by Darcy Burke
“If you let her get away, I will definitely not be the last.” He went to Phoebe and bowed. “It’s been my pleasure to make your acquaintance, and I do hope you’ll invite me to your nuptials, because I have to believe this,” he glared at Marcus, “imbecile will come to his senses.”
“Thank you for all your help, Harry.” Phoebe let go of Marcus’s hand and dipped a brief curtsey, then Harry left.
“I suppose I should go too,” she announced, taking a step toward the door.
Marcus grabbed her hand, and led her back upstairs to his sitting room. He stood her near the hearth and said, “Don’t move.”
He disappeared into his bedchamber for a moment. She waited patiently, wondering what the devil he was about. When he came back and knelt before her, his plan became evident and, in response, her heart vaulted into her throat. “Don’t go. Not now. Not ever, actually.” He reached into his pocket and pulled forth a ring.
He took her hand again and looked up at her. “Now that the threat of going to jail or worse isn’t hanging over us” —Phoebe noted his use of the word us—“I would be humbly honored if you would be my wife.”
“You truly want to marry me?” Phoebe wanted to be sure—she knew how far he’d come in such a short time. “It wasn’t so long ago that we both turned our noses up at marriage.”
“And I still would with anyone else. This is more than a marriage, however. Certainly more than most marriages we see. This is what we were meant to do, who we are meant to be. You are the only woman who can be my wife.”
Phoebe’s spirit soared. “Just as you’re the only man who could be my husband.”
His eyes glinted with humor. “Is that a yes?”
“The most emphatic one I can give.”
Marcus slipped the ring on her finger. “This was my mother’s. I never thought I’d give it to someone.”
She held her hand up, and the emerald glittered in the light from the windows. “It fits perfectly.”
He stood and pulled her into his arms. “Of course it does. Because we fit perfectly.”
She smiled widely, never more happy than at that moment. “As though we were made for each other.”
Epilogue
The following Friday, Marcus stared at the beautiful woman standing in the middle of his drawing room and couldn’t believe she was his wife. Not because he’d never intended to wed, but because he was astonished that she’d chosen him. Adorned in an aqua gown decorated with crystals that sparkled like the night sky when she moved, Phoebe took his breath away. Thankfully, she also gave it back every time she looked at him.
The wedding by special license had concluded a short while ago, and they would shortly move to the dining room for an elaborate breakfast. Then he would politely kick every single one of their guests out of his house so he could have his bride to himself.
It was notable that Phoebe’s friend Jane Pemberton had arrived alone. She stood speaking animatedly with Phoebe. Curiosity got the better of him, and he moved to join them.
Miss Pemberton smiled at him as he arrived. “You are the luckiest of men, my lord.”
“I am. Please call me Rip, or Marcus, if you prefer.”
“Then you must call me Jane.”
Phoebe brushed her arm against Marcus’s. “Jane is now an official spinster.”
That explained, he supposed, why she’d arrived alone. “Is there a decree that must be signed? A notice published in the paper?”
“Oh, that’s a marvelous idea,” Jane said with a laugh. “Though my parents would likely be even more furious. They forbade me from attending your wedding, and they gave me an ultimatum—I am to marry Mr. Brinkley or leave their household and make my own way.” She shrugged. “The choice was simple, particularly since my sister is now betrothed.” That had happened just two days ago.
“I’ve invited Jane to live at my house in Cavendish Square,” Phoebe said.
Marcus blinked in surprise. They hadn’t yet decided which house they would keep. His was larger, but she loved her garden and her garden room.
Phoebe smiled up at him, her eyes glowing. “Yes, my love, that means I’ve decided we should live here. If you don’t mind? I’m rather looking forward to redoing your garden.”
Marcus slipped his arm around her waist. “Your garden.”
“I think I shall convene an official meeting of the Spitfire Society,” Jane said.
Phoebe looked to Jane, her brows drawing together. “Who will be there? I will be at Brixton Park for the next fortnight.”
Alone together away from the bustle of town—Marcus could hardly wait.
“I plan to invite the ladies I mentioned to you recently—the sisters who are new to town.”
Phoebe nodded. “I recall. I look forward to meeting them. We shall include Arabella when she returns, of course.”
“Of course. Do you mind if I move my things there this afternoon?”
“Not at all.” Phoebe squeezed her friend’s hand. “Are you certain this is what you want? You won’t receive the same invitations.”
“Oh, good.” Jane grinned, her eyes twinkling, then she turned and went to speak with Anthony, who leaned against the mantel, a glass of champagne dangling from his fingers.
Marcus pivoted toward her. “You’re sure you want to live here?”
She put her hands on his chest, smiling up at him adoringly so that his heart threatened to explode from his chest. “I honestly don’t care where we live, so long as we’re together.”
Being this happy would never cease to astound him.
Phoebe’s parents came toward them. Her mother beamed, and her father looked…less uncomfortable than when Marcus had first met him.
“Look at how happy you are,” Mrs. Lennox said.
“Look at how happy you are,” Phoebe murmured with just an edge of humor—not enough for her parents to catch it, probably, but Marcus did. He’d come to know her so well. Despite not wedding until that morning, they’d spent every day and night together over the past week. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get enough of her. Indeed, he was sometimes annoyed that it had taken so long for them to find each other.
“I wanted to thank you again for restoring what Drobbit stole,” Lennox said gruffly.
Marcus nodded in response. “My family’s honor demanded it.” And he was glad Lennox had accepted it. Convincing Graham to do the same when Marcus insisted on returning Brixton Park would prove more difficult. Still, Marcus would see it done—even going so far as to lie to Graham and tell him that Drobbit had returned some of the money before he’d died. Marcus had also made reparations to the Stokes and to a few other people his cousin had fleeced.
Osborne had come to see him and provided a partial list of Drobbit’s victims. It had only been partial because Osborne admitted he hadn’t always kept proper records. Then he’d promised to leave London for good. Marcus had warned him Bow Street would be watching.
Making restitution with those he could was the least Marcus could do. He hoped it went a small way to healing the damage Drobbit’s thievery and deviousness had caused.
They chatted with Phoebe’s parents for a while longer until Marcus saw Anthony take yet another glass of champagne and then stumble on his way back to propping up the mantel.
Marcus excused himself and went to speak with Anthony. “Should you go upstairs and sleep for a while?” he asked with a half smile.
Anthony snorted before he took a sip of the champagne. “It’s your fault for serving such delicious wine.”
“Perhaps. I could always stop serving it, if that would help.”
Anthony scowled at him. “Don’t be a bore now that you’re married.”
“I’m offended you would think so,” Marcus said. He moved closer and lowered his voice. “I think it’s time you pulled yourself together. I can’t imagine I’ll become a bore, but I am married now, and I can’t keep as close an eye on you as I have been.”
“I don’t need to be watched over.” Antho
ny sniffed. “I am, however, disappointed that you’ll be abandoning me. I befriended you entirely because I thought you could be trusted to keep me eternally amused. And now look at you—absolutely besotted. You’re lost to me completely.”
Marcus heard the sadness beating beneath the sarcasm. “This gives you time to sort yourself out,” he said quietly. “To face what you need to face.”
Anthony glared at him. “And what’s that?”
“The pain of the loss of your parents.”
The glass in Anthony’s hand shattered, splashing champagne on him and all over the floor. A footman rushed toward them as Anthony shook out his hand, swearing.
“Are you all right?” Marcus asked, trying to see if Anthony’s hand was cut.
“Don’t pretend to care,” Anthony said through his teeth. “Go back to your wife. I’ll be fine.” He strode from the drawing room.
Before he could follow, Phoebe arrived at his side. She placed her hand on his arm. “Do you want to go after him?”
He did, but also didn’t think it would do any good. In fact, it could worsen matters. Anthony was going to do what he wanted, and the more Marcus tried to pull him back from the abyss, the more he would barrel straight into the darkness.
“I do, but he won’t like it.” He exhaled before giving Phoebe his heartfelt attention. “Besides, I’m not leaving you on our wedding day.”
“I wouldn’t mind, not if you think he needs you. He’s…troubled.”
“I thought so too, but I’m beginning to realize that’s an understatement. I’ll see what I can do to help him. I wish that Felix and Sarah were here.” Anthony’s sister was due to give birth to her first child in the next few weeks.
“We’ll help him.” Phoebe gave him a reassuring smile. “Together. Who knows, maybe he’ll be as happy as we are sooner than he expects. That happened to you.”
“That happened to both of us, and I daresay the odds are one in a million. “
“Oh, come now,” she scoffed. “Think of all the happy couples we know—Felix and Sarah, Beck and Lavinia, Arabella and Graham. And that’s just a start.”
“Are you saying it’s an epidemic and Anthony could be the next to fall victim?” he asked wryly.
“I can think of worse things to happen,” she said, taking his hand.
He lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of her wrist. “It may surprise you to hear that I can think of nothing better. You’ve given me a joy I never imagined.”
She gave him a seductive look and darted her tongue over her lower lip, launching a shock of stark arousal through him. “Maybe later, you can return that joy.”
“Just as soon as everyone leaves, my love.” He squeezed her hand. “And then you’re mine.”
Her eyes glowed with love as she looked up at him. “For always.”
More in The Spitfire Society Series
Never Have I Ever with a Duke
Graham Kinsley is shocked when he inherits a debt-ridden dukedom, and now he has just one month to repay a loan. He needs an heiress—or find a way to recoup the former duke’s losses. When he meets the alluring Arabella, he’s entranced. Unfortunately, she’s as bankrupt as he is, but if they work together they may be able to recover their fortunes. Though if they keep stealing kisses, they may lose their hearts instead.
Arabella Stoke can’t afford an attraction to the penniless duke who has vowed to help rescue her family from financial devastation. She needs to find a wealthy husband before her father succumbs to the stress of losing everything. However, as Graham brings them closer to finding the swindler who stole their money, the war between what they want and what they need may ruin them both.
A Duke Will Never Do
After failing on the Marriage Mart, Jane Pemberton has two choices: submit to her parents’ edict to marry their boring neighbor or become a self-declared spinster and take up residence in the official headquarters of the Spitfire Society. It’s really no choice at all, and Jane is eager to embrace her newfound independence. She soon finds an unconscious viscount on her doorstep and nurses him back to health. When he offers to compensate her, she requests payment in the form of private instruction of a scandalous and intimate kind.
Having spiraled into a self-destructive abyss following the murder of his parents, Anthony, Viscount Colton, physically recovers under the care of an alluring spitfire. But it is her charm and flirtatiousness that soothes his soul and arouses his desire—until an extortion scheme forces him to face the sins of his past. Now, to save the woman who’s given him everything he lost and more, he’ll have to pay the ultimate price: his heart.
Don’t miss the other books in The Spitfire Society series, which is a continuation of The Untouchables series (all books are stand-alone!)
About the Author
Darcy Burke is the USA Today Bestselling Author of captivating, compelling historical and contemporary romance. Join her Reader Club newsletter for the latest updates and visit Darcy online at https://www.darcyburke.com.
Hotel Oriente
Jennifer Hallock
The Oriente is the finest hotel in Manila . . . but that’s not saying much.
Hotel manager Moss North already has his hands full trying to make the Oriente a respectable establishment amidst food shortages, plumbing disasters, and indiscreet guests. So when two VIPs arrive—an American congressman and his granddaughter Della—Moss knows that he needs to pull out all the stops to make their stay a success.
That won’t be easy: the Oriente is a meeting place for all manner of carpetbaggers hoping to profit off the fledgling American colony—and not all of these opportunists’ schemes are strictly on the up-and-up.
Moss can manage the demanding congressman, but he will have to keep a close eye on Della—she is a little too nosy about the goings-on of the hotel and its guests. And there is also something very different about her…
Heat level: medium
Content Notes: http://bit.ly/HallockContent
Tropes: enemies to lovers, beta hero, caper, hotel romance, Gilded age, foodie, journalist heroine
In memory of Nonoy, and with love to Edith.
Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself.
Mark Twain
Chapter 1
Pawn
January 4, 1901
Della Berget lashed her steamer chair to the bow rail and wrapped herself snugly in a rubber poncho. Wave after wave of sea spray beat against her face as the Kilpatrick tumbled through the mouth of Manila Bay. She laughed as the ship bucked the waves—laughed or squealed or shrieked or whooped, she did not know what to call it. It hardly mattered since her grandfather, Hughes Holt, Representative of the Second District of West Virginia, was not there to witness her embarrassment. He had shut himself away in the first-class lavatory to keep his seasickness a state secret. Great men did not like to be brought low by their stomachs.
Too bad for him. He could not see their approach to Manila, a city of red Spanish-tiled roofs set against distant green mountains. He could not see the charming mismatch of Intramuros, an old Spanish walled enclave in the style of Gibraltar, plunked down in the middle of the tropics. He could not see how close both he and Della were to their individual-but-intertwined destinies.
Once in calmer waters, a steam launch approached from starboard. It carried men with tanned, rested, and salubrious faces. These were men confident in the working order of their digestive systems, Della noticed. They were the men who would determine if the smallpox outbreak in Singapore had made it aboard ship.
How the Bureau of Health distinguished pre-rash stages of smallpox from ordinary seasickness was a mystery, especially when the decks were so crowded with soldiers that those who could not force their way to the railing had to vomit in buckets, in their shoes, or on the deck. These boys had enlisted to prove their manliness through the forge of battle, but instead they spent their last day of peace in white-knuckled, unmanly terror. Of course,
had they possessed any sort of readiness for ocean travel, they would have joined the Navy instead of the Army. Some of them would not live to prove themselves more seaworthy on a transport home.
The Kilpatrick passed inspection, thanks to the timely appearance on deck of Congressman Holt. Ambitiously in favor of new American markets in the East, her grandfather had been a loyal friend to every Philippine appropriations bill that came his way, and local officials would do nothing to impede his disembarkation. Or so he thought. Della watched Captain Norvall assure the quarantine officers that the ship had not even loaded coal at Singapore.
Soon new boats clustered around them: native crafts seven feet wide by fifty feet long, each with an arched hood of dried grass. The pilots maneuvered their floating houses against the enormous white hull of the transport. If one miscalculated, his boat would be sucked under the Kilpatrick or tossed against its side. The Filipinos jockeyed for a far position that promised escape if the water got rough, and the American crew tried in vain to direct the chaos from the steps above the water. All the sailors gestured frenetically, trying to make themselves understood in different languages above a furious wind.
Della smiled. She felt right at home.
Once the lighters stacked themselves three or four deep along the length of the Kilpatrick, she and her grandfather scrambled over the inner boats “quick sticks,” as Holt liked to say, hoping to make it first to the lucky one at the head of the line. Holt dragged Della into the darkness under the craft’s musty hood, sat her down, and turned back to look after their luggage.
