown to dinner on Sundays when Phoebe lived with her. Now the garment held happy memories instead of bitterness.
“You should wear it to the masquerade at Brixton Park a week from Saturday.”
“There’s to be a masquerade? Arabella hasn’t mentioned it.” And Phoebe had just paid her a call yesterday. Arabella’s parents’ back garden bordered Phoebe’s. That was how they’d met and become friends.
“It just came about this morning.”
“I’ve never been to a masquerade.” She thought of Ripley in his evening finery—and a mask. She expected she’d recognize him even with his face partially covered.
“You’ve plenty of time to procure a mask. And I’ll look forward to seeing the gown your idiot bridegroom didn’t deserve.”
That he cast Sainsbury in the role of villain nearly made her grin. “I’ll think about it—wearing the gown, I mean. I’ll be at the ball.”
“That will be day thirteen.”
Of their wager. “And you will be no closer to winning then than you are now.”
“That’s possible, unless I’m able to see you more than at the wedding.” The side of his mouth curved up. “Or are you afraid you’ll find me irresistible after all?”
“I can and will resist. A fortnight is nothing.”
“Particularly if we rarely see each other,” he mused with a smile.
“I will win even if we see each other every day. To prove it, let us take a picnic to Richmond on Sunday.”
His eyes widened slightly with surprise, then lit with admiration. “Why not tomorrow?”
“I already have plans. And apparently, I need to purchase a mask.” She found it alarmingly easy to flirt with him. Perhaps she didn’t need to be alarmed, not after today.
“Sunday…after church?”
“I don’t attend church.”
“Indeed? Me neither. Seems like I would be cast out.” He winked, and she smiled in response.
“I haven’t been able to go since… Never mind.” Since she’d left Sainsbury at the altar.
He nodded as if he understood. And maybe he did. He rose. “Sunday it is. Noon?”
Phoebe stood, smoothing her pale green skirts. “I’ll bring the picnic.”
“I’ll drive my curricle. It won’t bother you to be seen with me?”
She hadn’t fully considered that. The things he’d said today—asking her the purpose of being a self-declared spinster if she couldn’t choose who to spend time with and whether she’d ever had a male friend—took root in her mind.
“No,” she said firmly. “We’re friends, and I don’t care who knows it.” A tremor passed through her, but she ignored the sensation. She’d wanted to leave her old self behind, and it was time to move forward and embrace who she was going to be. Who she wanted to be.
“I’m delighted to be your friend, Miss Lennox. Until Sunday.” He bowed, then turned and left.
After he’d gone, Phoebe lifted the handke
rchief and inhaled his singular scent—sandalwood and a dark spice. Clove. Plus something indescribable. Something that sparked an awakening inside her. An…arousal.
Where that would lead, Phoebe didn’t know, and that was fine. It was maybe even exhilarating.
Chapter 4
The morning had been overcast, but now, as they were on their way to Richmond, the sun had begun to peek through the clouds. Marcus likened it to the way he kept casting surreptitious glances toward his curricle mate. He didn’t want to be caught looking just as the sun perhaps didn’t want to be caught shining.
But it was incredibly hard not to. Miss Lennox presented a most alluring figure—from the tip of the jaunty feather in her stylish hat to the curve of her jaw leading to the lush shape of her mouth down her graceful neck to the fetching costume adorning the body he ached to explore. And didn’t that make him the most wretched of scoundrels?
It would if he acted upon his desire, which he refused to do. There was trepidation and distrust in her gaze if he drew too close. She was content to keep their relationship to a light flirtation—for now—and he would be too.
Besides, he was having a hell of a good time. Miss Lennox was smart and wry. They’d laughed several times since starting out from Cavendish Square—about learning to drive (her) and getting lost in London (him).
“I’ve only been to Richmond twice,” Miss Lennox said. “It’s not terribly far, but not close either.”
Nearly two hours west of London in their current vehicle, Richmond Park was a vast parkland founded centuries earlier. Deer and all manner of wildlife roamed free. “It’s a welcome respite from the city.”
Miss Lennox turned her head to look at him. “Is that why you purchased Brixton Park? As a respite from the city?”
He hadn’t considered that, but it was as good a reason as any. He wouldn’t get into the actual specifics with her. She didn’t need to know about his cousin’s malfeasance or how it had affected Graham. Although, since she was friendly with Graham’s betrothed, she might already be aware. “Indeed. Have you been there? The maze is spectacular.”
“I have—for a picnic. We played hide-and-seek in the maze.”
He envisioned finding her in a secluded nook and ending their wager…if she so chose. “Perhaps we should do that at the masquerade.”
“In the dark?” She’d gone back to looking ahead at the road. “That could be rather scandalous, but then you’re hosting this party, aren’t you?” Her mouth twitched as if she were trying not to smile.
He resisted the urge to chuckle, enjoying her company. “No, Graham and Arabella are. Rather, the new Duke and Duchess of Halstead.”
“But you’re funding the event. Don’t deny it—Arabella told me.”
“As a wedding gift.”
“You’re incredibly generous.” She said the next words softly, so that he had to strain to hear. “I know how much you’ve helped them, by loaning Graham money and purchasing Brixton Park.”
“Arabella has confided quite a bit to you.”
“We’ve become close friends.” She paused, sending him a grateful smile. “Thank you for doing that. I wish I’d known of her family’s difficulty. I would have helped. But I understand why she didn’t ask.”
It had taken Graham being pushed to the brink of disaster before he’d asked for the loan. Marcus understood pride and dignity. “You sound like a good friend.”
“I’ve tried to be. They can be difficult to find.”
“Can they? You and I have found each other. And friendship.” For now. He acknowledged he wanted more, but how much? If she did allow him to kiss her, would he be satisfied? His cock stirred, and he shoved any thoughts of a sexual nature into the farthest reaches of his lurid mind.
“I lost many friends when I decided not to marry Sainsbury.”
It was the opening he’d hoped for. He was curious about Sainsbury and why she’d chosen social devastation over marrying him. Put that together with her general apprehension when he came close, and his curiosity became suspicion.
“Since we are friends, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why didn’t you marry him?”
The sound of the wheels and the horses grew louder as he waited for her to answer. At last, she said, “He demonstrated an incapacity to be faithful.”
Marcus realized he’d been holding his breath. Blowing it out, he glanced over at her stoic profile. “Many husbands are—unfaithful—unfortunately. As are wives.”
“I don’t plan to be, and I expect my husband to behave the same. I certainly don’t want to see him locked in an embrace with another woman at a ball.”
He heard the hurt and anger in her tone and wanted to plant his fist in Sainsbury’s gut. “He was a fool.”
“Because he didn’t take more care?” she asked with a touch of acid.
“No, because he lost you. He won’t ever do better.”
She exhaled, her posture relaxing slightly. “Your flattery isn’t necessary. I took his actions personally, but he will be a terrible husband to whomever he weds.” She composed herself, clasping her hands in her lap. “Men like that shouldn’t marry. If a man knows he won’t be faithful, he shouldn’t take a wife.”
“Except men, especially those of my station, are often raised with a sense of duty. We’re expected to wed and provide an heir, at least. And some men simply can’t be faithful.”
“Does that include you?” she asked, pinning him with a challenging stare.
“Because of my reputation?”
“Because you aren’t married. As you pointed out when we met, you are thirty-one. Surely you should be wed with an heir and a spare by now.”
He shrugged. “Some men wed later.”
“Is that your plan? Or are you one of the men you mentioned who can’t be faithful?”
“I don’t really have a plan. I haven’t been moved to take a wife, and so I haven’t.” Hearing his words come back at him gave him pause. As Harry had said the other day, Marcus didn’t do anything permanent. Faithfulness had never been necessary. Furthermore, he avoided permanence because he desired spontaneity.
You avoid connection.
The small voice whispered in the recesses of his mind, where he kept distant memories and truths he preferred to ignore. Like that one.
“That is my plan precisely,” she said, straightening in her seat. “I’ll marry when—and if—I’m moved to do so.” She flashed him a smile. “We were clearly destined to be friends.”
Marcus couldn’t help laughing. Unmarried friends who were undoubtedly attracted to each other and who shared the same outlook on marriage. If that wasn’t a recipe for an affair, he didn’t know what was.
Because that’s what you want.
That goddamn voice again, seducing him. Yes, he wanted her. But when he’d suggested they be friends, he’d realized he didn’t have any woman friends either. Mrs. Alban didn’t count—her brothel provided a service for him. Why didn’t she count? He dined with her regularly and they shared enjoyable conversations. Wasn’t that a friend?
Hell, he didn’t want to think about her or her bloody brothel while he was with Miss Lennox. Phoebe. He didn’t want to keep thinking of her in such a formal manner.
“Since we are friends, may I call you Phoebe? I’d be honored if you called me Marcus or, if you prefer, Rip, which most of my gentleman friends—particularly those from school—call me.”
“I prefer Marcus, I think.”
His name on her lips sounded utterly delicious. He wanted to kiss her as she said it, see if it tasted the way it sounded. Oh, he was going to be in a mess if he didn’t stop thinking of her like that.
“You may call me Phoebe,” she continued. “But only when we are alone.”
“That’s reasonable. Phoebe.” He slid her a smile as he drove into the park. They’d arrived faster than he’d imagined, or perhaps he’d simply been lost in her company.
Other vehicles were parked along the road, and people picnicked he
re and there. Richmond was a popular destination given its beauty and relative proximity to London.
Marcus drove farther into the park. “Where shall we picnic?”
“Up on the hill?”
He took them up and stopped the curricle. “How’s this?”
A sweeping vista of the parkland and the Thames stretched before them.
“Lovely,” she said. “Though I imagine Pembroke Lodge has an even better view. Have you seen it?”
“I have not.”
Phoebe laughed softly. “I don’t imagine Lady Pembroke would invite someone like you.”
He gasped in mock outrage. “I am not faithless, as we’ve already established. Or perhaps we didn’t.” He climbed out of the curricle and went around to help Phoebe down. As he took her hand, he extended his leg. “Unlike Lord Pembroke, I would take my wedding vows most seriously.”
Would he though? His father had been utterly faithful to his mother and only became an inveterate libertine after her death. Marcus had done the opposite by starting out in that fashion. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to be faithful. A ripple of unease shot through him.
That was a thought for another time. Or maybe never.
“Then your future marchioness will be most fortunate,” she said smoothly as he helped her out of the vehicle.
Marcus fetched the picnic basket and blanket while she walked out over the grass in search of the perfect spot.
Turning, she swept her arm to the left. “Here, I think?”
He joined her and set the basket down. “Spectacular.” He diverted his gaze, lest she thought he was referring to her. And he was.
Marcus spread the blanket upon the grass and placed the basket on the edge. Phoebe set about unpacking the picnic, which seemed far more food than the two of them could eat.
“I’m famished,” she said. “What is it about travel that makes one hungry? It’s not as if it’s exerting. By vehicle, I mean. Riding is a different situation, of course.”
He reached for a small pastry. “This is enough food for a battalion.”
“Those are pork,” Phoebe indicated. “May I pour you some ale?”
