Almost a Gentleman (13 page)

She crossed her legs widely, as though to maximize the amount of space her body occupied and to mitigate the disparity between his muscular bulk and her own slender angularity.

She has something of a fighter in her
, he thought.
Not a boxer, of course
—
she hasn't the weight for it. A fencer, perhaps. Yes. Feint and parry is her style
.

She'd proffered snuff from a fine enameled box and, when he'd refused, she'd taken a small pinch herself before listening carefully to the speech he prepared.

"And so, my lord, you
followed
this Stokes? And therefore followed me as well?"

It did sound a bit shabby and stupid.

Cherishing the image of the lady in pink as he had these two weeks, he hadn't thought he'd find her awfully convincing in her masculine disguise. On the contrary: upon confronting her today he'd seen that he'd underestimated the coherence of the image she'd created, the aggressive tilt of her chin, the hundred mannish gestures she employed so subtly.

Now that he knew her secret, he'd thought he'd easily penetrate her defenses, like the prince scaling the walls of Rapunzel's tower. He'd expected that it would be enough simply to gaze at her as a man gazes at a woman he desires. Surely she'd return his gaze, grant him a hint of welcome.

Not a bit of it
. Her body occupied the room as though she had a gentleman's legal right to it. She straightened her back, squared her shoulders, and stared at him from alert, slightly narrowed eyes, her bearing armored with careful, outraged dignity.
As though
, David thought with some annoyance,
I were among those legions of pathetic old nances all lusting for Marston
.

"I apologize, Mr. Marston," he said quietly. "It wasn't my intent to infringe upon your privacy. Only to ensure your safety."

He's looking at me
, Phoebe thought,
as I've always dreamed of being looked at
.

But was he looking at
her
? Or at Phizz Marston?

What had he seen when he'd gazed down the hill that morning at the two ladies strolling toward the carriage? For it
had
been him; she'd been right about
that
at any rate. It was disturbing, she thought, that she'd been able to recognize him so readily at that distance. Unconsciously, it seemed, she'd memorized the lines of his body. But it was one thing to look at his silhouette on a morning hilltop; quite another to have his large physique overwhelming the neat confines of her drawing room. The newspapers were right, she thought: he brought the outdoors inside with him, as though he'd pulled aside the drapes and thrown open a window.

She shivered. The fire had burned down too low. She leaped from the chaise to add another log.

Quickly turning to face him once more, she was surprised to see a mild flush darkening his cheeks.
His summer sunburn is beginning to fade
, she thought.
But what's making him blush like that
?

Ah. She knew exactly what was making him blush like that.

He lowered his eyes, trying to compose himself. But there was no help for it now that she'd guessed the truth: that while she'd turned away he'd been staring at the curve of her derriere and thighs.

My
thighs
. Phoebe's.
He's been looking at my legs, which he can see quite perfectly in these closely-fitting trousers. And he wants
me.

She held herself at rigid attention. Three years of masculine masquerade was nothing, she thought, compared to the control it took not to betray the melting softness invading her body's center at the present moment.

Caught looking, dammit
. But upon brief reflection, David decided that being caught might not be such a bad thing after all. She'd quickly regained her self-control, but he knew what he'd seen: the momentary pleasure she'd taken in his eyes' caress. David was an experienced enough fighter to press his advantage when he'd suddenly—even if accidentally—gained the upper hand.

He raised his eyes, grinned, and quickly swept his eyes over her legs.

Her mouth parted into an
0
of surprise. He could see a velvety pink tongue peeping between her white teeth.

Eyes lowered again, he sipped his tea as though nothing had happened. He'd won a small battle, but there was a whole war ahead of him. He was glad; she was too spectacular a prize to be taken easily. He leaned back in his armchair, watching appreciatively as she paced the length of the small room with her graceful, mannish stride.

She stopped now, seized by a sudden insight that lit the gold flecks in her eyes.

"You say, Lord Linseley, that your concern was my safety. And yet you clearly admit that you allowed this Stokes to pursue me into the Lake District."

"Only after I'd clearly seen that you and the other lady were headed in the opposite direction."

You and the other lady
. As soon as he said it, he realized that she'd led him into a trap.
There's no going back now: I've just admitted that I know she's a woman
.

It had been clever of her, he thought, to turn the argument so deftly. But of course she was clever: from the very beginning he'd been charmed by the lively intelligence that animated her gestures and expressions.

"And how could you have known
that
, my lord?"

Caught like a clumsy bear with his leg in a trap
. It was humiliating. It was delightful. And there was nothing to do but concede defeat.

"Because I saw you depart in the carriage. Southwestward. Toward Devonshire, perhaps."

Devonshire
must have been a good guess, he thought, watching her eyes narrow slightly.

His grin widened, crinkling the corners of his dark blue eyes. "You were very beautiful in pink, Mr. Marston."

"And you're surprisingly insolent, Lord Linseley. Not to speak of inconsistent. You did say, after all, that it wasn't your intent to infringe upon my privacy."

"I lied. I want to know everything about you."

"But why? Not for gain, surely? Though I imagine there are those who'd pay for the information."

"I don't want that sort of money."

"For influence, then? To exchange for votes during the next session of Parliament? To sacrifice me and my petty secrets on behalf of England's deserving yeomen?"

"You're cleverer than I, Mr. Marston. I assure you I never considered such a thing. But must I continue to call you Mr. Marston?"

She laughed. "For the time being."

He'd never heard her laugh before. The sound was rich, languorous, like the murmur of spring water spilling over mossy rocks. He wanted to bathe, to luxuriate in that sound. He wanted it to last forever.

She seemed to blossom under his gaze. And then, all at once, she stifled the lovely sounds coming from her throat. Her mouth turned downward, her body stiffened—as it had, David thought, in Fountain Court, when she'd told him she couldn't stand children.

"I wish," he said sadly, "that I could make you laugh again."

"I haven't laughed like that," she said, "since… well, for a very long time. I don't deserve to."

"Everyone deserves to laugh."

"No, you don't know about me. You wouldn't say that if you knew."

"I'm certain that there's nothing I could know about you that would change my feelings."

"I'll remember you said that, my lord. But you may come to regret it."

She paused, crossed the room, and sat back down on the chaise. Somehow during her pause she'd decided to put a measure of faith in him.

"I'm in need of assistance, Lord Linseley. For I've received some rather disturbing correspondence of late. And, to be quite honest, I haven't known where to turn. Will you help me? Or at least advise me?"

"I'll help you."

"You say that so readily, so… so innocently. As though there were nothing more natural than my soliciting aid from someone who has the power to expose and undo me."

"It seems entirely natural to me. I want you… to reveal yourself to me. And that must begin with my earning your trust."

"Trusting a man like you is a relatively simple matter. It's trusting myself that makes me fearful. Because you—your presence, and even the thoughts I have of you when I'm
not
in your presence—could cause me to become careless, and to put me in graver danger than I may already be."

David felt dizzy for a moment, pulled apart by this last admission.
She thinks of me. Even when I'm not present. She thinks of me. And if I were to kiss her right now
?

No. He'd never impose himself upon a woman who'd confessed to being fearful. Right now she needed his help rather than his touch.

"Will you show me the letters?"

"I want to, but there isn't time today. My solicitor will be here in fifteen minutes, and unfortunately he's never late."

"Tomorrow then?"

"Yes, tomorrow. Come back tomorrow at two." He walked all the way to Hyde Park, surprising his groom by demanding that his stallion be saddled immediately.

"Yes, right now. Yes, I know how filthy the weather is. And no, you needn't point out that I'm not properly dressed for riding. But I need to ride.
Right now, man
."

He needed to exhaust himself so severely that he wouldn't be able to count the hours until two tomorrow.

He did anyway. Hours and minutes as well.

While Marston took on all comers, thrusting and parrying with unusual brilliance at Mr. McGowan's Fencing Academy for Gentlemen.

Mr. Simms had to fairly shake Phoebe out of bed at noon the next day. Her limbs ached from the previous day's exertion and her eyes had deep shadows beneath them.

Mr. Simms frowned. "You're not well, sir. I think you should cancel your appointment with the earl of Linseley. Shall I send a messenger?"

But Phoebe only shook her head and motioned him away.

I'm perfectly well, dammit. Or at least as well as can be expected, for someone resolved to risk everything she's worked to create these past three years.