How I Married a Marquess (15 page)

“I don't think it was
harm
which concerned him
bodily
,” Lady Denton muttered with scathing wit.

Oh, Josie wanted to die! She felt the burn as her cheeks turned scarlet. But the other women only laughed halfheartedly at the innuendo, too stunned—or too jealous—that the focus of Thomas's attention had been on her.

Beside her, though, her mother stiffened with embarrassment. A pang of guilt struck Josie's chest because the game of cat and mouse that had sprung up between her and Thomas was now affecting her family. She doubted she would ever be completely sure of her true place among the Carlisles, but she loved them all with every ounce of her heart and never wanted them to be hurt.

“Best to avoid him, my dears,” Lady Denton warned, her now serious gaze passing between Josie and Miranda, all her previous teasing gone.

A wave of frustration poured through Josie. Heavens, hadn't she been trying to do exactly that since he arrived? But fate—and Thomas—clearly had other plans. Yet she had to hold out only for another three days until the party ended and he returned to London, and she would never have to be bothered by the infuriating rascal ever again. Although even as she reminded herself of that, it wasn't relief she felt but inexplicable sadness that he should be leaving so soon.

“As Lord Chesney said, he was simply attempting to return a kindness,” she insisted, hoping to diffuse the unwanted attention he'd poured squarely onto her head. “I assure you that there was no other purpose behind his invitation.”

A lie. He believed she'd played him for a fool as the highwayman, so he'd returned the embarrassment. In spades. But she didn't let her expression show one bit of annoyance with the infuriating man.

“Knowing me—and the size of my brothers,” she added to bolster her point, which earned her several chuckles from the group, “he never truly expected me to accept.”

And certainly he hadn't. Not after the last conversation they'd shared, when he'd threatened to arrest her.

Yet everyone continued to stare at her as if suddenly seeing her in a new light. A light that would draw the attention of someone like Thomas Matteson. Although an attraction to her might have been the furthest thing from the truth—a marquess and an orphan? Hardly!—she couldn't let the ladies continue to believe in any kind of connection between them. Her secret life as a highwayman couldn't stand close scrutiny, and she still had one more father to make pay his share before the end of the party, which was coming more quickly than she'd realized.

“I'm not certain that Chesney is the sort who takes no for an answer,” Lady Tinsdale commented wryly, and her innuendo sent up a new round of giggles.

“Well, then, he isn't
my
sort,” Josie retorted, fussing with her embroidery to hide any trace of the lie in her expression. Thomas was
exactly
the kind of man she'd always dreamt about capturing her heart…well, except for the fact that he wanted to arrest her. “Unfortunately,” she declared in a loud, prim voice, “
his
reputation is dangerous to
my
reputation.”

Based on the ladies' titillated whispers and laughs, that cutting remark had
put an end to their embarrassing teasing and assured them that she possessed no interest whatsoever in the dashing marquess…except for her mother, who continued to stare at her as if she didn't quite believe her.

When the talk turned to the latest fashions, however, Elizabeth Carlisle's attention returned to the conversation.

Josie released a silent breath, feeling as if she'd just escaped a trap. But when she returned to her embroidery, her hands shook as she pulled through the needle. She remembered the feel of Thomas's hard shoulders beneath her hands, the softness of his black hair between her fingers, and his mouth—oh, that sensuous, wicked mouth! It had been somehow both demanding and coaxing at the same time, kissing her in delightfully scandalous ways until she'd melted against him like some shameless wanton. God help her, she'd thought of little else since last night's encounter but of letting him do that to her again.

Her mother leaned toward her with a concerned frown. “Are you all right, dear? You're flushed.”

Josie's shoulders sagged in defeat. Whom was she fooling? Thomas was far more to her than a dance partner and a bored rake who'd focused his attention on her. And if she didn't remove herself from the drawing room soon, every lady at Blackwood Hall would discover that as well.

“I need some air,” she mumbled, and set the embroidery aside. “Excuse me.”

She was on her feet and through the door before her mother could stop her, and before Thomas could come back and make her another offer she couldn't refuse so easily.

When she reached the hallway, she turned and fled in the opposite direction from the one he would have taken toward the front door. A quiet room, that's what she needed. A place where she could sit, collect herself, and hide away like a coward for the rest of the afternoon.

With a soft groan, she pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. She was insane to let this man affect her like this, the same man who wanted to arrest her. She would simply have to find a way to avoid him, or hide whenever possible, or…perhaps a kiss every now and then couldn't hurt
too
badly, could it?

No, she thought, sighing heavily, not even that. She couldn't be weak and off guard around him again, no matter how much she craved his kisses, no matter the aching thrill that blossomed inside her with even the smallest touch from him. Good Lord, if he could do all that with a just a kiss, what would it feel like if he—

“Josephine.”

She froze in her steps. As she slowly faced him, she narrowed her eyes to slits despite the sudden racing of her pulse. “You.”

“Me.” Thomas leaned casually against the doorway of the morning room. He'd been waiting there for her, devil take him! He'd known she would flee the drawing room after he left, to escape him. Just as he'd known she would turn around and come back when he called out to her. And she had done exactly that. Like a moth to a flame.

Her shoulders sagged. A very pathetic moth.

He gave her a smug grin. “Changed your mind about that ride after all?”

“You know I haven't.” Her lips pressed into an irritated line although she wasn't certain who raised her irritation more—he for trapping her or she for so foolishly walking straight into his snare. “Why did you embarrass me like that in front of the ladies?”

His smile faded. “My apologies. That wasn't my intention.”

Despite the sincerity on his face, she didn't believe him. “Then what was it?”

“An attempt to get you alone. You've been avoiding me all day.”

And she would keep right on avoiding him for the next three days, too, until the party ended and he rode home to London. No matter how difficult staying away from him would prove.

His lips twitched. “Something told me that unless I issued a direct invitation in front of the others that you'd find a way to be conveniently elsewhere when I came to call.”

She sniffed haughtily. “You were correct.”

When her cutting remark garnered her only an amused half grin from him, fresh aggravation rose inside her. To think that she'd once been worried he'd prove nothing more than a cad, like all the gentlemen before him—she would have laughed at the absurdity of it all, if her heart hadn't been aching so badly.

She glared at him. “Unless you plan on sending for the constable right now, I would prefer if—”

In a quick movement, he stepped from the doorway and placed his fingers against her lips to silence her as he glanced over her shoulder. “Someone's coming,” he said quietly, taking her elbow. “In here.”

He pulled her into the room and out of sight just as a footman entered the hallway. As he began to close the door, she stopped him.

“Blackwood Hall isn't the stables or a hunting cottage,” she reminded him, backing away to remain by the open door. “I have my reputation to protect.” Although
he
seemed to be set on destroying it.

His brow jutted upward with amusement. “You mean your alibi?”

She ignored his barb, if not the swift stab of distrust in her chest, which upset her more than she wanted to admit. A part of her—an utterly mad part of her—was still attracted to him. But she might as well be shooting arrows at the moon for all the hope an orphan had with the son of a duke. Especially one set on arresting her.

“Someone will see us,” she scolded, aggravated that he was proving to be as devious as all the men before him who'd pricked her interest. “And I just left a roomful of women gossiping about what a rakehell you are.”

Giving in to her nod to propriety—and thankfully not bringing up how much more being arrested would ruin her reputation than being caught with him—he retreated to the far side of the room and sat on the edge of the deep windowsill.

“A rakehell?” His eyes gleamed devilishly. “Why, thank you.”

She scowled. “That was not a compliment.”

“Well, we rakes take our compliments however we can get them.”

Instead of being angry that he'd turned her words against her, she couldn't help her admiration of his quick mind, nor the pull of him. Unable to stop herself, she took a step farther into the room.

“So,” he drawled, “you were talking about me.”

“Speak of the devil,” she muttered, which only seemed to amuse him more. “
They
were talking about you,” she corrected pointedly. “
I
was listening and trying to sort fact from fiction.”

“And what did you decide?”

“That killing a lion might not be so far from the truth.”

A slow grin crossed his face, and despite her anger at him, she felt an answering flutter deep inside her. Pathetic moth that she was, she took another step closer.

“And what did the ladies say about me?” He leaned forward, fixing his dark gaze on hers like a siren song and drawing her forward another step.

“Lots of things.” Another hesitant step, until she stood close enough to touch him simply by raising her hand. Her heart thumped, and she knew she'd stumbled right into his trap. But at least now she knew why the cat fell prey to its curiosity. Because it simply couldn't help itself.

He smiled impishly. “Anything interesting?”

She hesitated, because a proper lady would never utter the words—but since when had she ever been a proper lady? “That you keep a mistress,” she said quietly, more to hide the unbidden jealousy in her voice than for secrecy. “An opera singer.”

“Baseless rumor,” he replied in the same secretive tone.

With a forced shrug, feigning disinterest, she raised her hand and plucked the heavy drape framing the window where he sat, just inches from his shoulder. “Then she's a Parisian actress.”

“Another baseless rumor…regrettably.”

Her hand stilled for just a beat as she flinched at the tightening in her chest. Oh no—
that
was definitely jealousy. Immediately she was aggravated with herself. With whom he spent his time or wished to spend it was absolutely none of her concern…except that she inexplicably wanted him to spend that time with her.

She shrugged again as if his comment meant nothing. And truly, didn't it? Why should she be jealous over him, of all people? “They said you saved Prinny's life.”

“Also a rumor.” His eyes sparkled mischievously. “But I started that one.”

Despite herself she smiled at that, then waved her hand idly in the air to indicate the foolishness of the next bit of
on-dit
. “The silly hens also said that you'd killed a man.”

When he said nothing, remaining darkly silent and still, her eyes snapped to his. All traces of the amusement from just seconds before were gone. Dread clenched around her heart.

“I've killed lots of men, actually,” he admitted quietly, his blue eyes solemn.

“They said you were a soldier in the wars.” She swallowed to clear the knot from her throat and find her voice. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yes.” He paused, searching her face. “But you don't believe them.”

“No.”

“Why not? I'm very good with guns.”

“Yes, and you carry them with you. In fact, if I were to reach beneath your jacket right now, I bet I'd find one.”

“By all means, don't let me stop you from searching,” he murmured rakishly.

She ignored his words, but not the heat spreading through her at his invitation to put her hands on him. And traitorously, her fingers itched to do just that. She quickly twisted them in her skirt. “But you don't like them, and the sound of gunfire unsettles you. What kind of soldier doesn't like guns?”

He leaned toward her, his face even with hers. “The kind who was also a spy.”

A spy
.
Her breath strangled in her throat, her body flashing numb. Was anything she knew about him the truth? “Ours or theirs?”

“Ours, chit.” He laughed, the rich sound rumbling into her, and stroked his knuckles across her cheek.

The tenderness of his unexpected but reassuring touch warmed into her, and despite herself she didn't pull away even as her breath came ragged and the rush of blood pounded through her ears.

She drew a deep breath that did nothing to settle the butterflies in her stomach. In fact, it only pulled his gaze to her mouth and increased her uneasiness. “You want me to believe that an heir to a duchy is a spy who goes scampering across the countryside to arrest a common highwayman?”

“Of course not.” He arched a haughty brow. “I never scamper.”

She pushed at his shoulder in irritation. “Thomas, be serious! I'm not daft enough to believe you're a spy.”

He leaned toward her again, closer than before, so close now that the soft warmth of his breath whispered against her lips as he corrected, “
Was
a spy.”