Mia sighed. “She has not gone for embroidery silk, my lord. I would guess she’s gone in search of my brother.”
“Or perhaps the local constabulary,” he suggested drily.
Mia chuckled at this welcome sign of humor. “In any event, I suspect we do not have much time. If you have anything of a private nature to say, I suggest you do so now.”
He took her hand in both of his, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “I will follow your lead and speak frankly. Do you know of anything that would prevent you from conceiving a child? Also, notwithstanding my willingness to let you go your own way, I would require you to agree to my exclusive presence in your bed until you have provided me with an heir.”
Mia knew she should be offended by his questions, as if she were a broodmare he was considering purchasing. But she was not.
“I know of no problems with conception and I am prepared to accept your attentions in my bed, as regularly as you deem necessary. Nor will I lie with another.”
His jaw tightened slightly at her words. Such a mild reaction would have meant nothing in another man, but in Exley, a man who restrained his emotions like tightly leashed beasts, it was as good as a declaration of desire.
“Lady Euphemia, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She hesitated. “You would marry me without knowing anything of my past? Anything beyond my time in the ... convent?”
“I have asked the only questions I wish to ask. Have you any for me?”
Mia had none he was likely to answer. Besides, she’d taken care of the most important questions using the duke’s library. The Marquess of Exley’s seat was an ancient castle off the southern coast. Exham Castle was not far from Eastbourne, the same port where Mia had landed when she’d returned to England.
She’d found out very little about his prior wives. The first, Veronica Caton, had come from an impoverished family in the north, and the second, Lady Sarah Tewkes, was from an impoverished family in the south. Both were dead. Neither Cian nor Rebecca knew anything about either of Exley’s marriages other than vague gossip, although both had cautioned her repeatedly to stay away from the marquess.
Mia found the notion of such a cold man killing anyone in a fit of passion laughable. And he’d clearly married neither woman for financial gain. What did that leave? Was he some manner of deranged lunatic? Mia chewed her lip as she looked into his expressionless face. He certainly did not seem mad. It was a risk to marry him without searching deeper into his past, but she was out of time.
“Yes, I will marry you. I only ask that the ceremony take place soon.”
His lids dropped to half-mast. “As soon as you wish, my lady.” He leaned close and brushed his lips over hers. The heat in his eyes and the lightness of his touch made for a heady combination and her vision blurred, as though she’d consumed too much champagne. She inhaled deeply as he feathered kisses across her mouth. He smelled of soap, cologne, wool, coffee, horse, and the ineffable scent that made each human being unique.
Mia leaned into his kiss and he cupped her jaw with a cool, oddly calloused hand. She slid one hand up the smooth fabric of his coat, reaching out to steady herself with her other hand. She encountered a sculpted thigh rather than the settee and a low noise emanated from his throat at her touch. His hand snaked behind her neck, drawing her closer. Mia melted against him. His body was warm and hard and real beneath his fine clothing and he stroked her neck with strong, sensitive fingers.
His skilled tongue and firm touch were as different from the sultan’s moist, cloying kisses and clumsy groping as could be. It was a kiss that combined tenderness and strength; he was a man as intent on giving pleasure as taking it. His fingers brushed lightly up the side of her body, a phantom touch that tantalized and caressed before slipping back down to her waist. All the while, his deft tongue probed and explored, his mouth hot and insistent.
She looked up into eyes that were pale slits and his lips curved into a smile that was pure sensuality before he plunged deeply into her mouth.
Mia twined her body around his like a vine, drawing him closer while she savored his taste and texture. She slid her hand up past his cravat and into the surprisingly soft hair at the nape of his neck, moving from the taut cords of his neck to the hard lines of his jaw. His muscles lengthened and bunched beneath her fingers as he opened to explore her more deeply, as if he could not be inside her deeply enough.
The sitting room door flew open and banged against the wall.
Mia closed her eyes against the unwanted distraction and gripped the marquess’s neck tighter.
“Dammit, Exley, take your hands off my sister!”
Mia moaned with disappointment as the marquess removed his beautiful hands and mouth from her body. His lips were no longer cruel and thin but swollen and bruised, and his movements were satisfyingly languorous. Her entire body pulsed at the hungry, possessive glint in his eyes.
“Mia, come away from him this instant,” her brother ordered.
She wrenched her eyes from the object of her desire. Irritation became fury at the sight of her brother’s angry, righteous face and she glared at him through a haze of red. “You are not my keeper, Cian.”
The marquess laid a gentling hand on her shoulder and stood.
“I would speak with His Grace, Abermarle.” He spoke softly, with his usual cool command.
“You’re bloody well right we’ll speak with my father, Exley. There is no time like the present.” Cian stalked through the open doorway without another word, revealing that Rebecca had been cowering behind him.
Exley looked down at her, his eyes cold and hooded, as if their all-too-brief tussle on the sofa had been a figment of Mia’s imagination. “I apologize for my unseemly haste, my lady, but if I dally much longer he will have quite the lead on me and I am not dressed for sprinting.” He bowed and closed the door softly behind him.
“Oh Mia,” Rebecca cried, almost breathless with hysteria. “Please tell me you cannot be considering the attentions of that man.”
Mia drew herself up. “I will thank you not to refer to my betrothed in that fashion.”
“Betrothed! But you cannot sacrifice yourself, Mia. You cannot!” Rebecca collapsed into a heap on the settee beside her, taking the place Exley had just vacated.
“Calm yourself, Cousin. I know more than enough. He has had two wives and they have died. Neither you nor Cian have been able to tell me anything exceptional about either woman’s death. There is nothing but rumor, conjecture, and gossip.”
Rebecca cried even harder.
Mia sighed, unwillingly recalling the hundreds of crying episodes she’d been forced to tolerate during her time in the harem. At least there would be no danger of poison or knives this time. She put an arm around the weeping woman and uttered soothing words while patting her back.
* * *
Cian Marlington stood in front of the duke, his hands fisted at his sides. “Have you no shame, Father?”
The Duke of Carlisle shot to his feet, his proud, handsome features suffused with anger. “You forget yourself,” he thundered, forgetting himself as well in his sudden rage. “If you cannot control yourself, you will leave the room.”
Adam smiled at the rare spectacle of the distinguished Duke of Carlisle engaging in a common row with his rebellious heir. It occurred to Adam that this was something he could look forward to himself if he managed to get his own fiery, redheaded offspring off Euphemia Marlington.
The younger man whipped around as if Adam had spoken out loud.
“You find this amusing, Exley?” Abermarle demanded, and then lunged across the room, one arm thrust out as if to grab him. Adam seized the outstretched arm at the wrist, yanked it low to pull him off balance, and then twisted it sharply behind his back, until Abermarle arched and grunted with pain.
“I don’t think so, my good man,” Adam said, sliding an arm around his brother-in-law-to-be’s neck and flexing, the action eliciting a choked squawk. “Aft
er all, it would be nothing to me to add another corpse to the pile, would it?” He gave a quick squeeze to punctuate his question before giving the younger man a sharp push that sent him stumbling toward his father’s desk.
“Good God, Cian, what is wrong with you?” The duke came from behind the massive slab of mahogany and grabbed his son by the shoulders. “Gather your wits, boy. You are making a fool of yourself.”
“It is you who should gather your wits, Father. You who are selling your daughter to a murdering villain who is so debased he can’t even be bothered to defend himself against the claims leveled against him.” He shot Adam a look of unbridled loathing.
Adam lowered himself into one of the fan-backed chairs across from the duke’s impressive desk, placed his booted ankle on his opposite knee, and leaned back. He felt his face shift into its habitually bored lines, and this time it wasn’t an act. He really was bored with the small drama unfolding before him.
Abermarle stood his ground and boiled with impotent rage as his hot green gaze flickered from his father to Adam and back. The younger man was as unpredictable and angry as his flaming hair would suggest. Oddly, the duke, the source of his fiery coloring, was as cold and calculating as a man could be. Would Adam barter any of his daughters to a man reputed to be a wife-killer?
He pushed the pointless question from his mind. His daughters could never marry.
“I have come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage, Your Grace.”
“You cannot have it!” Abermarle raged, moving a few steps toward Adam before recalling the last incident and halting.
“She has already given it,” Adam bit out, unable to contain his irritation any longer. “I am here out of courtesy, Abermarle. Your sister is a woman grown and has no need of any man’s permission to marry.”
The younger man gaped, robbed of all argument.
For an instant, Adam felt sorry for him. He wished he could talk to him man-to-man and offer him some reassurance. He obviously loved his sister too much to hand her over to somebody with Adam’s reputation.
He dismissed his foolish impulse. Abermarle, like the rest of the ton, had made up his mind about Adam long ago; talking to him about anything would serve no purpose.
Adam stood and faced the Duke of Carlisle. “Lady Euphemia and I are in agreement on the matter and neither of us sees any point in delay. I shall make myself available to you any day this week to discuss particulars.”
The duke nodded. “Very well, I shall send word to my man of business and let you know.”
Adam nodded and strode to the door. He waved away the footman who waited outside the duke’s study. “I can find my own way.”
The wailing of the older woman reached his ears halfway down the hall. Adam stopped outside the door, his hand resting lightly on the handle. He grimaced as a piercing sob came through the heavy wood. Hadn’t he endured enough emoting for one day?
“You bloody coward,” Adam muttered under his breath. He began to turn the handle but paused as another earsplitting wail rent the air.
Bloody hell! It was nothing but a weeping female. He jerked open the door.
His wife-to-be sat calmly on the sofa, the sobbing woman beside her. She smiled at Adam and whispered something into her cousin’s ear. Whatever she said caused the wailing to drop to a noisy snuffling.
Adam clasped his hands behind his back. “Would you care to ride in the park tomorrow?”
She smiled and her emerald eyes glinted at his obvious discomfort. “I would like that very much.”
“I shall come early, so that we might avoid the usual crush. Perhaps three o’clock?”
“I will be ready, my lord.”
Adam bowed. “Your servant.” He strode from the room with unseemly haste, wishing to be far away before the older woman recommenced her caterwauling.
He snatched his hat and gloves from the servant who waited in the foyer without stopping. Outside, a throng of curious onlookers milled across the street from the duke’s imposing mansion. Mostly they were from the lower orders, people who had come to catch a glimpse of Euphemia Marlington.
Adam paused at the top of the steps and pulled on his gloves while he surveyed the restless crowd. He estimated close to one hundred people milled on the opposite side of the street. No doubt one or two newspapermen mingled within the herd and he would read all about his visit tomorrow, if not later today.
He leapt into the phaeton and took the reins, imagining the scandal sheet headlines: “Murdering Marquess to Wed Duke’s Mysterious Daughter.”
Adam snorted and earned an odd look from his groom. He snapped the reins and the grays sprang forward, their eagerness to be away from Carlisle House nothing to his.
Chapter Seven
LaValle placed the frothy confection on Mia’s head with all the pomp of an archbishop crowning a queen. Mia squirmed in her seat but let the woman enjoy herself. After all, fussing with Mia’s clothing seemed to be the only thing that made the humorless Frenchwoman smile.
Mia was looking forward to this time alone with her husband-to-be. There were several important matters they needed to discuss and a short time to do it before their marriage.
The duke had summoned her to his study after the marquess’s departure yesterday. In marked contrast to his attitude during her last visit to his masculine sanctum, her father’s mood had been ebullient, almost festive.
“Congratulations on your good fortune, my dear.” He’d briefly patted her on the shoulder to express his joy, his hands clasped behind his back as he beamed down at her. “Exley wishes to marry as soon as possible. Do you have any objections to your fiancé’s desire for haste?”
The word fiancé had sent a shiver of excitement up her spine.
“The sooner we are wed, the better, Your Grace.”
The duke had become positively beatific at her response, going so far as to triple her pin money; money she was already putting to good use, thanks to an idea that had begun forming in her head.
Mia had been aware for some time that her father’s youngest footman would cast yearning—and decidedly carnal—glances her way whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. She could turn that carnality to her advantage with only a little effort. He would be just the person to do the things she could not. Things like going to pawnbrokers, visiting port towns, and, eventually, booking passage on a ship. It wasn’t possible to make definite plans until she knew what the marquess would do after they were married, but she could start recruiting the young footman to her cause now. Her first step would be to have him measured for a fine cloak to match his livery, an act which would single him out as her favorite and elevate his status.
Even with her maid’s excessive fiddling, Mia was dressed and ready for her ride with the marquess a quarter of an hour early. She had to pass the open door to the small sitting room before she could reach the stairs. Rebecca was inside the room, working on one of her interminable stitching projects. Mia tiptoed past the doorway, not wishing to draw her attention; the last thing she needed when the marquess came to collect her was a sniveling woman clinging to her side.
She couldn’t help laughing at the memory of Exley’s face yesterday. His normally impassive features had been rigid with terror when confronted with her wailing cousin. Mia tucked that convenient information away. If all else failed to move him, she could always weep.
Two footmen—one the very man she’d just been contemplating—stood beside the arched opening to the entry hall. Mia eyed his muscular form and came to a halt inappropriately close to him. “I am waiting for the Marquess of Exley.”
“Very good, my lady. Will you be waiting . . . er . . . here?” His voice cracked on the last word and a slight sheen of sweat formed at his temples as he endured her silent, smoldering stare.
“Come fetch me from the drawing room when he arrives.”
The footman scrambled to reach the door before her. She smiled to herself as the door closed behind her. The young man would be easy to rec
ruit.
The English servant situation was beyond comprehension to Mia. She doubted she would ever become accustomed to having handsome, virile young men within her reach.
The sultan had kept his wives and daughters in an impregnable fortress and surrounded them with men incapable of sexual thoughts or behavior. In England, the more prestigious a household was, the more physically appealing the servants were. This was particularly true of footmen—most of whom spent far more time with the lady of the house than her husband ever did.
Mia knew of at least two ladies of the ton who enjoyed more than the usual run of services from their handsome young servants. While that was not the kind of servicing Mia wanted from the strapping blond man, she was willing to dangle the promise of amorous relations or anything else to get what she needed.
She crossed the handsome inlaid wood floor and went to the window that overlooked the front entrance to the house. The Duke of Carlisle’s house was the largest on the square, occupying the greater portion of the south side of the street. The street was empty save for the occasional scurrying servant and a handful of ubiquitous gawkers who milled day and night, hoping to get a glimpse of her. The crowd was thin now, but would swell as the day passed into night.
Just like the gawkers, Mia could hardly get her fill of looking out windows. There had been no windows in the women’s part of the sultan’s palace and she’d often gone months without seeing anything other than the enclosed courtyards, private apartments, and high stone walls.
A light tapping sound made her turn. Her footman stood in the open doorway.
“The Marquess of Exley to see you, my lady.” His voice was more modulated than it had been a few moments before. He stood stiffly beside the door, holding it wide open.
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