by Darcy Burke
His lips hovered above hers. “I don’t know. I am beginning to feel like I’m winning.”
“Maybe we can both claim victory.”
“Do you really want that kiss?” Now he was the one who sounded a bit breathless.
Phoebe put her hands on his chest as the bell sounded. “As it happens, we’re stuck here. Can you think of anything better to do?”
“No.” The single word was low and deep, reverberating in her chest like a thunderclap.
“Tonight, I’m a bird,” she whispered. “Help me take flight.”
With a sweet groan, he pressed his lips to hers. Instinctively, Phoebe tensed. The only other time she’d experienced this, things had gone very, very badly.
Marcus’s arms swept around her, his hands pressing softly into her back as he held her close. She’d no idea where his mask had gone once he’d removed it, but she wasted no time thinking about it.
Not that she had the capacity to think of much beyond the gentle caress of his lips moving over hers. Kiss after kiss, each one lasting just a bit longer, wound her into a keen state of desire. This was exactly what he’d promised. She felt weak and quivery—in the most delightful way—her body poised for what came next.
He trailed a hand up her spine and brought it over her shoulder so that she moved her arm beneath his. His fingers traced her jaw.
“Are you ready to fly?” he whispered.
“Yes. Please.”
He pressed his thumb against her chin. “Open for me.”
Then he angled his lips over hers and licked into her mouth. She went rigid, for she’d experienced this before. No, she actually hadn’t. There was no revulsion, only delight. No fear, only longing.
Phoebe clutched at his coat and then moved her hand up around his neck. She pressed her body against his as he expanded the kiss. His tongue glided against hers, and she floated into the air.
Or would have if she wasn’t holding on to him as if her life depended on it. Or, more accurately, as if she couldn’t get enough of him.
He curled his hand around her neck, cupping her nape, tilting her head to the side so he could lick deeper into her mouth. He kissed her with a gentle persuasion, stoking the passion that had ignited the minute she’d approached him outside the maze.
She’d chosen her advance on him with meticulous care since spotting him almost two hours ago. She’d waited on the fringe, watching for him to go outside, for that was where she’d planned to make her move.
Kissing, however, hadn’t been part of her scheme. But now that she was here, locked in his rapturous embrace, she knew there was no avoiding it. Nor did she want to.
His fingers dug into her back as he tipped her back, cradling her against him. She clung to him, her hand on his neck and cravat. How she wished she wasn’t wearing gloves so she could feel his bare flesh with her own.
He held her easily in one arm while the other skimmed down her back and along her side to clasp her waist before gliding backward to press his hand on her lower back. The movement brought her against him, their hips colliding.
Sensation exploded in her core, and for the first time, she understood the appeal of an affair. She sensed not just the ability to take flight, but the chance to fly around the world and touch the sun.
He pulled his lips from hers but didn’t leave her. He kissed along her jaw and then her neck, his tongue leaving a delicious trail of want. Phoebe shivered and clasped the back of his head, her fingers twining in his hair.
“Phoebe.” He murmured her name like a plea. “Phoebe.” A prayer. “Phoebe.” An urgent demand.
He skimmed her waist again, moving his hand forward to her rib cage and bringing it up to the underside of her breast. He lingered there, barely cupping her. The caress sent another shock of desire through her.
Suddenly, she was upright, and he turned her, pressing her against the hedge and blocking her from the narrow entrance.
“Someone’s coming.”
Phoebe saw the light coming through the maze, and it was almost upon them. She quickly pulled her mask down over her face. Marcus completely obliterated her view of the passage. Good, that meant no one could see her either.
“Found you! Number thirty-four. Remember that, if you please,” came Arabella’s voice before the light moved on.
Another light followed, and this time, a man spoke, but it wasn’t Graham. “If you’ve been found, you must leave the maze.”
“Of course,” Marcus answered. The light dimmed, and it seemed they were alone once more. “We need to go.” He bent, and she realized he’d dropped his mask. When he had it back in place, he offered her his arm. “Now we can say we encountered each other as we left. If anyone asks,” he added.
Phoebe curled her hand around his coat, eager for more of his warmth, not because she was cold but because he felt divine. Particularly pressed up against her. “It’s almost as if you planned this rendezvous.” She walked closely beside him as they left the nook.
“You’re the one who found me.”
Phoebe grinned. She couldn’t help herself. A giddy excitement tripped through her. She wanted to dance out of the maze. Take flight, indeed. “I did. I suppose that means I win.”
“I thought we decided we both win.”
She heard the humor in his voice. “Someone has to pay thirty pounds.”
“I already paid a hundred,” he said with a laugh. “Fine, another thirty. Same place?”
“If you please.”
He escorted her from the maze, turning her along the path that led to the patio. “Your disguise was superior. I didn’t recognize you at all. And even when you approached me, I wasn’t entirely certain.”
“When did you know?”
“Absolutely? Not until you mentioned kissing me.”
Phoebe laughed gaily. “You assume you’re the only man I would invite to do so?”
“I hope so.” He slowed his pace and turned her onto a side path. “Do you mind taking a detour?”
“Where to?”
“Heaven?” When she sucked in her breath, he amended his answer. “Richmond, maybe?”
This provoked her to laugh again. “My lord, you’ve plied me with exceptional kisses. I may allow you to take me anywhere.”
“Phoebe.” He groaned her name. “Please, have a care for me. You are sorely trying my self-control.”
That sounded dangerous. Deliciously, wonderfully, tantalizingly dangerous. Even so, she needed to be cautious. Otherwise, she would allow him to take her anywhere.
“Your mask was also excellent,” she said as they walked to a darker part of the garden.
“How long did you know who I was?”
“As soon as you walked toward Graham.”
“Damn. You were far smarter about this than I was.”
She wasn’t sure that was the only reason for her victory. “Perhaps less arrogant.”
He let out a loud laugh, then quickly quieted himself to a chuckle. “I’m not the one who swore I would win.”
“Did I do that?” she asked innocently.
“Maybe more than once.”
“I like winning, apparently. I didn’t know that about myself.” She also hadn’t expected to like kissing. “Thank you,” she said softly, stopping on the path. Though they were in shadow, there was a clear line of sight to the patio.
He turned and tipped his head down. It was hard to tell if he was looking at her, but she assumed he was. “For what?”
“I wish I could see your face.” She reached up and touched the underside of his jaw. “For showing me what kissing can be. I don’t dislike it anymore. At least not with you.”
“Good.” He moved closer, so that their clothing touched. He brushed his hand along her forearm down to her hand, his fingers briefly tangling with hers. “I wish I could see your face too.”
Her heart fluttered, as if it too wanted to fly. She still held his arm, her anchor to the earth—to him.
“I’d be happy to repeat
the demonstration any time you find yourself doubting the pleasure of kissing.”
“I’m not sure I could ever do so again. Not after tonight. But I appreciate your offer and will keep it in mind.” She’d think of little else.
Their masks covered most of their faces, but their mouths were exposed. She swayed toward him.
Yelling sounded from behind her. They both turned. Marcus swore. “It’s Anthony.”
At that moment, a loud boom rent the air, followed by light exploding in the sky. The fireworks!
Marcus paused to look up. Then he looked at her. She grinned at him. “They’re magnificent.”
Pulling his gaze from hers, he started back along the path. She hurried alongside him, periodically glancing up at the display as she went.
In the middle of a patch of lawn between their path and the patio, Anthony rolled on the ground with another gentleman. Spectators had gathered. They looked from the fight up to the sky and back again. Wagers were exchanged amidst the light and sound.
Marcus withdrew his arm from Phoebe’s hand and strode into the fray. He bent down and hauled Anthony off the other man, nearly toppling backward with the effort. Managing to keep his footing, Marcus kept hold of Anthony’s arm. It was a necessary thing, for Anthony tried to pitch forward.
The other man scrambled to his feet. “I ought to call you out, Colton!”
Anthony responded by bending over and casting up his accounts all over the lawn. The crowd gasped and made sounds of disgust before beginning to dissipate. The other man snorted in derision before taking himself off the lawn.
Marcus cast a quick glance at Phoebe, and she knew their evening was done. Anthony required his assistance.
“I’ll send a footman,” she offered.
Marcus winced as Anthony vomited again. “Thank you.”
Phoebe started toward the patio but didn’t have to find a footman. A pair of them were already rushing to provide aid.
It was a rather ghastly end to their lovely interlude, but probably for the best. She was certain they’d been about to kiss again, and right where anyone could have seen them. Except would anyone have known who they were? The peacock kissing the golden eagle would surely escape notice.
“Good evening, Miss Peacock,” Jane said as Phoebe stepped onto the crowded patio. The ballroom had emptied to watch the fireworks. “I see you found Mr. Eagle.”
Phoebe was glad for the mask, for she blushed rather profusely. At least one person would have known who they were. “You saw us walking together?”
Jane tipped her head back as white lights speckled the inky sky. “I did. Did you win the bet?”
Phoebe nodded, her eyes on the stunning show above them.
“Did you win anything else?” Jane teased with glee.
“No.” Except she had. Phoebe didn’t know what she’d won, only that she felt victorious. Like a conqueror. Perhaps because she’d overcome her fear. She looked over at Jane. “Maybe.”
Jane grinned, then looped her arm through Phoebe’s. “Good. I won’t ask for the details, because I suspect you won’t give them to me. But when you change your mind, I can’t wait to hear them. I’m glad you took my advice.”
To do what she wanted.
Phoebe had done exactly that, and she wanted to do it again. She wanted more of tonight. More kissing. More Marcus.
Smiling to herself as the fireworks concluded, she let her joy fly free. She’d never felt more alive.
Chapter 8
Phoebe took a deep breath as she followed her coachman and footman into her parents’ house. Foster held the door and gave Phoebe a quizzical look.
“We’re taking this to the sitting room for now,” she said to him. “Will you let Papa know I’m here?”
“Right away.” Foster closed the door after her and took himself off toward her father’s study.
Phoebe motioned for her retainers to follow her to the sitting room. “Lean it against that chair.” She pointed at a sturdy piece of furniture in the corner.
They did so and straightened, the coachman asking if she required anything further.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I won’t be long.”
They inclined their heads and departed to await her in the coach.
Phoebe went to the package and removed the paper. As she stood back, her father entered.
“Foster said you’d come for a visit.” He turned toward her, and his jaw nearly hit the floor. “What the hell is that?”
She thought it was rather obvious. “It’s your very own Gainsborough.”
“Mine?” He looked from the painting to her.
“Yes.”
“It’s not my birthday,” he said, returning his gaze to the landscape and then frowning. Deeply.
Phoebe tensed. Was there no pleasing the man? He’d seemed so agitated at her having bought one, she thought he might like to have one for himself. “You don’t like it?”
“I don’t understand why you’re giving it to me.”
“Because I wanted to.” She wondered if she’d made a mistake.
The frown remained. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Nevertheless, I did.” She noticed he didn’t answer whether he liked it. “If you don’t want it, you can sell it.”
He turned on her, his eyes sparking with anger. “I don’t need your charity.”
She suspected he did. “It’s not charity. I bought you a painting.” And yes, she did so knowing he could sell it and use the funds if that was what he really needed. She didn’t think he would have reacted well to an explicit offer to give—or loan—him money. “It’s a gift, Papa.”
“It’s charity, and I don’t want it.”
She’d had enough of his obstinance when it came to her. “But do you need it? I have the impression you are in financial trouble, and I can help.”
He opened his mouth, but the next words were from Mama, who’d come into the sitting room. “Don’t lie to her, Stewart. She’s not stupid.” She gave Phoebe an apologetic stare. “Yes, we are in financial trouble, which is why we let those retainers go. We can pay Lettie less than we paid Harkin.”
Phoebe had guessed as much. “What happened?”
“Your father made a bad investment.”
Papa glared at her. “Augusta, don’t.”
Phoebe’s insides roiled. She hated her father’s shame as much as she hated the anger he directed at her mother. “How much did you lose?”
His face turning red, Papa blew out a breath and quit the room. Phoebe watched him leave, her heart twisting.
Mama walked toward the painting. “What’s this?”
“A Gainsborough. I bought it for Papa.”
“I heard him say something about charity.” Mama pivoted toward her. “Is that what this is?”
“Not specifically. But yes, I thought that if you were in need of funds, he could sell it. It was the only way I could think to offer him money without hurting his pride.”
“I think it’s far too late for that,” Mama said softly. She went to the settee and sat down, then patted the cushion beside her.
Phoebe perched next to her, still taut with agitation after clashing with her father. “What do you want me to do?”
“Marry a wealthy duke?” Mama smiled, but it was brief, and the light in her eyes dimmed. “Give your father some time. He feels very foolish about the investment, and he thinks he’s failed as a parent.”
Phoebe’s insides coiled. “Because I refused to marry Sainsbury and bought my own house.”
“Yes. And because of your brother. Your father misses him every day.”
“I know,” Phoebe said softly. She missed him too, but it was different. She’d been young when he’d gone off to school and then purchased a commission. “I can’t do anything about Benedict, and I can’t change who I am.”
“I know, dear, and your reputation may be permanently tarnished, so there really is no going back.” Mama’s tone was matter-of-fact but ragged at the edges wi
th sadness.
Permanently tarnished.
“Do you believe that?” Phoebe asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.
“Probably. Invitations for your father and me have trickled to a small number. I know that weighs on him too.”
Papa didn’t give a fig about attending Society events. So long as he was welcome at his club and within his group of friends, he was content. Mama, however, didn’t like being excluded. While it pained Phoebe to be the cause of that, she wouldn’t regret her choices. She couldn’t—to do so would be to ignore her own pain and to make herself feel less. Insignificant. As if she only existed to provide a desired outcome for others.
“Mama, do you believe that I’m tarnished? If I weren’t your daughter, would you give me the cut direct?”
Mama stared at her, her lips parting. She glanced away, and Phoebe’s chest squeezed. Then she reached over and patted Phoebe’s hand. “No, I wouldn’t. Of course not.”
“I think you would. Because in your opinion, I humiliated Sainsbury for no reason. Furthermore, you believe I should have married him regardless of his behavior.”
“I don’t think—”
“You do,” Phoebe said firmly. “Perhaps if you knew exactly what he did to me, you would understand.”
Mama stiffened and looked away. “That isn’t necessary. What’s done is done, and discussing it further won’t change anything.”
“Yet you and Papa can’t keep from bringing it up.” Phoebe realized they were a large part of why she’d felt trapped, why she hadn’t felt truly free since striking out on her own. And why she’d felt…less. She needed to move on.
Phoebe reached over and took her mother’s hand, then gave her a reassuring smile. “I need to tell you what happened, and I need for you to listen. It’s going to be all right, Mama.” And she realized it was. She’d been too afraid to share the truth, too full of shame, as if what Sainsbury had done had been her fault. She didn’t want to feel that shame anymore.
As she rode home in the coach a while later, Phoebe felt lighter than she had in some time. Mama had sat stoically as she’d listened to Phoebe’s story. Then she’d bade her never to repeat it, for if her father ever learned the truth, he might inflict bodily harm on Sainsbury.
