When a Marquess Loves a Woman (23 page)

J
ack could almost feel the heat coming off Rivington's body, almost pick up the scent of whatever eau de cologne the man undoubtedly wore. If he moved half a step closer he'd be standing between Rivington's legs. He knew that would be a bad idea, but at the moment could not seem to recall why.

“What I don't understand”— Rivington tipped his head against the back of Jack's worst chair as if he hadn't just been told to leave— “is why she didn't destroy the letters. If she knew the contents would harm her, why not throw them on the fire?”

Ah, but the ladies never did. Not in Jack's experience, at least. Mothers and governesses ought to spend more time instructing young ladies in the importance of destroying incriminating evidence and less time bothering with good posture and harp lessons and so forth.

Besides, that wasn't the right question to ask. The real wonder was that Mrs. Wraxhall hadn't kept the blackmail letter, the one clue that might lead them to her stolen letters.

Of course, people did all manner of foolish things when they were distressed, but Jack would have thought a woman who had the presence of mind to stay so tidy on such a muddy day wouldn't do something as muddle-headed as flinging a blackmail letter onto the fire.

Jack looked down at Rivington, who still hadn't moved. The man was apparently under the impression that they were going to sit here and discuss the Wraxhall matter, and really Jack ought to waste no time in disabusing him of that notion.

But instead Jack kept looking. A man this handsome was a rare pleasure to admire up close. He was younger than Jack had first thought— somewhere between five-and-twenty and thirty. Perhaps five years younger than Jack himself.

Yet he looked tired. Worn out. For God's sake, his coat was all but falling off him, despite obviously having been well-tailored at one point. “Shouldn't you be home, resting your leg?” Such a question might just be rude enough to send Rivington packing, and besides, Jack couldn't remember the last time he had seen a gentleman in such clear need of sleep and a decent meal.

Rivington opened his mouth as if to say something cutting but then gave a short, unamused huff of laughter. “If only rest worked.” He didn't seem offended by Jack's rudeness. He was, Jack realized, likely a good-natured fellow. He had arrived here in a pique of anger— and likely pain— that had since worn off. Now he had the wrung-out look of someone exhausted by an unaccustomed emotion. Jack would guess that Rivington was not a hot-tempered man. And now he was contemplating his walking stick with something that looked like resignation bordering on dread.

“They always keep the letters,” Jack said quickly, before he could remind himself that he ought to be ordering this man to go home, not engaging him in conversation.

When Rivington looked up, something flashed across his face that could have passed for relief. “Sentiment, I suppose.”

Jack stepped backwards and sat on the edge of his desk to preserve the advantage of height. “I tend to think people hang on to love letters in the event they might choose to blackmail the sender.” But then again, he never did quite expect the best from people. Maybe the lady was simply being sentimental, but in Jack's experience of human nature, people were more likely to plot and connive than they were to indulge in sentiment. Jack's experience with humanity was admittedly a trifle skewed, however.

Rivington's eyes opened wide with disbelief. “I knew a man who couldn't bring himself to sell his father's watch, even though he had creditors banging on his door at all hours. But he kept the watch because he couldn't bear to part with it. It may be the same with your Mrs. Wraxhall.”

Jack shrugged. “Could be.” Never having had a parent who inspired any feelings of tenderness or loyalty, or indeed any sentiment at all beyond a resentment that lingered years after their deaths, Jack mentally substituted his sister for Rivington's example. What if Sarah had a brooch or some other trinket— would Jack hesitate to sell it in the event of a financial emergency? He doubted it. Sarah would be the first person to tell him to sell all her brooches if need be. If she had any, which she did not.

“What will you do to recover the letters?” Rivington stretched one leg before him and started rubbing the outside of his knee.

Jack knew he ought to send the man on his way, but found that he didn't want to. Not quite yet. Maybe it was the dreariness of the day. Maybe it was the fact that this man clearly needed to rest his injured leg. Maybe it was simply that it had been a long time since Jack had been able to discuss his work with anyone. Sarah thought— correctly— that Jack's work was too sordid to be discussed. Georgie never sat still long enough to have an entire conversation. And nobody else in all of London was to be trusted.

Or, hell, maybe he just wanted to spend fifteen bloody minutes enjoying the sight of this man, appreciating the way the slope of his nose achieved the perfect angle, the way his eyes shone a blue so bright they likely made the sky itself look cheap by comparison. How often did Jack get an opportunity to admire anyone half so fine?

He pulled open the top drawer of his desk. “Care for a drink, Captain Rivington?”

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“A
ny day, bro.”

Grant McQuaid did a few ballistic stretches and picked up the football he'd brought along with him, tossing it toward Jackson, knowing his brother wouldn't turn down a quick game.

“How's that arm of yours?”

Jackson shrugged. “I guess that depends on your point of reference. I'm no Miles.”

He meant Aaron Miles, the starting quarterback for the Mustangs, and the guy who'd rallied the team, taking them to the playoffs last year. The same game where Grant had sustained his last concussion, the one that might have ended his career. He crushed the thought before it sank in. He was
going
to play this season, there was no room for doubt.

“Let's see what you've got.” He jogged down field from Jackson, effortlessly catching the ball. Grant had been a decent receiver in high school but his size had made the transition to running back a no-brainer in college.

The two of them played catch for the better part of an hour while Grant tried to ignore the people beginning to crowd under several of the shady trees nearby, watching. It wasn't unusual to see at training camp but here, in his hometown, he hated being a spectacle. He couldn't walk down the street without someone pointing, staring or asking for an autograph. Here he just wanted to be Grant, not Grant McQuaid, starting running back for the Memphis Mustangs.

“Last one,” Jackson called, lobbing the ball down the field for a Hail Mary pass.

Grant went long, sprinting to make the catch. He was damned if he was going to look like a fool with this many people watching. It wasn't until the last second he heard the child's yell and the woman's voice calling for him to “Look out!”

“I've got it!” the boy yelled as he reached into the sky, a broad grin plastered across his face.

Grant glanced away from the ball in time to see the little boy run directly into his path.

B
ethany couldn't watch. She'd looked away from James for two seconds to find a napkin in her purse to wipe away the ice cream dripping over his hands and the next thing she knew, she was chasing after him as he ran directly into the path of the two men playing catch. She should have known better than to believe James would sit still when someone was playing football.

The man who'd gone out for the pass barely flinched before he leapt over her son's head as if he was no more than a small hurdle, clearing James' outstretched hands by at least six inches.

Holy crap!

James might be small for his age but that was incredible, to say the least. A few of the other spectators agreed and began to applaud as the man caught the ball and jogged back toward James, tossing it to him gently as he came close. She watched him go to one knee in front of James and place a massive hand on his shoulder. She tried to fight down the overprotective instinct rising up in her. He obviously wasn't going to hurt James after he'd just, miraculously, avoided crashing into him. She caught up to where the pair were chatting like old friends.

“I'm so sorry.” She gasped for breath, cursing the sandals she'd worn and her lack of aerobic exercise since moving to town. “I looked away and he'd taken off.” She squatted down to James and grasped his shoulders. “What in the world were you thinking? You could have been hurt, badly. If this man hadn't seen you—”

“It's no problem, ma'am. He's just keeping me on my toes and prepared for anything.” He smiled at James and gave him a wink before turning his deep chocolate brown gaze on her.

He rose slowly, unfolding his tall frame, to tower above her, leaving her eye level with his bared, sweaty chest. Bethany felt her mouth go dry, unable to speak even if she was able to get her brain functioning again, which it didn't seem inclined to do.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Excerpt from
Intercepting Daisy
copyright © 2016 by Julie Revell Benjamin.

Excerpt from
Mixing Temptation
copyright © 2016 by Sara Jane Stone.

Excerpt from
The Soldier's Scoundrel
copyright © 2016 by Cat Sebastian.

Excerpt from
Making the Play
copyright © 2016 by Tina Klinesmith.

WHEN A MARQUESS LOVES A WOMAN
. Copyright © 2016 by Vivienne Lorret. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.

EPub Edition OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780062446350

Print Edition ISBN: 9780062446374

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