Exley stopped in front of her and held out a glass of champagne.
Mia lowered her fan and took the glass. “Thank you, my lord.”
“My pleasure.” He cast a lazy glance over her shoulder. “Are you comfortable behind the sofa, wedged beside that plant, Abermarle, or would you like to sit on the settee? Perhaps between me and your sister?”
Mia choked back a laugh.
Rustling and scraping noises emanated from behind her as Cian struggled free of the foliage and came around the side of the sofa.
The marquess held out his glass. “I wasn’t aware you’d be joining us. Please, take mine.”
Cian flinched away, as if the other man had offered him poison. He glared down at her. “Mia—”
Mia smiled at the marquess. “Please, have a seat, Lord Exley.” She motioned to the space beside her. “My brother came to claim this dance but I assured him I could not move another step until the next set. He was just leaving.”
Cian shot the marquess a dark look before pivoting on his heel and marching off.
Exley sat and the two of them watched Cian depart, his shoulders stiff with disapproval.
“Your brother is merely trying to protect you.”
“Yes, he seems to believe you are very dangerous. He is not the only one.” Mia nodded to the empty space around them. “Perhaps you could tell me why everyone is so terrified of you, my lord?”
“It is hardly a conversation for polite company.”
She glared at him and tsked loudly.
His black brows arched.
“It is beyond irksome to be the only person in the room who is ignorant, my lord.”
Exley took a sip of champagne while Mia struggled to regain her temper. The precious seconds were slipping past and she did not have time for this foolishness. Tonight was all she had before—
“The reason your guests are avoiding me, and your brother is desperate to spirit you away, is because almost everyone here believes I hurled my first wife from the roof of my house. They are not sure how I disposed of my second wife, as her body was never found.” His eyes were no longer hooded, but wide open, avid to gauge the result of his shocking disclosure.
“Almost all of them? What do the rest of them believe?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise?
Mia waved her hand. “Never mind. I do not care what any of them think, to be perfectly honest. Most people are fools who will believe whatever they want to believe, regardless of the truth.” She gave him a hard look. “I know this from personal experience. What does interest me is why you are here tonight. I will speak plainly, my lord. I am looking for a husband—although perhaps not with as much eagerness and diligence as my father. I have not been happy with the men my father has put before me—until tonight.”
He took another sip of champagne.
Mia clenched the cut-crystal glass so tightly it hurt. The silence stretched and frustration mingled with despair in her breast. She told herself she didn’t care. She told herself—
“I’m listening, my lady.”
She took a deep breath. “My father has run out of patience, my lord, which means I have run out of time. I am not seeking a love match. I want a husband who will grant me a certain degree of personal liberty, a man who will be satisfied with separate lives.” Mia stopped and watched him like a hawk. People’s faces always disclosed the most immediately after they’d heard something interesting or surprising. The more time they had to think about it, the more time they had to mask their true feelings.
Exley finished the remainder of his drink, set the empty glass on the small table, and adjusted one of his cuffs before turning to her, his expression unchanged.
Mia snorted. She would have learned just as much, if not more, if she’d watched his foot.
“I find I cannot gauge your reaction. Tell me, Lord Exley, do you find my disclosure surprising, unappealing, intriguing?”
He stared at the dance floor. “Surprising? No, I would not say surprising. Who does not like to have their way, man or woman? Unappealing? Well, it depends on what you get up to while you are going your own way. If you have plans to turn my house into a distillery or brothel, I might have something to say to that. Intriguing?” He leaned back, stretched out his elegantly clad legs, and turned, giving her a direct look. “Very.”
Mia’s entire body tingled at the heat that flared in his cold eyes. Her carefully constructed sentences came apart in her head, and it was a struggle to gather them back together. “My plans do not include distilleries, bawdy houses, or anything unusual,” she lied. “It is simple, really. I’m not a girl and I chafe under the harsh restrictions my father imposes on me. I merely wish to be my own mistress. I expect, of course, to defer to my husband’s authority in important matters, but I would prefer to live a separate existence in the country as I do not care for London. In short, sir, I would like a marriage without emotional entanglement.”
The marquess’s eyebrows, his only expressive feature, crept up his forehead, as if he had a difficult time imagining something as foreign as an emotion—not to mention becoming entangled by one.
They took each other’s measure before she broke the silence. “What of you, my lord? Why do you wish to marry? It does not sound as if your two experiences with marriage were felicitous.” Mia did not mean to be cruel, but she needed to know what he wanted and why he was here tonight—a place he clearly wished not to be.
“I need an heir.” His pupils flared until his eyes were almost black, as if he were imagining the process of getting an heir. With her.
Heat washed over her. He’d looked sinful with pale eyes. With dark eyes, he became almost satanic. She stared down at her clenched hands and nodded. “Your property is entailed.”
“Yes.”
She looked up at his clipped response and saw nothing of the heat that had scorched her only a moment before.
“My previous heir—a distant cousin—managed to get himself killed by Napoleon, leaving me with his younger brother, a man who is both a drunkard and a fool. He will beggar the House of de Courtney in his lifetime.” He shrugged, as if that was all there was to say on the matter. He surveyed the dancers with the same lack of interest he seemed to show everything. But Mia knew it for what it was: a pose. He would not be at this ball enduring the snubs of hundreds if he wasn’t interested.
Could he be counted on to leave her in the country after he bedded her a few times? How vigilant would he be ensuring she fulfilled her part of the bargain? It was a risk—a gamble. Viscount Maugham would be a more practical choice, but there was just something about the lone, enigmatic man beside her....
Mia studied his starkly beautiful profile. Would she be able to use him to get what she wanted? Something fluttered in her at the thought of manipulating him so coldly—her conscience? She shrugged it away. Men had no qualms about using women, sacrificing them for their own desires, like pieces on a chessboard. Based on the marquess’s callous attitude toward his daughters, he was no different. Her eyes lingered on his unyielding features. No, he would not hesitate to use her for his purposes.
He turned to her and Mia lowered her eyes under his probing look. His piercing intelligence was yet another danger. Again she shrugged away the concern. He might be smart, but she was smarter. He could look and wonder, but she would make sure he found nothing. She would need to manage him carefully, but she had years of experience handling a dangerous man.
“I am past the prime age to bear children. Does that not concern you?” she finally asked.
“I am aware of your age.”
“My father will not wait patiently for an extended courtship.”
He did not smile or laugh, but, for some reason, Mia knew the comment amused him. She saw her brother’s red head bobbing through the crowd toward them.
“My brother is approaching. I’m afraid our time is over.”
He nodded and stood. “It has been a most enlightening evening, my lady.”
<
br /> An almost crippling sense of despair ballooned inside her at his dismissive tone of voice. So, Viscount Maugham would be her choice after all.
She accepted his proffered hand and stood. “It has been a pleasure, my lord.”
The marquess bowed low. “Indeed it has. Perhaps we shall see each other again before you leave town.”
The vague words caused her hand to clench around his. What did he mean by that? Would he call on her?
“Are you ready, Mia?” Cian shouldered between them and Exley released her hand.
The marquess favored Cian with the merest of nods and strode away.
“He didn’t do anything untoward, did he?” Cian demanded, turning to watch the other man leave.
“No.”
He took her hand and placed it on his arm. “You look rather pale. Are you quite all right?”
Was she?
“Yes, I am fine,” she lied.
He patted her hand. “Thank God that is over.”
Mia couldn’t help echoing his sentiment. The marquess was a clever, dangerous man and she’d begun their association with a lie, and not a small one. Part of her hoped she would never see him again. But another part of her mind—the larger, louder part—desperately hoped this was not the end between them. She had never been so attracted, so mentally and physically stimulated, by a man before. Not that she’d had many opportunities in the harem or the few weeks she’d lived in London. It might be foolish, but she would welcome the opportunity to engage in intimate caresses with such a man, not to mention pit her wits against his—just as long as she was far away when he finally discovered her lies.
As Mia danced she searched the noisy, glittering throng for one slim form.
She located him easily by the empty space in the otherwise crowded ballroom. He was approaching the duke, who still stood near the entrance. The two men exchanged a few words before Exley signaled to one of the hovering footmen and then strode from the room.
He was leaving. Mia had been his only dance partner.
* * *
Adam flung himself with uncharacteristic force onto the soft leather of the carriage seat and rapped on the roof. His brain was fogged and his nerves felt exposed and raw, as if he’d just been flayed. He dropped his head back against the squabs and closed his eyes. Nothing had gone as he’d expected tonight, nothing. At least not with Euphemia Marlington.
As for the rest of the evening—the disgusted stares of men like Cian Marlington and Horace Chambers, the utter terror of women he’d never even met—that had all been exactly what he’d expected.
Adam thought back to the final words he’d spoken to her. Why had he said them? Why had he said anything?
You said less than nothing, his conscience assured him.
That was not true, and he knew it. Saying nothing was the only thing that was saying nothing. Saying anything else was ... well, it was saying something.
She would more than likely expect him to pay a call.
Who cares what she expects? The thought hurtled out of some dark recess in his mind with all the force of a charging bull. Adam told himself he didn’t care what she expected, but he cared a great deal what he would do. After tonight, it scared the hell out of him that he had no idea what that might be.
She’d rattled him, and he hadn’t been rattled in a very long time. He didn’t like it.
Adam’s mind was a chaotic mess and he couldn’t pinpoint what had unnerved him most: The longing that had struck him like a brutal kick to the stomach as he’d watched her greet her guests beside her father and brother? Or the openness in her clear green eyes when she’d asked him why her brother and all the other guests were behaving like boors.
Could she really have been ignorant of his past? She’d appeared genuinely annoyed when she’d pressed him for the truth, yet her reaction to his grim disclosure had been dismissive, as if he’d confessed to nothing more serious than filching cookies. Rather than be daunted by his words, she’d all but offered herself to him. What kind of woman was eager to become the third wife of a man with two mysteriously dead wives? Either a stupid one, a fearless one, or a mad one.
Or perhaps an intelligent, dangerous one?
Adam snorted. Not that he’d found her unintelligent—far from it. Indeed, her approach to marriage appeared logical, unemotional, and . . . almost male. He frowned. So, not only was she much too attractive for a man’s comfort, she was also far too clever.
As for being dangerous? Well, he’d almost heard the wheels turning in her scheming mind, both when she’d been spinning her ridiculous yarn and later when she’d spoken “frankly” about her spousal requirements. In spite of her avowedly frank behavior, Adam didn’t believe she’d been entirely honest with him. He’d destroyed too many men at the card table to doubt his ability to accurately read faces: the woman was up to something.
Adam shrugged. He wasn’t about to waste his time speculating what it was she had planned. No sane man could guess at the workings of the female mind, and there was little reward to be had trying. As the Bard said, “That way madness lies . . .”
If he decided to throw caution to the winds and marry her—not that he was entertaining the idea, mind—it would be on his terms, not hers. She could have all the secrets she wanted, but if she thought to make a fool of him, she had a hard lesson waiting for her. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t treat her with all the gentlemanly respect she deserved, but he would make damned sure she made a good-faith effort to deliver on her part of the bargain if they married.
Again, not that he was seriously considering marriage to Euphemia Marlington or any other woman, no matter how sultry her eyes, or wicked her lying pink lips—
Adam swore under his breath. You’d think he’d never seen a woman before tonight. But there was just something about her ... something knowing in her eyes. A man would never be bored in her presence. Nor would bedding her be a chore. His cock, primed for action since her blasted description of dates and couscous, hardened the rest of the way as he imagined her lithe, naked body beneath his.
Adam allowed himself to enjoy the image of her naked beneath him for what it was—a male fantasy—and then he pushed it away. He wasn’t in the market for a mistress. He needed an heir, not a companion or an interesting bed partner. Her ability to breed was the only thing he need be concerned about. And that interest, he told himself, would be far better served with a younger and more fecund woman. An image of his second wife drifted through his head, and Adam frowned.
The carriage door opened, startling him out of his thoughts.
“We’re here, Your Lordship.”
Adam hadn’t even realized the carriage had stopped. He shoved away thoughts of wives and flashing green eyes and lying pink lips and hopped out of the carriage.
“Come back for me at the usual time,” he told his coachman, taking the steps to his mistress’s town house two at a time. Some energetic bed sport and a much-needed release would clear his muddled head. Indeed, an evening with the delectable Susannah St. Martin was just the thing to push thoughts of redheaded sirens and marriage from any man’s mind.
Chapter Six
Mia was positive every dipsomaniac, lecher, fop, and penniless peer in London had shown up to offer for her. Scarcely would one man leave the drawing room than another would file in. She’d received no fewer than five offers of marriage. The duke looked increasingly implacable each time she’d vacillated and begged for a little more time to consider the offers. She was on the verge of hiding in her room and locking the door when the Marquess of Exley was announced.
She shot to her feet, anger at his much delayed appearance warring with joy that he’d actually shown up: joy won.
“Show the marquess in,” Mia said.
“Tell the marquess we are not at home,” her cousin Rebecca said at the same time.
The young footman gaped.
Mia’s eyes locked with her cousin’s as she carefully smoothed her mint-colored muslin.
&nb
sp; “Show the marquess in,” Mia repeated, employing the tone she’d used in the harem to command respect. The door shut behind the footman and Mia lowered herself onto the settee, her legs as shaky as a newborn foal’s.
Rebecca fluttered beside her like a frantic moth. “My dear Mia, I do not think you should—”
Mia raised a hand to halt the flow. “I know you do not care for him, Rebecca, but your approval is not necessary.” She threw back her shoulders and folded her trembling hands in her lap. She couldn’t have said whether she shook with anticipation or dread, but she most certainly felt alive, more alive than she’d felt since the last time she spoke to him.
“But Mia, my dear, just—”
The door opened and Exley stepped into the room.
“Lady Euphemia.” He graced her with an exquisite bow.
Mia could only stare. The wretched man was even more gorgeous in daylight than he’d been by candlelight. While sunlight exposed the small lines that radiated from the corner of his eyes and the grooves that bracketed his mouth, those subtle signs of age somehow added to his appeal. His coat was a dark blue that made his pale eyes even more striking. His lithe, muscular legs in fawn-colored pantaloons were more sinfully sculpted than they had been in black satin.
“What a pleasant surprise, my lord.”
He looked amused by her waspish tone. “I did try to call yesterday but could scarcely see the front door for carriages, horses, and gentlemen callers.”
Mia ignored his mocking comment. “Are you acquainted with my cousin, Miss Rebecca Devane?”
Rebecca dropped a shaky curtsy.
“A pleasure, Miss Devane.” He gave the older woman a slight bow.
Mia gestured to the chair across from her. “Please, sit.”
He ignored the available chairs, choosing to sit beside Mia on the small settee.
Oh, my.
Rebecca, who’d only just sat down, sprang to her feet again. “Oh . . . yes, er . . . quite. If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I was just about to get my basket,” she said, apparently unaware her basket was on the small table beside her chair. “I am in need of a particular color of silk. A shade of green,” she dithered, inching sideways toward the door, her eyes the size of billiard balls. She searched blindly behind her back with one hand for the door handle, as if she didn’t dare take her eyes from the marquess. She finally managed to open the door a crack and sidle through the opening.
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