by Burke, Darcy
He resisted the urge to chuckle, enjoying her company. “No, Graham and Arabella are. Rather, the new Duke and Duchess of Halstead.”
“But you’re funding the event. Don’t deny it—Arabella told me.”
“As a wedding gift.”
“You’re incredibly generous.” She said the next words softly, so that he had to strain to hear. “I know how much you’ve helped them, by loaning Graham money and purchasing Brixton Park.”
“Arabella has confided quite a bit to you.”
“We’ve become close friends.” She paused, sending him a grateful smile. “Thank you for doing that. I wish I’d known of her family’s difficulty. I would have helped. But I understand why she didn’t ask.”
It had taken Graham being pushed to the brink of disaster before he’d asked for the loan. Marcus understood pride and dignity. “You sound like a good friend.”
“I’ve tried to be. They can be difficult to find.”
“Can they? You and I have found each other. And friendship.” For now. He acknowledged he wanted more, but how much? If she did allow him to kiss her, would he be satisfied? His cock stirred, and he shoved any thoughts of a sexual nature into the farthest reaches of his lurid mind.
“I lost many friends when I decided not to marry Sainsbury.”
It was the opening he’d hoped for. He was curious about Sainsbury and why she’d chosen social devastation over marrying him. Put that together with her general apprehension when he came close, and his curiosity became suspicion.
“Since we are friends, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why didn’t you marry him?”
The sound of the wheels and the horses grew louder as he waited for her to answer. At last, she said, “He demonstrated an incapacity to be faithful.”
Marcus realized he’d been holding his breath. Blowing it out, he glanced over at her stoic profile. “Many husbands are—unfaithful—unfortunately. As are wives.”
“I don’t plan to be, and I expect my husband to behave the same. I certainly don’t want to see him locked in an embrace with another woman at a ball.”
He heard the hurt and anger in her tone and wanted to plant his fist in Sainsbury’s gut. “He was a fool.”
“Because he didn’t take more care?” she asked with a touch of acid.
“No, because he lost you. He won’t ever do better.”
She exhaled, her posture relaxing slightly. “Your flattery isn’t necessary. I took his actions personally, but he will be a terrible husband to whomever he weds.” She composed herself, clasping her hands in her lap. “Men like that shouldn’t marry. If a man knows he won’t be faithful, he shouldn’t take a wife.”
“Except men, especially those of my station, are often raised with a sense of duty. We’re expected to wed and provide an heir, at least. And some men simply can’t be faithful.”
“Does that include you?” she asked, pinning him with a challenging stare.
“Because of my reputation?”
“Because you aren’t married. As you pointed out when we met, you are thirty-one. Surely you should be wed with an heir and a spare by now.”
He shrugged. “Some men wed later.”
“Is that your plan? Or are you one of the men you mentioned who can’t be faithful?”
“I don’t really have a plan. I haven’t been moved to take a wife, and so I haven’t.” Hearing his words come back at him gave him pause. As Harry had said the other day, Marcus didn’t do anything permanent. Faithfulness had never been necessary. Furthermore, he avoided permanence because he desired spontaneity.
You avoid connection.
The small voice whispered in the recesses of his mind, where he kept distant memories and truths he preferred to ignore. Like that one.
“That is my plan precisely,” she said, straightening in her seat. “I’ll marry when—and if—I’m moved to do so.” She flashed him a smile. “We were clearly destined to be friends.”
Marcus couldn’t help laughing. Unmarried friends who were undoubtedly attracted to each other and who shared the same outlook on marriage. If that wasn’t a recipe for an affair, he didn’t know what was.
Because that’s what you want.
That goddamn voice again, seducing him. Yes, he wanted her. But when he’d suggested they be friends, he’d realized he didn’t have any woman friends either. Mrs. Alban didn’t count—her brothel provided a service for him. Why didn’t she count? He dined with her regularly and they shared enjoyable conversations. Wasn’t that a friend?
Hell, he didn’t want to think about her or her bloody brothel while he was with Miss Lennox. Phoebe. He didn’t want to keep thinking of her in such a formal manner.
“Since we are friends, may I call you Phoebe? I’d be honored if you called me Marcus or, if you prefer, Rip, which most of my gentleman friends—particularly those from school—call me.”
“I prefer Marcus, I think.”
His name on her lips sounded utterly delicious. He wanted to kiss her as she said it, see if it tasted the way it sounded. Oh, he was going to be in a mess if he didn’t stop thinking of her like that.
“You may call me Phoebe,” she continued. “But only when we are alone.”
“That’s reasonable. Phoebe.” He slid her a smile as he drove into the park. They’d arrived faster than he’d imagined, or perhaps he’d simply been lost in her company.
Other vehicles were parked along the road, and people picnicked here and there. Richmond was a popular destination given its beauty and relative proximity to London.
Marcus drove farther into the park. “Where shall we picnic?”
“Up on the hill?”
He took them up and stopped the curricle. “How’s this?”
A sweeping vista of the parkland and the Thames stretched before them.
“Lovely,” she said. “Though I imagine Pembroke Lodge has an even better view. Have you seen it?”
“I have not.”
Phoebe laughed softly. “I don’t imagine Lady Pembroke would invite someone like you.”
He gasped in mock outrage. “I am not faithless, as we’ve already established. Or perhaps we didn’t.” He climbed out of the curricle and went around to help Phoebe down. As he took her hand, he extended his leg. “Unlike Lord Pembroke, I would take my wedding vows most seriously.”
Would he though? His father had been utterly faithful to his mother and only became an inveterate libertine after her death. Marcus had done the opposite by starting out in that fashion. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to be faithful. A ripple of unease shot through him.
That was a thought for another time. Or maybe never.
“Then your future marchioness will be most fortunate,” she said smoothly as he helped her out of the vehicle.
Marcus fetched the picnic basket and blanket while she walked out over the grass in search of the perfect spot.
Turning, she swept her arm to the left. “Here, I think?”
He joined her and set the basket down. “Spectacular.” He diverted his gaze, lest she thought he was referring to her. And he was.
Marcus spread the blanket upon the grass and placed the basket on the edge. Phoebe set about unpacking the picnic, which seemed far more food than the two of them could eat.
“I’m famished,” she said. “What is it about travel that makes one hungry? It’s not as if it’s exerting. By vehicle, I mean. Riding is a different situation, of course.”
He reached for a small pastry. “This is enough food for a battalion.”
“Those are pork,” Phoebe indicated. “May I pour you some ale?”
“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 p
oured 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, including 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.<
br />
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.