My Wicked Marquess

by Gaelen Foley

  Some had turned away, and she intended to remember their names; but many others, like Carissa and Jonathon, had remained steadfastly loyal.

  Thankfully, above all, she still had the blessing of the powerful ladies who ultimately controlled opinion in the ton. This was due, in part, to the support of her formidable great-aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Anselm.

  If it came to it, Daphne knew she could always summon her old dragon aunt to come and breathe fire on the ton on her behalf. But unless it became a true emergency, she preferred to handle it herself.

  In all, having Albert Carew for an enemy was no easy burden to bear, but having him for a suitor had been even more annoying. At least she no longer had to sit through his artificial paeans to her beauty.

  Pushing idly away from the door, she went to set her bonnet on the head form atop her chest of drawers, but her thoughts returned to the row in Bucket Lane. She still could not stop wondering what had become of her unexpected rescuer. She had so many questions about him.

  He was quite a mystery. Had his whole performance been indeed a ruse designed to lure the criminals away from her? Surely he had been as foxed as the gang members were to have attempted such a thing. His verbal abuses of them, his demands for his carriage, dropping his coin purse on purpose? She shook her head in amusement. If so, the man deserved a round of applause for his acting skills.

  It was difficult to know what had been real with him and what had been illusion. She just hoped he had escaped the mob alive.

  Wouldn’t that be something if her maid was right and he did show up at the Edgecombe ball?

  He did not look like the sort of man who would be received there. And even if he was invited, perhaps he had a prior engagement at the brothel.

  Daphne snorted. The dark stranger might have saved her life, for which, of course, she owed him her thanks. But beyond that, obviously, she could have nothing to do with any fiend who ever set foot in that place.

  If the gang had beaten him up, perhaps he had learned his lesson. Really, a gentleman ought to know better.

  With a soft, prim humph, she put the enigmatic stranger out of her mind and glanced in the mirror, cynically wondering which beauty potions to put on her face tonight in preparation for tomorrow. With the ton’s worst gossips sure to be watching, waiting eagerly to see the little drama unfold between her and Albert, she did not want to look one jot haggard or careworn over his nonsense.

  Who could say? She shrugged to herself. Perhaps her jilted suitor was finally over his tantrum. Albert might even surprise her, and greet her like a gentleman.

  It pleased her to think there was that chance.

  Then again, she rated the likelihood of it about as highly as that debauched, magnificent wild man showing up in the Edgecombes’ ballroom.

  Whoever he was.

  Chapter 3

  The night of the Edgecombe ball arrived and brought with it a late summer thunderstorm, but Max was undeterred.

  His long, onyx town coach plunged on through the inky night, the four horses fierce and black, tossing their heads at the thunder, snorting steam.

  Glowing spheres from the lampposts flickered over the gilt trim of the ebony coach as the team cantered through another puddle, hooves splashing. The high, whirring carriage wheels flung out silver scythes of rain.

  Hell of a night to be out.

  Inside the coach, the downpour drummed the wooden roof, an incessant droning music broken only by the crack of the lightning bolts that seemed to be following him.

  Max took another drag off his cheroot, a rare indulgence, and slowly blew the smoke out the open crack of the carriage window. The rain coursing over the glass distorted the dark world beyond as he stared out.

  He was in a rather strange mood. Subtle doubts tugged at him tonight. On the Continent, the goal was usually plain. He always knew exactly how to operate. But here in London, it felt like a different world, his own place in it unclear.

  It was not that he was nervous about meeting Miss Starling face-to-face. For God’s sake, he had dined with royalty. Nor was he overly concerned about going back into the ton; no matter what they might say about him, he knew more of their secrets than they’d ever know about his.

  It was just that Virgil had set up the ruse of the Inferno Club long ago. Max had gone along with it faithfully, playing his diabolical role, never counting the cost: He had given his word and he knew his duty.

  But tonight was the first time, perhaps, that he might learn the full price of his involvement in the Order. Perhaps it was too late ever to bridge this isolation…

  He brushed off his dark musings as the carriage slowed, reaching its destination. Max glanced out the window at the broad dimensions of Edgecombe House.

  His soaked footman hurried forward and opened the carriage door for him, umbrella at the ready.

  Max stepped down, flicked away his spent cheroot, and smoothed his velvet coat. Tugging his sleeves about his wrists, he gave his dripping servant a nod of studied indifference. “See that you get some shelter,” he commanded. “I don’t want my horses catching cold.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Holding the umbrella high to shield his taller master, the footman hurried to keep up with Max’s longer paces, escorting him under the portico, and then backing off with a bow.

  From the inky blackness of the September night, Max strode into the brilliance of the mansion’s interior.

  A thousand beeswax candles in countless chandeliers and crystal sconces sparkled on the gilded ceilings of Edgecombe House and made its marble columns gleam.

  Still, perhaps it was just his jaundiced view of the world, but he couldn’t help noticing how the dampness of the stormy night had permeated the house. Wet footprints marred the shining floor, traces of mud carried in on guests’ shoes. A heavy humidity hung on the air, pulling a faint, musty smell out of the rugs and causing the feathers on the ladies’ toques to droop. Declining to draw too much attention to himself, Max brushed off the butler, going in without the formal announcement of his arrival.

  Thanks to his work, he was no stranger to dropping into other people’s parties uninvited, or going wherever the devil he pleased. The trick was to carry oneself as though one had every right to be there.

  He proceeded to do so, making his way at a casual saunter through the fairly crowded first floor. A few people here and there glanced curiously at him as he passed by, but Max avoided eye contact, knowing it wouldn’t be long before they realized who he was.

  Sure enough, word began to spread after a few people recognized him; he could feel the stares and whispers as he proceeded slowly, relentlessly, toward the ballroom. He got a few shocked looks, but at least nobody fainted. The distant music steadily grew louder.

  He lifted a glass of red wine off the tray of a liveried footman. He passed two large reception rooms where tables were set up for the customary light supper served at midnight, which was almost at hand.

  Ahead, he could now hear the pounding steps of a country dance in progress. Passing under some columns at the end of the corridor, he came out onto a landing that overlooked the ballroom.

  Rather than going down the elaborate marble staircase to join the party at once, he drifted over to the gilded railing, where he paused and scanned the crowd as intently as if he were still on the Continent, hunting one of his targets.

  As he scrutinized the weaving lines of dancers, he suddenly spotted a flash of golden hair. His eyes narrowed, pulse surged.

  His gaze homed in on Daphne Starling.

  He took only the slightest note of her tall, lanky partner—just enough to remind himself later to find out who that young fop was, with his gregarious smile and his reddish-gold hair.

  Then Max indulged himself in staring openly at Lady Number Five, savoring her supple grace in the movements of the dance, and perhaps undressing her with his eyes. He liked the low cut of her airy white gown exceedingly.

  It was obvious to him now why she had been careful to keep herself p
rimly covered up going into Bucket Lane. If those men had realized just how beautiful she was, she might have caused a riot—like the one that she inspired in his blood now.

  Max took her all in with a sweeping gaze, from her white satin slippers to the pale pink rose in her hair; the glorious whole of this splendid young woman so ripe for a lover’s awakening.

  The drumbeat of his pulse thundered in his ears. He wanted to touch the curve of her cheek, feel her silken skin beneath his fingertips. Explore her lush young body with his hands, his lips; set her pulse to pounding. No man could behold the likes of her without the stirring of desire. But there was something more in his hunger, something unfamiliar. A deeper need…

  As she turned smoothly in the set, her arm outstretched, her high-gloved hand joined with that of her partner, he noticed her preoccupied expression, subdued and faraway. She sent her flamboyant male partner a polite but distant smile, circling around him as did the rest of the ladies with their beaux, in the figures of the dance.

  But as her restless glance skimmed the ballroom, she suddenly spotted Max watching her. Their gazes locked; she stopped in her tracks without warning.

  Her partner released her hand and retreated back to the male line, but Miss Starling stood motionless in the middle of the dance floor, staring back at Max as though she had seen a ghost.

  He did not react, holding her stunned gaze in dark, serene patience. He tried to reassure her with his stare and his slight smile that he was quite unharmed.

  Meanwhile, her sudden halt had caused a degree of confusion in the set, to which Miss Starling still remained oblivious.

  The other dancers were milling around her, bumping into each other while her partner tried to get her attention. Her big, blue eyes stayed fixed on him, full of overwhelming emotion that he actually found difficult to read, for all his training.

  But it was then that he knew with an electric certainty deep in the core of him that the rest of Oliver’s bride list was irrelevant.

  He knew he had found the one. And as he held her gaze, a single, searing thought filled his mind, body, and soul, and whispered to her soundlessly: You’re mine.

  You…

  Perhaps some wizened sorcerer had summoned the dark, wild storm that raged outside tonight and conjured it into the form of a man, for he stood on the landing looking as though he had just blown in astride a thunderbolt.

  Unfortunately, Daphne had always found storms irresistibly exciting. She couldn’t take her eyes off him—her rescuer from yesterday!

  Relief flooded her to see him alive and well, though she could not imagine how he had gotten away with the whole Bucket Street gang out for his blood. As she held his gaze with a jubilant sensation tingling through her body, she had the strangest sensation that he had come here tonight expressly to find her.

  After all, she had never seen him in Society before—and he was not the sort of man a girl could fail to notice.

  Her gaze trailed admiringly over his tall, muscular form. He was no dandy like Albert, but something far more dangerous.

  The way he carried himself reminded her of Continental royalty, with his short devil’s beard and the hint of extravagance in his jeweled perfection. He was tall and lean, wide-shouldered, elegantly powerful, with an Italian flair in his mode of dress: a bold splash of color in the scarlet waistcoat beneath his black velvet coat, a slightly more artful twist to his cravat, perhaps, a flourish to the ruffle at his sleeve.

  He took a sip of bloodred wine, still watching her, his pale eyes gleaming by the candlelight.

  Daphne managed to tear her gaze away at last, feeling slightly faint, half bowled over anew by that same dark, delicious magnetism she remembered vividly from her first glimpse of him in Bucket Lane.

  A bit disoriented, she only then realized she had stopped dancing and made a muck of the set for the others.

  “Hullo, Star? Wake up! Anybody home?” Jonathon was calling to her from across the row, using his particular nickname for her, short for Starling.

  “Oh—sorry!” Heart pounding, she cast a flustered look around, trying to find her place, but Jonathon merely laughed at her, as he was wont to do.

  Life was all a lark to Jonathon White, which sometimes annoyed her intensely, but he was loyal. Her childhood friend had remained chivalrously by her side for most of the night for moral support in her coming confrontation with her rejected suitor.

  Jonathon’s job was to keep an eye out for Albert, since his lanky frame was taller than average. With his bright, short-cropped, strawberry-blond hair gleaming like a beacon, Jonathan was always easy to find in a crowd, and if you couldn’t see him, you could usually hear his laughter.

  Daphne sent him a harmless scowl in exchange for his amusement at her expense. Of course, just when she found her place again, the music ended.

  The dancers bowed and curtsied to their partners, and then applauded noisily for the musicians. She stole another glance back up at the landing where the dark-haired stranger had stood, but he had disappeared into the crowd.

  Jonathon came bopping over to her. “You all right, my lamb? You’re looking rather odd.”

  “I’m fine,” she said vaguely. “I just got a little—distracted.”

  “Well, you had better snap out of it,” her childhood friend warned in a wry tone. “The moment you’ve been waiting for, I think, has just arrived. Carew’s headed this way.”

  “Oh, God.” She turned, following his nod, and saw, sure enough, there was Albert marching toward her, two of his arrogant younger brothers flanking him.

  Daphne bristled at the sight of them.

  Lord Albert Carew had perfect, sculpted features, and hair in sandy waves. Beau Brummell himself had once complimented him as the second-best dressed dandy in London, and he owned a slightly scratchy voice that gave him a rakish aura and drove the other girls in the ton quite wild. On Daphne, alas, none of his charms had the slightest effect. She was fairly sure it was her indifference to him that had first attracted his attention.

  He must have thought it incredible that any female could resist him, but all she could see when she looked at him were his cold eyes and the haughty tilt of his handsome nose. Still several yards away through the dispersing ranks of dancers, he sent her a superior smile with a cold sneer beneath it.

  She squared her shoulders, putting the black-haired stranger out her mind for the moment. The time had come for their long-awaited confrontation.

  Still a few yards off through the crowd, Albert narrowed his eyes threateningly at the sunny-tempered Jonathon, looking him over in disdain.

  “I say!” Jono murmured, but to Daphne, the menacing look at her best friend only ignited her ire.

  “Jonathon, dear, would you mind fetching me a cup of punch?” she ground out, staring at her jilted suitor.

  “Star, I’m not afraid of—”

  “Go. I don’t want you getting drawn into this.”

  “I’ll not leave you—”

  “I can handle him. He can’t challenge me to a duel.”

  “Duel?” Jonathon echoed with a gulp, turning to her, wide-eyed. “Do you really think—”

  “I’d really like some punch. Now.”

  He hesitated. “Well, as much as I adore you, old girl, I-I do rather value my life.”

  “Just go!”

  He bobbed his head in a sheepish nod and disappeared without further insistence. Daphne was glad.

  The last thing she needed was Albert and his brothers making a target out of innocent, harmless Jonathon. Her fashionable friend was no warrior, and besides, he had had nothing to do with all this.

  Her gloved fists clenched by her sides, the sharp words she had prepared for Albert sizzling on the tip of her tongue, she waited for him to reach her, eager to give the cad a piece of her mind at last.

  But then, all of a sudden, just a few feet ahead, her rescuer from yesterday stepped between them, heading crosswise into the Carew brothers’ path.

  Without warning,
and seemingly by accident, he rammed Albert hard with his shoulder, causing his drink to slosh. “Oh, pardon, frightfully sorry,” he apologized at once in a lavish, velvet tone.

  “Watch where you’re going!”

  Daphne sucked in her breath and stared. Zounds, he’s at it again!

  Albert turned on him in outrage, flicking wine off his hand. “Are you blind, you fool?”

  “No harm intended, my good fellow, do forgive me,” the man soothed, his voice low-pitched and urbane.

  She detected a hint of treachery in his silken words.

  “I was just on my way to meet a friend,” he said. “But—wait.” The stranger halted, studying him with a keen stare. “Don’t I know you?”

  “What?” Albert muttered, giving him a contemptuous glance. “No. I don’t believe so.”

  Daphne watched in fascination, though impatient for her turn to vent her wrath on her former suitor.

  “Yes, of course,” the stranger said all of a sudden. “You are Lord Albert Carew, are you not?”

  “Yes. Why, yes, I am.” Albert drew himself up, looking exceedingly proud of this fact, though he was not quite tall enough to meet the stranger eye to eye.

  “You all three are sons of the late Duke of Holyfield if I am not mistaken?” He glanced around at the Carew brothers.

  Daphne sensed trouble.

  “Indeed, we are,” Richard, the youngest, declared.

  “And you are?” Albert prompted with a haughty air.

  “Come, don’t you recognize me?” the stranger countered with a knowing smile. “Look into my eyes. It was a long time ago…Think. It will come back to you, I’m very sure.”

  Daphne barely realized she had been holding her breath. She had no idea what all this was about, but she felt more going on here than met the eye. In any case, their meeting right in front of her gave her the furtive chance to study her rescuer at closer range.

  The overall expression of his very masculine, rectangular face was one of intensity and precision. His chiseled features were well-formed, his nose and chin both large and definite, balanced by his knife-hilt cheekbones, angular jaw, and thick, dark, feathery eyebrows.