“I suppose you should call me Barrett, because of our connection and all.” Their connection? The young man looked at him expectantly.
“Rutland,” he said grudgingly.
Barrett beamed. “I suppose you’re wishing to know more about my sister, if you’re to properly court her and all, that is.”
Young Barrett supposed a lot. And yet, what was this insatiable need to know every last detail about the innocent miss?
Without awaiting a confirmation, Phoebe’s brother launched into a list about the lady’s interest. “She enjoys Captain Cook,” he supplied unhelpfully. Edmund had already gleaned the lady’s love of travel and those great explorers. “She wishes to travel.” Yes, she’d said as much. “Her favorite color is blue.” A useless detail and yet…somehow oddly intriguing. It raised more questions than it answered. What did the lady like about the color? Did it put her in mind of the summer sky or the seas she only dreamed of traveling in her mind? Barret drummed his glove-encased fingertips upon the table. “What else? She detests needlepoint and is dreadful upon the pianoforte but quite appreciates taking in a performance.”
As the youth prattled on and on, a slow-burning fury built steadily in Edmund’s chest. Phoebe’s brother would be so forthcoming with details about the lady? Would he do the same for any gentleman who came after Edmund? Perhaps the next man would be the one who lay between her legs and knew the satiny softness of her skin… A growl climbed up his throat until he wanted to choke the life out of that nameless man, as well as Barrett, for ushering in the thought of Phoebe with another. “Enough,” he snapped.
Barrett went silent, his eyes unblinking in his face.
Edmund finished his brandy. The sight of Phoebe’s brother and the manner in which he’d embroiled himself with this family was too much…when nothing was, or ever had been, too much. “I’ve business to see to.” He stood, gritting his teeth at the knotted tension of the broken muscles in his leg. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course, of course.”
Mindful of the fearful stares turned on him, Edmund took his leave of Forbidden Pleasures.
Phoebe detested needlepoint, loved music, loathed playing, and she liked the color blue. And why did he hate that he would never know more of the lady than that?
Chapter 10
From her position in the back corner of Lord and Lady Essex’s ballroom, Phoebe surveyed the crowd.
“I detest these events.”
For a moment, seated between Gillian and Honoria, Phoebe believed she’d inadvertently spoken aloud.
“Oh, do hush Honoria. They are sometimes enjoyable,” Gillian said with her ever cheerful optimism. Then, that like opinion on mindless events was one of the reasons she and Honoria had become fast friends early on. They both detested the inanity of being on display. Only Phoebe was openly vocal in her belief and desire for more. As her friends’ squabbling filled her ears, Phoebe skimmed her gaze over to where her mother stood speaking to their hostess.
With her mother’s auburn tresses and blue eyes, the viscountess and her patent smile may as well have been a reflection of an older Phoebe twenty years from this moment. A chill stole through her as she confronted the tedium of her safe, predictable existence. A passionless world known by her mother. How many balls and soirees had she attended before this very one, where she’d stared off distracted thinking of her books and far-off places she’d never herself been?
You deserve more in your dreams and for them, Phoebe…
He was her dream. That truth momentarily stunned Phoebe. Edmund, Lord Rutland, in his kisses and discourse had come to matter so very much. He’d shown her desires she carried in her own heart.
As Gillian and Honoria continued their debate on just how enjoyable these events were, Phoebe ignored them. Fiddling with the fabric of her dress, she searched the ballroom for the hint of his familiar frame. Her black panther. The frozen, forever snarling Marquess of Rutland. She smoothed her palm over her satin skirts. How was it that only she saw more of him and in him?
A man so feared and reviled by society, who did not judge her peculiar interests in Captain Cook and those oddities most lords would have scratched their heads at. Where her mother had evinced the proper, dutiful wife even as her husband scandalized the ton with his gaming and whoring, Phoebe wished for more than that cold, loveless match. She ached for a control of her world, when the woman who’d given her life had none of her own. And in their discourse, Edmund had demonstrated that he was, in fact, a man who would never discourage her free thoughts or bid for control of her fate. It was why she loved him. She stilled her distracted movements. Her heart thumped to a slow halt and then picked up a panicked rhythm. Phoebe closed her eyes a moment. Oh, God. I love him.
As though the fates were in approval, a loud buzz went up amidst the crowd.
“What is he doing here?”
There was only one person who could elicit such contempt from Honoria. Phoebe followed her friend’s angry stare to the front of the room. A fluttering stirred in her belly.
Edmund. What was he doing here, this man who hid in shadows and sneered at lords and ladies? He is here for you. Phoebe clung to that hopeful whispering in her mind.
She stared at him with an unrepentant boldness. Attired in his familiar midnight black evening coat and breeches, he could rival the evening sky with his imposing strength. He strode down the marble stairs and did not bother with niceties for their host and hostess.
Gillian nudged Phoebe in the side. “You are staring,” she whispered.
Everyone was staring. He was that sleek, black panther but very much alive and very much dangerous for the hold he possessed upon her senses and heart.
“At the very least close your mouth,” Honoria said with a frown in her voice.
Phoebe immediately pressed her lips together, but it was impossible not to stare. With his towering height and broad, powerful frame, he cut an impressive figure amidst lesser lords; mere mortals in his presence. Lords and ladies stepped out of his way as he cut a purposeful swath through the crowd. All the while he flicked a hard, furious stare about the ballroom. The apathy etched in the chiseled planes of his face indicated his displeasure at being at Lady Essex’s annual event. Yet, he came anyway. Why would he, if not for…?
Edmund’s gaze locked on hers.
For her…
He slowed his stride. The space between them could not diminish the passion that darkened his eyes. The desire in their dark brown, nearly black, depths evoked the remembrance of the physical feeling of being in his arms while hunger had fueled their kisses and touch at the curiosity shop. She swallowed hard.
“Do not stare at him in that manner,” Honoria pleaded.
“I do not generally agree with Honoria but, in this, I fear she’s correct. It isn’t polite to stare.”
“I…” was incapable of one single, coherent thought.
“Oh, bloody hell he is coming this way.” A beleaguered moan escaped Honoria.
“Of course he is,” Gillian replied, thankfully filling the void left by Phoebe’s silence.
“He is dangerous.” There was an entreaty in Honoria’s words that snapped Phoebe to the moment.
She shifted her attention from Edmund and his forward pursuit. “I…he is not.” Oh, Society certainly knew him as ruthless for reasons she’d never paid attention to. “He is a better man than you or Society credits him as being.”
Her friend snorted. “We do not credit him as being any kind of good. Not better. Not good. All things lethal and dangerous and…”
“Miss Barrett.” That husky whisper laced with steel she’d recognize in the throes of her deepest sleep.
Phoebe gasped and swung her attention upwards the length of Edmund’s impressive height. She hopped to her feet, dimly registering her friends clamoring to a standing position beside her. They flanked her like stern mamas guarding their daughter’s good name. “L-Lord Rutland.” Phoebe cursed the slight stammer that set her apart
from the confident, bold women he’d likely known before her. The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips as though he’d heard that tremble and reveled in his power over her. With an obvious reluctance, Edmund shifted his attention to her friends.
“Miss Fairfax.” Honoria’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Lady Farendale,” he greeted a more forgiving Gillian who smiled in return.
“My lord.” Gillian, the peacekeeper of the two ladies responded for both of them. “It is a pleasure to see you.”
Honoria allowed her mutinous silence to stand as her denial of Gillian’s polite greeting.
Just then, the lively quadrille drew to a close, amidst a smattering of applause and excited laughter. The orchestra struck up the strains of a waltz and with a boldness that would scandalize any self-respecting young lady, Edmund turned a hungry gaze on Phoebe. Her mouth went dry as warmth spiraled through her.
He held his hand out. There was no question, no request. He was in command, control, as he’d been from their first meeting. She eyed his outstretched fingers, and as he studied her through thick, dark lashes there was a flash of impatience, melded with concern in his brown irises. Did he think she would turn down his request? Phoebe drew in a slow, steadying breath, heady with the hint of his weakness—for her. For his show now, and before Society, he was not as self-possessed as all believed. She placed her fingertips in his. Edmund closed his hand over hers and momentarily held her fingers in a powerful grip. Ignoring the pointed, matching frowns worn by her friends, Phoebe allowed Edmund to guide her onto the dance floor.
He positioned them at the center of the ballroom, as though barefacedly marking her as his before the other peers present. She placed her trembling fingertips along his sleeve as he settled his hands at her waist.
The orchestra plucked the waltz and he guided her into movement. Edmund lowered his brow close. “You are trembling.”
Inside and out. “I am,” she said softly.
“Do you finally fear me?” The hint of a frown hovered on his lips, an indication that her answer mattered to him.
“Despite your best efforts, no, I do not.” She wanted those words to come out breezy and blithe. Instead, they emerged more whisper than anything.
His eyes smiled when his lips seemed incapable of the feat. He glanced over her shoulder and as he twirled her in effortless circles, she found the subject of his attention. Or in this case, the subjects.
Honoria and Gillian stood shoulder to shoulder with their arms folded watching their every movement.
“They do not approve.”
She hesitated, but would not have lies between them. “No, they do not.”
“Smart young ladies.”
“Do hush.” Phoebe squeezed his arm and the muscles of his forearm tightened under her touch. “Would you spend your time here seeking to convince me of the danger in caring for you and trusting you?”
His body went taut, and yet effortless and graceful Edmund did not so much as miss a step in the still-scandalous dance. “Do you know what I would spend my time doing?”
Her body went hot at the husky promise of his question. She managed to shake her head. He placed his lips close her ear. “I would spend my time making love to you.”
Oh, God. She momentarily slid her eyes closed. Edmund expertly righted her as she missed a step, catching her to him in a way that brought their bodies momentarily flush. Wicked warmth spiraled through her; a heady aphrodisiac lent power by the forbidden words he’d whispered here amidst the proper lords and ladies twirling about them. She wanted him. In all ways: in her arms, her heart, her life.
Phoebe could go through her life controlled by the strictures of Society and the expectations placed upon her. She located her mother at the edge of the ballroom talking to her host. Empty. Sad. Alone. Or she could become molded as her mother had been.
Edmund rubbed the pad of his thumb over her waist, burning her with his touch, even through the fabric separating them. “Nothing to say?” Edmund whispered.
As she stared up at his cynical, life-hardened eyes, she saw in their depths that he expected her to be shocked and outraged, as any young lady would.
“I would say I want you to spend your time making love to me,” she whispered in return.
Hunger flared in his eyes.
The music came to an abrupt halt and they stopped amidst the other clapping dancers; strangers unknowing that Phoebe’s world was coming undone before them at the hands of this man’s passionate promise. They stood frozen, their breaths coming hard and fast. The forbiddenness of their exchange only fueled this maddening heat spiraling through her.
“Meet me in Lord Essex’s conservatory.”
His command was spoken so quietly she could have very well imagined it.
Then he dipped a short bow and stalked off. Rooted to the floor, Phoebe stared after him for seconds? Minutes? Hours? Time blurred together at the shocking words that were more order than request, he’d put to her. This scandalous promise of more in his arms was a wicked game she’d never before played and, as such, she did not know the rules or requirements. She only knew she wanted him.
Phoebe gave her head a clearing shake and walked off the dance floor. She located her friends, now locked in conversation with Gillian’s father and another prospective suitor. Shifting her attention away from the two young ladies, she looked about for her mother—and found her. Phoebe’s heart started. An uncharacteristically sad smile wreathed her mother’s lips and reflected back such pain, it stole the air from her lungs. In looking at her, this woman with Phoebe’s hair and eyes, and alike in so many ways, Phoebe saw her future…and wanted more. She wanted control of her own happiness. And sometime between Lord Delenworth’s terrace and this moment, Edmund had become inextricably intertwined with her happiness.
With that, she turned on her heel and attempted to blend with the satin wallpaper along the walls. She took her leave of the ballroom and went in search of Lord Essex’s conservatory. Phoebe lingered at the edge of the hall that would lead her away from respectability and into sin. She curled her toes into the soles of her slippers. To go off with him would mean ruin should she be discovered and yet…she loved him and wanted him. She wanted to know this fleeting happiness, while hoping it signified forever with him. All the while accepting that it might not. Phoebe wanted him, anyway. Through the crowd, her eyes found Honoria. Her friend no longer attended the conversation with Gillian’s father. Instead, she searched the crowd and Phoebe had little doubt she sought out her improper friend on a path of ruin.
Phoebe slipped down the corridor. Her heart thundered and fear stabbed at her. She was one set of prying eyes away from discovery. As one who’d never tasted a hint of impropriety and passion before Edmund, this was a world of sentiments she was unfamiliar with. Unlike Edmund who whispered scandalous words of making love to her amidst the ballroom and then urged a meeting. Such a man was accustomed to these clandestine meetings, but in her heart she knew this was altogether different than the ones to come before. A man of Edmund’s power and passion was not one who dallied with innocents…and she wanted to be the woman who broke through his cold façade and filled him with the warmth he’d lost in life. She stopped at the end of the hall and looked right and then left. Phoebe froze. The crystal doors marked Lord Essex’s infamous conservatory.
She tiptoed down the hall and as her foot depressed a loose floorboard, she jumped and raced the remainder of the way. With shaky fingers, she jerked the door open and all but stumbled inside. Silence served as her only company. She turned and closed the door quietly behind her and remained frozen with her eyes trained on her fingers upon that handle. “You should not be here,” she said softly. Wanting him as she did, and this moment signaling control over her happiness and fate, she could not, however, leave.
“No, you should not.” Phoebe stilled as Edmund’s husky baritone cascaded over her. This must have been the manner of temptation that had driven Adam and Eve to sin. Strong hands settled upon h
er shoulders and kicked her heart into that increasingly familiar hard rhythm. Edmund lowered his lips close to her ear and his warm breath fanned her nape. “But I am so glad you are,” he whispered. His lips caressed the sensitive skin behind her ear.
Her eyes slid closed as he continued to worship the column of her neck with his skillful kiss. The shock of being pressed against the glass door, on view for any stranger or servant who might steal down this hall and see them so, should have killed this masterful hold he had upon her senses. And yet, there was a shocking thrill at the prospect of discovery. A breathless moan slid past her lips as he turned her around and guided her against the glass paneled door, rattling it in its frame. Edmund took her lips under his in a hard, demanding kiss that she returned with equal degrees of hunger and shamelessness. She opened her mouth, allowing him entry and he groaned his approval. As his tongue found hers, they mated with their mouths in a hot haze of feeling.
Edmund captured her wrists in one of his large hands and brought them above her head, pinning them to the glass door. His kiss and actions were not the ones of a gentleman gently loving a delicate lady, but rather a primitive male who sought to brand a woman forever his. She reveled in his equal need for her.
“You should not be here,” he whispered as he dragged his mouth down her throat to the modest décolletage of her gown.
“No, I should not be,” she managed to rasp as he lowered the fabric of her gown, exposing her skin to the cool night air. “We’ve already a-ascertained as much. But I want to be.” And that is what truly mattered. In a world where she dreamed of passion and life through some other long dead hero’s travels, she would take this journey for her and she wanted Edmund as her guide. Her eyelashes fluttered wildly open and shut. This she would take for her. Her love for him fueled her need to know him in this intimate way.
Edmund released her arms and they fell limply to her sides, but he caught her hips in his hands and dragged her to the vee of his thighs. His manhood thrust at her belly; his hardness a tumescent sign of his own need. She moaned and with a wantonness she’d not believed herself capable of, reached between them and ran her fingers over the length pressing at the front of his breeches.
A Heart of a Duke Collection: Volume 1-A Regency Bundle Page 150