My Wicked Marquess

by Gaelen Foley

  “Delusion.”

  He knew better, said his smile. “Are you just going to sit here arguing with yourself?”

  “Can you read minds?”

  “Faces, and do you know what’s written all over yours? Confusion. Rather adorable, really. Very well, what is the argument? What says the prosecution, what claims the defense? Shall I get my parliamentary wig and debate the bill at hand?”

  She shook her head. “You are too much.”

  “It’s just a visit, darling. Something cool to drink. A stroll through the long gallery to see my nude Italian paintings.”

  “Nude!”

  “Shocking,” he drawled.

  She fought back laughter as she held his twinkling gaze. “You’re sure you’re not going to ravish me?”

  “Not unless you want me to,” he replied in a husky murmur, staring at her with a look that turned her bones to jelly. He offered her his hand to help her down from the cabriolet.

  With a small groan, Daphne looked at his waiting hand and then at his handsome face, so calmly assured. “Oh, botheration!” she burst out, sweeping to her feet and grasping his offered hand, powerless to resist. “You are going to drag me over the cliff with you, aren’t you, Rotherstone?”

  “Max,” he corrected her for the umpteenth time that day.

  “Lord Rotherstone!” she repeated with a warning look.

  “As you wish,” he murmured, taking her gloved hand to his lips after he had helped her step down from the carriage.

  She gave him an uncertain look, but he smiled reassuringly at her again, tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and escorted her toward the back entrance of his house.

  “You still haven’t opened my gift from yesterday, have you?” he remarked.

  She sent him a quick, guilty glance. “How did you know?”

  “Obviously, if you had, you would be raving.” He eyed her with interest as he opened the door for her. “Aren’t you the slightest bit curious to find out what it is?”

  Her only answer was a troubled frown.

  He dismissed his question with an idle wave of his hand. “Never mind, then. But I do hope you open it soon. I don’t like being deprived of the pleasure of spoiling you.”

  With that, he opened the door before her, and ushered her into a world of opulence.

  Marble floors stretched ahead of her as Daphne stepped inside. They had entered what appeared to be a narrow back foyer. He shut the door and led her toward the entrance hall proper, through a richly pedimented doorway flanked by a pair of little topiary trees in Grecian urns.

  She followed, staring at a gorgeous demi-lune table by the wall as she passed by. Delicate French chairs were arranged on either side of it, with curved legs and pale damask upholstery.

  Behind the furniture, white-framed panels adorned pastel walls, along with graceful paintings—landscapes, portraits, equestrian scenes—all in thick, carved frames.

  Her gaze traveled up beyond the artwork, to the elaborate, gilded friezes around the room, and the intricately painted ceilings. From these, in turn, hung three stunning chandeliers at regular intervals all down the wide central hall. Their scores of beeswax candles were not lit, of course, but their countless crystals shimmered in the daylight.

  A gentle cross-breeze from open windows around the first floor made the crystals tinkle faintly and stirred the gauzy sheers. Otherwise, the grand house was still.

  Daphne was agog, even more so to think she could become the lady of all this.

  He turned to her with a casual air. “Much cooler in here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she answered faintly.

  “Ah, Dodsley! There you are.”

  A sweet-faced, snowy-haired butler had appeared without a sound. He clasped his hands behind him and gave them both a deferential bow. “My lord. Ma’am. How may I be of service?”

  “Miss Starling, this is Dodsley—the most efficient butler on earth. Couldn’t do without him. Anything you need around here, old Dodsley is your man.”

  She smiled and nodded shyly to the butler. “How do you do.”

  “Dodsley, we would like refreshments. Something cool? I trust you have the Champagne chilling somewhere in the house?”

  “The dining room, my lord.”

  “Champagne, in the middle of the day?” Daphne interjected.

  Her handsome host turned to her in question. “I trust you don’t object?”

  She thought for a moment, but why quit now? In for a penny, in for a pound. She shrugged.

  “I’ll get it, Dodsley, if you can scrounge us up a bite to eat. Have we got that cold sorbet stuff? What’s its name…”

  “The lemon cream?” The butler nodded gravely as though discussing matters of state. “We do. Miss Starling, may I take your hat?”

  “Why, thank you—yes.” Carefully, Daphne removed her pink hat with its frothy, curved ostrich plume. Since there was talk of a snack as well, she took off her white gloves.

  Lord Rotherstone was doing the same, drawing off his driving gloves. “Miss Starling, given the weather, I wonder if you’d think me quite beyond the pale if I were to shed my coat.”

  “Considering it must be nearly eighty degrees, I think we may safely ease up on decorum just a bit.”

  “Bless you.” He peeled off his tailored indigo coat and handed it to his waiting butler. “That’s better.”

  “I daresay,” Daphne uttered faintly. His snugly fitted waistcoat beautifully revealed the hard, carved architecture of his torso, the sweeping angle from his powerful shoulders and sculpted chest, down to his lean, tapered waist.

  His loose white shirtsleeves were slightly clingy in the heat, hinting at the rugged arms beneath that paper-thin layer of elegant white lawn.

  “Come, I’ll give you a tour while we wait for Dodsley to bring us that lemon cream.”

  “Yes—of course.”

  As he turned away and walked ahead of her to begin showing her the house, Daphne couldn’t believe that she was ogling his compactly muscled bottom—she was quite shocked at herself—but, after all, such regions on a gentleman were usually covered by tailcoats, and besides, his was too lovely not to look at. His fawn-colored trousers fit him to perfection.

  “Here we have the anteroom, where my business visitors wait until I am able to see them.”

  She dropped her gaze instantly when he turned around.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing,” she said guiltily.

  “Right. Over here is my study.” He went to the second doorway.

  She joined him, peering into the dark, handsomely appointed room. “Beautiful stained-glass window.” She nodded toward it, in the wall above the desk.

  The late day sun glowed through the Gothic-era glass, giving the wood-paneled room a monastic atmosphere.

  “Thank you, yes. It came from the family chapel at my seat in Worcestershire. One of the previous structures on the site burned down hundreds of years ago, but this was saved.”

  “It is St. Michael?”

  “Mm.” He nodded as he glanced at her, then turned away and ambled on down the corridor. “Back here is the morning room. Across the hall is a warming room, where the kitchen staff assemble their final preparations before serving meals here, in the dining room.” As she followed him, he pointed himself toward the round wine cooler on a stand in the far corner. “Champagne.”

  “My,” Daphne murmured, staring with awe all around the sumptuous chamber. In most grand houses, the dining room was where no expense was spared to impress guests with the owner’s fortune and taste. The Marquess of Rotherstone had certainly complied with this tradition.

  Here his luxurious mode of life was on full display, from the richly patterned carpet, to the carved mahogany furniture, all the way up to the artful white plasterwork that wrapped around the tops of all four walls in an energetic design of garlands and flowers and urns.

  She thought at once of what Papa would have called it: ostentatious. Agai
n, she thought of her father’s whispered losses in the stock exchange.

  Now that she had firsthand evidence of just how wealthy the Marquess of Rotherstone was, an uncomfortable question was starting to gnaw at the back of her mind…

  “What do you think?” he asked as he lifted a bottle of French Champagne out of the ice-filled cooler.

  She did her best to shrug off her misgivings that her beloved papa could have sold her to him for financial reasons, sending him a smile. “It’s simply gorgeous. Everything is.”

  “I am glad you like it.” He returned her smile and carried the bottle over to the sideboard. “I do think it rather handsome myself, especially by an evening’s candlelight.”

  “I can imagine.”

  The central chandelier was exuberant with crystals like a fountain. Straight beneath it, on the long dining table, which was polished to a mirrorlike sheen, sat a glorious floral arrangement—a profusion of roses in several shades, summer lilies, and simple white daisies.

  One small intruder, a honeybee, must have found its way in through an open window, and was hovering about the bouquet, alighting here and there to sip the nectar from the blooms.

  Resting her hands on the back of a chair, Daphne stared at the insect while Max poured some water from a white pitcher into a porcelain hand bowl. She joined him as he washed his hands in preparation for their snack. She followed suit, glad of the chance after their dusty drive.

  As he dried his hands on a small towel, he nodded toward the waiting bottle of Champagne. “I’ll do the honors here if you’ll get us two goblets from the cabinet over there.”

  “Fair enough.” She smiled at him and nodded, then went to the mahogany china cabinet across the room and opened one of the glass-paned doors. As she took out two glasses of the sparkling crystal, she noticed the gilt-edged china dinner plates on display. They were hand-painted with his family crest and a monogrammed R.

  The pop of the Champagne bottle echoed through the room. When he let out a wordless exclamation at the foaming fizz, she laughed and rushed back to help him catch it in the glasses.

  “Cheers,” he said a moment later, when he had poured them each a glass. “To you, Miss Starling.”

  She blushed a bit at his toast, but shrugged and flashed a smile. “If you insist—to me!”

  They both laughed. They touched their goblets together and then each took a sip, staring at each other.

  “Mm,” she murmured in appreciation after a heartbeat. His eyes took on a silvery luster as he watched her enjoying the excellent vintage.

  Just then, a light knock sounded on the open door down at the far end of the room.

  Max glanced past her. “Come in, Dodsley.”

  Daphne turned around as the butler took the tray from the liveried footman who had been holding it for him.

  Max pulled out the nearest chair for her with a gallant smile, while Dodsley and the footman made a dignified procession into the dining room.

  Daphne sat down, and Max took a seat beside her; Dodsley placed the silver tray on the table between them. When the servants withdrew, they exchanged a smile and helped themselves to the light repast that was the very picture of elegant simplicity.

  The chilled lemon cream awaited in petite china cups with silver spoons. A crystal bowl tempted them with a fresh fruit salad: apricots and plums, raspberries and blueberries, all generously sprinkled with sugar.

  Perfectly balanced with the tart zing and smooth texture of the lemon cream were the crisp, pale, wafer-thin biscuits universally known and loved as ratafia drops. The sweet sophistication of their understated almond flavor paired with the creamy sorbet to perfection.

  Though Dodsley had also brought them a pitcher of chilled tea with a sprig of mint and a slice of lemon floating in it, they both opted for a second glass of the Champagne instead.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Daphne spoke up as they sat together.

  “What’s that?”

  “The night of the Edgecombe ball—well, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop—but I heard Albert say you ‘vanished’ when you both were boys. He seemed quite mystified by it, and frankly, so was I. What did it signify?”

  “Oh, I was sent away to school when I was thirteen. Albert and his brothers went to Eton, but…my father could not manage that for me at the time. So I attended a small academy in Scotland.”

  “Oh.” She smiled at him, not wishing to remind him of his family’s earlier lack. “That makes sense.”

  Looking around at this house, she saw he had certainly come a long way.

  “Shall we?” he asked a bit later when they finished their snack, much refreshed. “I’ll take you up to see the long gallery now.”

  “Yes.” Daphne joined him eagerly, and they continued the tour. The time was flying, and she dared not stay much longer.

  Max showed her out of the dining room and up a grand staircase with marble steps and a flowery wrought-iron banister. She had an increasingly surreal feeling to find herself on such intimate terms with a man she had seen on only three occasions in the past—a man who even now considered himself her betrothed.

  Strangest of all was how naturally they both seemed to fall into this easy companionship with each other. He was almost as easy to talk to as Jonathon, but the two could not have been more different.

  Perhaps he really did know what he was doing, she thought, stealing another sidelong glance at him. He was older and much more experienced than she was, after all.

  At the top of the stairs, the white marble floors gave way to light oak parquetry. Though the staircase continued on to upper regions where, presumably, the bedchambers were situated, their destination was the main floor, with its elegant reception rooms.

  He showed her the pale blue drawing room at the front of the house and the music room behind it, the two adjoined by sliding pocket doors. The music room boasted not only a large, graceful harp, but a fine black pianoforte, as well.

  Daphne glanced at her host. “Do you play?”

  “No, but I am an avid listener. Sometimes I hire a trio to come in and play for me. Do you play, Miss Starling?”

  Long-lost days of playing the pianoforte beside her mother came to mind at once, but that was long ago.

  She shook her head. “So, where is this grand art collection that you keep bragging about?”

  “Across the corridor. After you.” He swept a gesture toward the doorway of the music room.

  With a teasing glance, Daphne exited as he bade her and crossed the wide, graceful hallway, but when she peeked ahead of him into the long gallery across the way, the room was dark.

  He brushed past her, going in first. “We keep the shutters closed to protect the paintings.”

  He crossed the gallery, approaching the row of nearly floor-to-ceiling windows along the opposite wall. The click and creak reverberated through the long, narrow room as he opened each tall shutter, and folded it back into place.

  Light slowly permeated the splendor of a classic picture gallery with golden parquet floors and red walls, a traditional background for his collection.

  Daphne stepped into the room, staring all around her in wonder. To be sure, it was a treasure trove. Some paintings were huge; others, lovingly framed miniatures. All different eras were represented: courtly lovers in the Baroque style, awash with lace, in towering wigs and Watteau gowns. Glowing Venetian landscapes. A stone slab with Egyptian hieroglyphs was displayed on the opposite wall. There were numerous statues, both bronze and marble. Dutch portraits, dark and moody. A pair of two-handled Roman amphorae as tall as herself.

  She cooed over a brilliant illuminated manuscript on a stand, and then became entranced by a glittering Byzantine mosaic to her right.

  He watched her in mysterious silence.

  Drawing in her breath, she approached a modest sepia sketch of a portly naked female, ever so sensitively rendered. Then she turned to him, wide-eyed. “Is that—?”

  He nodded, rich
satisfaction in his eyes. “Leonardo.”

  “God,” she breathed, pressing her hand to her heart. It was the closest she had ever stood to the genius of Leonardo da Vinci.

  “My tastes are eclectic, as you can see. This one is a particular favorite of mine,” he added, turning to a tall alabaster statue of a female water bearer a few feet from where he stood. He walked over to it. Daphne also approached. “She’s Roman, circa A.D. 56. Isn’t she splendid? The skill this must have required—and the fellow never even signed his name. One of history’s unsung heroes.”

  “She is exquisite.”

  “Hm. Solid stone, and yet,” he added in a thoughtful murmur, grazing his fingertips along the water bearer’s thigh, “you almost expect to feel the diaphanous cloth of her robe.”

  Something about his idle caress made her full attention home in on his strong, graceful hand. She shivered a little, but fought off the dart of desire that came out of nowhere.

  “What robe?” she answered archly.

  He flashed a rueful half smile. “She isn’t wearing much, is she?”

  Daphne returned his smile, rather mystified. Then she shook her head, turning to look all around her again. “I can’t believe you have these things.”

  “Well, you know, Europe’s been a battleground these many years. I was privileged to save many of these beautiful pieces from destruction. Shall we?” With a courteous gesture, he invited her to join him on a stroll around the gallery.

  He folded his hands behind his back as she fell into step beside him. Some of the pictures he explained to her; others he merely stood back and let her enjoy. But when they came to a portrait of a man with pale eyes and dark hair, she was riveted.

  “Who is this?” she murmured, half impressed, half intimidated by the way the lordly figure stared out from the canvas with a face full of arrogant intensity.

  “That,” Max answered dryly, “is my father.”

  Daphne looked at him in surprise. “Oh—I should have known. You have his eyes. Indeed, you are a copy of him.”

  “No, I’m not,” he answered airily, avoiding her gaze with a broody little smile.

  Taken aback by the steely undertone in his quiet reply, she turned to him in question, but when he blithely ignored her, she decided not to press him. “Are these your ancestors, too?” She nodded toward the next few portraits.