Romancing the Past

by Darcy Burke

  The result was explosive and consuming. Their mouths slanted, their tongues clashed. She clutched at his shoulders, anchoring herself to him and to the sensations he wrought. Desire, elation, need.

  He clutched her backside, drawing her to him so their hips were flush. She felt his rigid cock against her lower belly. A desperate craving flushed over her. Rotating her pelvis against him, she raked her fingers up his neck and into his hair.

  Their kisses expanded, moving from mouths to jaws to necks to earlobes. She nipped at his flesh, and he groaned.

  “I need you,” he rasped.

  She clasped his scalp. “I need you.”

  He turned her and steered them back toward the garden. She felt the table against the tops of her thighs, and then he lifted her to sit on the edge. When he shoved her skirts up, they billowed around her hips.

  She brought her hands down and flicked open the buttons of his fall. Reaching inside his breeches, she encircled her fingers around his cock and tugged at his flesh. He groaned deep in his throat, a dark, gritty sound that flooded her with lust.

  Marcus shoved her legs farther apart, and she positioned him at her sex. Then he drove inside her, plunging deep.

  Phoebe wrapped her legs around him, digging her heels into his backside as he thrust into her. She pulled on his nape, drawing his mouth to hers. Their kisses were heady and sensual, building the passion sizzling between them. She wanted this moment, this joining, to last forever, but already, she felt her release gathering.

  He cupped her head and pulled it back to expose her throat to his lips and tongue. He left a devastating trail of want and rapture from her jaw to her bodice, his mouth closing on her flesh and sucking hard before he let her go.

  She broke apart, her senses splintering as pleasure engulfed her. She clung to him amidst the rapture, holding on to him as the only thing she understood, the only thing that made sense.

  His hips snapped between hers, pumping into her several more times before he grunted and buried himself within her. Using her legs, she held him tightly inside, reveling in the feel of him.

  She rested her forehead on his shoulder, her breath coming fast.

  “Well, fuck.” Marcus’s words were at odds with the gentle way he stroked her back.

  The question died on her lips as she realized the reason for his curse. They hadn’t used a sponge or a French letter. And he hadn’t pulled away before giving her his seed.

  “Fuck indeed,” she murmured.

  He laughed softly, then more loudly. Then he kissed her temple. “You’re a treasure.”

  Phoebe lowered her legs, and he eased back from her. Before he went too far, she used the hem of her petticoat to wipe him off. Her eyes met the cobalt intensity of his.

  “Thank you,” he said simply before turning from her and fastening his breeches.

  She knew he meant to give her a bit of privacy. He was an exceptionally considerate lover. He was an exceptionally considerate everything.

  Taking a moment to tidy herself, she slid from the table and set herself to rights. She smoothed her hair back, unsure of what it might look like.

  “I hadn’t intended for that to happen,” he said, pivoting to look at her again.

  “Clearly. We were both unprepared.”

  “And utterly swept away.” He sounded regretful, but there was a gleam in his eye that said otherwise—a satisfied pride in the fact that they’d been too overcome to think straight. Or maybe she was simply seeing a reflection of what she felt.

  “Why did you come in through the back door?” she asked, apprehensive of his answer.

  He inhaled, and the spark disappeared from his gaze. Her apprehension grew. “I wanted to take special care not to be seen. It’s more crucial than ever that we not be linked too closely. I came to end our affair.” He took a step toward her with a sad half smile.

  The room tilted sideways for a moment. Phoebe had expected this on some level—he’d kept himself away from her entirely since Drobbit had been found.

  “Two nights was one night too many?” She tried to keep her voice light. “Never mind today.”

  To think she would never experience that with him again… Anguish tore at her insides, and she had to clamp her jaw tightly to keep from making a sound.

  He cocked his head lightly. “You aren’t surprised?”

  “Should I be? You aren’t one to have affairs, and your absence the last few days spoke volumes.”

  His brow creased. “I didn’t want to infect you with the disaster surrounding me. I still don’t.”

  “Is that why you’re ending it, then?” She would have preferred that excuse.

  “Partly. But you’re right. This is too much. For me.”

  Phoebe gave in to her heartache, taking a step toward him. “Why?”

  He blinked and didn’t immediately answer. His gaze wavered, and he looked past her to the garden. “I’m not made for this.” He closed the distance between them and took her hand. “You’re a beautiful, intelligent, kindhearted woman, Phoebe. I pray you will not remain alone. Unlike me, I don’t think you’re meant for that. You should have an adoring husband and children—if you want them. You deserve that and so much more.” He kissed her wrist, his lips soft and familiar.

  “I think you’re being a coward.” The thought sprang from her mouth before she could censor it.

  His gaze flickered with surprise. “Perhaps.” He let go of her hand. “I never claimed to be a hero.”

  And he bloody wasn’t. Anger overtook her despair. “What if there is a child?”

  “There won’t be.”

  Phoebe glared at him. “How arrogant of you to say so.”

  “Yes, well, that is one thing I’m quite good at.”

  “You also excel at being ephemeral.” She wanted him to go before she did something completely humiliating such as cry. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  “I hope we’ll remain friends.”

  Now she wanted to throw her book at his head. “Of course.” Maybe. But not today.

  He looked like he wanted to say something else, but in the end, he just grabbed his hat and left the way he’d come.

  Phoebe stared after him until he was gone from sight. Turning, she walked woodenly to her chair and picked up her book. Slowly, she sat, holding the book on her lap.

  Finally, she surrendered to emotion—to the love she just realized she felt only to have lost it already—and cried.

  Harry showed Marcus into a small chamber at Bow Street. The space was starkly furnished with a small table and a few mismatched wooden chairs. A slender fireplace in the corner sat cold, and a window high on the wall allowed only a bit of light from the heavily overcast day. The dreary surroundings matched Marcus’s mood.

  Harry gestured toward one of the chairs. “My apologies for the lack of comfort here. This is where we typically interrogate people. I’m afraid I couldn’t find anywhere for us to meet.” He sat down, and as the chair beneath him creaked, Marcus wondered if it might crumble from the strain of Harry’s large frame.

  Marcus sat too, but his chair was quiet. “This is fine. In fact, it’s probably appropriate for I’ve come to confess.”

  Harry’s eyes widened and then he frowned. “To killing Drobbit?”

  Marcus nodded. “Yes.”

  “You shot him?”

  “Yes.” The lie burned his throat, but it was necessary. He wasn’t going to let Phoebe’s father hang.

  Harry took a moment before speaking again. He rubbed a hand over his deeply creased brow. “Why didn’t you admit it before now?”

  “I was upset—it wasn’t my intent to harm him.” That much was true. The intention anyway. He hadn’t been upset—he was very rarely upset. Yet he was now.

  He was?

  Yes, he was agitated, unsettled, frustrated. Not because of Drobbit, but because of Phoebe. The look in her eyes when he’d left her a short while ago would haunt him for a long time. Forever, maybe.

  Hell.
<
br />   Harry shifted in his chair, causing it to moan again. “You have to know that it doesn’t look good that you waited to confess until after the witness came forward about you.”

  “I can imagine it’s not ideal. However, this is where we are.” He gave Harry a weak smile. “I do appreciate you sending a note. That allowed me to arrange some things.”

  Surprise made Harry’s auburn brows briefly dart up. “Such as?”

  “Personal matters.”

  “Nothing to do with the murder, then? It was an odd thing to say. I have to ask.”

  Marcus actually chuckled. “I chose my words poorly. I needed to speak with someone, and I was able to do that.”

  “Miss Lennox?” Harry asked.

  When Marcus didn’t answer, Harry moved on. “I’ve learned you fought with Sainsbury at White’s on Monday. Did you break his nose?”

  “I didn’t consult with a physician, but it seemed so, yes.” Marcus settled into his chair and crossed his legs. “What does that have to do with Drobbit?”

  “It’s a pattern of violent behavior. You fought with Drobbit at the park a few weeks ago too.”

  Fuck. That didn’t look good for him either. Still, he would never regret it, and he didn’t care who knew. “Sainsbury deserved what he got and more.”

  Harry braced his hands on his knees, leaning slightly forward. “You must realize this reflects poorly on you.”

  “Put together with my scandalous reputation, I can’t imagine this will end well.” He said this with a dose of humor, but it sounded macabre nonetheless.

  Harry scowled. “I hope you aren’t making light of this. The evidence will be presented to the magistrate tomorrow. There is enough that I expect he will charge you with murder.”

  Murder. The word echoed in Marcus’s brain. The already small room closed in around him. “Where will I be jailed until tomorrow?”

  “Nowhere. I’m going to allow you to return home for tonight. But there will be Runners on patrol at your house.”

  “So, just like the past few days, then.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his tone, and why should he?

  Harry’s scowl returned but deeper. “You should be concerned at the very least. After you see the magistrate tomorrow, you’ll be taken to the Tower until you stand trial.”

  The Tower… Wonderful. A queasy feeling worked its way through Marcus. “A trial of my peers in the House of Lords?”

  “Of course. With luck, they’ll acquit you, but you should prepare to be found guilty of manslaughter.”

  “Not murder?”

  “No, because you’re going to argue self-defense. You just told me you hadn’t intended to harm Drobbit. The man was stealing from people, and you were trying to put a stop to it. You quarreled. Drobbit attacked you, and you shot him.” Harry paused, his gaze fixing intently on Marcus. “You brought a pistol with you?”

  Damn. Marcus hadn’t thought about that part. “No, Drobbit had one. I threw it in the Thames.”

  Harry stared at him, his expression slightly dubious. He did not, perhaps, entirely trust everything Marcus said. “Assuming they find you guilty of manslaughter, you should claim privilege of peerage. You may escape this with only paying a fine. Or perhaps even acquittal—don’t underestimate your number of friends.”

  “Or I might hang. I realize it’s been a while since the Earl Ferrers was executed for murder, but not so long ago.” Nearly sixty years, but people would remember that it wasn’t unheard of for a peer to be taken to Tyburn.

  “You aren’t going to hang,” Harry said. “Which is why you aren’t going to confess.”

  “I am going to confess, but I appreciate you trying to help me—you’re a good friend.”

  Harry sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his wide chest. “I just wish you hadn’t fought with Drobbit—or Sainsbury.”

  “I regret the altercation with my cousin, but he incited that. I will readily admit, however, that I provoked Sainsbury.” And he’d do it again. Happily.

  “I understand you defamed him?” At Marcus’s nod, he continued. “Impugned his manhood is the rumor.”

  “That’s accurate.”

  “What did he do to invite your wrath?”

  “He insulted the wrong person.” Insulted didn’t begin to describe Sainsbury’s crimes, but Marcus wouldn’t share the specifics.

  “Are you sure you want to confess?”

  “I am.” Marcus’s gut clenched again. He had the sense he was falling into an abyss. He cocked his head at his old friend. “You don’t believe I did this.”

  “I don’t. But I believe you want me to think you did.” Harry stood. “Tomorrow, the magistrate will make a record of the murder and accusing you of committing it. If you choose to plead guilty right then, I am not sure what will happen. Please plead not guilty to give yourself a chance.”

  A chance for what? He really didn’t know if he would hang, even if he did plead guilty to the magistrate tomorrow. There was an inherent privilege to being a marquess, which was ridiculous. He came into this world the same as any other man and would exit it the same way. Why should he benefit from something so arbitrary as blood?

  Marcus slowly rose.

  “I can see you’re thinking about it,” Harry said. “Good. I’ll come fetch you in the morning. Unless I can discover what really happened before then.”

  That couldn’t happen. He’d find out Phoebe’s father had done it. Marcus took a few steps toward Harry. “Don’t. I did this. No one else. Let it go. Please.”

  Harry’s answering stare was dark, his jaw tight. “Do you want to sign a confession now, then? If you do, I can’t let you leave.”

  Goddammit. The room shrank even more. Marcus tried to take a deep breath and couldn’t. “Tomorrow.”

  “Good decision.” Only Harry’s gruff tone didn’t sound as if he approved at all. But then, why would he if he believed Marcus was lying?

  “Don’t worry overmuch about me, Harry,” Marcus said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Harry shook his head. “I sure as hell hope so.” He went to the door and opened it, gesturing with his head for Marcus to precede him.

  Marcus left the building and climbed into his waiting coach. He looked down at his hands to see if they were shaking. They were not.

  He’d count that as a victory.

  The truth was that while he knew what he was doing, he wasn’t at all sure how it would turn out. Furthermore, he wasn’t sure he cared. For the first time in his life, he felt truly despondent. And dammit if that didn’t scare him to death.

  Chapter 15

  Collecting herself after Marcus had left had taken Phoebe some time. She’d gone out to the yard and viciously pruned a pair of shrubs. When she’d finished, she hoped she hadn’t stunted them forever.

  Eager to clean up after her exertions, Phoebe awaited the arrival of fresh water in her chamber. She was delighted to see that Meg, the maid her father had terminated and who had ended up working for Sainsbury, was the one to deliver it.

  “Meg, you’re here!” In the cloud of her sadness about Marcus, Phoebe had forgotten she would be coming today. The housekeeper had arranged it the day before yesterday.

  Meg, a young maid, perhaps not even quite twenty, grinned as she poured the steaming water into the basin. She was already garbed in the clothing Phoebe provided, something she did whenever anyone came to work in her household. The dark peach color of her gown brought out the warm hues of her dark blonde hair. “I am, miss. Thank you for the new dress.”

  “I’m so glad it seems to fit well enough.”

  “Indeed it does. I can’t thank you enough for hiring me away from Mr. Sainsbury.” She flinched as she stepped back from the basin and went to set the empty bucket near the door.

  “I’m so glad to have you. I’m just sorry you ended up in Sainsbury’s household at all.” Phoebe had learned from the housekeeper that Meg had leapt upon the opportunity to leave. She’d said she was miserable working f
or Sainsbury, which hadn’t surprised Phoebe, of course.

  “I own I’m worried about those who are left,” Meg said, clasping her hands as her brow puckered.

  Phoebe turned her back to Meg. “Would you mind unfastening my gown? Page is out this afternoon.”

  Meg loosened the ties and then helped Phoebe to undress.

  “Are you concerned for their safety?” Phoebe asked, wondering if Sainsbury had abused any of his female servants the way he had her. She stood at the basin and washed her arms, face, and neck.

  “Yes, I think so. He didn’t physically harm any of us—not in the way one would think, anyway.”

  Phoebe, clad in just her corset and chemise, turned to look at Meg. “I understand. You recall that I was betrothed to Sainsbury. He didn’t physically hurt me either, not in the traditional sense where one might be bloody or bruised. But he did take physical advantage, and he did cause harm.”

  Tears formed in Meg’s eyes, but she blinked them away before they fell. Phoebe clasped her hands and gave them a squeeze. “You’re safe now. And let’s see what we can do to deliver the others to safety too.”

  Meg nodded. “Thank you, miss. You’re so very kind. I do worry that Mr. Sainsbury might start actually hurting someone. He’s quite fond of his pistols, always cleaning them, shooting them, bandying them about. He carries one on his person nearly all the time. It makes us nervous. I was so relieved when Mrs. Tarcove came to see me, especially since he’d arrived home early Wednesday morning with gunpowder on his clothing. We speculated that he’d perhaps fought a duel, but we didn’t hear of one. Did you?” Meg winced slightly. “Begging your pardon, miss. I don’t mean to gossip.”

  Phoebe was intrigued by all this information about the man she’d escaped marrying. She’d never felt more fortunate—he sounded even worse than she’d thought him to be. “I am not aware of a duel.” But that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. She could well imagine Sainsbury getting into such trouble.

  “We wondered because he came home Monday night in a rage with blood all over him, said his nose had been broken in a fight.” Meg went to the wardrobe to fetch a fresh petticoat.