by Darcy Burke
Papa, however, had no problem doing so. “You should’ve married Sainsbury.”
“No, I shouldn’t have.” Phoebe’s insides shriveled as ice coated her skin when she thought of the future she might have had.
“His father has ten thousand a year, and his cousin is Lord Haywood. Sainsbury was an excellent match. I understand he’s still looking for a wife. Perhaps he would consider renewing your betrothal.”
Phoebe worked to keep herself calm—at least outwardly. The thought of marrying Sainsbury sent her into a near panic. “I would not consider such a thing.”
Mama went and put her hand on Papa’s arm. “My dear, there is no going back to that.”
“I suppose not. She all but ruined herself with her conduct.”
Her conduct? Sainsbury had been the one seen kissing another woman. Then there was the other behavior. The things her parents didn’t know and never would. The things almost no one knew—and even if they did, she would still be the one who was ruined. Society was grossly unfair to women.
Mama gave Papa a pleading look. “Let us not dwell on the past.”
Phoebe welcomed a flash of relief. It seemed Mama was at last ready to move on. The fact that they’d come to visit was a good sign. This was only the third time they’d come since Phoebe had taken up residence the previous fall.
Papa made another aggrieved sound deep in his throat, but said nothing more on the subject. Instead, he turned from Mama and walked toward the doors that led to the garden. “You installed these when you refurbished this room?”
“Yes. I call this the garden room now.”
“I can see why,” Mama said, her gaze roving about the room with interest.
“I recall what this looked like before you spent what has to be a ghastly amount of money. It was fine. You needn’t have wasted a small fortune.”
Phoebe ignored his disdain. It was her money to spend, and she didn’t do so mindlessly. “Papa, I am capable of managing my funds.”
Papa glanced at her with derisive skepticism.
Phoebe tamped down her irritation. Sometimes her father made it difficult to love him, let alone like him.
“It’s a bloody travesty that you have all that money.” He looked at his wife. “Your aunt should have left that money to me to manage for Phoebe until she wed. It’s unconscionable. Better yet, she should have left it to you.”
Mama’s cheeks grew pink. “Well, she didn’t.”
For the first time, Phoebe suspected her father might be jealous. There was more than just anger at Phoebe disregarding expectation. “Papa, I know you’re still bitter about me not marrying Sainsbury, and apparently, you’re angry with Great-Aunt Maria, but is there more than that?”
“Of course not,” Mama answered. “You know your father can be difficult.” She pursed her lips and sent him a stern look before softening her expression toward Phoebe. “You know we love you, dear, and your happiness is all that matters.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
“But we would be remiss if we weren’t concerned. You may think you’re happy now, but a fancy house and independence,” Mama said the word as if it carried poison, “won’t make you happy in the end. You’ll be lonely someday. You should have a husband and children. I trust you’ll come to that conclusion. I just hope it won’t be too late.” She gave Phoebe a warm smile of encouragement, but it didn’t soothe the sting of her condescension. She simply couldn’t imagine that Phoebe could be happy alone. Or that it was really none of their concern at all.
“You wouldn’t be remiss, actually,” Phoebe said tightly. “In fact, I absolve you of such worry, if that helps.” She offered a bright smile.
Mama came forward and touched her hand briefly. “Of course we will, whether you want us to or not.” She laughed, but it was high and false.
“Besides, I want grandchildren. It’s awful enough that I will have no grandsons to carry on my name, but to have no issue at all?” Her father shuddered. “Another travesty.”
Despite his behavior, Phoebe felt for him. Her older brother had died of illness in the war in Spain eight years ago. The loss had affected her father most profoundly.
“I didn’t say I would never marry, Papa,” she said softly. “I’m just never marrying Sainsbury.”
He responded with another low grunt, then turned toward Mama. “Let us depart.”
Phoebe invited them to return any time. She hated being at odds with them, but accepted there was nothing she could do. They would accept her as she was or not. She refused to change herself to appease their desires. This was her life, not theirs.
Going to the front sitting room, she watched through the window as they climbed into their coach and drove away. Scarcely a moment later, another coach arrived in place of her parents’. This one was larger and far more expensive. The door opened, and out stepped the Marquess of Ripley.
Phoebe’s breath hitched. If decadence were a man, it would surely be the marquess. He was the sweet you mustn’t eat or the expensive gown you didn’t need, a luxury one desperately craved but acknowledged you probably couldn’t—shouldn’t—have. Like her new Gainsborough. Evidently, she liked unnecessary things.
He glanced up at the façade of her house before climbing the three steps to her front door. She watched him move, the tails of his coat brushing against his legs, long and muscular, encased in superbly fitting breeches and glossy boots, polished to a near-mirror shine.
She heard Culpepper open the door and hurried into the garden room, where she always received guests. Heat flushed her skin, and her pulse thrummed.
The butler stepped in to announce the marquess. And then he was there, taking up the space and making the room feel much smaller than it really was.
He bowed. “Miss Lennox.”
She dipped a curtsey. “My lord.”
Culpepper retreated, and Phoebe was keenly aware of the impropriety of being alone with the marquess. Improper and yet infinitely exciting.
“I brought your handkerchief.” He withdrew the cloth from his coat, reaching beneath his lapel. “Though I’m loath to return it.”
“Why?”
“It’s rather pretty. Is the embroidery your hand?”
She laughed softly. “No. My needle skills are utilitarian. Design, I’m afraid, is beyond my ability. Unlike you.”
“I may be able to draw, but don’t ask me to stitch it into fabric.” He gave her the handkerchief. It was warm in her hand, reminding her that it had nestled against his chest. Or nearly, anyway.
“Thank you.” She sounded a tad breathless, which wouldn’t do. Lowering her gaze, she saw that the cloth was quite clean. “There’s not a trace of blood. Your maids are to be commended.”
“I’ll tell them.” His cobalt gaze held hers, and they fell into a charged silence. The room seemed to shrink even more until she wasn’t sure they were still in a room. All she could see, all she could sense, was him.
She forced herself to speak. “Now that you’ve returned this, how will you contrive to spend time with me?”
He took a step toward her so that they were just a couple of feet apart. “Is that hope I hear in your voice?”
She ignored his question. “You can’t keep paying visits. My parents only just left. If you’d arrived ten minutes earlier, they would have seen you.”
His eyes glinted with humor and dark provocation. “Would that have been a problem?”
“You know it would,” she said with a measure of exasperation. “You are you.”
“And I shouldn’t be visiting you, a self-declared spinster? Where’s the fun—or point, really—in being a self-declared spinster if you can’t receive whomever you want whenever you want?”
Damn, he made a solid argument. Every defense turned to ash on her tongue. Really, what was the point? In this instance, the point was entirely her parents. It was one thing for her neighbors to see the marquess calling and quite another for her parents, who were already displeased with her, to do so.
However, at least one of her neighbors would presumably gossip about Ripley’s presence, and that would surely reach her parents’ ears. Or her mother’s, anyway.
She seized on the only protest she could possibly make. “Just because I am a self-declared spinster doesn’t mean I wish to tarnish my reputation by entertaining rogues and scoundrels.”
“I’m afraid I am both of those.”
“Precisely.”
He smiled slowly, like a cat who’d cornered a mouse. “And since you entered into a wager with me about kissing, I must submit that you are too. A rogue, certainly.”
He’d neatly turned that around on her. Her heart fluttered as it began to pick up speed once more. “I am not a rogue. I’m…enterprising.”
A laugh leapt from his too-seductive mouth. “So this is merely an investment?”
She nodded. “I have several.”
“What an intriguing notion, investing in your own ability to withstand temptation. You must have an extremely high opinion of yourself.”
She sucked in a breath because he couldn’t be more wrong. Until she’d left London after refusing to marry Sainsbury, she’d believed herself to be nearly worthless. She couldn’t attract a husband, and when she finally did, he was of an exceptionally loathsome caliber. Going to stay with her great-aunt had been the wisest thing she could have done. Great-Aunt Maria’s kindness and encouragement toward independence had gently but firmly set Phoebe on a path to improved self-esteem. But to say she had a high opinion of herself, extremely or otherwise, was laughable.
“Hardly. What I do know is that men are not to be trusted, particularly those who seek to flatter and beguile with the intent to seduce.”
“You think seduction is my ultimate goal.”
“What else could it be?” Angry with herself for playing this game with him, Phoebe turned and went to the glass doors that led out to the garden. She kept her back to him as she worked to regain control of her emotions.
It was a long moment before he spoke. “I’m not going to seduce you,” he said quietly. “Not unless you ask me to. The same as the kiss.”
She heard him move, and her body tensed—with anticipation and apprehension. But she didn’t feel him nearby. Pivoting, she saw that he’d gone to the settee near the fireplace and settled himself in the corner. With his arm draped along the back, he looked utterly comfortable and, somehow, commanding. She couldn’t look away from the line of his arm, the breadth of his shoulders, the tightening of his breeches over his crossed legs.
“Have you ever been friends with a man?” he asked.
“No. Why would I be?” It was silly when you thought about it, that young unmarried women were not really allowed to even be friends with a man. And why not? They were half the population.
“Will you allow me to be your friend? I am forever in your debt for stopping to tend my wound, so it really would be easier if we were friends. Don’t you agree?” His lips curled into a placid, nonthreatening smile. Even so, she couldn’t help but wonder at his ulterior motive.
“I’m afraid I will always be wondering when you plan to pounce.” She nearly flinched when she said it. He wasn’t behaving like a predator. However, she refused to be naïve.
He withdrew his arm from the back of the settee and uncrossed his legs. Fixing his gaze on her with powerful intensity, he said, “I will never pounce. Not unless you invite me to. I will repeat that to you as many times as necessary to gain your trust. Not all men are awful.”
She wanted to remain unmoved, but it was difficult in the face of his earnest concern. “Thank you.”
He settled back, once again adopting his nonchalant posture. “Now, tell me, will you be at the Duke of Halstead’s wedding on Tuesday?”
His abrupt change of topic would have been jarring if it wasn’t so thoughtful. Assuming he realized how agitated she’d been. He had an astounding ability to put her at ease.
“I will—and at the breakfast at Brixton Park.”
“Excellent. I will see you there. I must admit I like weddings, provided they aren’t my own.”
“I had my own wedding once.” Everything had been planned to the last detail—the ceremony, the breakfast…the rest of her life. Turning her back on all of it had taken more courage than she’d thought she possessed. “Rather, I would have.”
“Do you wish you’d gone through with it?” he asked with utter candor and without a hint of pity.
Phoebe was entranced. She moved away from the window and sat in her favorite chair. “No, not with that bridegroom.” She didn’t hide her contempt. “My dress was quite beautiful.” Her great-aunt had paid for the expensive silk as a wedding gift. Phoebe had apologized profusely for wasting it. Great-Aunt Maria had insisted she wear the gown to dinner on Sundays when Phoebe lived with her. Now the garment held happy memories instead of bitterness.
“You should wear it to the masquerade at Brixton Park a week from Saturday.”
“There’s to be a masquerade? Arabella hasn’t mentioned it.” And Phoebe had just paid her a call yesterday. Arabella’s parents’ back garden bordered Phoebe’s. That was how they’d met and become friends.
“It just came about this morning.”
“I’ve never been to a masquerade.” She thought of Ripley in his evening finery—and a mask. She expected she’d recognize him even with his face partially covered.
“You’ve plenty of time to procure a mask. And I’ll look forward to seeing the gown your idiot bridegroom didn’t deserve.”
That he cast Sainsbury in the role of villain nearly made her grin. “I’ll think about it—wearing the gown, I mean. I’ll be at the ball.”
“That will be day thirteen.”
Of their wager. “And you will be no closer to winning then than you are now.”
“That’s possible, unless I’m able to see you more than at the wedding.” The side of his mouth curved up. “Or are you afraid you’ll find me irresistible after all?”
“I can and will resist. A fortnight is nothing.”
“Particularly if we rarely see each other,” he mused with a smile.
“I will win even if we see each other every day. To prove it, let us take a picnic to Richmond on Sunday.”
His eyes widened slightly with surprise, then lit with admiration. “Why not tomorrow?”
“I already have plans. And apparently, I need to purchase a mask.” She found it alarmingly easy to flirt with him. Perhaps she didn’t need to be alarmed, not after today.
“Sunday…after church?”
“I don’t attend church.”
“Indeed? Me neither. Seems like I would be cast out.” He winked, and she smiled in response.
“I haven’t been able to go since… Never mind.” Since she’d left Sainsbury at the altar.
He nodded as if he understood. And maybe he did. He rose. “Sunday it is. Noon?”
Phoebe stood, smoothing her pale green skirts. “I’ll bring the picnic.”
“I’ll drive my curricle. It won’t bother you to be seen with me?”
She hadn’t fully considered that. The things he’d said today—asking her the purpose of being a self-declared spinster if she couldn’t choose who to spend time with and whether she’d ever had a male friend—took root in her mind.
“No,” she said firmly. “We’re friends, and I don’t care who knows it.” A tremor passed through her, but she ignored the sensation. She’d wanted to leave her old self behind, and it was time to move forward and embrace who she was going to be. Who she wanted to be.
“I’m delighted to be your friend, Miss Lennox. Until Sunday.” He bowed, then turned and left.
After he’d gone, Phoebe lifted the handkerchief and inhaled his singular scent—sandalwood and a dark spice. Clove. Plus something indescribable. Something that sparked an awakening inside her. An…arousal.
Where that would lead, Phoebe didn’t know, and that was fine. It was maybe even exhilarating.
Chapter 4
The morning had been overcast, but now, as they were on their way to Richmond, the sun had begun to peek through the clouds. Marcus likened it to the way he kept casting surreptitious glances toward his curricle mate. He didn’t want to be caught looking just as the sun perhaps didn’t want to be caught shining.
But it was incredibly hard not to. Miss Lennox presented a most alluring figure—from the tip of the jaunty feather in her stylish hat to the curve of her jaw leading to the lush shape of her mouth down her graceful neck to the fetching costume adorning the body he ached to explore. And didn’t that make him the most wretched of scoundrels?
It would if he acted upon his desire, which he refused to do. There was trepidation and distrust in her gaze if he drew too close. She was content to keep their relationship to a light flirtation—for now—and he would be too.
Besides, he was having a hell of a good time. Miss Lennox was smart and wry. They’d laughed several times since starting out from Cavendish Square—about learning to drive (her) and getting lost in London (him).
“I’ve only been to Richmond twice,” Miss Lennox said. “It’s not terribly far, but not close either.”
Nearly two hours west of London in their current vehicle, Richmond Park was a vast parkland founded centuries earlier. Deer and all manner of wildlife roamed free. “It’s a welcome respite from the city.”
Miss Lennox turned her head to look at him. “Is that why you purchased Brixton Park? As a respite from the city?”
He hadn’t considered that, but it was as good a reason as any. He wouldn’t get into the actual specifics with her. She didn’t need to know about his cousin’s malfeasance or how it had affected Graham. Although, since she was friendly with Graham’s betrothed, she might already be aware. “Indeed. Have you been there? The maze is spectacular.”
“I have—for a picnic. We played hide-and-seek in the maze.”
He envisioned finding her in a secluded nook and ending their wager…if she so chose. “Perhaps we should do that at the masquerade.”
“In the dark?” She’d gone back to looking ahead at the road. “That could be rather scandalous, but then you’re hosting this party, aren’t you?” Her mouth twitched as if she were trying not to smile.