My Wicked Marquess (17 page)

He could feel her staring at his profile; when Max glanced over at her, she gazed into his eyes and gave him, slowly, the most beautiful, beaming, beatific smile that he had ever seen.

He was entranced. The light that shone from her was like the dawn. He stared back.

No one had ever looked at him that way in his life. So tenderly, with so much hope in him. As if he was a hero, not a fiend.

God
, he thought in a sudden wave of bewildered desperation,
I have got to win her. She has to say yes
.

In that moment, he could not imagine having to go back to his life the way it was. Back to the darkness, to the cold, to the endless isolation. He'd had no idea till now just how deep his hunger was. He had successfully ignored it for so long, pledged to his duty.

But to be with her now, this angelic creature, to receive that shining smile—and then, to have her refuse him, that would reduce him to the state of some poor prisoner who had crossed the czar, sentenced to a life of hard labor in the northern reaches of Siberia.

Whatever it took
. He knew then he would do anything to bring her into his life, permanently. He was shaken by the intensity of his desire; his very soul flamed with a whole new motivation to complete what had been, until now, essentially a marriage of convenience.

Whatever it took, this woman would be his.

Having turned into the mews behind his house, he now brought the carriage to a halt.

At once, a groom in dark red livery rushed out to take the horse's bridle.

“Where are we?” she asked all of a sudden, glancing past him at the large brick building in whose cool shadow they now lingered.

He set the brake, then turned to her, gazing deeply into her eyes. “I call it home.”

“This is your house?” she exclaimed, glancing from it to him in startled apprehension.

He nodded stoically, holding her stare. “Would you like to come in?”

L
ord Rotherstone!” Daphne said breathlessly, dropping her gaze. She floundered. “I'm sure you know that would not be proper. We have no chaperone!”

“It is no matter,” he murmured softly, staring at her with an intimate half smile. She could feel the sheer force of his willpower surrounding her, tempting her to do what she should not. “We are already engaged.”

She looked up again in alarm. “That has not been settled!”

His smile widened knowingly; his pale eyes had darkened several shades. They mesmerized her. “Aren't you just a little curious to see what I am offering you?”

“Is that why you brought me here, for a bribe?” she demanded in rattled defiance.

“Oh, come in, just for a moment,” he cajoled her with consummate skill. His voice had deepened to a husky timbre that plucked at her senses like clever fingers unlacing her stays. “I would so like to show you the art that I collected in my travels, Miss Starling. Allow me to offer you some light refreshments, as well. Perhaps a drink?”

Daphne quivered. She knew what he was doing, casting that spell of his again, with his dark-velvet voice and beguiling little smile.

“You
know
you want to see where we would live.”

She could feel her strength to resist him draining away. He did not wait for her answer, but stood up in the driver's seat, then jumped down from the carriage, coming round to her side.

Daphne racked her brain, trying to rally a protest before he arrived to hand her down. But their talk about Penelope a few moments ago had reminded her of the reason she had greeted the marquess today in a more cooperative mood, and had decided to let herself be more open to his persuasion on the question of their match.

Her stepmother had made it clear that she was not particularly welcome in her own home; therefore, Daphne had to ask herself why she was fighting so hard to stay in a place where she was not entirely wanted.

Would it not be better to accept this admittedly brilliant match, this outstanding man for her husband, and create a home and family of her own?

Maybe it really
was
time to move on in life. She could not live like a child forever under her father's roof, after all. There came a time when a grown girl had to take a man and become, truly, a woman.

But was Lord Rotherstone the right man for her?

There was no point denying that she was attracted to him. She had changed her gown three times today before he had arrived. She had never gone to such silly lengths to impress a suitor before. Indeed, after twenty-four hours to think it over, she
was
seriously considering his proposal. She was not a fool. And dash it all, she
wanted
to go in and see his house. Their house, maybe. Someday.

But, God, if they were seen, if Society caught wind of this reckless act of daring, there would be no turning back.
Might that be his ploy?

“Oh, such intense concentration,” he observed in affectionate amusement as he sauntered up to her side of the carriage. He rested his elbow on the edge of the door. “My dear lady, do not hurt yourself.”

“Rogue,” she answered.

He flashed a smile that made her heart rebel against all the strictures placed on nice young ladies.

“I think you're beginning to like me in spite of yourself.”

“Delusion.”

He knew better, said his smile. “Are you just going to sit here arguing with yourself?”

“Can you read minds?”

“Faces, and do you know what's written all over yours? Confusion. Rather adorable, really. Very well, what is the argument? What says the prosecution, what claims the defense? Shall I get my parliamentary wig and debate the bill at hand?”

She shook her head. “You are too much.”

“It's just a visit, darling. Something cool to drink. A stroll through the long gallery to see my nude Italian paintings.”

“Nude!”

“Shocking,” he drawled.

She fought back laughter as she held his twinkling gaze. “You're sure you're not going to ravish me?”

“Not unless you want me to,” he replied in a husky murmur, staring at her with a look that turned her bones to jelly. He offered her his hand to help her down from the cabriolet.

With a small groan, Daphne looked at his waiting hand and then at his handsome face, so calmly assured. “Oh, botheration!” she burst out, sweeping to her feet and grasping his offered hand, powerless to resist. “You are going to drag me over the cliff with you, aren't you, Rotherstone?”

“Max,” he corrected her for the umpteenth time that day.

“Lord Rotherstone!” she repeated with a warning look.

“As you wish,” he murmured, taking her gloved hand to his lips after he had helped her step down from the carriage.

She gave him an uncertain look, but he smiled reassuringly at her again, tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and escorted her toward the back entrance of his house.

“You still haven't opened my gift from yesterday, have you?” he remarked.

She sent him a quick, guilty glance. “How did you know?”

“Obviously, if you had, you would be raving.” He eyed her with interest as he opened the door for her. “Aren't you the
slightest bit curious to find out what it is?”

Her only answer was a troubled frown.

He dismissed his question with an idle wave of his hand. “Never mind, then. But I do hope you open it soon. I don't like being deprived of the pleasure of spoiling you.”

With that, he opened the door before her, and ushered her into a world of opulence.

Marble floors stretched ahead of her as Daphne stepped inside. They had entered what appeared to be a narrow back foyer. He shut the door and led her toward the entrance hall proper, through a richly pedimented doorway flanked by a pair of little topiary trees in Grecian urns.

She followed, staring at a gorgeous demi-lune table by the wall as she passed by. Delicate French chairs were arranged on either side of it, with curved legs and pale damask upholstery.

Behind the furniture, white-framed panels adorned pastel walls, along with graceful paintings—landscapes, portraits, equestrian scenes—all in thick, carved frames.

Her gaze traveled up beyond the artwork, to the elaborate, gilded friezes around the room, and the intricately painted ceilings. From these, in turn, hung three stunning chandeliers at regular intervals all down the wide central hall. Their scores of beeswax candles were not lit, of course, but their countless crystals shimmered in the daylight.

A gentle cross-breeze from open windows around the first floor made the crystals tinkle faintly and stirred the gauzy sheers. Otherwise, the grand house was still.

Daphne was agog, even more so to think she could become the lady of all this.

He turned to her with a casual air. “Much cooler in here, isn't it?”

“Yes,” she answered faintly.

“Ah, Dodsley! There you are.”

A sweet-faced, snowy-haired butler had appeared without a sound. He clasped his hands behind him and gave them both a deferential bow. “My lord. Ma'am. How may I be of service?”

“Miss Starling, this is Dodsley—the most efficient butler
on earth. Couldn't do without him. Anything you need around here, old Dodsley is your man.”

She smiled and nodded shyly to the butler. “How do you do.”

“Dodsley, we would like refreshments. Something cool? I trust you have the Champagne chilling somewhere in the house?”

“The dining room, my lord.”

“Champagne, in the middle of the day?” Daphne interjected.

Her handsome host turned to her in question. “I trust you don't object?”

She thought for a moment, but why quit now? In for a penny, in for a pound. She shrugged.

“I'll get it, Dodsley, if you can scrounge us up a bite to eat. Have we got that cold sorbet stuff? What's its name…”

“The lemon cream?” The butler nodded gravely as though discussing matters of state. “We do. Miss Starling, may I take your hat?”

“Why, thank you—yes.” Carefully, Daphne removed her pink hat with its frothy, curved ostrich plume. Since there was talk of a snack as well, she took off her white gloves.

Lord Rotherstone was doing the same, drawing off his driving gloves. “Miss Starling, given the weather, I wonder if you'd think me quite beyond the pale if I were to shed my coat.”

“Considering it must be nearly eighty degrees, I think we may safely ease up on decorum just a bit.”

“Bless you.” He peeled off his tailored indigo coat and handed it to his waiting butler. “That's better.”

“I daresay,” Daphne uttered faintly. His snugly fitted waistcoat beautifully revealed the hard, carved architecture of his torso, the sweeping angle from his powerful shoulders and sculpted chest, down to his lean, tapered waist.

His loose white shirtsleeves were slightly clingy in the heat, hinting at the rugged arms beneath that paper-thin layer of elegant white lawn.

“Come, I'll give you a tour while we wait for Dodsley to
bring us that lemon cream.”

“Yes—of course.”

As he turned away and walked ahead of her to begin showing her the house, Daphne couldn't believe that she was ogling his compactly muscled bottom—she was quite shocked at herself—but, after all, such regions on a gentleman were usually covered by tailcoats, and besides, his was too lovely not to look at. His fawn-colored trousers fit him to perfection.

“Here we have the anteroom, where my business visitors wait until I am able to see them.”

She dropped her gaze instantly when he turned around.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing,” she said guiltily.

“Right. Over here is my study.” He went to the second doorway.

She joined him, peering into the dark, handsomely appointed room. “Beautiful stained-glass window.” She nodded toward it, in the wall above the desk.

The late day sun glowed through the Gothic-era glass, giving the wood-paneled room a monastic atmosphere.

“Thank you, yes. It came from the family chapel at my seat in Worcestershire. One of the previous structures on the site burned down hundreds of years ago, but this was saved.”

“It is St. Michael?”

“Mm.” He nodded as he glanced at her, then turned away and ambled on down the corridor. “Back here is the morning room. Across the hall is a warming room, where the kitchen staff assemble their final preparations before serving meals here, in the dining room.” As she followed him, he pointed himself toward the round wine cooler on a stand in the far corner. “Champagne.”

“My,” Daphne murmured, staring with awe all around the sumptuous chamber. In most grand houses, the dining room was where no expense was spared to impress guests with the owner's fortune and taste. The Marquess of Rotherstone had certainly complied with this tradition.

Here his luxurious mode of life was on full display, from
the richly patterned carpet, to the carved mahogany furniture, all the way up to the artful white plasterwork that wrapped around the tops of all four walls in an energetic design of garlands and flowers and urns.

She thought at once of what Papa would have called it: ostentatious. Again, she thought of her father's whispered losses in the stock exchange.

Now that she had firsthand evidence of just how wealthy the Marquess of Rotherstone was, an uncomfortable question was starting to gnaw at the back of her mind…

“What do you think?” he asked as he lifted a bottle of French Champagne out of the ice-filled cooler.

She did her best to shrug off her misgivings that her beloved papa could have sold her to him for financial reasons, sending him a smile. “It's simply gorgeous. Everything is.”

“I am glad you like it.” He returned her smile and carried the bottle over to the sideboard. “I do think it rather handsome myself, especially by an evening's candlelight.”

“I can imagine.”

The central chandelier was exuberant with crystals like a fountain. Straight beneath it, on the long dining table, which was polished to a mirrorlike sheen, sat a glorious floral arrangement—a profusion of roses in several shades, summer lilies, and simple white daisies.

One small intruder, a honeybee, must have found its way in through an open window, and was hovering about the bouquet, alighting here and there to sip the nectar from the blooms.

Resting her hands on the back of a chair, Daphne stared at the insect while Max poured some water from a white pitcher into a porcelain hand bowl. She joined him as he washed his hands in preparation for their snack. She followed suit, glad of the chance after their dusty drive.

As he dried his hands on a small towel, he nodded toward the waiting bottle of Champagne. “I'll do the honors here if you'll get us two goblets from the cabinet over there.”

“Fair enough.” She smiled at him and nodded, then went
to the mahogany china cabinet across the room and opened one of the glass-paned doors. As she took out two glasses of the sparkling crystal, she noticed the gilt-edged china dinner plates on display. They were hand-painted with his family crest and a monogrammed R.

The pop of the Champagne bottle echoed through the room. When he let out a wordless exclamation at the foaming fizz, she laughed and rushed back to help him catch it in the glasses.

“Cheers,” he said a moment later, when he had poured them each a glass. “To you, Miss Starling.”

She blushed a bit at his toast, but shrugged and flashed a smile. “If you insist—to me!”

They both laughed. They touched their goblets together and then each took a sip, staring at each other.

“Mm,” she murmured in appreciation after a heartbeat. His eyes took on a silvery luster as he watched her enjoying the excellent vintage.

Just then, a light knock sounded on the open door down at the far end of the room.