“I…forgive me, I…thank you,” she said quietly.
He sketched a bow. “Might I have the honor of knowing the lady I’ve rescued from a vicious spearing, my lady?” Edmund’s shaft stirred with delightful images of giving the young lady a vicious spearing. What manner of bloody madness was this, lusting after this one?
“I’m not a lady.”
All the better. He arched a single eyebrow in invitation.
Her cheeks burned red. “I mean, I’m not a ‘my lady’. I’m a miss.” She dropped a curtsy. “Miss Phoebe Barrett.”
A detail he’d already gathered. “Ah,” he said noncommittally.
She cast a glance over her shoulder, out into the darkened London night. When she returned her gaze to his, an unexpected wariness gleamed in her blue eyes. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, stiffly polite. Did he imagine the previous chit chattering more than a magpie? “It wouldn’t do for us to be discovered together.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” He schooled his expression into that of concerned gentleman. “Forgive me.” He made to leave.
“Wait,” she called out.
They always did. Some inherent darkness she and every other young lady didn’t even know they carried invariably drove back logic and caution and replaced them with recklessness. He turned and looked questioningly back at her. “I don’t know your name,” she blurted.
He sketched a bow. “Edmund Deering, the 5th Marquess of Rutland.” Scandalized shock did not replace the too-trusting openness of her expression. Instead, she continued to evaluate him in that curious manner; an unlikely pairing of innocence and boldness.
Then her expression grew shuttered. Ah, so she’d heard of him. Of course she had. Even though he studiously avoided polite ton events if they didn’t serve some grander scheme, ladies old and young alike had heard of him—and knew to avoid him. For the unsophistication of one such as Miss Phoebe Barrett in her ivory skirts, there was also that unexpected guardedness that likely came in her connection to that fat, reprobate Waters. “I should leave.”
Wiser words were never spoken. “Yes,” he concurred.
The lady stepped right. He matched her movements. She stepped left. He followed suit, blocking her exit.
Alarm lined Miss Barrett’s face. A hand fluttered to her breast and he buried a black humor at that ineffectual, defensive gesture. “My lord?” She looked quizzically up at him.
Her instincts were sharp. “Surely, you do not intend to leave without rescuing your shawl?” As though that hand could protect her from his legendary prowess. His was an arrogance based on years of bringing lonely, eager ladies to great heights of pleasure.
His words proved the correct ones. She caught her plump, lower lip between even pearl white teeth and angled back around. Miss Barrett had made her first of many missteps around him—she’d demonstrated a weakness. The shawl, an item belonging to Miss Honoria Fairfax, meant nothing to this woman, and yet she’d risk her reputation, safety, and well-being in his, a stranger’s, presence…but for her friend’s shawl. This hopeless devotion demonstrated her weakness—she cared that much about Miss Fairfax and that would prove useful. He pressed, unrelenting. “I gather it is an important article to you,” he said in soft tones. It was also a fact he intended to put to valuable use. He held out his arm. “Allow me to lend my assistance.”
Except, she narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “I…it wouldn’t be proper,” she said at last.
He’d not given the lady enough credit. With her caution and hesitancy, she’d already demonstrated more reserve than he expected of an innocent. Edmund bowed his head. “Of course,” he agreed. “Forgive me.” He backed away once again. He turned to leave while counting silently to five. He made it no higher than three. “Wait!” she called out, bringing him to a halt. “Perhaps if you remain here while I search below then I might freely conduct my search. That way, if any interlopers,” trysting couples, “should happen by, then you might send them on their way.”
A slow grin formed on his lips that would have likely chilled Miss Barrett’s heart should she have seen it. He schooled his features and turned back around. “It would be my pleasure.”
She gave him a wide, unfettered smile. This was not the guarded, icy, seductive smile worn by the lovers he took to his bed, but rather an expression that spoke to her artlessness. Odd, she should retain even a shred of innocence with her bastard of a father. The viscount’s daughter sprinted for the end of the terrace with a speed anything but ladylike. She raced down the steps and disappeared into the gardens below.
Edmund strolled closer, damning the thick cloud coverage overhead that blotted the moon and obscured the lady from his vision. She moved noisily through the plants. Then the moon’s glow penetrated the passing clouds, illuminating her. “Do you see it, Miss Barrett?” he called down.
She paused and frowned up at him. “Hush,” she scolded as though she dealt with a naughty child and not the most black-hearted scoundrel in London. She held a finger to her lips. Her tone was far gentler, almost apologetic when she again spoke. “Mustn’t be discovered, you know.”
“No,” he called quietly down. Discovery with this one would prove disastrous. It would prevent him from the revenge he intended to exact upon Margaret, the Duchess of Monteith. “If you require my assistance, you need but ask.”
The stranger’s softly spoken promise carried down into Lord Delenworth’s gardens. Phoebe lingered, staring up at the dashing stranger far longer than was appropriate and then gave her head a clearing shake. She resumed her search for a splash of ivory fabric amidst the darkened landscape. Though in truth, her efforts, her attention, which should be reserved for the very important task at hand were instead reserved for the gentleman, a man whose name was even more talked about than her own.
Phoebe picked her way down a row of expertly pruned circular boxwoods. Then, a gentleman of his stunning beauty well knew the risk faced of being discovered, unchaperoned with a lady. He had the face and form that hinted at a masculine perfection that made a lady do foolish things…such as forgetting she was alone. With a gentleman. In a garden. Under the pale moonlight.
She cast one glance back up at the marquess with his broad, powerful back presented to her while he stood sentry, then…she wasn’t most ladies. She was one of the Scandalous Row of ladies from illicit families. A flash of white snagged her notice and hope stirred in her chest, drawing her steps in that direction. She paused beside a full rosebush of white blooms, tightly closed from the evening’s chill. Only, he’d displayed no outward reaction to her given name. No shock had flared to life in his eyes at her connection to the lecherous Lord Waters and his excessive drinking and wagering.
She sighed, shaking aside the poignant musings and scanned the grounds for the fabric given her by her devoted, loyal friend. Phoebe knew but pieces of the story behind the shawl but it was a cherished gift and all that remained of her friend’s departed father. And now it was gone because of Phoebe’s carelessness. She stopped and surveyed the grounds for a hint of white in the inky darkness. Gone, all because she’d rushed off in an attempt to avoid loathsome Lord Allswood and—
A shadow fell over her shoulder. It blotted out the moon’s light and she shrieked, but the soft cry died on her lips at the length of ivory cashmere dangling before her eyes. Phoebe whirled around and impulsively plucked the muddied shawl from the gentleman’s fingers. She crushed it to her chest. “How…Where…?” Her throat worked convulsively. “Thank you,” she said, her voice roughened with emotion.
The marquess’ hard lips turned up in a grin, the only softening of the harsh, angular planes of his chiseled cheeks. “Alas, I fear it is more rough for the wear,” he said sympathetically. He shot a hand out and captured the edge of the cashmere, rubbing the soft material between his thumb and forefinger.
“Thank you,” she said once more, studying his powerful hands encased in gloves. Something appealed in those slight distracted movements of his long fingers.
He re
leased it suddenly. “The garment is so very important that you’d risk your reputation with me, a stranger.” His was not a question but rather an observation of a man with an intelligent gleam in his brown eyes.
She nodded anyway. “It belongs to H…” Honoria. “My friend,” she settled for, rightfully cautious.
Silence descended. The intermittent cry of a night bird split the quiet. She should have left long ago. Her father shut away in those card rooms would never note her absence. Her loving mama, on the other hand, would very well note she’d gone missing, as would her friends, and still she remained.
“Well,” they spoke in unison.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I am in your debt.”
He swept a respectful bow. “It was, indeed, nothing, Miss Barrett.”
“Phoebe.” At her own boldness, embarrassed heat slapped her cheeks. There was nothing polite or proper in giving him leave to use her given name, and yet by the nature of their meeting and her debt to him, there seemed a bond of sorts between them. “Considering the kindness you’ve shown, I thought it appropriate you call me by my Christian name.” He said nothing, just continued to study her in that inscrutable manner until a pained awkwardness replaced the ease that had existed between her and this tall stranger only moments ago. Phoebe toyed with the fabric of Honoria’s shawl and cleared her throat.
“Edmund.”
She cocked her head. “Edmund,” she murmured. There was nothing proper or appropriate in knowing him by his Christian name. She’d but heard the faintest whispers of this man; whispers she’d taken care to avoid. As victim to that same gossip, she detested any talk about other people. Though, there was nothing proper or appropriate in any of this exchange.
He gave her a gentle smile. “You should go,” he said quietly.
Phoebe gave a reluctant nod. “I should.” And yet, perhaps she was more of her shameful father’s daughter than she’d ever feared because her feet remained fixed to the ground.
Edmund closed the space between them with languidly elegant movements. She swallowed hard as the gentle gleam in his eyes darkened, replaced with a harsh, angry glint. Then he blinked, so she thought she merely imagined the frigidity there. He angled his head down and touched his lips to hers.
A startled squeak escaped her and she danced out of reach. Her heart threatened to pound out of her chest. “What are you doing?” Her voice emerged as a breathless, barely-there whisper.
He opened his mouth.
Phoebe continued her retreat, never taking her gaze from his piercing brown eyes. She knocked against a stone statue and grunted.
Edmund took a step forward.
She jabbed a finger in his direction. “Stop.” He froze. He’d intended to kiss her. She’d seen as much in his eyes. Gentlemen didn’t kiss her, even those who’d determined her worth of little value for her connection to the lecherous, reprobate Viscount Waters. But this gentleman had. She kept her finger outstretched, warding him off.
“Forgive me.” There was a harsh, almost gravelly quality to that whispered response. “I was taken by your beauty.”
Phoebe knocked into a fountain and an inelegant snort escaped her. And gentlemen certainly were not taken by her beauty. She didn’t possess the otherworldly exquisiteness of Gillian, or even the blonde prettiness associated with a proper English miss. Nor did she believe a stunning model of masculine perfection such as Edmund, 5th Marquess of Rutland, would be overcome with passion for one such as her.
A frown formed on his hard lips. “I don’t know what you believe of me.” The marquess folded his arms. “But I am not…” Heat blazed a path up her neck and burned her cheeks. He quirked an eyebrow.
“Immoral,” she said on an angry whisper and then glanced about to be certain they weren’t discovered and she was indeed forever labeled exactly that.
Edmund spread his arms wide. “It was never my intention to disrespect you. Perhaps I was caught in the moonlit moment or perhaps it was the splendor of these grounds, for I assure you, madam, I am not a gentleman to be so unwise as to give my attentions to a respectable lady, particularly an uninterested lady.” He sketched a stiff bow. “Forgive me.”
Guilt roiled in her belly and mixed with shame over the staggering truth—she’d not been uninterested. Which only made her body’s awareness of a mysterious stranger all the more alarming.
He made to leave.
“Wait!”
He immediately halted at her exclamation.
“I didn’t mean to question your motives.” Up to that faintest meeting of lips, his intentions had been honorable and good. “Thank you for your assistance.”
Edmund turned back and searched her face with his gaze once more, as though seeking the veracity of that apology. He gave a curt nod and then stalked over with a languid, almost panther-like sleekness that again sent warning bells clamoring. Or was that the rapid beat of her pulse? Her heart fluttered as he came to a stop beside her and she detested this inexplicable awareness of him that defied logic—something she’d always prided herself upon. He ran his knuckles over her cheek and her heart skipped several beats. “You wear your doubts upon your face, Miss Barrett. You’re guarded.”
She wet her lips, uncomfortable with that unerring accuracy. A mere stranger, he’d seen so very much to know… What he couldn’t know is that having been born to a disloyal, black-hearted bastard such as her father, she’d learned long ago to be wary of a man’s motives, while hopefully daring to believe there were men of honor.
“You say nothing, which is your confirmation,” he admonished.
Unnerved by his ability to seemingly know her thoughts, she retreated, placing much needed space between them. Desperate to give her fingers some task, she ran them over the pink peonies, curled tightly in rest for the spring night. “I’ve learned to be cautious where a gentleman is concerned.” She leaned forward and drew in the sweet, fragrant scent of the bud.
He narrowed his eyes to impenetrable slits, following her every movement. “And has there been a man who has hurt your heart, Phoebe?”
Phoebe, he called her Phoebe again, and that menacing, possessive whisper that was her name hinted of a man who’d likely stalk off and cut the cad if she gave a name. “Just—” my father. She pressed her lips into a tight line. “No one,” she said at last, unwilling to trust this man she’d only just met with those protective pieces she carried close to her heart. “No one has hurt me.”
“You wear a frown,” he said quietly, boldly touching a finger to the corner of her lips. “A young woman such as you should not know this sadness.”
A protestation sprung to her lips. She wasn’t sad. She had a loving mother who was more friend than anything else. She had a brother and sister she would have walked across the coals of hell for, and she knew would do the same for her. And yet…there was sadness. The gold flecks in his eyes glinted with knowing, but he said nothing, for which she was grateful. Instead, he bent down, and she studied him curiously as he fiddled with something upon the ground, and then he stood. She widened her eyes at the rose he’d managed to free from the bush. “What is that?” she blurted.
The subtle twitching of his lips was incongruously hard with that gentle movement. “It is a rose. To remember our meeting.” He held it out. He set his mouth in a serious line, driving back all earlier teasing. “I’d not have there be sadness between us, Phoebe.”
She eyed it cautiously. “And should I remember this meeting?” Her cheeks warmed at the boldness of her own question.
“Undoubtedly,” he said in that smooth baritone that washed over her.
She claimed the flower and drew it close to her heart. The sweet, fragrant hint of the bloom wafted about the air, wrapping her in this magic pull, a product of the spring night and the forbiddenness of their exchange.
“She is not here,” a young lady’s impatient voice cut through the quiet.
“But I saw her go down the hall. Where else would she be?”
God
love her friends for being so devoted as to set out in search of her. And yet, why was there this tug of regret?
Gillian spoke on a hushed whisper. “You do not believe something sinister has befallen—”
Honoria snorted. “You’re so fanciful, Gillian. Nothing sinister happened to her and she is not here. We’ve walked the entire length and she’s not…”
Had anyone else discovered her with Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland, there would be nothing but a hasty union based on her own ruin.
Silence.
Then the shuffling of slippered feet as the two ladies scrambled down the stone steps and stole into Lady Delenworth’s gardens. She looked about, momentarily contemplating escape, but too late. Her friends found her. They staggered to a stop with their mouths agape, their eyes widened in a blend of horror and shock.
Heat splashed Phoebe’s cheeks and she unwittingly took a step closer to the marquess.
“Phoebe?” Gillian asked. There was skepticism in that one-word utterance.
“The same,” Phoebe said, in an attempt at nonchalance.
Honoria’s wide, brown eyes alternated rapidly between Edmund and Phoebe. “What is the meaning of this?” she hissed. “Come away from him this instance, Phoebe Eloise Barrett,” she snapped in the same angry tones of a mama who’d discovered her daughter…well…just as Phoebe had been discovered—in a compromising position.
Edmund remained stoically silent. His dark gaze lingered upon Honoria and then he returned his attention to Phoebe. “I should leave,” he admitted, taking a step away.
“Yes, you should,” Honoria tossed back with an unexpected cruelty in her tone that Phoebe didn’t remember of her friend.
“Honoria,” she chided. “I lost your shawl and he merely found it and returned it to me.”
Fire flared in her friend’s eyes.
She opened her mouth to say something, but Edmund touched his hand to hers, silencing the defense of him on her lips. Gillian stifled a gasp with her fingers.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he requested and sketched a deep, deferential bow to her and her friends, and then walked briskly off.
A Heart of a Duke Collection: Volume 1-A Regency Bundle Page 141