by Darcy Burke
His coachman drove to one side and stopped. The door opened, and he asked if Marcus wished to depart.
“Yes.” Marcus stepped out and surveyed the square. Which house was hers? If, in fact, any of them was, since Anthony hadn’t been completely certain.
This was folly. He knew her identity. He would certainly find her location in the morning, and then he could deliver her handkerchief. Still, he began to walk around the square, sweeping his gaze over each building and wondering if she was inside.
An image of her sparkling green eyes and elegant brows came to his mind, followed by the rest of her alluring face—the small, charming tip of her nose, the lively dimples that danced in her cheeks, the inviting curve of her lips…
Yes, he’d been able to draw her exactly because he’d memorized every detail.
What in the hell was he doing? He could find her location and simply send the handkerchief. There was absolutely no need for him to go in person. Unless, as Anthony suggested, he’d set his sights on her. For seduction.
His cock stirred. And it shouldn’t. She was unwed, probably a virgin, the type of woman who’d never turned his head. Even in his youth, he’d been drawn to older, experienced women. They’d taught him everything he knew, and he’d been an eager student.
He didn’t have the patience or interest to do for someone what they’d done for him. Or did he?
Suddenly, the thought of tutoring Miss Lennox sent his cock into a full stand. The sound of a coach driving by prompted him to pick up his pace. He needed to get back to his coach and then home. Where he’d take the edge off his lust with the aid of his right hand. Or he could follow Anthony to Mrs. Alban’s…
The coach stopped a few houses in front of him, and out stepped the unmistakable form of Miss Lennox. She walked up the steps to one of the largest houses in the square, the door opening and then closing behind her far too soon as she disappeared inside.
Marcus’s heart began to pound as anticipation sparked through him. He glanced toward his coach—and sanity—before staring at her house. He knew where she lived and could now deliver the handkerchief.
But of course, he didn’t have it with him. Because for all that he’d wanted to find her tonight, he hadn’t expected to. Not this easily.
He waited for the thrill of the hunt to dissipate. Instead, it intensified, forcing him to again ponder what the hell he was actually doing.
Go home. Send the handkerchief. Be done with this. You’ve other things to occupy your mind.
Too bad none of them were this fascinating.
“I trust you passed a pleasant evening,” Phoebe’s butler asked as he welcomed her home.
“I did, thank you, Culpepper.” She removed her gloves and handed them to the man, a robust fellow in his late thirties.
“Would you care for your customary nightcap in the garden room?”
“Indeed.” Phoebe enjoyed a glass of a particular port most nights. When she thought of her life now that she was an independent—and wealthy—woman, she felt incredibly grateful.
Culpepper turned to leave the hall, but a knock on the door halted him. He turned, one dark brow arching as he contemplated the door. “Are you expecting someone, Miss Lennox?”
“I am not.” Who would call at this hour? Jane was the only person who came to mind, and since Phoebe had just left her a short while ago, it likely wasn’t her. Phoebe supposed it could also be her parents, but they didn’t call very often and surely wouldn’t do so this late.
Culpepper answered the door, and right away a deep, masculine voice slid into the hall.
“Good evening. Is Miss Lennox receiving?”
Recognition caused Phoebe’s heart to speed. No, it couldn’t be him.
“It’s rather late,” Culpepper said coolly. “Would you care to leave a card?”
“Yes.”
Culpepper responded with a note of surprise. “My lord.”
It was him.
Culpepper looked toward her, and she inclined her head. He opened the door further so she could fully see the marquess. He filled the doorway, dressed to evening perfection in stark black and pristine white.
“May I come in?” he asked.
She should say no. “Briefly.” She glanced at Culpepper. “Two nightcaps, please.” Then she tossed another look at Lord Ripley before turning and leading him into the garden room.
A low fire burned in the hearth, and Phoebe went to stand near the mantel. She pivoted to face him as he strode into the room. The space had always felt particularly feminine, with its floral wallpaper and rose-colored furnishings. Now, however, there was a distinctly masculine air. It was surprisingly…pleasant.
Pleasant? No, stimulating.
“You found me.”
He removed his hat and set it on a table beside the settee. “I did, and it is my distinct pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, Miss Lennox.” He came toward her and took her bare hand. Sadly, he still wore gloves.
Sadly?
He pressed his lips to her knuckles, allowing his flesh to touch hers. A shiver tripped up her arm and through her, settling somewhere in the vicinity of her belly. Or perhaps just a tad lower.
Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand. “I must ask, how did you find me?”
“Luck.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Hardly.” A terrible thought occurred to her, and she was rather furious with herself for not thinking it sooner. “Did anyone see you?”
He rested his forearm on the mantel. “No. It may not seem like it, but I am quite discreet when the situation warrants.”
Culpepper returned with a tray bearing two glasses of port. Phoebe took one and indicated Ripley should take the other. The marquess did so, and Culpepper retreated from the room.
Ripley raised his glass. “A toast to your divine hospitality.”
“A toast to your ingenuity. I didn’t think you’d find me by tomorrow, let alone this evening.”
He gave her a confident smirk that should have been annoying but instead only added to the awareness pulsing through her. He sipped his port, and she did the same.
Phoebe decided some space between them was necessary. She pivoted and sat down in her favorite chair. That way, he couldn’t sit next to her. He did, however, perch on the small settee near the chair—as close to her as possible without sitting on her lap.
“I appreciate your discretion,” Phoebe said. “Still, you should not have called.”
“And yet you invited me in.” He relaxed into the settee, his posture one of comfortable nonchalance, as if he called on women in this manner and at such a late hour all the time. “To my great benefit. In any case, are you concerned about your reputation? I would think a spitfire like you wouldn’t care.”
“Just because I don’t wish to follow Society’s rules doesn’t mean I want to make myself the center of attention. You are the notorious Marquess of Ripley. A visit from you at this hour—at any hour—would surely set the tongues wagging.”
“Apparently, everything I do elicits such a response.”
She heard the weariness in his tone, as well as a touch of irritation. “You’re speaking of something in particular?”
“Just what happened at the park today.”
For a brief moment, she thought he referred to their encounter, and her stomach dipped toward the floor. Of course he meant his altercation. Suddenly, she recalled his head and was angry with herself for not asking about it straightaway. “How is your wound?” She looked at his hairline but couldn’t see the injury.
“Much better, thank you. I am not suffering any ill effects.”
She noted he specified the physical hurt, but she recalled his earlier tinge of annoyance. “From the gossip, then, I take it?”
“There was a wager at the club this evening that I would call my cousin out.”
“Because he injured you this afternoon?” He nodded after sipping his port, and she couldn’t resist pointing out his hypocrisy. “Why should you care a
bout such things like that wager, particularly given your reputation?”
He chuckled. “Touché. Like you, I prefer not to be at the forefront of ton gossip. However, I do not mind my reputation at all. Do you mind yours?”
She wondered what he meant, what he knew. “That depends on what it is.”
“A spitfire with the courage to jilt an unwanted betrothed.”
He knew everything, then. Well, everything that could be known by way of gossip. “You’ve been very busy since this afternoon—learning my name, where I live, and my personal history. I wonder how you managed it.” She purposely said this with the tone of a question.
Frustratingly, he said nothing. He took another drink of port instead.
“You’re being frightfully secretive about how you found me. I think you owe it to me to explain.”
His gaze locked with hers. “I wanted to find you, and I always get what I want.”
Again, she shivered. Just from a look. From him. She refused to fall prey to his charm. “Your flirtation won’t work on me. Either tell me how, or I’ll snatch your port away.”
He clutched his glass, drawing it close to his chest in mock alarm. “But it’s delicious. I do love a good port. Fine. Lord Colton told me who you are.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a piece of parchment. “I showed him this.” He handed her the paper.
Phoebe set her glass down on the small table next to the chair. Opening the folded parchment, she sucked in a breath at what she saw. There, staring back at her in exquisite detail, was herself.
She lifted her gaze to his. “Where did you—”
He hesitated the barest moment. “I drew it.”
She looked back at the drawing, amazed at how completely—and accurately—he’d captured her likeness. “It’s extraordinary.”
“Keep it.”
“Indeed?” She didn’t want to deprive him of such a fine rendering, and yet, why should he want it? Furthermore, he could simply draw another. “How enterprising of you to use this skill to find me.”
“One does what one must.”
“Yes, one does,” she murmured, staring at the drawing another moment before setting it on the table and picking her port up once more.
“Such as refuse to marry a scoundrel, as you did with Sainsbury.” He even knew whom she’d jilted. “In my opinion, that only elevates your reputation. I admire a woman who knows what she’s about.”
It was hard not to feel flattered, so she did, even as her mind was screaming at her to keep this dangerous man at bay. Dangerous? Did she think he would take advantage of her as Sainsbury had? A wave of apprehension rose over her. She barely knew this man, and his reputation was one of scandalous behavior. But was there more to it than that?
“You called Sainsbury a scoundrel,” she said, probing. “Why?”
He shrugged. “I scarcely know him, but I’ve always thought him a braggart with an exaggerated opinion of himself. He seems the type to be a scoundrel, and since you threw him over, I can only assume there is something hideously wrong with him.”
Phoebe delighted in his insight. She took a long sip of port, both to steady her nerves and to mask her unwanted reaction to him. It was time to draw this interview to a close. “Did you bring my handkerchief?”
He winced slightly, his eyes crinkling. “I must apologize for I did not. I’m afraid I’ll have to call another time.” He smiled broadly, and she wondered if that had been his plan.
“If you’re seeking to prolong our acquaintance, I must disappoint you.”
He held up his hand. “Please don’t. Pray, tell me what is wrong with our acquaintance?”
She was a spinster, and he was a rakehell. “It serves no purpose.”
He sat forward, scooting toward her. His dark cobalt eyes gleamed with intensity. “I disagree. You served me a great purpose this afternoon when you tended my injury.”
She looked at her port and then at the fire—anywhere but at him. “I do not regret it. However, it was not my intent to encourage any sort of…association.”
“Do I make you nervous?”
She snapped her gaze to his. “No.”
“Good. I should never wish to do that. I liked you immediately this afternoon, and not just because you saved me from ruining more than my favorite cravat.” He flashed her a smile. “I’m joking. I don’t have a favorite cravat.”
If he was trying to put her at ease—and that seemed his intent—he was finding success. To put him in the same class as Sainsbury was so ludicrous as to be almost laughable. She’d thought about Ripley several times since that afternoon, in a pervasive and anticipatory manner. She’d never done that with her former betrothed. With him, she’d felt relief to finally have an offer of marriage and an eagerness to manage her own household. Then he’d begun to make her feel an altogether different way: uncomfortable, anxious, and ultimately repulsed.
She frankly couldn’t imagine feeling disgusted by the marquess. He was an exceptionally handsome gentleman, with his broad, muscular shoulders and piercing blue eyes. But it was more than that. It was the easy way he smiled and laughed. Or flirted.
Yes, he was quite good at that. And what’s more, he made her want to flirt in return.
Dangerous hardly sufficed to describe him. He was an absolute threat to her peaceful, autonomous, solitary life.
Phoebe finished her port in one long drink, then stood. “As I told you this afternoon, it isn’t necessary for you to return my handkerchief. I have many others.”
Ripley rose. “What’s more, I’m certain you can buy any handkerchief you desire.” He looked around the garden room, which she’d refurbished entirely after purchasing the house. “This is a beautifully appointed room, and I assume the rest of the residence is as well. You are either a woman of means or in debt up to your magnificent eyebrows.”
She arched a brow. “It’s gauche to speak of financial matters.”
“Is it? I’ve been accused of much worse.” He finished his port and deposited the empty glass beside hers. Doing so brought him close, and she was awarded with the scent of sandalwood and spice.
Phoebe had to prevent herself from swaying even closer. Steeling herself, she expected him to move away. He did not, however. On the contrary, he leaned closer and spoke near her ear.
“I’ll return your handkerchief. I’m afraid I can’t resist another opportunity to bask in your company.”
“You’re a rogue.”
“Unquestionably. And you…you smell divine. Oranges and cinnamon? An unusual but distinctive scent.” He inhaled, and Phoebe feared her speeding heart might leap from her chest.
He adjusted his position so that he could look at her. His dark, seductive gaze bored into hers. “I wonder if I might kiss you.”
Again, her body threatened to betray her and move toward him. “No, I shouldn’t want that.”
“An interesting choice of words.” His lips spread into a sly smile.
“I don’t want that.”
He tipped his head slightly, regarding her with an expectation that curled her toes. “I’m not sure that’s true, but let’s not debate it tonight. There will come a day—soon, I’d wager—when you’ll ask me to.” He straightened. “Or, because you’re a spitfire, you’ll take the matter into your own hands and kiss me. You are that kind of woman, I think.”
She wasn’t. He’d said she was a woman who knew what she wanted, but that was only since her great-aunt had left her a fortune. And so far, it included just a house in Cavendish Square with a garden room she adored. There were many things she hadn’t considered, not the least of which was what this man seemed to be offering.
“Are you suggesting I’ll want to embark on a liaison with you?” She hated how breathless she sounded, as if she could hardly wait to do so. And while she was attracted to him—shockingly so—she was not at all ready to do anything about it. Furthermore, she might never be.
Surprise flickered in his gaze, followed by a flash of something deepe
r, darker. “I hadn’t gone quite that far, but I can certainly hope.”
She wanted to berate him, but she’d brought it up! “Why do I feel manipulated?”
“Do you? That is not my intent, nor would it ever be. I like you. I want to kiss you. I’ll wait for you to feel the same.”
He’d wait? Nothing else he’d said that night had affected her so deeply. “What of your other paramours?”
“I have none.”
She found that hard to believe, but he’d given her no reason to doubt him. Not yet. “I do like you,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to kiss you, and I doubt I ever will.” Kisses were horrid and led to other, more horrible things. At least with Sainsbury they had.
“As I said, I’ll wait. And I daresay it won’t be that long. Since I said I’d wager… If you can last a fortnight, I’ll give you a hundred pounds.”
She swallowed her surprise. “I don’t need your money.”
“Then name your favorite charitable endeavor, and I’ll deposit it there.”
“You’re going to lose a hundred pounds.”
“It will be the best loss I ever endured. But it won’t happen. You’ll kiss me before then.”
She would do everything in her power to not. “If I do, I’ll give two hundred pounds to that charity.”
His eyes widened briefly, and he chuckled. “Are you certain?”
She was a woman who knew what she wanted. Or she was at least determined to be. “Never more.”
He held out his hand, and she took it, giving him a firm shake. She was grateful he still wore his gloves. Skin-to-skin contact might have forced her to forfeit the game before it had even begun.
Was this a game?
Oh yes, and she meant to win.
Chapter 3
Marcus stood from the wingback chair in his study as the Bow Street Runner walked in. “Thank you for coming, Harry.”
Tall, with impossibly broad shoulders, Harry Sheffield was not the sort of man one wanted to encounter on a dark night—or any night, for that matter. However, it was that physical intimidation that made him perfect for his chosen career.