But best of all was that the lady herself only improved on closer acquaintance. The sharp tongue and undaunted spirit that flayed him so mercilessly when they first met were scintillating, when not turned on him. Even when she did turn on him a little, he still found it more exhilarating than shrewish. One evening they had a vigorous disagreement over the American colonies, where his fortune had gone to wither in the hot Carolina sun. Rhys was all in favor of letting those benighted lands go and good riddance, while she strongly felt such a valuable possession should be retained if at all possible. Arguing with an intelligent, informed woman was a novel experience for him; she acknowledged his points, but had sound points of her own. When she made him admit he would support sending British troops to protect private British property and investments, despite his disgust for anything to do with the Americas, he knew he was hers. Wanting a woman was one thing. Finding her fascinating was another.
Now he stared down at her upturned face, pale and unearthly in the moonlight. Kiss her, she asked. He’d dreamed of nothing else for weeks. He raised his hand to her jaw, letting his fingers brush over the exposed swells of her breasts, pushed high by her stomacher. She inhaled sharply at his touch, and he took advantage of the motion to draw her to him. Her waist felt small and slender under his hand, nipped in under her corset and the folds of her mulberry silk gown, but when her body pressed against his, it was unmistakably a woman’s body.
He stroked her cheek, fingering a loose tendril of hair before smoothing it back. No one wore powder to Vauxhall, and her pale tresses were as soft as silk. “How many kisses?” he murmured.
“Just one will do.” She sounded as breathless as he felt. Good. Raw male satisfaction ripped through him. He was no green boy, undone by the sight of a woman’s parted lips, but by God, he wanted her to be as aroused by this as he was.
“How long a kiss?” He brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth.
“How long do you need?” She swayed against him, her hand resting lightly against his chest.
“To kiss you properly?” He smiled. “A lifetime, Maggie.” And finally he kissed her.
Rhys had no expectation that it was her first kiss. She had alluded to a debut in her youth, and since her brother ascended to the dukedom, she must have had dozens of suitors. It certainly wasn’t his first kiss, either, and he could see benefits to being the last man to kiss a woman instead of the first.
But it was their first kiss, and he wanted it to make an impression—and leave her aching for more.
Her lips were soft against his. For a moment he just savored the feel of them—and the feel of her, in his arms—but it wasn’t enough. He deepened the kiss, sucking lightly at her lower lip until she gasped. Rhys pressed his advantage a little, tasting her mouth, sweet with arrack punch. He flattened one hand against the small of her waist, drawing her to him, and felt her fingers curl into the facings of his coat. Satisfaction fizzed in his veins. Kissing her was more delightful than expected, even if she was more pliant than responsive.
And then, Margaret gave a soft sigh before she went up on her toes and began kissing him back.
Rhys was not prepared for it. Of all the kisses in his life, none had ever been so honest and so longing. He could taste the desire in her, from the way her tongue twined with his to the way her body strained against his. She clung to him as if she would never let go, and the flare of lust shot right to his groin. Good Lord. He’d expected to be the seducer, and instead he was drowning in desire, so hard for her he could hardly stay on his feet. He cupped his shaking hand around the back of her skull, and threw restraint to the winds.
“I say there, sir,” said a frosty voice behind them some minutes later. “Unhand the lady!”
Margaret gave a violent start in his arms. Rhys held her for a moment so she wouldn’t fall, then loosened his grip and let her step away. She looked delectable; her hair had gotten a bit mussed, and her breasts were almost spilling from her bodice. Another sign how much he’d lost himself, that he had gone so far in a place where they could be interrupted at any moment. He turned to the intruder slowly, giving a discreet tug to right his breeches and blocking Margaret from sight so she could repair herself, only to grimace when he recognized the fellow. “Always taking an interest in other people’s affairs, aren’t you, Branwell?” he asked dryly.
The Marquis of Branwell drew himself up and glared back. “I might have known it would be you assaulting a lady in a public garden, Dowling.” He craned his neck to the side. “Are you well, Miss de Lacey?”
“Yes, yes, perfectly well,” she said breathlessly, stepping around Rhys. “What made you think otherwise, sir?”
Branwell’s nostrils flared in obvious disgust as he glanced at Rhys. “Perhaps you are not aware, Miss de Lacey, that the paths in the Grove are not safe for the delicate sex. This part of the garden is frequented by scoundrels.”
“So I have heard.” She smiled regally, despite the blond curl drooping from her coiffure. “I shall be alert for any, sir. Thank you for the warning.”
Branwell pointedly looked Rhys up and down. “You have already erred rather badly, madam, if your goal is to avoid scoundrels. I will escort you back to your brother, who will no doubt be appalled by your actions.”
Rhys felt her slightly shocked glance, and wanted to punch Branwell in the face. How dare that priggish hypocrite poke his nose into the concerns of others? “No need, sir,” he said thinly. “I’m escorting Miss de Lacey this evening.”
The marquis physically recoiled. He shot Margaret a look of pure disdain before turning the same expression on Rhys. “So I see. I might have known you would try to remedy your problems by luring a woman into ruin. Your father would be ashamed.”
Rhys curled his mouth in grim imitation of a smile, and swept an elaborate bow. Branwell hissed in disapproval. Without a word of farewell he turned on his heel and walked away.
The silence was ringing. All the heat and glow of the kiss had faded into nothing, like a fire put out by a bucket of cold water.
“Not a friend of yours, I presume,” said Margaret softly after a minute.
“No,” he muttered. “Rather the opposite.”
Her skirts rustled as she came to stand beside him. “I hear such wicked things of you,” she said. “Everyone except Clarissa assures me you’re purely after my fortune and are such a rascal, my ears would burn to hear of it. And yet my own eyes tell me something different.” She paused. “I’m sure I wouldn’t have to beg a true scoundrel to kiss me.”
He smiled without humor. “What do your eyes tell you about me? I confess I would like to know.”
She studied him. “You dance with my friend, when other gentlemen laugh at her looks and snub her for her frankness. You are cordial to her fiancé, whom society mocks as a dim-witted fool. You bow out when I tease you that your company discourages other men from asking me to dance. You say you want to marry me, but then talk to me of politics and business, of family and home—of things that truly matter to me—rather than flirting and praising my fine eyes. And now a man insults you to your face, and you bow as if he did you great honor. I cannot understand it.”
“No?” He sighed. “Perhaps it makes no sense.”
“It makes sense,” she said slowly, “if you are an exceedingly cagey fellow who will go to great lengths to fool me about the depths of your devotion. Or . . . if you really care to know me.”
Rhys looked down at her. Her face, even turned up to his, was dim and shadowed in the faint moonlight, but he remembered the feel of her lips against his, of her cheek against his. He’d meant to tell her all this, but not tonight, when he wanted only to revel in the passion that sparkled between them. His courtship had gone almost perfectly, from the discovery that they were well suited to each other in intellect, temperament, humor, and now physical desires. He was sure he could have proposed tonight and been accepted, if not for the yawning difference in their financial states and the aspersions it cast on his motives.
Cursed Branwell.
“I dance with Miss Stacpoole because it gives her as much pleasure as it gives me. Eccleston is no scholar but he’s a decent, honest man and a steadfast fellow. He doesn’t care how I choose to address my financial straits.” He paused, but there was no way to avoid it. The marquis would surely tell her brother, and this was his only chance to explain before others told Margaret Branwell’s version of the tale. “Branwell was my guardian—my father’s cousin who managed my estates until I reached my majority.”
“He—what?” she exclaimed. “You said your guardian squandered the estate!”
“He doesn’t see it that way.” Rhys shrugged, trying to keep the familiar, well-worn ire at bay. “I notice he didn’t make the same investments with his own funds, though. But he will never forgive me for revealing how low the Dowling fortunes had sunk when I came of age, casting well-earned blame for it on him.”
“Revealing,” she repeated. “How does one hide it? Especially a marked reduction in circumstances?”
She really was from a different society, if she didn’t know. “By living on credit. By using your station and name to intimidate merchants into supplying you, while never paying their bills. By bleeding every farthing out of your lands and tenants in order to maintain appearances, while they starve. An earl must live like a nobleman, not like a vagabond, even if he is as poor as one,” he finished a bit harshly, remembering Branwell’s last lecture to him on the subject.
“A vagabond.” Her voice rang with doubt, as if to say, how can a man who attends balls be a vagabond?
Suddenly he was just tired of it. Margaret knew he was destitute; he’d already admitted it to her himself, even though she’d heard it from a dozen other sources as well. After taking such care to get to know her, what was the point in hiding the truth now? If she couldn’t stomach it, better that he know now. “I’ve sold everything I can,” he said quietly. “The plate, the silver, the furnishings, the paintings, the rare books . . . everything my father collected and Branwell approved of. All that’s left is entailed, but it’s crumbling around my ears. I don’t believe an earldom entitles a man to amass as much debt as he can and ignore the bills. But I’ve reached the end of what I can do. There is nothing left to sell, no more source of funds.” He sighed again. “Damned foolish sheep.”
“And that’s why you need to marry an heiress,” she whispered.
“Clyve persuaded me to that. After spending the last ten years trying to salvage my estate, and being beset by one disaster after another, I personally favored putting the whole property into Holland covers and decamping for the Continent. Perhaps try my luck at tending goats in the Alps.” He gave her a wry look. “The very course you urged upon me when we met.”
She didn’t smile. “You really would have abandoned your estate?”
“It’s damn near a ruin at this point. My father was so obsessed with collecting objets d’art, he let the house fall into extreme disrepair. The roof collapsed on one wing, the gardens were let go when my mother remarried, Branwell tried to cover his losses by letting servants go so there’s been no one to keep out the weather . . . It’s in such a state I cannot even lease it out.” He shrugged. “I would sell it all if I could break the entail. The house in town at least is still whole.”
“What will you do if . . . ?” Her voice trailed off uncomfortably.
“If I cannot seduce a wealthy lady into marriage?”
She bit her lip, looking about to cry. He repented his bitter remark. “There, darling,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms. She laid her cheek on his shoulder, and he took a deep breath. God. If only he’d had as much money as she did, or even just a little bit. Then she wouldn’t doubt him. “I thank God for your brother’s generosity,” he whispered. “I might not have met you but for the gossip about your dowry—along with Clyve’s mother, of course, who put your name on a list of potential brides for him.”
“For Lord Clyveden?” She sounded appalled, and Rhys smiled.
“He gave me the list and persuaded me to meet the ladies on it. Your name was the third of four.”
“Who else was on the list?”
He made a dismissive sound. “Mere girls. One meek and quiet, one amiable and ambitious.”
“That’s only two.”
“I never even met the fourth, Maggie,” he breathed against her temple. “Once I met you, and you gave me such a magnificent set-down, I knew you were the only woman for me.”
He could feel her cheek swell with a little smile, but then she stepped back and regarded him soberly. “But if I didn’t have a dowry, you wouldn’t be here with me in this garden, would you?” In the moonlight she was beautiful, her eyes dark and serious, her skin glowing like pearl.
“I think I would be,” he said. “If you were still that spinster in Holborn without a pound to your name, and I had met you some other way, I would still be here, hoping to kiss you again.”
“If I were still a spinster in Holborn,” she said slowly, “everyone would mock you for even looking twice at me.”
“My darling Maggie,” he said with a faint smile, “they’ve already turned their backs on me. I would live my life in ruin and disgrace for the chance to look twice at you, every day for the rest of eternity.”
Her breathing stopped. “Why?” she asked, almost fearfully.
If he hadn’t already declared himself with his last statement, there was no reason not to come straight out and say it. He met her eyes and said simply, “Because I’m falling in love with you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rhys went home not knowing if he had lost his chance with Margaret. Part of him feared very much he had; her reaction to his declaration of love had been underwhelming. She turned away as if flustered or unsettled, and only nodded when he offered to take her back to her party. They had parted with subdued, empty niceties, and Rhys left with no idea if his feelings upset her or pleased her.
Until Branwell’s untimely arrival, he’d thought very differently. She wanted to know his intentions, and if he were courting her. She asked him to walk out, and told him to kiss her—it was important to her, knowing if they suited each other physically. And by God, did she suit him. She suited him so well, he was awake until the small hours of the morning, reliving the feel of her mouth on his, her body pressed against his, her rapid breath against his cheek as he kissed every inch of her lovely throat.
But now his secrets were out. Although everyone in London knew he was destitute, he hadn’t exactly flaunted the depth of his fall. He was righteously proud he had stopped the mindless borrowing against his lands begun by his father and continued with abandon under Branwell’s hand despite his protests, but that pride had a sour taste. Perhaps he should have kept up the pretense a little longer, at least until he secured a wealthy bride, when he could have discreetly turned his fortunes around. Not that he would have lied to Margaret, precisely, but he wouldn’t have had to tell her until he was more certain of her feelings for him.
He was ruminating over it when Clyve arrived, bearing a leg of ham and the morning papers. “You need to marry the girl quickly, so you can provide a decent breakfast for your friends,” he told Rhys, sending the ham off with Bunter, the one remaining servant, for carving.
“I’ve no idea if she’ll marry me at all. Cousin Branwell turned up in the garden last night at a very inopportune moment.”
Clyve groaned. “That idiot! But surely all isn’t lost—you said she’s a sensible woman. Anyone with sense can see Branwell’s a narrow-minded fool.”
“She is,” said Rhys dourly. “No doubt she’ll make the sensible decision and refuse me.”
His friend waved one hand. “What sort of inopportune moment?”
“Very inopportune.”
“Excellent,” cried Clyve with a leer. “Good work, Dowling. To your upcoming marriage.” He lifted his cup of coffee in salute.
“No, no.” Rhys glared at him. “Of course I didn’t make love to her in the gardens
at Vauxhall. Be sensible, Clyve.”
“If Branwell starts telling everyone you did, it’s as good as done.” Clyve shrugged, unconcerned.
“The old fool better keep his mouth closed,” said Rhys sharply. “If he doesn’t, I’ll close it for him.”
The viscount looked mildly surprised. “Isn’t that what you want? If Branwell tells people you’ve had her, her brother will have little choice but to give his consent.”
He didn’t answer. Clyve only saw the goal and a means to achieve it. Rhys, though, hated the thought of Margaret being forced to marry him. Not only would it counter all the efforts he’d made to prove his interest in her, not her dowry, it would infuriate her, even if she didn’t believe him guilty of engineering that scene in Vauxhall. Was it too much to ask of fate that this one point of desire in his life, this small question of personal happiness, not go spectacularly wrong?
“Come now,” Clyve relented when he was silent. “It ain’t so bad as that! I know you liked her best, but buck up, man—there are other heiresses in London. If Durham spurns your offer, take another turn at the Cranmore girl. I hear she refused Simington the other day because he was a mere baron.”
“Who?” Rhys frowned and waved Clyve’s answer aside. “No.”
His friend sat back and looked at him in surprise. “You’re smitten,” he declared, half amused, half disgusted. “By the saints, how did you let that happen?”
Rhys didn’t bother replying. Bunter brought in the ham, neatly sliced, and set it on the table, along with a fresh pot of coffee, before disappearing out the door again.
Clyve speared a slice of ham from the platter and rolled it up. “What you need to do, then, is secure the lady’s affections.” He took a bite of his ham and chewed, looking thoughtful. “I gather that’s the only obstacle.”
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