My Wicked Marquess (19 page)

At last, she cupped her hand against his face, marveling at the wonder of its hard planes and angles, his steely jaw, smooth-shaved, and then his square chin with the rougher texture of his short goatee.

He turned his head and kissed her palm. But when he bent lower and began to kiss her neck, Daphne welcomed him, leaning her head back against the gallery's red wall.

With closed eyes, she cradled his head to her, running her fingers through his dark, tousled hair. She melted against him as he kissed her neck without restraint now, the chafing of his beard against her highly sensitized skin bringing a very different effect—not pain, but wild pleasure. She wanted to feel it everywhere, against her skin, her breasts.

Her fingers splayed through his hair in a rougher caress; she gripped his head against her, urging him on, though he needed no coaxing.

He leaned closer against the full length of her body, so warm and strong and exciting, pressing his thigh between her legs—a subtle caress that made her shudder violently.

Indecent thoughts, wanton yearnings gripped her.

Meanwhile, the gently blowing sheers that framed the shuttered windows floated past them and wrapped around them like a whisper of white bedsheets, diffusing the afternoon light.

He shifted against her in the most intoxicating fashion, arousing her to a state of feverish lust. She was weak and shaky, and obviously quite mad, for she would have liked nothing better than to lift her skirts and let him have his wicked way with her at once.

This, observed the last remaining shred of logic in her brain, was clearly why unchaperoned visits were verboten between courting couples.

But Daphne knew deep in her core that she could never feel this way toward any other man.

He came back up from devouring her neck, hot and hazy-eyed, hair tousled, lips damp and slightly swollen, his face flushed. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, but as he met her aching stare, he just shook his head, a silver-tongued charmer at an utter loss for words.

He didn't have to speak. She could not have agreed with him more. She ran her hands up his chest, adoring him.

He looked into her eyes, then cupped her face between his palms and claimed her mouth again. The unbridled hunger in his kiss set her pulse racing anew; she wanted more.

She arched her body in restless sensuality, pinned deliciously between him and the wall. The instant flames that her sinuous motion aroused in his eyes made her go still, suddenly reminded that she was indeed playing with fire.

“God,” he whispered more to himself than to her, “you could wield such power over me.” Staring hungrily at her, he came back for more.

“Me?” she asked innocently. “How? Like this?” She
wrapped her arms around him and met his searing kiss in reckless abandon.

When she heard his low groan of pleasure it was almost more than she could bear. Her heart was slamming, her body afire with undreamed sensations, her core crying out for a completion she had heard of only once or twice in euphemistic whispers.

Max, she knew, the wicked Marquess of Rotherstone, could teach her everything.

With all his worldly elegance and suave expertise, fairly radiating sex, what better tutor could she hope for to instruct her in every wondrous pleasure that a woman could discover with a man?

But not yet, her swooning conscience reminded her.

Not until she married him—and wasn't that a case of out of the frying pan, into the fire?

All of a sudden, he tore his lips away from hers and stared toward the door, as still as a wolf in a forest hearing some distant sound.

“Someone's coming,” he breathed.

“What?” she cried in a hushed tone, still panting with desire.

“Dodsley.”

“Oh—!” She shot out of his arms, whirling away from him, and turning her to the distant doorway so the butler would not see the guilt written all over her face, not to mention her immediate, crimson blush. At once, she hurried to tidy her rumpled appearance with shaking hands.

Nearby, Max took a deep breath and did the same.

He cleared his throat and suddenly looked completely nonchalant, just as his old butler hurried into view.

Still wishing she could hide, Daphne was taken aback by his convincing mask of business-as-usual.

“My lord!”

“Yes, what is it?” he clipped out, with only a trace of annoyance in his deep voice.

“My lord, please forgive the interruption. But you have visitors—”

“Visitors?” he bit back angrily. “Dodsley!”

“I crave your pardon, sir! I could not—that is, they say it's very urgent.”

His low, infuriated huff made her think he must have some idea who it was.

“Tell the bastards I am not at home,” he ordered at the same time his butler said: “The lady refuses to go until she sees you, sir!”

Hearing both their words, Daphne stopped. She looked from Dodsley to his scowling master.

“Lady?” she echoed. Surprise and indignation promptly overrode her embarrassment. Good God, how great of an error had she just made? Was he not the Demon Marquess, after all, leading member of the Inferno Club? To be sure, she had just had a taste of his libertine talents for herself.

Heaven only knew how many female visitors such a man invited into his house on any given day.

She backed away from him with a piercing stare.

At that moment, the echo of light, running footsteps came pounding up the marble stairs. In the next heartbeat, a small boy ran headlong into the room, and came barreling straight toward him.

“Uncle Max!”

O
h, bloody hell,” he uttered under his breath.

“You said a curse!” the small lad shouted as he charged up to Max, stopped short, and craned his neck to stare at him.

Folding his arms across his chest, Max acknowledged the diminutive intruder with no more than a raised eyebrow.

“It's not Their Lordships calling, sir,” Dodsley said in a long-suffering tone. “I was trying to say it is Lady Thurloe and the, er, children.” Poor Dodsley went hurrying after the boy, who ran off again, tearing through the gallery, hollering like a wild savage. “Young master, I beg you, mind the statues, please!”

Daphne looked on in bewilderment as a lady in a blue carriage dress and an elaborate hat came flouncing into the doorway.

“Why, look! There he is: my infamous brother!”

“Mama, what does ‘infamous' mean?” asked the neat little girl who held the woman's hand, as docile in her manner as the boy was wild.

“Infamous, Flora,” the lady replied, leading her daughter into the gallery, “means the sort of man who comes back to London and never even bothers to call on his own sister, who has not seen him in three full years!”

“No, Bea,” he replied uncomfortably, “I'm sure it's only been two.”

Meanwhile, Dodsley caught one of the Roman amphorae
and righted it with a frantic look as the boy went charging past it.

“Infamous,” the lady continued, propping one hand grandly on her hip, “means commanding one's butler to tell one's relatives that one is not at home, when one most obviously
is
.”

“You mean Uncle Max told a lie, Mama?”

“Papa says he tells loads of 'em!”

“That will do, Timothy. Over here. Right now!”

Daphne watched her in wonder as the lady captured her son by his wrist as he zoomed past.

“As for you, brother,” she resumed, securely holding a child's hand in each of her own. “I heard you were at the Edgecombe ball. How strange that I did not see you there! Oh, yes, you scoundrel. I was in attendance!” she informed him reproachfully in answer to his chagrined look. “Of course, I went home early. My Paul does not stay out past eleven.”

“I arrived late,” he answered, faltering slightly. “Well, I would have looked for you if I had known!” he added with a trace of guilt.

“If you had remembered I exist? Honestly, brother! If we had known you were coming, Paul and I would have stayed to greet you. How long have you been in Town?” she demanded.

“Not very long,” he mumbled evasively.

“Well, you can't escape us now, can you? Infamous, I say, dodging us since you arrived!” As she spoke, the little girl released her hand and walked demurely to look at a painting of some horses on the wall.

Daphne was still standing there awkwardly, until the child noticed her and offered a shy smile. She returned it, quite chagrined at her predicament. To think that these children could have walked in on what they had been doing! She wanted to die.

“At any rate,” their mother continued in a brisk tone, “we are leaving London for the countryside tomorrow, and we won't be back in Town until the spring, so the least that you can do is acknowledge your niece and nephew before we go. Do you believe how big they're getting, Max? Flora, come
away from that—lady.”

Her crisp tone and the fact that she had ignored Daphne from the moment she arrived made it obvious what assumptions the woman had already drawn about her brother's female companion of this afternoon. Daphne was mortified.

“Careful, Bea, it isn't how it looks.”

“I'm sure.” The woman eyed her skeptically.

His face hardened. “Beatrice, Countess of Thurloe, allow me to present the Honorable Miss Daphne Starling.” He squared his shoulders and added: “My future wife.”

At his bold announcement, Daphne glanced at him in alarm. She was unsettled to hear him stating it as though it were hard fact. To be sure, Lady Thurloe looked equally astonished.

“Max!” she exclaimed in almost breathless tone. “Is this true? This is not one of your pranks?”

“Of course not it's not a prank,” he said with a scowl. “If it weren't for Daphne, I wouldn't have gone to the Edgecombe ball in the first place.”

“But I am amazed!” She took a step closer. “You're getting married and you didn't tell me?”

Oh, dear
. This was quickly going from bad to worse. Daphne knew she should speak up and clarify things, but as the cold, hard breeze of sanity returned in a whoosh after the fevered madness of his kiss, it was all too clear that the least scandalous, perhaps the
only
nonscandalous, acceptable excuse for her presence here in Lord Rotherstone's house, alone with him, was the imminent ringing of wedding bells.

The only problem was, she had not yet agreed to the match. Or perhaps she was only fooling herself.

Before she could conjure some alternative credible explanation, Lady Thurloe brushed off her fleeting hurt at her brother's neglect in favor of open rejoicing. “Oh, Max!” She clapped her gloved hands together, fingers clasped. “Miss Starling—Daphne, is it? May I call you Daphne? Oh, but I
thought
I recognized you! Goodness, when I first saw you here, knowing him, I nearly thought—but never mind that! Of course—you are Lord Starling's beautiful daughter
whom everyone adores!”

“I-I don't know if that is quite the case, Lady Thurloe,” Daphne stammered.

“Call me Beatrice. Oh, my dear—sister! Let me embrace you!” She sailed forward and gave Daphne a polite but enthusiastic hug, and an airy peck on both cheeks. “My dear, dear girl! Oh, Lud, but you will have your work cut out for you.” Lady Thurloe laughed as she hugged her. “Promise me you will torment him!”

“I promise.” Daphne glowered at Max over his sister's shoulder before the woman released her again.

Lady Thurloe stepped back and paused as she passed a wry but chiding look from Max to Daphne and back again. “Oh, my. So, the two of you in here alone…I do declare! Rather naughty, tsk, tsk.” She wagged a finger at them with a knowing giggle. “Never fear, my lips are sealed. Flora, Timothy, come over here and meet your future auntie! Isn't she lovely? Oh, this is
too
exciting! My dear brother, I am so happy for you! We've been waiting so long for you to come home and settle down at last!”

While Lady Thurloe gushed on and Max smiled in stoic silence, the children studied her warily, and Daphne cursed herself for ever having agreed to come into this house in the first place.

She had known better, but she hadn't been able to resist him, and now what a perfect pickle she was in.

She maintained a polite smile, but she felt trapped.

Worse, she could hardly think what to do, with her head still spinning after that thrilling brush with passion. Events seemed to be whirling beyond her control, but at the same time, seeing the obviously good-hearted Lady Thurloe's delight over the news of her brother's alleged engagement, Daphne could not bring herself just now to dash the woman's hopes.

It seemed her safest option was to go along with it graciously for the moment, but a panicky feeling was rising in her. Even though she was fairly sure Max had not
planned
his sister's interruption, every tick of the long-case clock nearby somehow attuned her awareness to his cold, calcu
lating will to make her his own.

Dashed if she could not already feel him breathing down her neck in his will to power over her—as much an invasion of her sovereignty as any of Napoleon's incursions across the Rhine.

No, she was not
accusing
him of deliberately arranging for his sister to catch them unchaperoned together; he had appeared as genuinely surprised by the ill-timed visit as she.

But then again, she would not put something like it past him. Was he not the same tricky fellow, after all, who had feigned drunkenness so convincingly in Bucket Lane?

True, he had done it to rescue her, but such deception seemed to come all too naturally to him. Could he really be trusted? Or was he willing to use whatever it took to get what he wanted—his wits, his wealth, his wondrous body?

But why? What in the hell did he think was so special about her, anyway?

But it wasn't about her, and that was the problem. It was all about what Lord Rotherstone wanted and what Lord Rotherstone intended to have.

Why, he thought he could add her to his collection like these paintings and statues, to show her off as Albert had wanted to do, and worse, to breed more Rotherstones for future portraits on his ancestors' wall.

For a fleeting instant, Daphne wanted to kill him.

She felt duped, but was too polite, too well-trained a lady to start the battle now. Not in front of the children or his sister. After all, if Daphne abjured the marriage now, how would she account for her scandalous visit here?

She was between a rock—a stone, no, a Rother-stone—and a hard place.

“Oh, you will love being married,” the countess said wistfully. “I know everyone complains of it, but it really is quite nice when you have someone who cares for you.”

“Lady Thurloe, if I may impose on your good humor,” Daphne spoke up, doing her best to hide her desperation, “we are not, um, really ready to announce our nuptials yet. His Lordship only asked me yesterday.”

“His Lordship? Ah, I see. You two are still just getting to
know each other. How adorable! I understand completely!” she reassured them, beaming. “I can be discreet until you are ready to tell the world. I wouldn't dare overstep my bounds. After all, my brother does not easily forgive. Be warned of that, Miss Starling.”

Daphne nodded in relief, but fortunately, Lady Thurloe didn't stay long. She introduced her children, then took each by the hand, preparing to take their leave.

“Well, brother dear, I'm glad I finally found you at home. Do have a care when you go back out, you lovebirds. All the fashionable fools are still milling about on promenade out there. We wouldn't want any gossip to taint your happy news. Come along, children.”

“I'll walk you out,” Max said.

“Not necessary, my dear brother. You stay here with your fiancée. Dodsley will show us to the door. I'm sure he will be quite happy to do so.”

“Madam,” the butler intoned, stepping forward to perform his duty without giving any sign of a reaction to her pointed remark.

The countess paused on her way out, stopping in the doorway to glance back at them. “Max,” she said hesitantly, “do please try to keep me apprised of what's going on in your life, won't you? Our parents may be gone, but you are still my brother. You're all that I have left.” She turned to Daphne with a warm smile. “And Miss Starling, if I can be of any use at all in helping plan the wedding, do not hesitate to call on me. It would be the delight of my life to be involved!”

“You are altogether kind, my lady. I will write to you, most certainly.” Daphne was touched by her kindness.

Lady Thurloe nodded. “Dodsley can give you my address at our estate in Berkshire. You both are welcome to visit anytime. Congratulations, again!”

“Good-bye!” the children called, waving.

“Good-bye, thank you!” Daphne answered, waving back.

Still, the master of the house just stood there, arms akimbo, his demeanor gone dark and cold and brooding, inexplicably remote. Daphne looked at him after they had gone.
What's the matter with you?
she wondered, but when he eyed her
grimly, she decided not to chance it.

“I should go, if you don't mind,” she said with guarded restraint. “It's getting late. My father will be wondering where I am.”

He dropped his gaze, withdrawing into his own obscure thoughts. “Of course.”

Stiffly and self-consciously, they returned downstairs, where the butler gave Daphne back her hat and gloves, and held Lord Rotherstone's coat while he slipped his arms into the sleeves.

A silent walk back out to the cabriolet was followed by a long and uncomfortable ride back to her family's villa in South Kensington.

“I am,” he said at length, “deeply sorry about that intrusion.”

“Nonsense.” Daphne gave him a nervous smile. “Your sister is a lovely woman.”

“Yes.” He stared between the horse's ears down the road ahead.

Daphne studied him, wondering what was wrong. She recalled his referring to his gambling father as “cursed,” and thought of how he had mentioned having torn down his childhood home and building over it. All those years of travel, and his sister's account of his neglect even after he had returned—and then Lady Thurloe's cryptic warning.

My brother does not easily forgive.

“You keep a distance from your family,” she said softly.

Silence.

“Did they wrong you somehow?”

“We are not close. That is all.”

He drove a little faster as they rolled along down a shady lane, but the tension pulsating from him began to fray Daphne's nerves.

She wished that he would tell her what was wrong.

He was locked up like a fortress, and she was stuck outside the walls. She did not understand it. Nor did it seem fair.

After all that she had told him about herself, and the things that he had guessed, private things that she had never told anyone—like yesterday, when he probed into her hurt over
the terrible loss of Mama—it bothered her that he would seek to know everything about her, and then shut her out when
she
asked for answers, in return.

As she rode along beside him, her resentment of his continued silence grew. If the man desired to be her husband, why was he now acting like a stranger?

She could no longer contain herself. “I cannot think what you could have against Lady Thurloe. She seems very good.”

“Oh, that she is, to be sure. And her husband's even more virtuous.” He practically spat the word.