The Heart of a Scoundrel (16 page)

The lad jumped. “M-my sister,” he squeaked, his voice cracking. A flush stained his cheeks and he glanced quickly about as though determining whether anyone had heard his outburst. Which was an impossibility. Men didn’t even keep tables near Edmund’s. They knew to cut even a wide berth in the hells he frequented. Then the boy squared his shoulders. “I am here to speak to you about my sister.”

“Your sister?” He rolled his shoulders. Ah, so he must have dallied with this protective younger brother’s sister at some point. Edmund picked up his brandy and took a sip.

The young man nodded, eying the bottle of brandy a moment, and then returning his attention to Edmund. “They say you don’t have honorable intentions toward ladies.”

“I don’t,” he said flatly, eliciting a frown from the young pup. Edmund made it a point to avoid those simpering, virginal debutantes.

He scratched his brow. “That is what they warned.”
They
? The gossips? The
ton
? Anyone and everyone? And more, did the blasted fop think Edmund gave a bloody damn about the unknown lady’s identity? “But my sister believes you’ve honorable intentions toward her despite it. She says—”

“I don’t,” he cut in. Silence met that emotionless pronouncement. He expected the young man to leave, but he remained, frowning, drumming his fingertips on the tabletop. Edmund took another sip.

“Phoebe is usually more sensible than this.”

He choked on his swallow as the boy’s words registered.

“Are you all right?” Concern lined the young man’s face.

He ignored the question. By God, this bold, protective lad was, in fact, Phoebe’s brother. “You’re Miss Barrett’s brother?” Lord Waters’ son?

A smile lit the other man’s face—carefree and innocent. Edmund hadn’t worn that expression himself in more than twenty-five years. Yet, the offspring of that reprobate Waters should. Interesting. “So, you do know her.”

“I know her,” he said, his tone gruff. And he wanted to know a whole lot more of her in a way that would have no brother smiling.

Then the lad’s grin dipped, replaced with a perplexity. “But you’re not courting her?” He scratched his brow. “Because she said…” His words trailed off and Edmund took another long sip to keep from asking what the hell Phoebe had said. The young man made to rise. “Well, if you’ll excuse me. It wasn’t my intention to—”

“Sit,” he bit out as he, who’d been previously annoyed by the pup’s presence, now gritted his teeth to keep from asking questions about Phoebe.

The young man promptly reclaimed his seat.

“I am…” he forced the remainder of that lie out through tight lips, “courting your sister.” Though that false courtship was only launched to slip past her defenses and, thus, her friend’s, and then orchestrate a meeting with the young woman he’d sought to trap.

“Oh.” Then Phoebe’s brother smiled again. “Brilliant.”

Did he truly believe a man of Edmund’s reputation courting his innocent, trusting and hopeful sister was brilliant? It spoke ill of the man’s intelligence.

“I suppose you should call me Barrett, because of our connection and all.”
Their connection?
The young man looked at him expectantly.

“Rutland,” he said grudgingly.

Barrett beamed. “I suppose you’re wishing to know more about my sister, if you’re to properly court her and all, that is.”

Young Barrett supposed a lot. And yet, what was this insatiable need to know every last detail about the innocent miss?

Without awaiting a confirmation, Phoebe’s brother launched into a list about the lady’s interest. “She enjoys Captain Cook,” he supplied unhelpfully. Edmund had already gleaned the lady’s love of travel and those great explorers. “She wishes to travel.” Yes, she’d said as much. “Her favorite color is blue.” A useless detail and yet…somehow oddly intriguing. It raised more questions than it answered. What did the lady like about the color? Did it put her in mind of the summer sky or the seas she only dreamed of traveling in her mind? Barret drummed his glove-encased fingertips upon the table. “What else? She detests needlepoint and is dreadful upon the pianoforte but quite appreciates taking in a performance.”

As the youth prattled on and on, a slow-burning fury built steadily in Edmund’s chest. Phoebe’s brother would be so forthcoming with details about the lady? Would he do the same for any gentleman who came after Edmund? Perhaps the next man would be the one who lay between her legs and knew the satiny softness of her skin… A growl climbed up his throat until he wanted to choke the life out of that nameless man, as well as Barrett, for ushering in the thought of Phoebe with another. “Enough,” he snapped.

Barrett went silent, his eyes unblinking in his face.

Edmund finished his brandy. The sight of Phoebe’s brother and the manner in which he’d embroiled himself with this family was too much…when nothing was, or ever had been, too much. “I’ve business to see to.” He stood, gritting his teeth at the knotted tension of the broken muscles in his leg. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course, of course.”

Mindful of the fearful stares turned on him, Edmund took his leave of Forbidden Pleasures.

Phoebe detested needlepoint, loved music, loathed playing, and she liked the color blue. And why did he hate that he would never know more of the lady than that?

F
rom her position in the back corner of Lord and Lady Essex’s ballroom, Phoebe surveyed the crowd.

“I detest these events.”

For a moment, seated between Gillian and Honoria, Phoebe believed she’d inadvertently spoken aloud.

“Oh, do hush Honoria. They are sometimes enjoyable,” Gillian said with her ever cheerful optimism. Then, that like opinion on mindless events was one of the reasons she and Honoria had become fast friends early on. They both detested the inanity of being on display. Only Phoebe was openly vocal in her belief and desire for more. As her friends’ squabbling filled her ears, Phoebe skimmed her gaze over to where her mother stood speaking to their hostess.

With her mother’s auburn tresses and blue eyes, the viscountess and her patent smile may as well have been a reflection of an older Phoebe twenty years from this moment. A chill stole through her as she confronted the tedium of her safe, predictable existence. A passionless world known by her mother. How many balls and soirees had she attended before this very one, where she’d stared off distracted thinking of her books and far-off places she’d never herself been?

You deserve more in your dreams and for them, Phoebe…

He
was her dream. That truth momentarily stunned Phoebe. Edmund, Lord Rutland, in his kisses and discourse had come to matter so very much. He’d shown her desires she carried in her own heart.

As Gillian and Honoria continued their debate on just how enjoyable these events were, Phoebe ignored them. Fiddling with the fabric of her dress, she searched the ballroom for the hint of his familiar frame. Her black panther. The frozen, forever snarling Marquess of Rutland. She smoothed her palm over her satin skirts. How was it that only she saw more of him and in him?

A man so feared and reviled by society, who did not judge her peculiar interests in Captain Cook and those oddities most lords would have scratched their heads at. Where her mother had evinced the proper, dutiful wife even as her husband scandalized the
ton
with his gaming and whoring, Phoebe wished for more than that cold, loveless match. She ached for a control of her world, when the woman who’d given her life had none of her own. And in their discourse, Edmund had demonstrated that he was, in fact, a man who would never discourage her free thoughts or bid for control of her fate. It was why she loved him. She stilled her distracted movements. Her heart thumped to a slow halt and then picked up a panicked rhythm. Phoebe closed her eyes a moment.
Oh, God. I love him.

As though the fates were in approval, a loud buzz went up amidst the crowd.

“What is he doing here?”

There was only one person who could elicit such contempt from Honoria. Phoebe followed her friend’s angry stare to the front of the room. A fluttering stirred in her belly.

Edmund
. What was he doing here, this man who hid in shadows and sneered at lords and ladies?
He is here for you
. Phoebe clung to that hopeful whispering in her mind.

She stared at him with an unrepentant boldness. Attired in his familiar midnight black evening coat and breeches, he could rival the evening sky with his imposing strength. He strode down the marble stairs and did not bother with niceties for their host and hostess.

Gillian nudged Phoebe in the side. “You are staring,” she whispered.

Everyone
was staring. He was that sleek, black panther but very much alive and very much dangerous for the hold he possessed upon her senses and heart.

“At the very least close your mouth,” Honoria said with a frown in her voice.

Phoebe immediately pressed her lips together, but it was impossible not to stare. With his towering height and broad, powerful frame, he cut an impressive figure amidst lesser lords; mere mortals in his presence. Lords and ladies stepped out of his way as he cut a purposeful swath through the crowd. All the while he flicked a hard, furious stare about the ballroom. The apathy etched in the chiseled planes of his face indicated his displeasure at being at Lady Essex’s annual event. Yet, he came anyway. Why would he, if not for…?

Edmund’s gaze locked on hers.

For her…

He slowed his stride. The space between them could not diminish the passion that darkened his eyes. The desire in their dark brown, nearly black, depths evoked the remembrance of the physical feeling of being in his arms while hunger had fueled their kisses and touch at the curiosity shop. She swallowed hard.

“Do not stare at him in that manner,” Honoria pleaded.

“I do not generally agree with Honoria but, in this, I fear she’s correct. It isn’t polite to stare.”

“I…” was incapable of one single, coherent thought.

“Oh, bloody hell he is coming this way.” A beleaguered moan escaped Honoria.

“Of course he is,” Gillian replied, thankfully filling the void left by Phoebe’s silence.

“He is dangerous.” There was an entreaty in Honoria’s words that snapped Phoebe to the moment.

She shifted her attention from Edmund and his forward pursuit. “I…he is not.” Oh, Society certainly knew him as ruthless for reasons she’d never paid attention to. “He is a better man than you or Society credits him as being.”

Her friend snorted. “We do not credit him as being any kind of good. Not better. Not good. All things lethal and dangerous and…”

“Miss Barrett.” That husky whisper laced with steel she’d recognize in the throes of her deepest sleep.

Phoebe gasped and swung her attention upwards the length of Edmund’s impressive height. She hopped to her feet, dimly registering her friends clamoring to a standing position beside her. They flanked her like stern mamas guarding their daughter’s good name. “L-Lord Rutland.” Phoebe cursed the slight stammer that set her apart from the confident, bold women he’d likely known before her. The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips as though he’d heard that tremble and reveled in his power over her. With an obvious reluctance, Edmund shifted his attention to her friends.

“Miss Fairfax.” Honoria’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Lady Farendale,” he greeted a more forgiving Gillian who smiled in return.

“My lord.” Gillian, the peacekeeper of the two ladies responded for both of them. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

Honoria allowed her mutinous silence to stand as her denial of Gillian’s polite greeting.

Just then, the lively quadrille drew to a close, amidst a smattering of applause and excited laughter. The orchestra struck up the strains of a waltz and with a boldness that would scandalize any self-respecting young lady, Edmund turned a hungry gaze on Phoebe. Her mouth went dry as warmth spiraled through her.

He held his hand out. There was no question, no request. He was in command, control, as he’d been from their first meeting. She eyed his outstretched fingers, and as he studied her through thick, dark lashes there was a flash of impatience, melded with concern in his brown irises. Did he think she would turn down his request? Phoebe drew in a slow, steadying breath, heady with the hint of his weakness—for her. For his show now, and before Society, he was not as self-possessed as all believed. She placed her fingertips in his. Edmund closed his hand over hers and momentarily held her fingers in a powerful grip. Ignoring the pointed, matching frowns worn by her friends, Phoebe allowed Edmund to guide her onto the dance floor.

He positioned them at the center of the ballroom, as though barefacedly marking her as his before the other peers present. She placed her trembling fingertips along his sleeve as he settled his hands at her waist.

The orchestra plucked the waltz and he guided her into movement. Edmund lowered his brow close. “You are trembling.”

Inside and out. “I am,” she said softly.

“Do you finally fear me?” The hint of a frown hovered on his lips, an indication that her answer mattered to him.

“Despite your best efforts, no, I do not.” She wanted those words to come out breezy and blithe. Instead, they emerged more whisper than anything.

His eyes smiled when his lips seemed incapable of the feat. He glanced over her shoulder and as he twirled her in effortless circles, she found the subject of his attention. Or in this case, the subjects.

Honoria and Gillian stood shoulder to shoulder with their arms folded watching their every movement.

“They do not approve.”

She hesitated, but would not have lies between them. “No, they do not.”

“Smart young ladies.”

“Do hush.” Phoebe squeezed his arm and the muscles of his forearm tightened under her touch. “Would you spend your time here seeking to convince me of the danger in caring for you and trusting you?”

His body went taut, and yet effortless and graceful Edmund did not so much as miss a step in the still-scandalous dance. “Do you know what I would spend my time doing?”