With a growl, he forcibly thrust back thoughts of the woman and focused on Honoria Fairfax, whom he’d gathered little about. By her lineage alone, he knew she was surely a title-grasping, scheming miss who’d part her legs and sell her soul for the title of duchess. After all, hadn’t he himself been cut of the same cheap fabric as his sire? He’d little doubt Miss Fairfax was any different than her mother. The muscles of his stomach clenched. Or her aunt.
Edmund drew in a slow, steadying breath, detesting the slight showing of weakness that proved Margaret’s defection still rankled. Ah, Margaret. The lady who’d won his heart and made his twenty-one year old self believe he could know love when his parents had not. The hopefully optimistic, lovesick swain had merely been a two-month interlude from reality. For in the end, she’d chosen another—a duke. A now dead duke. And Edmund had become that which he’d always be—an emotionally deadened, heartless scoundrel who took his pleasures where he would. He trained his eyes on the name of Margaret’s niece. Then eight years later, she returned from her period of mourning and the foolish hope he’d not known he carried that she’d come to him had died. She’d returned to London and chosen another. Again.
He had little doubt she’d come to regret that decision. An ugly laugh rumbled up from his chest. He closed his folio.
Chapter 5
Seated on the comfortable ivory cushion of the parlor windowseat, Phoebe studied the street below. Her books on Captain Cook’s explorations lay scattered at her feet, untouched since her world had been thrown into upheaval. Lords and ladies walked arm-in-arm while carriages rattled by. She absently played with the cashmere textured dupioni curtains thinking of another slip of cashmere—an object retrieved by a mysterious gentleman. The same gentleman who’d kissed her. Her first kiss. Quick, because she’d ended it. Hot, because, even now, warmth swirled in her belly in remembrance of it. And she’d insulted him. Because for as much as he’d insisted on being captivated by her beauty, she knew what she was and what she looked like and was quite comfortable in that. A gentleman who possessed such luxuriant, chestnut hair with tones of black, and brown eyes the color of warmed chocolate did not…well…he did not go about kissing ladies such as she.
And ladies such as she, who’d taken care to protect her name, virtue, and respectability since she’d learned the extent of her father’s vile ways and the words whispered about him, and their entire family. She had pledged to never be so enticed by a gentleman who might go about kissing her. She dropped her head back against the wall.
“What has you so quiet, my dear?”
A startled shriek escaped her at the sudden, unexpected appearance of her oft-smiling mother. “Mother,” she greeted the gentle-spirited woman who’d been all things good and loving to her children, when their father had been absent and, oftentimes, vicious with his words. She swung her legs over the edge of her seat and made to rise, but her mother waved her off.
“Do not bother yourself. Not on my account,” she said softly and slid into the seat beside her.” She glanced down at the books Phoebe had abandoned reading a long while ago. “You’re not reading,” she said it with a faint accusatory edge underscoring her words. She bent and retrieved one of the books and held it up, as though there might be a question as to what books she referred to.
“No. I’m…just… thinking.” About a gentleman, a stranger, who stole into the gardens and has since captured my thoughts.
Her mother lowered the book of travels onto her lap. “You?” she scoffed. “Unable to think of traveling?” Yes, for as horrid and uncaring and all things unfeeling as Papa was, her mother had long been devoted to each of her children’s interests. When other mothers would have burned the pages of works that documented the journeys of powerful, brave, and bold explorers, her mother had given Phoebe her own pin money so she could read more and learn more. “What, nothing to say?” her mother prodded, bringing her back to the moment. A twinkle lit her kindly blue eyes. “Only one thing can account for this sudden, inexplicable inability to read, as you are wont to do.”
Please do not say it.
“You’ve met a gentleman.”
She’d said it.
Phoebe glanced away from the smiling question in her mother’s eye. “No.” Even as the word left her mouth, she realized how halfhearted the belated response was. “Yes,” she amended. Her mother’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. “Not in a way that was inappropriate.” Except, as soon as those words left her mouth, she recognized how damning they truly sounded. “Er…I dropped something and he retrieved it and…” She fell silent. Her mother continued to sit there, eying her in that knowing way. “But there’s not more there.” Other than her first kiss, which would be memorable to any lady regardless of whom the kissing gentleman was, or ever would be. “It was just a fortuitous meeting in which he rescued Honoria’s shawl,” she said, more to herself.
Her mother’s lips pulled up in the corner. Phoebe froze a moment wondering how a woman who lived an existence with a cad like the Viscount Waters as her husband should ever manage such a beautiful and alive smile. “It is never a chance meeting. There is no such thing,” she said with a widening smile.
How was the other woman able to smile? How could she do it so freely and sincerely and beautifully when she remained trapped in marriage to a vile reprobate? And more, how could she believe in the dream of love and romance for others, when life had so cruelly stolen the hope of those emotions from her?
Suddenly uncomfortable with thoughts about her mother’s marriage and Phoebe’s heart, she swallowed back the question that would only cause the other woman pain. A knock sounded at the door and she glanced up. From the entrance of the room, the butler cleared his throat. “Lady Gillian and Miss Honoria.” He sketched a respectful bow and backed out of the room.
Phoebe scrambled to her feet, never more glad for the sudden appearance of two people. These two people, particularly. The young ladies filed into the parlor like a pair of geese and dipped matching curtsies. “My lady,” they said in unison.
“Good morning, Gillian. Honoria.” Her mother greeted them with a smile and then a twinkle lit her eyes. No doubt she knew her daughter well enough to detect the relief at the young ladies’ interruption. With a quick kiss on Phoebe’s cheek, the older woman sailed from the room in a flurry of skirts.
Ever garrulous Gillian broke the silence. “Shall we be going? Honoria is not permitted to remain out long. She has—oomph.” Gillian glared at Honoria. “Did you kick me?”
“I daresay that should be fairly obvious,” Honoria muttered.
Phoebe looked questioningly between her friends.
When it became clear Honoria intended to say nothing else, Gillian explained. “It is Lord Thistlewait.” The gentleman in question had made no secret of his interest in Honoria. And Honoria had made no secret of her disinterest in that gentleman. Gillian skipped over and claimed a spot on the gold upholstered sofa. “I’ve heard horrid things of Lord Thistlewait,” she said on a conspiratorial whisper. “They say he is a stodgy bore.” Which in no way explained a priggish gentleman’s attention on one of the most notorious, unwed young ladies.
Honoria patted her brown curls. “I’ve not heard any truly ill thoughts on the gentleman.” She stifled a yawn with her fingers. “He is a bore.” She wrinkled her nose, ruining her whole affected attempt at maturity. “Which I would suppose constitutes an ill thought,” she muttered under her breath.
What would Phoebe’s two friends say about her unwitting fascination with the Marquess of Rutland? Heat spiraled through her as she recalled his kiss. There was nothing staid or stodgy about the marquess. And with the desire he stirred, staid and stodgy were a good deal safer.
“Why are you looking like that?” Gillian cocked her head and then looked to Honoria. “Why is she looking like that?”
Phoebe’s cheeks warmed. “Shall we go before Honoria is forced to return and be courted by Lord Thistlewait?”
The lady in mention nar
rowed her eyes and then opened her mouth as though she wished to say something on Phoebe’s deliberate evasiveness. But Phoebe implored her with her eyes and Honoria gave an imperceptible nod.
A short carriage ride later, with no further talk of Lord Thistlewait or questions about Phoebe’s peculiar reaction, the ladies and a rightfully wary maid made their way not shopping but through the broad columns of Egyptian Hall.
Phoebe glanced up at the sweeping ceiling of the darkened Egyptian-style space. Hieroglyphics marked the walls of the famed place constructed by Mr. Bullock. She paused beside the menagerie of stuffed creatures at the central portion of the hall and, reaching up on tiptoe, craned her head about in search of the items belonging to the famed Captain James Cook. From the corner of her eye, she noted Honoria grip Gillian by the forearm, staying their forward movement. Her friends paused and looked back at her.
“I do not see them,” Phoebe murmured, turning a small circle in search of the display of those revered items returned by Captain Cook’s crew.
“I imagine that is the fun in coming here, taking the time to look.” Honoria paused. “At everything.”
Gillian nodded her agreement. “Oh, yes. I daresay the ferocious snakes eating their prey is a good deal more interesting than some horridly boring explorer who—”
Phoebe frowned, personally offended for the gentleman. “He is not boring,” she said defensively of the legendary explorer and cartographer. She rather resented Gillian filing the Captain Cooks of the world into the company with the Lord Thistlewaits of the world.
“Come along,” Honoria urged, motioning Phoebe forward. “We shall search. Gillian shall enjoy her horrific snakes, I shall have the opportunity to appreciate the gold recovered from…from…wherever it was recovered from and you may have your Captain Cook.”
Phoebe returned to her friend’s side and, maid in tow, fell into step beside the young women, all the while scanning the enormous space for those famed artifacts. The story of Captain Cook had intrigued her from the time she’d been a small girl. Her mother had regaled her with those fascinating stories of the man and his great, fascinating explorations. And though she’d known even then the foolishness in imagining a life of exploration and adventure, excitement had stirred in her heart at the dream of it. Now she realized her mother had likely dreamed of escape for herself. Selfishly she’d not given thought to the woman her mother had been prior to the marriage arranged by Phoebe’s grandfather. Had she dreamed of escape even then? Or had she willingly ceded over all control unquestioningly as the dutiful daughter and that longing for escape came later? Regret stuck in her chest. She would never cede control over to a gentleman strictly because her father commanded it. No, she would steal her happiness when and where she could…and be the sole controller of her fate.
She turned to her maid. “Marissa, you may take yourself about the museum. No harm shall come to us,” she said when the young woman hesitated. But then she dropped a curtsy and hurried off.
“That was well done of you,” Honoria complimented. “I only wish my aunt’s maids were as obliging.”
Phoebe’s father’s servants were loyal to the Viscountess Waters and her children. That devotion was likely a product of pity for the horrid father and spouse the Barrett family suffered through. It was well known that the servants in Honoria’s aunt’s employ were loyal to her harridan of an aunt and not much more.
From the corner of her eye, a ray of sunshine slashed through the windows at the top of the room and splashed light off a glass display case. She squinted down the length of the room at the wide map contained within that particular exhibit.
Gillian followed her gaze and groaned. “There is hardly anything interesting in a map. Bah, what does it show?” She jabbed her finger toward the stuffed snake. “As opposed to that magnificent—”
“Go.” Phoebe laughed. “I’ll not be long.” Still they hesitated. “I assure you the nefarious sort is hardly lurking about the Egyptian Hall.” Not allowing the young ladies an opportunity to issue protest, she started down the hall for Captain Cook’s collection.
*
At last the young ladies were alone. Invariably, those scheming ladies with scandalous families ultimately found a way to disentangle themselves from their chaperones.
From where he stood behind the massive Doric column, Edmund tucked away the note from the lady’s father, a bald, greedy Judas, and lazily studied Miss Barrett’s hurried steps. She cast a longing gaze forward, walking with purposeful strides. He narrowed his eyes. She met a lover. There was no other accounting for her solitary presence in Lord Delenworth’s gardens a few days ago and now the eager glint in her brown eyes.
Never taking his gaze from the young lady, Edmund moved with slow, stealthy steps along the perimeter of the famed Egyptian Hall. He strode past the handful of visitors present, those other patrons foolishly engrossed in the useless artifacts collected about the room.
It mattered not that there was some other gentleman who’d ensnared her notice. He’d seen the stirring of interest in her eyes, the breathless whisper of a sigh as his lips touched hers. Then, she stopped abruptly before a broad, crystal case. She cast several furtive glances about, her gaze lingering upon her two friends thoroughly engrossed with the massive, coiled serpent and the prey the frozen snake intended to devour. Phoebe turned her attention back to the case and he strode forward. With the same ruthless speed of a lethal serpent, he stopped just behind her.
Her shoulders stiffened and her singular focus shifted from one of Cook’s worthless artifacts to his hovering presence. She spun around, hand to her breast, and then a smile wreathed her cheeks. “You.” Her eyes made her more transparent than the crystal panes of the case. Shocked pleasure lit her blue irises and then the familiar wariness replaced her earlier excitement. “My lord,” she said again, this time more composed.
He sketched a bow. “Hello, Miss Barrett. What an unexpected pleasure.” He lied. There was nothing unexpected in this meeting. This had been carefully planned since Lord Waters had sent round a missive detailing the ladies’ plans for that week. He angled his head toward the case. “Never tell me you are also an admirer of the legendary Captain Cook.”
Flecks of gold danced in her eyes. “Oh, quite!” Ah, so she didn’t meet a lover. Her love was for a dead explorer. How singularly…odd. He’d never before known a woman who’d worn that silly, starry look about anything other than a bauble or the promise of passion between the sheets. He shifted, disconcerted in a world where he was always only sure. She gestured to the map. “This is…” Her words trailed off. “You’re an admirer of Captain Cook?” she whispered.
He was, now. With her breathless question, he was restored to the ruthless Edmund. He made a show of studying the display case. “I must confess it is not Captain Cook who has singularly captured my attention.”
She widened her eyes and a hand fluttered up to her breast. “It isn’t?”
With a deliberate slowness, he returned his attention to her. “No,” he murmured. He dropped his gaze to her lips, studying them, remembering the taste and contour of the plump flesh. And just then he was ensnared by his own game, wanting to take her mouth under his and explore the hot depths of her and more. He blinked back the momentary lapse in sanity. “Travel,” he managed at last.
Phoebe tipped her head, the passion dipped and faded from her eyes, replaced by the thick haze of befuddlement.
“I find myself fascinated by exploration and those who’ve traveled and been places and seen the wonders and magnificence beyond the confines of the stifling London Society.”
Her breath caught.
Everyone had their weaknesses. The trick to life was identifying those weaknesses and exploiting them; taking them and twisting them to suit one’s uses for that person. He grinned. This was the moment where he’d effectively trapped Phoebe Barrett. “What of you, Phoebe? Do you, too, dream of far-off places and escaping,” he gestured about the walls of the museum. “This?”
She followed his gesture and then ultimately fixed her gaze upon that map trapped behind its crystal confines. “I do,” she said softly.
He put his lips close to her ear. “It begs the question, what would you escape from?” The safe answer she wasn’t aware of was, in fact, him.
Her brow creased. “That is a rather intimate question.” There was a faint hesitancy to those words that hinted at a logical, practical woman of some caution. She angled her head back, craning to look at him. “What if I were to say I’m not escaping but searching?” she asked, instead, proving she was not cautious enough, not when those unguarded words let him, a stranger, far more into her world than she should ever dare allow.
“And what are you searching for?” For the span of a heartbeat that question was borne of a desire to know what would make a polished, English lady seek a life beyond the glittering world of their London Society. Why, when ladies were mercenary creatures, driven by greed and a lust for the material and their own pleasures?
Her expression grew shuttered. “I…” She flicked her gaze about and then settled her stare on his cravat.
He’d unnerved her. A triumphant sense of power filled him. It was entirely too easy.
“Do you know what I am searching for, Phoebe?” Revenge. Domination. Control.
She gave her head a little shake and again looked up at him.
“The thrill of knowing more,” he said on a soft, gentle whisper he’d not believed himself capable of any longer.
She folded her hands together and then stared down at the interlocked digits. “I understand that.” Those quietly spoken words barely reached his ears. “I believe we are kindred souls in that way, my lord.”
The Heart of a Scoundrel Page 6