by Darcy Burke
It was hard not to feel flattered, so she did, even as her mind was screaming at her to keep this dangerous man at bay. Dangerous? Did she think he would take advantage of her as Sainsbury had? A wave of apprehension rose over her. She barely knew this man, and his reputation was one of scandalous behavior. But was there more to it than that?
“You called Sainsbury a scoundrel,” she said, probing. “Why?”
He shrugged. “I scarcely know him, but I’ve always thought him a braggart with an exaggerated opinion of himself. He seems the type to be a scoundrel, and since you threw him over, I can only assume there is something hideously wrong with him.”
Phoebe delighted in his insight. She took a long sip of port, both to steady her nerves and to mask her unwanted reaction to him. It was time to draw this interview to a close. “Did you bring my handkerchief?”
He winced slightly, his eyes crinkling. “I must apologize for I did not. I’m afraid I’ll have to call another time.” He smiled broadly, and she wondered if that had been his plan.
“If you’re seeking to prolong our acquaintance, I must disappoint you.”
He held up his hand. “Please don’t. Pray, tell me what is wrong with our acquaintance?”
She was a spinster, and he was a rakehell. “It serves no purpose.”
He sat forward, scooting toward her. His dark cobalt eyes gleamed with intensity. “I disagree. You served me a great purpose this afternoon when you tended my injury.”
She looked at her port and then at the fire—anywhere but at him. “I do not regret it. However, it was not my intent to encourage any sort of…association.”
“Do I make you nervous?”
She snapped her gaze to his. “No.”
“Good. I should never wish to do that. I liked you immediately this afternoon, and not just because you saved me from ruining more than my favorite cravat.” He flashed her a smile. “I’m joking. I don’t have a favorite cravat.”
If he was trying to put her at ease—and that seemed his intent—he was finding success. To put him in the same class as Sainsbury was so ludicrous as to be almost laughable. She’d thought about Ripley several times since that afternoon, in a pervasive and anticipatory manner. She’d never done that with her former betrothed. With him, she’d felt relief to finally have an offer of marriage and an eagerness to manage her own household. Then he’d begun to make her feel an altogether different way: uncomfortable, anxious, and ultimately repulsed.
She frankly couldn’t imagine feeling disgusted by the marquess. He was an exceptionally handsome gentleman, with his broad, muscular shoulders and piercing blue eyes. But it was more than that. It was the easy way he smiled and laughed. Or flirted.
Yes, he was quite good at that. And what’s more, he made her want to flirt in return.
Dangerous hardly sufficed to describe him. He was an absolute threat to her peaceful, autonomous, solitary life.
Phoebe finished her port in one long drink, then stood. “As I told you this afternoon, it isn’t necessary for you to return my handkerchief. I have many others.”
Ripley rose. “What’s more, I’m certain you can buy any handkerchief you desire.” He looked around the garden room, which she’d refurbished entirely after purchasing the house. “This is a beautifully appointed room, and I assume the rest of the residence is as well. You are either a woman of means or in debt up to your magnificent eyebrows.”
She arched a brow. “It’s gauche to speak of financial matters.”
“Is it? I’ve been accused of much worse.” He finished his port and deposited the empty glass beside hers. Doing so brought him close, and she was awarded with the scent of sandalwood and spice.
Phoebe had to prevent herself from swaying even closer. Steeling herself, she expected him to move away. He did not, however. On the contrary, he leaned closer and spoke near her ear.
“I’ll return your handkerchief. I’m afraid I can’t resist another opportunity to bask in your company.”
“You’re a rogue.”
“Unquestionably. And you…you smell divine. Oranges and cinnamon? An unusual but distinctive scent.” He inhaled, and Phoebe feared her speeding heart might leap from her chest.
He adjusted his position so that he could look at her. His dark, seductive gaze bored into hers. “I wonder if I might kiss you.”
Again, her body threatened to betray her and move toward him. “No, I shouldn’t want that.”
“An interesting choice of words.” His lips spread into a sly smile.
“I don’t want that.”
He tipped his head slightly, regarding her with an expectation that curled her toes. “I’m not sure that’s true, but let’s not debate it tonight. There will come a day—soon, I’d wager—when you’ll ask me to.” He straightened. “Or, because you’re a spitfire, you’ll take the matter into your own hands and kiss me. You are that kind of woman, I think.”
She wasn’t. He’d said she was a woman who knew what she wanted, but that was only since her great-aunt had left her a fortune. And so far, it included just a house in Cavendish Square with a garden room she adored. There were many things she hadn’t considered, not the least of which was what this man seemed to be offering.
“Are you suggesting I’ll want to embark on a liaison with you?” She hated how breathless she sounded, as if she could hardly wait to do so. And while she was attracted to him—shockingly so—she was not at all ready to do anything about it. Furthermore, she might never be.
Surprise flickered in his gaze, followed by a flash of something deeper, darker. “I hadn’t gone quite that far, but I can certainly hope.”
She wanted to berate him, but she’d brought it up! “Why do I feel manipulated?”
“Do you? That is not my intent, nor would it ever be. I like you. I want to kiss you. I’ll wait for you to feel the same.”
He’d wait? Nothing else he’d said that night had affected her so deeply. “What of your other paramours?”
“I have none.”
She found that hard to believe, but he’d given her no reason to doubt him. Not yet. “I do like you,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to kiss you, and I doubt I ever will.” Kisses were horrid and led to other, more horrible things. At least with Sainsbury they had.
“As I said, I’ll wait. And I daresay it won’t be that long. Since I said I’d wager… If you can last a fortnight, I’ll give you a hundred pounds.”
She swallowed her surprise. “I don’t need your money.”
“Then name your favorite charitable endeavor, and I’ll deposit it there.”
“You’re going to lose a hundred pounds.”
“It will be the best loss I ever endured. But it won’t happen. You’ll kiss me before then.”
She would do everything in her power to not. “If I do, I’ll give two hundred pounds to that charity.”
His eyes widened briefly, and he chuckled. “Are you certain?”
She was a woman who knew what she wanted. Or she was at least determined to be. “Never more.”
He held out his hand, and she took it, giving him a firm shake. She was grateful he still wore his gloves. Skin-to-skin contact might have forced her to forfeit the game before it had even begun.
Was this a game?
Oh yes, and she meant to win.
Chapter 3
Marcus stood from the wingback chair in his study as the Bow Street Runner walked in. “Thank you for coming, Harry.”
Tall, with impossibly broad shoulders, Harry Sheffield was not the sort of man one wanted to encounter on a dark night—or any night, for that matter. However, it was that physical intimidation that made him perfect for his chosen career.
“Always a pleasure to see you, Rip,” Harry said with an easy smile.
“Have a seat.” Marcus gestured to the chair across from his and sat down once Harry had done so. “Brandy?” A low table bearing a bottle and two glasses sat to the side and between their chairs.
&nb
sp; “Thank you.”
Marcus poured and handed the libation to his old friend. “Keeping busy?”
“Always.” Harry took the brandy and raised his glass in a toast. “To Christ Church.”
“To Christ Church.” They customarily toasted their Oxford college, where they’d met fifteen years before.
Marcus got right to the point. “I’m looking for my cousin, who seems to have gone missing.”
Harry rested his arm on the chair and held his brandy glass in his fingers. “When?”
“He hasn’t been to his lodgings since early Wednesday.” Marcus had called on him yesterday to tell him how things were going to be—that he’d stop swindling investors and return the money he’d stolen. However, the landlord had informed Marcus that Drobbit hadn’t come home the previous night.
“It’s only been two days,” Harry said. His dark auburn brows pitched over his tawny eyes. “Not even, since it’s only afternoon. You think a man is ‘missing’ after such a short time? He could be curled up in his mistress’s bed. That’s where I’d look for you.”
Marcus let out a short laugh. “I don’t keep a mistress.”
Harry gave him a knowing smirk. “Too permanent for you.” The fact that mistresses weren’t necessarily permanent at all was not lost on Marcus—he understood the jibe. “Are you concerned he’s met with foul play?”
“Perhaps.” Not really, but Marcus couldn’t discount the notion given what Drobbit was up to. However, he didn’t want to disclose all that to Harry. Not yet. Marcus would give his cousin the opportunity to make amends. Yes, he’d let Harry think he was concerned. “I’d just like to find him as soon as possible.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know your cousin.” He tipped his head to the side. “How is that when I’ve known you for so long?”
Because Marcus had never spoken of him. “We aren’t close, but he’s the only family I have left, so I feel a need to look after him. His name is Archibald Drobbit. He lives on Suffolk Street.” Marcus went on to describe him.
Harry nodded here and there. “Do you think he’s gone missing of his own choice?”
Marcus considered the question. Since he didn’t want to divulge Drobbit’s scheme, he said, “It’s possible, but I suspect he’s trying to avoid me in particular.”
“Why is that?”
Marcus should have anticipated such a question from a Runner. “A family disagreement. We had a bit of an altercation in the park the other day.” Harry would surely learn this in the course of his investigation, so Marcus mentioned it now.
“I take it you’d prefer to keep the subject of the disagreement private?”
“For now.” Marcus realized it might be helpful for Harry to know about Drobbit’s thievery in order to find him, and if Harry wasn’t able to track him down, Marcus would reconsider what to reveal. Not that it would be hard—if Drobbit chose to avoid doing what Marcus had demanded at the park, Marcus wouldn’t protect him from anything. In fact, Marcus would be the first to see him punished.
Harry finished his brandy and set his empty glass on the table before standing. “If you discover anything else I need to know, please inform me as soon as possible. I’ll get started.”
Marcus deposited his glass next to Harry’s and rose. “Thank you. Keep me apprised.”
Inclining his head, Harry turned and left.
Marcus frowned after him. Perhaps he should have told him everything and just allowed Drobbit to hang. Or suffer whatever justice he deserved.
Picking up his brandy glass, Marcus hoped Harry would find him quickly. Then Marcus could see how deep this scheme went. And what it would cost to at least make partial amends.
“My lord?” Dorne, Marcus’s butler, came into the study. “His Grace, the Duke of Halstead, is here.”
“Show him in.” Marcus picked up Harry’s empty glass and took it, along with his own glass, to the sideboard. He turned just as Graham walked in. “Welcome. Would you care for a brandy?”
“No, thank you.” Tall, with long legs and an athletic grace likely due to his fencing skill, Graham strode to the middle of the room. “I don’t have much time. So much to do with the wedding on Tuesday and planning to vacate Brixton Park. That’s why I’ve come. Your offer is too much.”
Marcus had been expecting this. “It’s a beautiful estate. I’m looking forward to hosting many scandalous events there.”
Graham cracked a small smile before straightening his features into a more serious expression. “I asked you for a loan, not a gift.” With the mortgage due on Brixton Park and Graham’s inheritance stolen by Drobbit, Marcus had loaned him money to pay the mortgage. Graham had planned to repay Marcus when Brixton Park sold.
“I’m not giving you anything” Yet. “I’m buying an estate.”
Graham’s dark eyes fixed on him, his mouth twisted into a half frown. “You’re being far too generous.”
“Am I? I really want the estate. Furthermore, I want you and your bride to stay there as long as you like.”
“How can we do that amidst all your scandalous events?”
Marcus chuckled. “I’ll postpone them for the time being. Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to host a masquerade there to celebrate your nuptials. Consider it a wedding gift.”
“I think you buying Brixton Park is gift enough,” Graham said wryly. “And allowing us to stay. We will be traveling to Huntwell soon to visit David and Fanny. She’s due to deliver their first child any day.” The Earl of St. Ives was Graham’s closest friend as well as his former employer, so it made sense he would go to visit.
“Then you definitely need a celebration before you go. How about next Saturday? And I mean it—I’m funding the event.”
Graham laughed. “So you can sneak in some debauchery?”
“Always,” Marcus answered with a grin.
He immediately thought of Miss Lennox and how close that would be to the end of their wager. If he hadn’t kissed her by then, debauchery would be required.
No. He’d said she would initiate it, and he would wait for her to do so. But a scintillating masquerade at the lovely Brixton Park couldn’t hurt…
Graham smoothed his hand down his jaw. “Well, I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.”
“It’s the least I can do given my cousin’s actions and how they’ve affected you. Brixton Park should still be yours.” And if Marcus had any say, he’d gift it right back to Graham. However, he knew the man’s pride wouldn’t allow it. There would be another way to transfer the property back, and Marcus was patient. “Regarding my cousin, I’m working to ensure he doesn’t steal from anyone else. And that he returns whatever money he can.”
Graham blinked in surprise. “He told me he has none.”
“I mean to determine whether that’s true. I can’t say I’m inclined to take his word.”
“Nor am I,” Graham said darkly, his gaze simmering with anger. “I appreciate you trying to squeeze whatever you can out of him. I heard you fought with him at the park the other day and that a duel may be forthcoming. I assumed the latter was a fantastical rumor, particularly since you persuaded me not to call him out.”
“You’re correct. I simply tried to speak with him at the park, and he became defensive.”
“It’s no wonder. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know. He nearly ruined Arabella’s family.” The fire in Graham’s eyes intensified as he spoke of his betrothed and her parents.
“Which is why I’d like to know who else he’s nearly ruined—or perhaps entirely ruined. To think we share blood…” Marcus shook his head. “I prefer not to think of it, actually.” He smiled at Graham, adopting a more pleasant tone. “Do not concern yourself with any of this, not while you’re planning your wedding. How shall we arrange the masquerade? Shall I send my secretary to Brixton Park to organize the details?”
Graham shrugged. “I didn’t manage such things when I was David’s secretary, but, then he didn’t host masque
rades. Let me speak with Arabella. Perhaps she’d like a hand in things.”
“Of course.” Marcus hadn’t ever hosted this type of event either—his parties were of a different nature. They were smaller, more private, and not for Society. This would be different. “I truly want it to be a celebration of your marriage.”
“Thank you. I know Arabella will be thrilled.” They spoke for a few more minutes and then Graham took his leave.
As soon as he was gone, Marcus went to his desk and pulled Miss Lennox’s handkerchief from the top drawer. He ran his thumb over the delicate embroidery—a purple flower and a yellow butterfly hovering just above it. Had Miss Lennox done this? Perhaps he would ask her when he returned it.
Which he would do presently. Anticipation gathered in his chest as he tucked the handkerchief in his pocket. He pushed all thoughts of Drobbit from his mind and focused entirely on Miss Lennox. Hopefully, she was at least half as eager to see him as he was her.
He couldn’t wait to find out.
“Is that a Gainsborough?” Phoebe’s father asked as he entered the garden room. Phoebe glanced at her newest acquisition, a vibrant landscape that continued the garden theme of the room.
“Yes, welcome, Papa.”
The center of her father’s forehead pleated and formed a small divot directly between his brows. “You spend too much money.”
“You have no idea how much money I spend,” she said with a laugh, hoping to dispel the dark cloud in his gaze.
“No, we do not,” Mama said as she moved into the garden room. “You’ve decided to be independent.”
Phoebe stiffened. Someday, she hoped her parents would understand her choice to remain unwed. At least for now. And maybe forever. “I’ve decided to be happy, and I should think that would make you happy too.”
Papa made a low disgruntled sound. “No, making a good marriage and enriching our entire family would have made me happy.”
“I still hold out hope…” Mama smiled weakly before going to look more closely at the Gainsborough.
Gritting her teeth, Phoebe said nothing. There was no point in having the same argument.