My Wicked Marquess (8 page)

She warded off the naughty thought before she could complete it. Feeling slightly faint, shocked at the extremely unladylike drift of her imaginings, she looked away, waving her fan again very fast, indeed.

Having left her speechless with his silken innuendo, Lord Rotherstone now paused, as though he had all the time in the world to play with her and steer the conversation wherever he willed.

“You see, my dear, even more than a dance, what I really want from you is a promise.”

Her eyes flared as she sent him another swift glance. “What kind of—promise?” she asked hoarsely, barely daring wonder what a demon marquess might want from a girl.

To her surprise, however, he leaned down to glower into her eyes and pointed his finger in her face. “Do not
ever
go back to that treacherous alley again,” he ordered her matter-of-factly. “Next time, I may not be there to rescue you. Do you understand me?”

His command and his domineering stare took her aback.

She looked at him in astonishment. Who exactly did he think he was?

“I beg your pardon.” Not about to be told what to do by a man she had only just met, she lifted her index finger and pushed his aside with a dainty strike, as if in a miniature
duel.

“You heard me,” he murmured in a husky tone, hooking his finger and effectively capturing hers. He held on to it, and locked stares with her at close range. “Promise,” he whispered, with a dark, irresistible charm that seemed to engulf her.

Daphne studied his lips for a second, then shook off the shiver of awareness that ran through her body. “No,” she informed him in crisp tones. “I cannot promise that, I'm afraid.”

“You can,” he told her sweetly, “and you shall.”

“No,” she repeated, just as kindly, and as firmly. “I'm afraid you do not understand, my lord. The children at the orphanage, they need me.”

“Alive, one presumes,” he said with an equally unflappable smile, though his eyes were flinty. “You are no use to them dead, now, are you, sweet Miss Starling?”

Losing patience with his highhandedness, she tugged her finger free of his light hold and scowled at him. “You don't understand, I
have
to go back there whether I like it or not—at least until the orphanage is moved! I can't let those poor children think I've abandoned them, like their own parents have. Besides, I didn't question
your
business in Bucket Lane, now, did I? I hardly think it fitting that you question mine.”

She relished his startled look at her polite reminder of his visit to that disgusting brothel, but he recovered quickly. “Young lady, you listen to me—”

“Pish-posh,” she said with an idle wave of her hand. “All's well that ends well.”

He looked at her in amazement. “Did you just say pish-posh to me?”

“Why, yes, I believe I did.” She folded her arms across her chest, giving him a serenely stubborn smile.

“Lord Rotherstone?” a voice intruded.

They both looked over.

“Yes? What is it?” The marquess frowned at Daphne, while a harried-looking footman came rushing down the hallway with a folded piece of paper on a silver tray.

“A message arrived for you, sir. I was afraid I'd missed you! Forgive the interruption. The courier said it was urgent.”

“Here, I will take it.” He beckoned the man forward with an impatient flick of his fingers.

“Lord Rotherstone,” Daphne echoed softly, sending him a twinkling smile. “Are you sure it's not made out to the Demon Marquess?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “So, I was right. You already knew my name, you saucy thing.”

She grinned, feeling better to come clean. “I could not let you have the advantage of me, now, could I?”

He snorted and shook his head, turning away with a low laugh to read his note. “If you'll excuse me for a moment?”

“Of course, Lord Rotherstone.”

He gave her another sardonic look at her arch repetition of his name and unfolded the letter, swiftly scanning it.

Daphne kept a polite distance, but she watched his chiseled countenance with avid curiosity. She was not one to read over anyone's shoulder, but she could not resist teasing him in the hopes that she might pry a little intelligence out of him as to its contents. “Do I detect a whiff of brimstone in the air?”

“Quite,” he said dryly, then folded the note again and slid it into the pocket of his waistcoat. With a wave of his hand, Lord Rotherstone dismissed the footman, who had stood waiting for any reply he might wish to send. He glanced at her. “Regretfully, Miss Starling, I must go.”

“Oh, but we were only just getting acquainted,” she said with a playful little pout.

“Trust me,” he murmured with a roguish look, “we will pick up soon where we left off.”

“But what of our dance?”

“You'll owe me one.”

She frowned in sudden concern. “It's not bad news, I hope?”

“No, no, it's excellent news, but the sort I must attend to at once. An arrival, actually, that I have long awaited.”

“Arrival?” A sudden horrible thought flashed across her mind out of nowhere. “Is your wife having a baby?” she cried
as he began to turn away. In the next second, she was even more aghast at what she had just blurted out; she clapped a hand over her mouth and stared at him.

“My wife?” He stopped and turned back to her, frowning in surprise. “What do you know of my wife?”

She lowered her hand slightly from her mouth, longing to hide under the nearest rock. “Nothing! Oh, God—I beg your pardon. I didn't mean, that is, I'm sure it's none of my—”

His soft, tickled laughter put a halt to her mortified stammering. His pale eyes danced. “My dear Miss Starling,” he teased, laughing warmly at her flustered attempt to find out if he was a married man. “If I had a wife about to give birth, I would hardly be here, letting a charming young beauty enchant me. Though, I must admit, I can't help but feel a little flattered that your thoughts turn so easily to breeding in my presence.”

She gasped, rendered speechless. Still chuckling as she turned rosy, he captured her hand and bowed over it, pressing the briefest of kisses to her knuckles. “
Au revoir, cherie
. Until we meet again.”

“Oh, will we?” she retorted, yanking back her hand as he released it, barely recovered from her embarrassment at his ribald teasing.

“Count on it,” he whispered, and took leave of her with a wink.

Oh, that man!

For the longest moment, she stood just where he'd left her, watching him stride away, and then staring dazedly at the empty hallway even after he'd slipped out the door.

Vaguely, she lifted the hand he had kissed to her heart. She could feel her whole chest pounding with the crazed reaction he inspired, a potent mix of thrill and joy, uncertainty and complete exasperation.

Well! she thought in belated, still rather mortified humor. At least now she knew he wasn't married.

She was so caught up in her thoughts of him that Daphne did not even notice her friend Carissa rushing up the hallway toward her until a feminine hand gripped her arm, turning her around, and a familiar whisper exclaimed by her ear,
“Are you
mad
?”

“Oh—Carissa.” Blinking like a woman waking from a dream, she smiled dazedly at her friend. “I've hardly seen you all night.”

“Well, luckily, I saw you! Better me than anyone else, to be sure! What do you think you are doing, talking to
him
—unchaperoned, no less? Have you lost your mind?”

With auburn hair and emerald eyes, the fey-featured Carissa Portland waited for her explanation like an angry fairy queen.

Daphne shook her head, still feeling the aftereffects of his spell. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Daphne! He is a scoundrel!”

“
Nooo!
” she protested in lavish denial, waving away this objection. “He is perfectly amiable, believe me.”

Well, except for that whole brothel business
, came a niggling thought.

“Do you even know who that
is
?” Carissa demanded.

“Of course I do! The Marquess of Rotherstone.”

Carissa dropped her voice to an emphatic whisper: “The Demon Marquess!”

“Oh, that's just silly—”

“No, it's not!”

“Pish-posh. Let's go get some sweets!”

“Daphne, listen to me.” Carissa gripped her arm. “I don't know what's got into you, but you must not go near that wicked fellow again. Haven't you heard?”

“What?”

“He is one of the leading members of the Inferno Club!”

“The what?”

“The Inferno Club!” The redhead beckoned her a little closer and glanced around with a conspiratorial air, then endeavored to explain. “They meet in Dante House, not far from the other gentlemen's clubs in St. James's. But they are altogether wicked, so I've heard.”

“Why? What do they do?” she asked eagerly.

“Things decent girls like us ought never contemplate!”

Daphne furrowed her brow. Carissa was not normally a prude. “What else do you know?”

“Only that they are a scandalous society of decadent, highborn libertines, infamous for pursuing all manner of debauchery. That is why you must not speak to him. If you thought stupid Albert Carew and his jealous rumors could harm your reputation, that's
nothing
compared to the damage you could suffer if you're seen overmuch in the company of Lord Hellfire there.” Carissa nodded toward the door by which Lord Rotherstone had left.

Daphne thought again of his charming smile and gave her friend a crestfallen look. “There must be some mistake. He's new to Town. He told me he's been traveling abroad.”

“Well, yes, but when he does stop in London, those Inferno Club hellions are the sort of company he prefers. Half of Society doesn't receive him,” Carissa added. “I warrant the only reason he was invited tonight is because he is related to Lord Edgecombe.”

Daphne's heart began to sink.

An image of him stumbling out of the brothel yesterday came easily to mind, but even so, she did not want to believe what Carissa was reporting.

“You know the gossip is always exaggerated.”

Carissa shook her head stubbornly. “I was just talking to some of my officer friends, and you would not believe what they said. According to them, Lord Rotherstone showed up at Waterloo.
Not
to fight Napoleon. Just to watch the battle, as if it was the latest circus spectacle at Astley's!”

“Really? Not to fight? You're sure?”

Carissa nodded. “They referred to him as the Grand Tourist, for he lives only for pleasure. They said he did nothing useful for the cause, but spent the hours before the battle getting drunk, chasing the tavern wenches around, and making a spectacle of himself laying wagers against Boney. He even made himself comfortable right inside General Wellington's headquarters. Can you imagine? A complete libertine—but he is so rich and powerful that none of the officers could naysay him.”

“Why didn't Wellington throw him out if he was such a nuisance?”

She shrugged. “Probably Lord Wellington was too much of a gentleman—or was simply too busy to care, on the eve before battle.”

“Hm.” Daphne wrinkled her brow in complete befuddlement and glanced toward the door by which Lord Rother-stone had gone.

Obviously, Carissa believed what she had heard from the officers, but having met the man in question, Daphne felt that this did not add up. She remembered all too vividly the look of gusto on his face when he had broken that bottle in Bucket Lane and invited half the rookery to try him.

Of course, she admitted skeptically, he had been foxed then—or at least still feeling the effects of the previous night's indulgence.

“Whatever you do, just be careful with him,” Carissa warned. “Such a man's intentions are not likely to be honorable, and I saw how he was looking at you,” she added with mixed humor and disapproval. “I don't want to be the bearer of bad news, but I do hope you'll heed my advice, as one who adores you and will be forever in your debt.”

“Stuff and nonsense, Miss Portland, you are not in my debt,” Daphne said with a smile. “You are my friend.”

“And
you
were the only person who was kind to me when I first arrived in London. Not even my dreadful cousins treated me humanely. You championed me, and now I must protect you. And for your sake, my dear Daphne, I should be like a-a mother bear minding her cub!”

“You? A bear?” she asked in amusement, glancing at her friend's slim, petite frame. She started laughing. “A good breeze could blow you away.”

“I am a bear in spirit!” Carissa hooked her arm through Daphne's elbow and smiled fondly at her. “Don't let your generous nature lead you into a snare with this man, promise? I fear it would be a great mistake for you to try taking up Lord Rotherstone's cause as you did mine, however tempted you may be. Lost souls are hopeless cases, even for you.”

Lost soul? Demon Marquess?
Daphne didn't know what to think. “Honestly, he seemed all right to me,” she defended him as they strolled back toward the ballroom, arm in arm.

Carissa shrugged still dubious. “To be sure, he is beautiful to look at. Not to mention rich and powerful. And probably a brilliant catch—if he could ever be brought to heel. But that is extremely unlikely. His ancestors were all bad, too, I hear. Don't make me worry for you,” she complained, nudging her with her shoulder. “We both know you're already on shaky ground with this whole Albert debacle. Promise me you'll stay away from him, for your own good.”

She glanced abashedly at her friend. “I can't.”

“Daphne!”

“I can't help it!” she exclaimed, shrugging and blushing again like some foolish cake head. “I owe him a dance, I already promised!”