Romancing the Past

by Darcy Burke

  “Hardly,” Jane said. “My mother says he’s not as desirable as he once was—which is what happened to Ripley several years ago. Not that either of them cares. Or so it seems.” She turned to Phoebe. “Is that true? Does Ripley care about not going to Almack’s or attending balls?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Phoebe murmured, her gaze finding Marcus across the room where he stood with Colton. His eyes were on her, sending a tremor of awareness down her spine. She finished her champagne. “Pardon me for a moment.”

  She turned and went to one of the doors, where a footman stood with an empty tray. Depositing her glass with him, she asked for the direction to the retiring room.

  Making her way there, she took a few minutes to reset her equilibrium. Marcus was unsettling her in a way he hadn’t before. She wasn’t sure what to do except avoid him. Perhaps she wasn’t really equipped for friendship with a man. Or a man like him.

  Phoebe checked her reflection in the glass. She tried to see the beauty in her hair that Marcus had described. His words could have been mere flattery, a pretty, vocal seduction, but they weren’t. Not when she compared them with those of the vile Sainsbury. His words had been empty, disgusting promises.

  No, they weren’t at all alike. Marcus hadn’t accosted her, despite ample opportunity, at any point during their picnic the other day. He’d been the consummate gentleman, actually. Not at all what she might have expected before she’d come to know him. Before they’d become friends.

  Her lips curved back at her from the glass. She felt better, more at ease, ready to return.

  She left the retiring room and ran straight into Marcus. Or would have, if she hadn’t stopped short.

  “There you are,” he said.

  “Were you looking for me?” Phoebe glanced around and saw they were alone.

  His mouth slanted in a roguish smile. “Always.” He stepped toward her and offered her his arm. “Might we take a turn?”

  In answer to his question, she curled her arm around his sleeve. “Where?”

  “Back to the drawing room?”

  Then it would look as if they’d had a rendezvous. Or that they’d encountered each other outside the drawing room. She wasn’t entirely sure which these particular guests would assume, but she guessed it was probably the latter. However, at least a few, particularly Jane’s mother, might think the former. “We shouldn’t arrive together.”

  “I see.” He steered her into another room and closed the door.

  That wouldn’t look scandalous.

  “This is worse than arriving together,” she said.

  “Just give me a moment.” He sounded so earnest and his gaze was so serious that she withdrew her hand from his arm and faced him expectantly. “I want to cancel our wager. About kissing.”

  Words failed to form on her tongue. She stared at him in shock.

  “I can see that’s the last thing you expected to hear,” he quipped.

  At last, she was able to manufacture speech. “Why?”

  “We’re friends now, and I think my…flirtation makes you uncomfortable. I never want to cause you unease.”

  A swoon threatened to pitch her toward the floor. Not really, but her knees had grown a bit watery. “I’m not uncomfortable. I’m just not used to it.” Except she was a trifle uncomfortable. When she thought of where it might lead. “I don’t like kissing.”

  The admission tumbled from her lips without thought. As soon as it was out there between them, she wished she could haul it back in.

  His eyes flickered with surprise. “Then you’ve actually done so before?”

  She nodded, again unable to speak.

  “Sainsbury.” It wasn’t a word so much as a growl. Marcus’s eyes darkened to that pitch-black place between midnight and dawn.

  “Yes.”

  Marcus looked away, then inhaled deeply. When he turned his gaze back to hers, he appeared more like the man she’d come to know. “Tell me where to deposit the hundred pounds.”

  “I—” She wanted to protest, but he was right. When she thought about taking their flirtation…anywhere, a cold apprehension swept through her. Despite that, there was also the faintest hint of anticipation. And loss now that the wager was over.

  “The Foundling Hospital.”

  “Done.” He started to offer her his arm once more, but she held up her hand.

  “What about the other wager—the masquerade?”

  “We can cancel that t—”

  She interrupted him. “No, I don’t want to. I’ve already organized my costume.”

  He narrowed one eye briefly. “All right. You sound rather confident in your ability to win.”

  “Because I am.”

  He moved closer to her, but not too close. Near enough, however, that she noted the faint lines around his eyes and the curl of his long, dark lashes. “Are you afraid you’d lose the other wager?” he asked softly.

  Yes. “You’re the one who called it off.”

  “So I did. I’d still be delighted—honored—to kiss you if you ever want me to. Whatever was done to you before wasn’t good or right. I won’t ask about it, but don’t take that as my not wanting to know. I want to learn every last thing about you. What you eat for breakfast, if you rise early or stay up late, how you prepare for bed, what you dream about. And everything in between.”

  Phoebe couldn’t look away from him, nor could she move. She was enchanted by the passion of his stare and the seductive timbre of his voice.

  “A kiss isn’t a weapon or a tool, it’s a shared desire made manifest,” he continued. “A joining borne of urgency or emotion or bare need—or all those things. A kiss should make you tremble and catch flight, like a leaf breaking free from the tree and skipping on the breeze. More than that, the anticipation is akin to a cold winter night when the fire is just starting to blaze. You hold your hands up, eager for the warmth, knowing it will give you everything you need, that you will feel safe and whole and content. As the heat finally settles in, you twitch and laugh, your body welcoming the joy and bone-deep satisfaction it brings. For that moment, everything is right and perfect.”

  Phoebe made a sound she didn’t recognize. It was part sigh and part…longing. She didn’t care about any wager. She wanted to feel the way he described.

  He took her hand, his fingers warm against hers. “You deserve that and nothing less.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the space between her thumb and forefinger, his gaze never leaving hers.

  Then he let her go and presented his arm. “We should return.”

  Yes, they should. Her body was trembling, just as he’d described. Except she wouldn’t take flight. Not today.

  And that left her profoundly disappointed. What remained was what she planned to do about that. Right now, she didn’t know.

  “A note arrived for you, my lord,” Dorne said, handing Marcus the missive as he stepped from the stairs.

  “Thank you.” Marcus continued to his study, glad for the black coffee he’d drunk upstairs after his relatively sleepless night. That was two in a row. Two nights of dreaming of Phoebe and waking up frustrated. Because those dreams were all he was ever going to have.

  He glanced down at the note and immediately recognized the handwriting. Opening the parchment, he quickly scanned the note from Mrs. Alban.

  She wanted to know if he would come for dinner tonight.

  He’d regularly dined with the brothel owner, at least once a fortnight. In addition, he paid more frequent visits to her establishment, but not to see her. They’d never shared a bed—she left that to her employees—but they’d shared many meals, conversations, and laughter. She was the only female friend he’d ever had.

  Until Phoebe.

  His focus had been almost entirely on her this past week and a half. A delightful, pleasant interlude—a sort of respite from his rakehell life. Now it was over.

  He sat at his desk and dashed off a note to accept Mrs. Alban’s invitation. As he was folding
the parchment, Dorne returned to announce the arrival of Harry Sheffield.

  Marcus handed the butler his response to Mrs. Alban. “Have this delivered, please. Send Harry in.”

  Harry entered a few moments later. “Morning, Rip. Hope I’m not disturbing you too early.”

  “Not at all.” Marcus gestured for Harry to sit. “I hope your visit means you have good news to share.”

  Frowning, Harry took the chair next to Marcus’s desk. “I’m afraid I don’t. Drobbit has proven to be difficult prey. It’s almost as if he’s vanished.”

  “Damn.” Marcus knew that if Harry couldn’t find him, it was as if Drobbit had disappeared from the earth.

  “I do have news, however.” Harry narrowed his eyes slightly as he rested one arm on the chair. “Drobbit may have been up to some shady behavior. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?”

  Marcus wondered what Harry had learned. “What sort of shady behavior?”

  “I’m not certain, but my search for him has led me to some unsavory individuals. Criminals, to be frank. Underworld moneylenders.” Harry’s brow darkened. “I suspect he owes someone money.”

  Bloody hell. That would explain why he was stealing—and why he was broke. “I can’t get into specifics, but I believe he may have swindled someone. He took money for an investment, then said it went poorly and the money was lost.”

  “You—or the someone—think he lied and stole the money?” Harry asked.

  “It’s possible. That’s why I want to find him.”

  “If you think of anything, anything at all, that would help me, I’d appreciate it. In the meantime, I’m going to follow where this leads.” Harry stood and gave Marcus a grim stare. “Your cousin may face arrest.”

  “So it appears.” Marcus wanted to put a stop to Drobbit’s criminal behavior, and that seemed the best way to do it at this point. Still, he wanted a list of who his cousin had cheated and how much he’d stolen. It bothered him to think that Drobbit had ruined, or come close to ruining, any number of people.

  Harry departed, leaving Marcus in a pensive mood. Where the hell had Drobbit gone? Had something happened to him?

  Marcus swore under his breath. Osborne. Drobbit’s assistant in crime. He’d invited Graham to a pub in Leicester Square to discuss investing with Drobbit. Marcus was thoroughly vexed with himself for not recalling that sooner and blamed his fixation on Phoebe. He’d go to the pub tonight.

  First, however, he needed to pick up his custom-made mask from Bond Street. They’d delivered it the day before yesterday, but it hadn’t covered enough of his face and head. The goal was a disguise so he could win the bet with Phoebe.

  At least he had that to look forward to. Not winning, though he wanted to, but having something with her. Because after that, he wasn’t sure what would sustain their friendship. Unless they could truly continue on as friends. That would be damned difficult when he wanted to know her in ways that transcended friendship. He wanted intimacy with her. On every level.

  Fuck, man, pull yourself together.

  Marcus made the short walk from his house in Hanover Square to Bond Street. As he turned south, his mind was still very much on Phoebe. Their current wager, the wager he’d forfeited and paid two days ago, potential wagers he could make when this one was finished. Anything to stay in her orbit.

  Instead of wagers, perhaps he could convince her to allow him to continue giving her driving lessons. She was an excellent student. So good, he doubted his services would be necessary for too long. Still, it was better than nothing.

  As if conjured from his desires, Phoebe was coming toward him. He recognized the precise moment she saw him. The dimples he loved flashed briefly. His gut tightened.

  “Good afternoon,” he greeted as he came upon her. She was not alone. Miss Jane Pemberton accompanied her, and it seemed a maid trailed them, for the woman paused when they did.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” Phoebe said, dropping into a curtsey.

  Miss Pemberton followed suit.

  He could just have continued on. Probably should have, but he was captive to Phoebe’s presence. “What are you shopping for today?”

  “I just picked up the last piece of my costume for the masquerade,” Phoebe said, her gaze dipping to the box she carried.

  “I wonder if you were at the shop where I am headed. Imagine if we’d shown up at the same time.” He suppressed a smile but looked at her with mirth. Her gaze responded in kind, glowing with humor.

  “Then I suppose things would have been spoiled.”

  “I’m pleased they are not,” he said. He looked to Miss Pemberton, lest he forget entirely that there were other people who weren’t Phoebe. “Are you looking forward to the masquerade?”

  “I am, though I had to persuade my mother that we should go.” She blushed slightly. “Forgive me.”

  Marcus arched a brow, then glanced at Phoebe in question.

  “She’s referring to the news that is newly circulating—that you purchased Brixton Park.”

  He’d been a bit concerned about his reputation dampening the attendance of the ball, but he also knew people were eager to visit Brixton Park. Close to London with grand and extensive gardens, the house hadn’t hosted an event in over a generation. “I assumed people’s curiosity would win out.”

  “It did with my mother,” Miss Pemberton said with a light laugh. “Thank goodness.”

  “Excellent. It’s going to be spectacular.” He leaned forward—to impart a secret but also to hopefully catch a whiff of Phoebe’s spicy feminine scent. “Don’t tell anyone, but there’s to be hide-and-seek in the maze, followed by fireworks.”

  Miss Pemberton sucked in a breath. “It’s a surprise?”

  “Yes, for the Duke and Duchess of Halstead. To celebrate their union.”

  “That will be spectacular.” Miss Pemberton grinned at Phoebe. “I’m so glad I’m allowed to attend!”

  “Me too.” Phoebe sent a smile toward Marcus, and he wanted to take it very personally—that she was glad to be going to an event at his house to see him.

  Christ, he’d never hung on a woman like this.

  Past time to go. “I’ll look forward to seeing you both Saturday.” He bowed, then continued on his way, taking care to walk as close to Phoebe as he dared.

  She turned her head as he did the same, their gazes connecting for the briefest moment. “See you Saturday,” she murmured.

  Knowing nothing he wanted would come of it, he’d count the minutes nonetheless.

  Chapter 6

  Phoebe’s gaze lingered on Marcus for a moment as he walked away. She couldn’t help but appreciate his smooth, confident gait or the way the tails of his coat brushed against his muscular thighs. Reluctantly, she turned her head back and started walking.

  She felt Jane’s attention before she said anything. “What is going on with you and Ripley?”

  “Nothing,” Phoebe answered. “We’re just friends.”

  “Friends who picnic in Richmond, give each other driving lessons, and who flirt.”

  Phoebe glanced toward her. “There was no flirting.”

  “If you say so.” Jane didn’t sound convinced. “You should do what you like, what makes you happy.” Meaning, even if she had been flirting, there was nothing wrong with it.

  Except there was, because flirting with the Marquess of Ripley would leave her with nothing but heartache. He might not be the reprobate Sainsbury was, but he was still a philanderer.

  What’s wrong with that exactly?

  Phoebe ignored the tiny voice in the back of her head.

  You don’t have to be heartsick. Take what you want.

  “What are you suggesting, Jane?”

  “Only that if you want to flirt with him, you should. There’s no harm, and no one will judge you.”

  Phoebe let out a sharp laugh. “The hell they wouldn’t.”

  “All right, they probably would, but who would know? I don’t mean offense, but no one
pays attention to you. Or me, for that matter.”

  “Perhaps not, but they pay attention to Ripley.” At last night’s card party, someone had asked if she’d taken a picnic in Richmond. They hadn’t come out and asked if she’d been with Ripley, but the question had been clear. “People know we took a picnic to Richmond.”

  “And?” Jane pressed her lips together as they neared Phoebe’s coach. “You don’t have to answer to anyone. Unlike me.” She glanced toward her maid, whom her mother had insisted accompany them.

  “The time may be coming very soon that your mother won’t allow you to visit or shop with me anymore. And I may be disinvited from Mrs. Matheson’s card parties.”

  Jane’s fair brows bunched together. “I can’t control the latter, but I will not permit the former. If it comes to that, I will declare myself a spinster and come to live with you. Then they can focus all their attention on Anne.”

  They climbed into the coach and, since the maid sat opposite them, changed the topic of conversation to their shopping excursion. A short while later, they arrived at Jane’s house. The coachman opened the door, and Jane indicated the maid should depart first.

  Then Jane turned to Phoebe. “Don’t let Sainsbury ruin anything for you. Not all men are like him. I don’t know Lord Ripley at all, but you seem to like him, and that’s enough, isn’t it?”

  Enough for what? “I wasn’t flirting.”

  Jane sighed in exasperation. “But you can if you want to. And you can drive to Richmond. Or dance with him at the masquerade.” She laid her hand atop Phoebe’s briefly. “Do what I can’t. Please.” With a parting wink, she left the coach.

  Phoebe thought of her friend’s advice as they drove to their next destination. Unfortunately, they arrived far too quickly. Looking out the window at the house in which she’d grown up, she took a steadying breath.