A Duke is Never Enough

by Darcy Burke

  “You preferred to remain in London?” Marcus asked.

  Lavinia nodded, then adjusted her spectacles. “I love London in the spring. We’ll remove to the country in summer.” She looked to Phoebe. “I just wanted to come speak with you before we go. I hope you’ll call soon. This is to be my last excursion until after the babe comes. If he—or she—takes too long, I shall be hideously bored.”

  Phoebe laughed softly and took her friend’s hand, giving it a squeeze. Lavinia had been there for her after the Sainsbury debacle. She’d been kind, understanding, and, most of all, supportive. Phoebe glanced at Beck, who was actually to blame for Sainsbury’s attentions in the first place.

  Lavinia and Beck took their leave. After they were out of earshot, Marcus edged closer to Phoebe. “Didn’t Beck write a poem about a Miss Lennox when he was drafting his Duke of Seduction tripe? By God, I didn’t put that together until now.”

  Thank goodness for that. Phoebe preferred to forget about that entire period. “Tripe?” She sniggered. “It was tripe, actually.”

  “It was supposed to help unmarried women gain notice, I believe.”

  She nodded. “His ballads were lovely—as poetry. But as a means for attracting men, they were woefully misguided. Thankfully, Lavinia set him straight.” Just as soon as he’d set his sights on helping her. She’d somehow deduced his identity and put a stop to his “assistance.” Then she’d shocked everyone and married him.

  “That’s how Sainsbury found you, isn’t it?” Marcus asked softly.

  His concern clashed with her distaste for Sainsbury, and she flinched. “Yes.”

  “Shall I call Northam out?” he asked. “Or Sainsbury? Or both?”

  He was joking again. Except he wasn’t smiling as he was before, and there was an underlying steel to his tone.

  She turned, and her hand brushed his arm. They both reacted, pausing just long enough for their gazes to connect, then moved apart so they didn’t touch. “Neither. Northam has apologized. His letter of regret was even more beautiful than his poetry. Sainsbury isn’t worth your effort.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Marcus murmured, his gaze settling on her briefly before moving about the room. He finished the last of his champagne. “I’m in need of more wine. You?” He glanced at her half-full glass. “Just me, then.” He flashed her a smile and took himself off.

  Phoebe watched him go, her insides in a turmoil. She’d thought of him too much since their picnic. She’d driven more than halfway back to London, and she had to admit he was an excellent teacher. He was also delightful company. Especially when he threatened her former betrothed.

  She sipped her champagne and made eye contact with Jane across the room. They moved toward each other, meeting somewhere in the middle.

  “Flirting with Lord Ripley?” Jane asked with a saucy smile.

  “No.” Phoebe had flirted with him before, but she wasn’t sure that was what had just happened. Still, something had happened. Something deeper than their previous interactions. She realized she was in real danger of kissing him. No, of asking him to.

  No, no, no. She didn’t want that.

  “I’m teasing,” Jane said. “Though you looked rather…friendly.”

  “Because we’re friends.” Phoebe felt a pang of guilt because she hadn’t yet told Jane about their picnic. And why not? Because it was scandalous?

  Yes, because he was the Marquess of Ripley.

  “You’re friends?” Jane asked dubiously.

  “Yes. What’s the point in being a spitfire spinster if I can’t have male friends?”

  Jane laughed. “Indeed. I’d ask you to introduce me, but my mother would suffer a fit.” She cast a glance toward Lady Pemberton, who stood near the windows talking with Arabella’s mother, Mrs. Stoke.

  “Then definitely don’t tell her that we took a picnic to Richmond the other day.”

  Jane’s eyes widened, and her jaw dropped briefly before she snapped it closed. “You didn’t.” Her voice was low and urgent.

  Phoebe nodded. “You don’t think I’m being naïve, do you?”

  “Why would I think that?”

  “Because Ripley is not all that different from Sainsbury.” She stole a glance at Marcus and saw the many ways in which he was vastly different from Sainsbury. It was the way he carried himself—with self-awareness and confidence. He exuded a masculine ease, while Sainsbury always seemed to be on edge. Furthermore, he was exponentially more handsome. Still, they did share a few things in common. “They’re both philanderers, and you know how Sainsbury behaved.”

  “Has Ripley behaved in the same manner?” Jane also darted a look in Marcus’s direction. Thankfully, he wasn’t paying attention, or he was bound to know they were talking about him. “I can’t imagine he has. You wouldn’t have taken a picnic with him, and you certainly wouldn’t be talking to him and smiling with him today.” She had a point. A good one too.

  Phoebe ought to trust herself. However, that was hard when she’d believed Sainsbury would be a good husband only to discover how very wrong she’d been. She suddenly felt fiercely angry at him all over again. He’d made her doubt herself, and that was unforgivable.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Jane asked with concern.

  Summoning a smile, Phoebe rushed to reassure her dear friend. “Not at all. You said exactly the right thing.” Of course Marcus was different from Sainsbury, and she’d do well to remember that.

  “How was it?” Jane asked, her eyes alight with interest. “The picnic.”

  “It was lovely. He’s actually very kind. And amusing.”

  Jane blinked. “So he’s…normal?”

  They laughed and then Arabella joined them. The conversation turned to the wedding and then the upcoming masquerade. “I’ll scarcely have a chance to catch my breath,” Arabella said, “but we’re so thrilled to host a ball before we leave Brixton Park.” There was a tinge of regret in her tone.

  “You don’t really want to leave, do you?” Phoebe asked.

  “It’s not that. I just know how important this estate is to Graham and his legacy.” His ancestor had helped to design and build the property and had laid out the gardens, including the maze. Then the duke, his older brother, had cast him out for a perceived transgression—an affair with his wife that had never happened. “I think reclaiming it was what he’d most looked forward to when he suddenly became the duke.” His inheritance had only come after the other line had died out without issue.

  “Well, I’m looking forward to the masquerade,” Jane said. “I’ve never been to one.”

  “Neither have I,” Arabella said, grinning. “I’ve the most cunning mask—it’s a swan.”

  “That sounds beautiful.” Jane sent a pouting expression toward her mother. “I wasn’t allowed anything elaborate. It’s just a simple mask with a few flowers. I swear, I’m growing closer and closer to declaring my own spinsterhood and moving in with you, Phoebe.”

  “You know you are always welcome.”

  “You may find true love yet,” Arabella said. “I did.”

  “I’m afraid you landed the last decent gentleman,” Jane said. “Just look around. There are only two unwed men here, and neither one qualifies.”

  “What’s wrong with Lord Colton?” Arabella asked, notably leaving Marcus out of the question.

  Jane shook her head gently as she looked toward the viscount. “His reputation is almost as bad as Ripley’s this season.”

  “Isn’t he excused because of his parents’ demise?” Phoebe tried to keep the edge of irritation from her voice. Men had different standards. They could suffer loss or heartache and behave like imbeciles with relative impunity. Women, however, couldn’t decide not to marry a scoundrel after he revealed his true character without being shunned. Or at least suffering a grave loss of status. Colton would probably be able to wed just about anyone he chose anytime he chose, whereas Phoebe would be incredibly lucky to receive an offer from a country vicar with a humble l
iving.

  “Hardly,” Jane said. “My mother says he’s not as desirable as he once was—which is what happened to Ripley several years ago. Not that either of them cares. Or so it seems.” She turned to Phoebe. “Is that true? Does Ripley care about not going to Almack’s or attending balls?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Phoebe murmured, her gaze finding Marcus across the room where he stood with Colton. His eyes were on her, sending a tremor of awareness down her spine. She finished her champagne. “Pardon me for a moment.”

  She turned and went to one of the doors, where a footman stood with an empty tray. Depositing her glass with him, she asked for the direction to the retiring room.

  Making her way there, she took a few minutes to reset her equilibrium. Marcus was unsettling her in a way he hadn’t before. She wasn’t sure what to do except avoid him. Perhaps she wasn’t really equipped for friendship with a man. Or a man like him.

  Phoebe checked her reflection in the glass. She tried to see the beauty in her hair that Marcus had described. His words could have been mere flattery, a pretty, vocal seduction, but they weren’t. Not when she compared them with those of the vile Sainsbury. His words had been empty, disgusting promises.

  No, they weren’t at all alike. Marcus hadn’t accosted her, despite ample opportunity, at any point during their picnic the other day. He’d been the consummate gentleman, actually. Not at all what she might have expected before she’d come to know him. Before they’d become friends.

  Her lips curved back at her from the glass. She felt better, more at ease, ready to return.

  She left the retiring room and ran straight into Marcus. Or would have, if she hadn’t stopped short.

  “There you are,” he said.

  “Were you looking for me?” Phoebe glanced around and saw they were alone.

  His mouth slanted in a roguish smile. “Always.” He stepped toward her and offered her his arm. “Might we take a turn?”

  In answer to his question, she curled her arm around his sleeve. “Where?”

  “Back to the drawing room?”

  Then it would look as if they’d had a rendezvous. Or that they’d encountered each other outside the drawing room. She wasn’t entirely sure which these particular guests would assume, but she guessed it was probably the latter. However, at least a few, particularly Jane’s mother, might think the former. “We shouldn’t arrive together.”

  “I see.” He steered her into another room and closed the door.

  That wouldn’t look scandalous.

  “This is worse than arriving together,” she said.

  “Just give me a moment.” He sounded so earnest and his gaze was so serious that she withdrew her hand from his arm and faced him expectantly. “I want to cancel our wager. About kissing.”

  Words failed to form on her tongue. She stared at him in shock.

  “I can see that’s the last thing you expected to hear,” he quipped.

  At last, she was able to manufacture speech. “Why?”

  “We’re friends now, and I think my…flirtation makes you uncomfortable. I never want to cause you unease.”

  A swoon threatened to pitch her toward the floor. Not really, but her knees had grown a bit watery. “I’m not uncomfortable. I’m just not used to it.” Except she was a trifle uncomfortable. When she thought of where it might lead. “I don’t like kissing.”

  The admission tumbled from her lips without thought. As soon as it was out there between them, she wished she could haul it back in.

  His eyes flickered with surprise. “Then you’ve actually done so before?”

  She nodded, again unable to speak.

  “Sainsbury.” It wasn’t a word so much as a growl. Marcus’s eyes darkened to that pitch-black place between midnight and dawn.

  “Yes.”

  Marcus looked away, then inhaled deeply. When he turned his gaze back to hers, he appeared more like the man she’d come to know. “Tell me where to deposit the hundred pounds.”

  “I—” She wanted to protest, but he was right. When she thought about taking their flirtation…anywhere, a cold apprehension swept through her. Despite that, there was also the faintest hint of anticipation. And loss now that the wager was over.

  “The Foundling Hospital.”

  “Done.” He started to offer her his arm once more, but she held up her hand.

  “What about the other wager—the masquerade?”

  “We can cancel that t—”

  She interrupted him. “No, I don’t want to. I’ve already organized my costume.”

  He narrowed one eye briefly. “All right. You sound rather confident in your ability to win.”

  “Because I am.”

  He moved closer to her, but not too close. Near enough, however, that she noted the faint lines around his eyes and the curl of his long, dark lashes. “Are you afraid you’d lose the other wager?” he asked softly.

  Yes. “You’re the one who called it off.”

  “So I did. I’d still be delighted—honored—to kiss you if you ever want me to. Whatever was done to you before wasn’t good or right. I won’t ask about it, but don’t take that as my not wanting to know. I want to learn every last thing about you. What you eat for breakfast, if you rise early or stay up late, how you prepare for bed, what you dream about. And everything in between.”

  Phoebe couldn’t look away from him, nor could she move. She was enchanted by the passion of his stare and the seductive timbre of his voice.

  “A kiss isn’t a weapon or a tool, it’s a shared desire made manifest,” he continued. “A joining borne of urgency or emotion or bare need—or all those things. A kiss should make you tremble and catch flight, like a leaf breaking free from the tree and skipping on the breeze. More than that, the anticipation is akin to a cold winter night when the fire is just starting to blaze. You hold your hands up, eager for the warmth, knowing it will give you everything you need, that you will feel safe and whole and content. As the heat finally settles in, you twitch and laugh, your body welcoming the joy and bone-deep satisfaction it brings. For that moment, everything is right and perfect.”

  Phoebe made a sound she didn’t recognize. It was part sigh and part…longing. She didn’t care about any wager. She wanted to feel the way he described.

  He took her hand, his fingers warm against hers. “You deserve that and nothing less.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the space between her thumb and forefinger, his gaze never leaving hers.

  Then he let her go and presented his arm. “We should return.”

  Yes, they should. Her body was trembling, just as he’d described. Except she wouldn’t take flight. Not today.

  And that left her profoundly disappointed. What remained was what she planned to do about that. Right now, she didn’t know.

  “A note arrived for you, my lord,” Dorne said, handing Marcus the missive as he stepped from the stairs.

  “Thank you.” Marcus continued to his study, glad for the black coffee he’d drunk upstairs after his relatively sleepless night. That was two in a row. Two nights of dreaming of Phoebe and waking up frustrated. Because those dreams were all he was ever going to have.

  He glanced down at the note and immediately recognized the handwriting. Opening the parchment, he quickly scanned the note from Mrs. Alban.

  She wanted to know if he would come for dinner tonight.

  He’d regularly dined with the brothel owner, at least once a fortnight. In addition, he paid more frequent visits to her establishment, but not to see her. They’d never shared a bed—she left that to her employees—but they’d shared many meals, conversations, and laughter. She was the only female friend he’d ever had.

  Until Phoebe.

  His focus had been almost entirely on her this past week and a half. A delightful, pleasant interlude—a sort of respite from his rakehell life. Now it was over.

  He sat at his desk and dashed off a note to accept Mrs. Alban’s invitation. As he was fo
lding the parchment, Dorne returned to announce the arrival of Harry Sheffield.

  Marcus handed the butler his response to Mrs. Alban. “Have this delivered, please. Send Harry in.”

  Harry entered a few moments later. “Morning, Rip. Hope I’m not disturbing you too early.”

  “Not at all.” Marcus gestured for Harry to sit. “I hope your visit means you have good news to share.”

  Frowning, Harry took the chair next to Marcus’s desk. “I’m afraid I don’t. Drobbit has proven to be difficult prey. It’s almost as if he’s vanished.”

  “Damn.” Marcus knew that if Harry couldn’t find him, it was as if Drobbit had disappeared from the earth.

  “I do have news, however.” Harry narrowed his eyes slightly as he rested one arm on the chair. “Drobbit may have been up to some shady behavior. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?”

  Marcus wondered what Harry had learned. “What sort of shady behavior?”

  “I’m not certain, but my search for him has led me to some unsavory individuals. Criminals, to be frank. Underworld moneylenders.” Harry’s brow darkened. “I suspect he owes someone money.”

  Bloody hell. That would explain why he was stealing—and why he was broke. “I can’t get into specifics, but I believe he may have swindled someone. He took money for an investment, then said it went poorly and the money was lost.”

  “You—or the someone—think he lied and stole the money?” Harry asked.

  “It’s possible. That’s why I want to find him.”

  “If you think of anything, anything at all, that would help me, I’d appreciate it. In the meantime, I’m going to follow where this leads.” Harry stood and gave Marcus a grim stare. “Your cousin may face arrest.”

  “So it appears.” Marcus wanted to put a stop to Drobbit’s criminal behavior, and that seemed the best way to do it at this point. Still, he wanted a list of who his cousin had cheated and how much he’d stolen. It bothered him to think that Drobbit had ruined, or come close to ruining, any number of people.