He sat down hard on the bed. Tipped his forehead into his hand.
Rediscovered his bruise and swiftly looked up again.
She smoothed her skirts.
Her entire body still tingled with the aftermath of her first-ever release, like an echo of a hallelujah chorus. In the mirror over the bureau she could see that her skin was flushed rose everywhere it was exposed. She looked scrumptious and wanton.
And yet everything about the moment was bittersweet.
“I should love nothing more than to make love to you, Phoebe.”
He sounded so miserable, and looked so vulnerable, with the bruise on his head and his little bandolier of a cat scratch and his enormous erection.
“I know.”
He cast up a hopeful eye. But when he saw her expression, he quirked his mouth, and his and he shook his head and turned away again, toward the window.
Nobody spoke for a time.
“I’m sorry to leave you . . . in this condition.”
Oh, God. The aftermath was so awkward. Yet she might as well make it clear that leaving was what she intended to do.
He gave a short laugh. “I’ve survived an unused erection before. It’s hardly terminal. It’s just . . .” His words were halting. “If only you knew how I felt when . . .” He stopped himself. “Because what just happened here was only a hint of how it could be. It would be unbelievably good between us. I know, you see . . . for I’ve experience of these things, whether you’d like to hear about it or not. And I have never . . . wanted . . . like this. Never. It has never been this . . . explosive . . . with anyone else.”
Wanted? Loved, you fool, she wanted to tell him. That was the entire reason. For the bruise and the cat and the desire.
“I know,” was all she said.
“And wasn’t it good? I didn’t know a schoolteacher knew such deliciously filthy words.”
She smiled at him. “It was extraordinary,” she said gently.
His eyes widened. And then he gave a short laugh, an entirely humorless sound. “It sounds like you’re patronizing me.”
She shrugged.
“I know how much you want me. Me,” he urged. He stood and in one stride was so close she could nearly touch him again. So she could smell him, and of course she wanted to melt into him again. Her arms remained determinedly at her sides. She was strong.
He raised a hand, and then tentatively, gently traced her lips with his thumb, over and over again, brushing over the tiny freckle next to her mouth, lingering there.
“You want me,” he insisted on a whisper, almost a plea. “No one else.”
She felt his breath on her lips. She would be lost if he kissed her.
Kiss me.
Please don’t kiss me.
“Who doesn’t, Lord Dryden?” She’d tried for brittle flippancy.
He went rigid at her tone.
And then his hand fell from her lips to his side abruptly.
He looked so stung she wanted to comfort him, but then of course, who would comfort her?
Nothing had changed. He had offered nothing new.
“Do you think you can scare up a basket so I can take Charybdis back to the Silverton town house? And hackney fare?”
The cat heard his name, and came slinking sleepily out from under the bed. She knelt and adjusted his bow, which was askew.
The marquess watched. “Is the object of the bow to make that creature look more benign?”
“It’s to trap the unsuspecting.”
He managed a genuine smile then. They broke her heart freshly every time, his smiles. And then he flung open his wardrobe and found another shirt, one without any bloodstains, slid his arms into it, and deftly buttoned it up. She watched with regret as all of that masculine gloriousness disappeared under linen.
It occurred to her that if she’d been able to spend her life with him she would see this sort of thing all the time. The buttoning of shirts. Shaving. All the less erotic things, nonetheless cherished. The acts of intimacy that knit lives together. She wanted to soothe his wounds and share his burdens and make his life easier, more spontaneous, more passionate.
It hurt. And just as there seemed to be no end to the kinds of pleasure he could give or to the ways in which she loved him, and because of this, no end to the ways he could hurt her, again and again and again.
“And when does your ship leave for Africa?”
“In two weeks.”
“And you’re going?”
“I cannot think what will keep me here.”
His face closed then. Hard, inscrutable. Not unlike Charybdis closing up over a hand reaching for his belly.
He buttoned the shirt.
“Your wounds will heal, my lord.”
She kept the tone dry. But he understood all of the meanings in that sentence because he turned around.
“Doubtless,” he said finally, coolly. Proving to her that two could play the game of cold distance. “Marquardt will find you a basket. And good luck to you, Miss Vale, wherever you may go.”
Chapter 26
They pressed her to explain her mad dash out of the house, the Silverton twins did, but Phoebe laughed and said she could never tell them who’d rescued her cat. Fortunately, their attention spans were very catlike, and they soon abandoned the topic.
And so, for another week, the social whirlwind mercifully continued.
Mercifully, because it was pleasantly numbing not to slow down long enough to feel anything, to recklessly drink and awake thick-headed, to dance with men who didn’t want to converse so much as exchange frivolities and gossip, to be admired and envied by those not anointed unto popularity by the Silverton twins and Waterburn and d’Andre. Everything skated over her senses like pleasant music, nothing penetrated. She was loaned the use of an Abigail to care for the dresses she’d brought with her; she was loaned a fine pelisse and a few day dresses to supplement those.
The bouquets continued to arrive after the balls, all addressed to The Original.
And then the first appearance of her name in a broadsheet linked to Lord Camber emerged. It in fact began to appear as if Camber was contemplating embarking upon an actual courtship, such was the consistent profusion of blooms he sent. She rode in his high flyer once more, accompanied by the Silverton sisters and Waterburn and d’Andre. He came to expect a waltz from her at each ball. She knew now he had three sisters, a father who kept his allowance on a tight leash, a love of horses, guns, hunting, and bawdy musicales.
He knew nothing about her apart from the fact that she was The Original and taught school. He’d never asked about her, and she wasn’t about to volunteer. All these young men loved to talk about themselves, she’d discovered.
The marquess had wanted to know about her.
She’d seen Jules three more times. Each time it was because she’d watched him dance with Lisbeth from across the room. It was like looking at him through a window, watching him move through a parallel life in which he already belonged to Lisbeth. Already lost to her.
Twice he came to the town house to take Lisbeth riding in The Row, and Phoebe always arranged to be in her room at the time, or elsewhere. And bouquets arrived on these days, sent to Lisbeth by the marquess. Always pale pink and white, always a little different, always extraordinarily tasteful.
It struck Phoebe as less a courtship than the stages of penance. But then, she was prejudiced, and she wasn’t privy to their conversations. Perhaps they did naught but coo at each other from atop horses.
She doubted it.
No one talks to me the way you do.
But the distance was healing; the distance was sensible. And for all she knew, the marquess had quite come to terms with the loss of her and was contemplating with stoic satisfaction a lifetime of supplying Lisbeth with flattery and fine dresses and bearing unbearably beautiful children. And perhaps acquiring a new and fiery mistress somewhere along the way, to cobble together a complete life. Or nearly complete.
No more b
undles of sage, or anything like it, appeared for Phoebe.
And so the madness between them was well and truly over. And this was merciful, too.
It was a Friday morning when Lady Marie approached Lisbeth, who was admiring, in turn, her reflection in the back of a silver teapot and the latest bouquet sent by the marquess.
“D’you know, the Settlefield ball is tonight . . . and we all know what that means!”
“Engagements are traditionally announced at the Settlefield ball. At least one per year. Who was it last year . . . ?” Lady Marie turned to her sister.
“Oh, I cannot recall,” Lady Antoinette sighed. “I seem to forget the names of people we knew once they’re married.”
They snickered.
“Except for the ones with the grand, grand titles, of course,” they hastened to amend. “The betting books have it that it will be you, Lisbeth.”
Phoebe’s hand froze, curled round her china cup of coffee. Scorching hot, but she didn’t feel it.
“He’s meeting with Uncle Isaiah at White’s tomorrow,” Lisbeth confided with secretive smugness. “One last time, is what he said.”
“Likely to have a little chat about settlements,” Lady Marie speculated. “After he proposes, of course.”
Phoebe found she was holding herself very, very still. As if the contents of her very soul were flammable and she would combust if she moved. But in truth, she knew a brief surge of happiness: Jules would get everything he’d ever lived for to date. She knew he would take pleasure in that: in duty, in completion, in history, in the lands restored to him. Even though she could never understand it.
Nevertheless, it was best not to look at Lisbeth. Because she could trust herself to pretend indifference, she could in fact feign it brilliantly, but not if she was forced to look the death of her dream in its blue, blue eyes.
The girls arrived at the Settlefield ball in their usual fragrant, gleaming cloud and swept up the stairs of the town house. Waterburn and d’Andre met them, attached themselves to their little flock, and descended upon the ballroom proper, as had become their custom.
“What kept you ladies?” Waterburn complained.
“We would have arrived earlier, but Phoebe’s cat wanted to play with her ribbon,” Lady Marie told him. “And he was so charming. He had quite an adventure.”
Waterburn went still. “Phoebe’s . . . cat?”
“I’ve a cat,” Phoebe confirmed. “I brought it from Sussex.”
“Isn’t that amusing?” Lady Marie sounded bored.
“Original,” Waterburn said cryptically. “What does the cat look like?”
“Very furry. Has a white front and wears a blue bow round its neck. He escaped the other day, you know, but a mysterious benefactor returned it to her. She never would tell us who. Why are you wasting time upon this topic? Fetch us some ratafia at once.” She playfully tapped him with her fan.
“Straightaway,” he said absently, making no attempt to move. “But first . . . Lisbeth, would you be so gracious as to dance one of the waltzes with me this evening? One never knows. It might be your last before an engagement.”
“Well! It’s so unlike you to be sentimental, but it suits you! You may have one,” she said regally.
Shortly after Waterburn claimed Lisbeth for her waltz, they watched a dancer fling his partner across the room and drop to one knee.
“Almost like he’s issuing a proposal,” Waterburn reflected. “The one-knee bit.”
“We’ve started a fashion,” Lisbeth said loftily.
“We’ve?”
“The marquess and I.”
“Are you sure it’s a fashion, Lisbeth? I begin to wonder, truly I do, Lisbeth, if he isn’t having one over on us. The man never does anything without a reason, though I’m not always certain what the reason is. Did you know he brought a cat with him into White’s?”
She went as rigid and white as a porcelain doll.
The response was exactly what Waterburn hoped for.
“What day was this?” she demanded. Her voice hoarse.
“Oh, a week ago,” he said idly, as they swept about in the dance. Phoebe was dancing her requisite waltz with Lord Camber. “I hope you don’t mind, but I shan’t be flinging you across the room, Lisbeth.”
She hadn’t heard him. “Was it a striped cat wearing a blue bow?”
“Oh, yes. Handsome beast. Ah! So you’re familiar with his cat. If cat familiarity doesn’t herald an engagement, I don’t know what does. Where did he get it? I should like to have one, too. It was his cat, wasn’t it?”
When she remained silent he prodded, “Lisbeth?”
“I don’t understand. She’s just a schoolteacher. She has no family. No money. She’s not even pretty. Why?”
Her words breathlessly, frantically escalated in pitch and she gripped his hand so tightly he nearly winced. Her face had gone a decidedly unpretty shade of red.
“What on earth are you running on about, Lisbeth? Miss Vale? Why should you worry yourself over her? Talk about having one over on the ton. You know that she’s just a lark, right?”
Lisbeth was immediately alert. “What do you mean?”
“Didn’t The Twins tell you?”
“I suppose I’ve been so caught up in the social whirl that I must have forgotten.”
Waterburn knew the twins had never said a word to her.
“Well, it’s just a bit of fun I hit upon when we attended your house party—to see if we could turn a plain girl with no family into the toast of the ton. To see if we get the bloods to make fools of themselves over her. The Twins got you to introduce them to her and then they invited her to London. We did the rest. And by God, I feel like the Creator himself, because see how well it’s worked? Anyhow, the wagers are in the books at White’s. d’Andre and I have won quite a pretty sum.”
“Oh, of course. Of course I knew. Very clever! I recall now. So she’s . . . just a bit of fun,” she quoted, repeating him thoughtfully. “She’s nothing, really,” she expounded, sounding as though she was trying to convince herself. “She’s . . . a jest.”
“She’s a lark, Lisbeth! We wagered she would have a nickname and receive hothouse flowers within a fortnight and so forth. Her popularity is entirely manufactured. Waterburn giveth, and Waterburn taketh away. You may congratulate me for my cleverness.”
“Fiendish,” Lisbeth mused. And then after a calculatedly casual pause: “Does the marquess know about it?”
“Oh, I don’t believe he does. Though he read the betting books the other day, and he never does that. The day he brought in the cat, in fact. But I don’t think he’s susceptible to that sort of nonsense—he sets rather than follows styles. And he hasn’t danced with her even once, has he? He knows the real thing when he sees it, and you, my dear, are the very real thing.”
“And he always wants the very best of everything, naturally,” Lisbeth reiterated thoughtfully, resembling nothing more than a cat with feathers clinging to its chin.
“Naturally.” Even Waterburn was growing irritated by Lisbeth’s need to have her supremacy affirmed. “But imagine the uproar if word got out. Miss Vale would be ruined.”
“I imagine she would,” Lisbeth reflected.
And by the time the waltz was over, Waterburn could almost taste the one thousand pounds. He just needed to have a word with one more person: Camber.
Phoebe wasn’t terribly surprised when Lord Camber got around to saying, “I should like to show you the garden. It’s a very fine one.”
Phoebe knew this was a euphemism for, “I should like to steal a kiss and a fondle in the garden because I think we’ve both had just enough ratafia to enjoy it,” and she was surprised and yet not surprised. Camber was a man, after all, dogged, and not timid. He was bound to suggest something of the sort eventually. The difference between aristocrats and the other men of Pennyroyal Green was all in the confidence and sense of entitlement. All of the bosom gazing during waltzes only fomented it.
“So
kind of you to offer. Perhaps another time? I believe there’s a bit of a nip in the air.” She gave an illustrative shiver.
“Perhaps I can warm you.”
Oh. A bit startling. She hadn’t expected persistence.
“Lord Camber . . .”
“Oh, come now, Miss Vale. Surely someone as original as you is not bound by the usual conventions.”
“And those conventions would be . . .”
He laughed. “You know how I admire you. And I know you would enjoy kissing me. I excel at it. Don’t be prim.”
And that’s when his hand slid around her wrist and held it fast.
She was too shocked to slip from his grasp in time. She instead stared down at it, astonished. She was shackled by long thick white fingers featuring plenty of hair.
She gave a tug.
He didn’t release her.
His face was flushed with the pleasure of touching her, of having her in his control, and from too much drink.
“I swear to you, once we begin, you’ll enjoy it. I know you’ve had a kiss before. Come now.” He pulled, and to her horror she was actually dragged a few feet, toward the garden doors.
“I must ask that you remove your hand at once, Lord Camber.”
“You ought to know that I never give up quite so easily.”
He gave another pull. He was surprisingly strong.
She started to skid, her slippers sliding over the marble. She was mortified. And all at once she was afraid, too.
“Please . . . Lord Camber . . .”
She could knee him in the cods, if she got close enough. She could trod on his instep. She wasn’t afraid to do those things.
“Oh, now. Don’t make a scene. One kiss, Miss Vale,” he coaxed. “I’ve seen how you look at me. And I’ve heard that you don’t mind a bit of that sort of thing.”
“I look at you with my eyes. That’s all. And where in God’s name would you have heard—”
He released her wrist for an instant. But it turned out it was only because he had new plans for his hand: He slid it up over her kid gloves until his warm, damp fingers were touching her bare skin. He began to close them.
“Lord Camber. I beg of you. I must insist you release—”
How the Marquess Was Won Page 26