by Darcy Burke
“Is that the only beverage?”
“Yes. Would you have preferred something else?”
“No, I’m just surprised. Wouldn’t you prefer something else? Lemonade or ratafia maybe?” He bit into the pie and savored the succulent pork and flaky pastry.
She laughed. “No, I happen to like this ale very much. My cook’s husband is a brewer.” She poured two cups and handed him the first. “I definitely prefer it to ratafia.”
He sampled the brew, then licked his lips. “Delicious. I may have to plead for a keg of my own.”
“Don’t bother. He only makes small batches for a handful of households, and I don’t believe he’s taking on new clients.”
“Pity.” He raised his glass in a toast. “To excellent ale and friendship.”
She inclined her head and lifted her ale before taking a drink. Surveying the items she’d unpacked, she said, “This really is too much food. My cook has outdone herself.”
“You don’t eat like this at every meal?” He devoured the rest of his pork pie.
“Heavens, no.” She spread peach jam on her roll, focusing on her task. “It’s just me.”
That sounded lonely, and yet that was precisely how Marcus took his meals. “We have much in common,” he observed. “Not the least of which is our solitary existence and the fact that we are unbothered by it.”
She finished with the preserves and looked over at him. “I try to think of myself as independent. Solitary sounds so…sad. I’m not sad. Are you?”
As she took a bite of her roll, a bit of jam smeared against her lip. Her tongue darted out to catch it and sweep the fruit into her mouth.
He directed his attention to the conversation instead of her tongue. “No, I’m not sad either.” Especially not right now. “Relationships are messy. Complicated.”
“What sort of relationships? Family? Friends? Romantic? No, not those, because you don’t have those.”
“Because they’re messy!” He laughed. “Friendships are easy.”
“I don’t know that any relationship is easy, particularly family. Do you have any family at all?”
Drobbit came to mind. He wasn’t family. Marcus would consider his retainers family before he thought of Drobbit in that way. “No.”
She’d finished her roll and now sipped her ale. “What about your cousin? The one who wounded you in the park.”
Of course she would have learned who he was. “We may be related by blood, but I don’t count him as family. Our mothers—they were sisters—were estranged.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. And that you have no other family at all. My parents are difficult, but they are still here.” She served them ham, salad, and stewed plums on plates, then handed him one.
Setting his ale down, he took the plate. “How are they difficult?”
“They don’t like that I’m unwed. Or that I didn’t marry Sainsbury, particularly that I didn’t decide not to do so until our wedding day. And that I live alone. Also that I’m a self-declared spinster and have settled myself on the fringe of Society.” She shook her head.” I could go on.” Instead, she took a bite of salad.
“Please do. I happen to like all those things about you.”
She finished chewing and eyed him skeptically before continuing. “They don’t like that I spend money on refurbishing my house or buying things like a Gainsborough.”
He adopted an expression of mock horror. “What must they think of your investments?”
She giggled, and he was enchanted. Women giggled around him all the time, but it was an affectation. This was real and…charming. “They don’t know about them,” she whispered, as if she were imparting a dire secret.
He laughed, and they ate in silence for a few minutes. In those quiet moments, he watched her—covertly—his gaze straying to her mouth and wondering what it would be like to kiss her, someone he counted as a friend. Would the sensation be richer? Or would it be somehow less?
He should call off this wager and just pay her the hundred pounds. But he wouldn’t, and he also wouldn’t press her. He made a wager with himself that he wouldn’t bring it up again.
She pushed her plate away. “I’m afraid I can’t eat another bite. We’ll have to save the cakes for the ride home, I think.”
Marcus was delighted at the prospect of the return journey. There were still so many things they hadn’t discussed. “Did you get a mask yesterday?”
She began to pack the picnic items back into the basket but slid him an enigmatic glance. “Maybe.”
He laughed. “Is it a secret?”
“No. And yes. I got a mask, but I won’t tell you what it is.”
“You don’t think I’ll be able to discern who you are?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Why not?”
“Your hair, for one.”
She laughed. “It’s nondescript brown.”
She couldn’t be more wrong. “It’s a brilliant sable with threads of oak and deep mahogany. And here in the sunlight, there’s a tawny strand here and there, like hidden gold. I would absolutely recognize it.”
A faint blush suffused the edges of her cheekbones, and she busied herself with her task. “Then I’ll have to cover it, I suppose.”
“That will be a clear signal,” he said. “I’ll know precisely who you are.”
She looked up at him. “No one covers their hair?”
“No one under the age of fifty. Are you planning to wear a turban?”
Her eyes lit with mirth as she packed the bottle of ale into the basket. “Perhaps I will.”
“Please, I beg of you, don’t. Don’t deprive us of the glory of your hair.” He stopped himself from saying me, don’t deprive me, because he didn’t want unease to drive the cheer from her gaze.
“I’ll think about it,” she said dryly.
He picked up the basket and moved it from the blanket, then came back to help her stand. “Don’t you want to know what my mask is?”
She shook her head.
He extended his hand, and she clasped it. Neither of them had put their gloves back on, though she clutched hers in her other hand. The connection of their bare flesh wound through him like a river rushing downhill. The sensation gained velocity as it moved, racing through his chest and much lower. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t need that information—I’ll know precisely who you are.”
Her words were a punch to his gut—without the blistering pain. Instead, there was a flush of arousal, of shared secrets. The two of them in a ballroom of masked people, everyone hiding their identities, and yet they knew exactly who the other was.
“Is it my hair?” he teased, reluctantly letting her go.
She laughed. “No. Other…things.”
He bent to retrieve his gloves, then set them atop the basket so he could help her fold the blanket. Squatting down, he clasped the edges of the fabric.
After donning her gloves, she picked up her side. “Shall we have another wager?” she asked, surprising him. “Who recognizes the other first?”
“Does this mean you’re going to try to disguise yourself from me?”
“Perhaps.” Her grin was sly and so seductive—perhaps unintentionally so—that he nearly dropped the blanket as they folded it in half. “Thirty pounds.”
They walked toward each other, and he gave her his edge of the blanket, his hands lingering against hers. He stared down into her eyes. “The game is on.”
She didn’t look away, and he was overwhelmed with a desire to kiss her. So he took a step back. “Perhaps you should drive back to town.”
“I couldn’t.” She finished folding the blanket, and he plucked up the basket. Offering her his arm, they walked back to the curricle.
“You absolutely could. It would be my honor to instruct you. You don’t have to drive the whole way, but you did say you were learning.”
She looked horrified. “You’ll see how bad I am at it.”
“Everyone was bad at it once, i
ncluding me. I promise to be kind and patient.” He stowed the basket in the curricle and took the blanket from her to do the same.
“All right.”
A burst of delight shot through him. Over something so…mundane. But it wasn’t. She trusted him to teach her, to allow herself to be vulnerable with him, even if it was just about driving.
It was an excellent start.
Chapter 5
“Thank you for coming,” Graham, Duke of Halstead, said loudly as he raised his glass of champagne. The drawing room at Brixton Park was full of Graham and Arabella’s family and friends following their wedding that morning. “A toast to my beautiful bride, the Duchess of Halstead.” He beamed at Arabella, whose smile was equally incandescent.
The guests lifted their glasses amid cries of “hear, hear” and “huzzah.” Joy radiated from Arabella—and Graham—permeating the room and everyone in it. Phoebe couldn’t have been more thrilled for her friend.
Marcus walked to her as conversation broke out around the room. “They look very happy.”
Phoebe tried not to look overlong at Marcus. He was exceptionally handsome in a cobalt waistcoat that made his eyes appear even more piercing. “Yes. Arabella can’t quite believe how lucky she is.”
“Nor can Graham. It’s a bit nauseating, really.”
Phoebe turned and stared at him, aghast. “It is not.”
He grinned. “I was joking. I may not understand the allure of a permanent union, but they do, so that’s all that matters.”
She wasn’t sure she entirely believed that he was in jest, but didn’t have time to debate the issue since Lavinia and her husband, Beck, were coming toward them.
Beck spoke, “Ripley, may I present my wife, Lady Northam.”
Marcus made a gallant bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Northam. I’m sorry we haven’t met before now.”
Phoebe wondered why not, but then recalled that she’d only just met him herself, what, a week ago? And purely by chance. However, Lavinia had been a marchioness for some time now. Wouldn’t she have met him?
Lavinia offered Marcus a smile. “It’s good that I don’t need to curtsey, for if I did, I’d never be able to lift myself back up.” She was, of course, referring to her very round belly. “Indeed, this is to be an abbreviated outing. I shouldn’t even be about, but I didn’t want to miss Arabella’s wedding—and Fanny made me promise to come if I could, since she and David are gone from London awaiting the birth of her child.” Fanny’s husband was Graham’s former employer as well as his best friend.
“You preferred to remain in London?” Marcus asked.
Lavinia nodded, then adjusted her spectacles. “I love London in the spring. We’ll remove to the country in summer.” She looked to Phoebe. “I just wanted to come speak with you before we go. I hope you’ll call soon. This is to be my last excursion until after the babe comes. If he—or she—takes too long, I shall be hideously bored.”
Phoebe laughed softly and took her friend’s hand, giving it a squeeze. Lavinia had been there for her after the Sainsbury debacle. She’d been kind, understanding, and, most of all, supportive. Phoebe glanced at Beck, who was actually to blame for Sainsbury’s attentions in the first place.
Lavinia and Beck took their leave. After they were out of earshot, Marcus edged closer to Phoebe. “Didn’t Beck write a poem about a Miss Lennox when he was drafting his Duke of Seduction tripe? By God, I didn’t put that together until now.”
Thank goodness for that. Phoebe preferred to forget about that entire period. “Tripe?” She sniggered. “It was tripe, actually.”
“It was supposed to help unmarried women gain notice, I believe.”
She nodded. “His ballads were lovely—as poetry. But as a means for attracting men, they were woefully misguided. Thankfully, Lavinia set him straight.” Just as soon as he’d set his sights on helping her. She’d somehow deduced his identity and put a stop to his “assistance.” Then she’d shocked everyone and married him.
“That’s how Sainsbury found you, isn’t it?” Marcus asked softly.
His concern clashed with her distaste for Sainsbury, and she flinched. “Yes.”
“Shall I call Northam out?” he asked. “Or Sainsbury? Or both?”
He was joking again. Except he wasn’t smiling as he was before, and there was an underlying steel to his tone.
She turned, and her hand brushed his arm. They both reacted, pausing just long enough for their gazes to connect, then moved apart so they didn’t touch. “Neither. Northam has apologized. His letter of regret was even more beautiful than his poetry. Sainsbury isn’t worth your effort.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Marcus murmured, his gaze settling on her briefly before moving about the room. He finished the last of his champagne. “I’m in need of more wine. You?” He glanced at her half-full glass. “Just me, then.” He flashed her a smile and took himself off.
Phoebe watched him go, her insides in a turmoil. She’d thought of him too much since their picnic. She’d driven more than halfway back to London, and she had to admit he was an excellent teacher. He was also delightful company. Especially when he threatened her former betrothed.
She sipped her champagne and made eye contact with Jane across the room. They moved toward each other, meeting somewhere in the middle.
“Flirting with Lord Ripley?” Jane asked with a saucy smile.
“No.” Phoebe had flirted with him before, but she wasn’t sure that was what had just happened. Still, something had happened. Something deeper than their previous interactions. She realized she was in real danger of kissing him. No, of asking him to.
No, no, no. She didn’t want that.
“I’m teasing,” Jane said. “Though you looked rather…friendly.”
“Because we’re friends.” Phoebe felt a pang of guilt because she hadn’t yet told Jane about their picnic. And why not? Because it was scandalous?
Yes, because he was the Marquess of Ripley.
“You’re friends?” Jane asked dubiously.
“Yes. What’s the point in being a spitfire spinster if I can’t have male friends?”
Jane laughed. “Indeed. I’d ask you to introduce me, but my mother would suffer a fit.” She cast a glance toward Lady Pemberton, who stood near the windows talking with Arabella’s mother, Mrs. Stoke.
“Then definitely don’t tell her that we took a picnic to Richmond the other day.”
Jane’s eyes widened, and her jaw dropped briefly before she snapped it closed. “You didn’t.” Her voice was low and urgent.
Phoebe nodded. “You don’t think I’m being naïve, do you?”
“Why would I think that?”
“Because Ripley is not all that different from Sainsbury.” She stole a glance at Marcus and saw the many ways in which he was vastly different from Sainsbury. It was the way he carried himself—with self-awareness and confidence. He exuded a masculine ease, while Sainsbury always seemed to be on edge. Furthermore, he was exponentially more handsome. Still, they did share a few things in common. “They’re both philanderers, and you know how Sainsbury behaved.”
“Has Ripley behaved in the same manner?” Jane also darted a look in Marcus’s direction. Thankfully, he wasn’t paying attention, or he was bound to know they were talking about him. “I can’t imagine he has. You wouldn’t have taken a picnic with him, and you certainly wouldn’t be talking to him and smiling with him today.” She had a point. A good one too.
Phoebe ought to trust herself. However, that was hard when she’d believed Sainsbury would be a good husband only to discover how very wrong she’d been. She suddenly felt fiercely angry at him all over again. He’d made her doubt herself, and that was unforgivable.
“Did I say something wrong?” Jane asked with concern.
Summoning a smile, Phoebe rushed to reassure her dear friend. “Not at all. You said exactly the right thing.” Of course Marcus was different from Sainsbury, and she’d do well to reme
mber that.
“How was it?” Jane asked, her eyes alight with interest. “The picnic.”
“It was lovely. He’s actually very kind. And amusing.”
Jane blinked. “So he’s…normal?”
They laughed and then Arabella joined them. The conversation turned to the wedding and then the upcoming masquerade. “I’ll scarcely have a chance to catch my breath,” Arabella said, “but we’re so thrilled to host a ball before we leave Brixton Park.” There was a tinge of regret in her tone.
“You don’t really want to leave, do you?” Phoebe asked.
“It’s not that. I just know how important this estate is to Graham and his legacy.” His ancestor had helped to design and build the property and had laid out the gardens, including the maze. Then the duke, his older brother, had cast him out for a perceived transgression—an affair with his wife that had never happened. “I think reclaiming it was what he’d most looked forward to when he suddenly became the duke.” He’d only inherited after the other line had died out without issue.
“Well, I’m looking forward to the masquerade,” Jane said. “I’ve never been to one.”
“Neither have I,” Arabella said, grinning. “I’ve the most cunning mask—it’s a swan.”
“That sounds beautiful.” Jane sent a pouting expression toward her mother. “I wasn’t allowed anything elaborate. It’s just a simple mask with a few flowers. I swear, I’m growing closer and closer to declaring my own spinsterhood and moving in with you, Phoebe.”
“You know you are always welcome.”
“You may find true love yet,” Arabella said. “I did.”
“I’m afraid you landed the last decent gentleman,” Jane said. “Just look around. There are only two unwed men here, and neither one qualifies.”
“What’s wrong with Lord Colton?” Arabella asked, notably leaving Marcus out of the question.
Jane shook her head gently as she looked toward the viscount. “His reputation is almost as bad as Ripley’s this season.”
“Isn’t he excused because of his parents’ demise?” Phoebe tried to keep the edge of irritation from her voice. Men had different standards. They could suffer loss or heartache and behave like imbeciles with relative impunity. Women, however, couldn’t decide not to marry a scoundrel after he revealed his true character without being shunned. Or at least suffering a grave loss of status. Colton would probably be able to wed just about anyone he chose anytime he chose, whereas Phoebe would be incredibly lucky to receive an offer from a country vicar with a humble living.