His brother had shown his face at dinner, but as soon as the dancing and revelry began, he disappeared. They had decided that since Marcus was quickly becoming a face in the Ton, his face had to be seen, at least for a little while. Meanwhile, Byrne took up a post at the far end of the room, his cane serving as the perfect excuse to avoid dancing, and also closest to the door that, as Marcus had discovered last evening, led to a staircase to Lord Hampshire’s private library, where he kept his safe.
Marcus had intended to dance a few times before approaching Phillippa. Be casual and at ease when he did so. He did not expect her to immediately come up to him.
“Mrs. Benning,” Marcus said on a bow. She curtsied perfunctorily in return, before bursting into speech.
“Marcus—Mr. Worth, I’ve been trying to find you for ages—”
“Really? I’m not that hard to find. I was in the dining room, if you recall.”
“I meant, I’ve been trying to
speak
to you for ages. This afternoon, I—”
“I was hoping to speak to you, too,” he interrupted her. “I didn’t think the dance floor was the best place to do it, but . . . Last night, I was rude and had no right to tread on your priva—”
“Marcus, I don’t care about that. For the love of God, I saw Sterling with a stranger this afternoon!”
That gave him pause.
The music had started again, the dancers moving through a quadrille with verve, and pressing Marcus and Phillippa farther into those lined on the sides.
He sought out his brother’s eyes across the room and found them. Willing Byrne to understand the situation, he was afforded a raised eyebrow and a short nod, acknowledging that he would stay at his post. Marcus nodded back.
“Come on,” he said. Grabbing her gloved hand, he pulled her through the laughing dancers, dodging raised arms and double steps as they made their way to the main entrance to the ballroom.
“Marcus—” Phillippa cried as she trotted to keep up with his long gait. “Everyone will see!”
“The quickest way out is through,” he replied, glancing at her over his shoulder. She was holding up her skirts with one hand and clasping his with the other. The flush of exertion made her eyes glow, and Marcus had to snap his head back around to keep from stopping altogether.
Once they had cleared the ballroom (turning no small number of heads as they did so), Marcus wound his way to the front of the house, finding a piece of statuary—in the shape of a rearing thoroughbred, of course—to afford them a small amount of privacy.
“Now,” Marcus said, turning to face her, “you saw Sterling.”
“And a stranger,” she added breathlessly.
“And a stranger—at the races?” he inquired.
“No, during the races, at the main stables. The stranger—he was dressed like a farmer, but I don’t think he was a farmer, because why would Sterling be alone with a farmer?” she said, spewing forth the pent-up story with a pace that marked it as something other than human speech. “And his accent—I heard him speak with an English accent, but you told me Laurent could mimic it . . . They were alone, you see. The stable lads must have gone to watch the main race, and it was just me and Bitsy and Letty, and then they were there and then I had to hide and my Madame Le Trois got so muddy, it’s completely ruined, and I know she’ll never make me another one—”
At this point, Marcus decided that for Phillippa to tell him what she wanted to, she would simply have to stop talking.
Quickly but gently, Marcus stepped closer to Phillippa, placed one hand on her waist and the other across her mouth.
Her large blue eyes sought his, questioning. He met her gaze, calm, and (he hoped) reassuring. “Take a deep breath,” he told her, and she did so, her lips moving against his hand. “Now, exhale,” he instructed, and warm, moist air met his palm.
“Good,” he soothed, removing his hand as he did so. “Now, they were at the stables?”
She nodded.
“During the races?”
“Yes, and the stables were empty.” She kept her voice modulated, serene.
“You’re certain it was Sterling?”
“Well, of course! He was wearing that mill gray coat and buff trousers and the top hat that is two inches too tall for his frame—”
“That will do,” Marcus interrupted, before she could get carried away again. He took another deep breath. She took the hint and inhaled deeply as well. “Can you describe the stranger?” Marcus asked, not allowing any anticipation to enter his voice.
“He . . . had light hair. A thin frame. I didn’t get a good look at his face,” she looked thoughtful for a moment. “He was dressed like the local farmers. A straw hat, he had a satchel on his back—oh, Marcus! The satchel!”
Her grip tightened on his hand as her eyes went wide. “They heard me, but they didn’t see me. I went to hide, and then, I saw them walking off, and the satchel—he didn’t have it when he left!”
The main stables—of course. If the satchel was left behind on purpose, it could be . . .
“When will the fireworks start?” he asked abruptly.
“Ah, probably midnight—within the hour,” she replied, perplexed.
“Phillippa,” he pulled her to him, gripped her shoulders. “I’m going to the stables. Stay here, tell Byrne where I’ve gone and to keep an eye on Sterling.”
“What?” she cried. “No, I’m coming with you.”
“Phillippa, it could be dangerous,” he countered, his thumb massaging the fine silk of her dress.
“Marcus, I know, and believe me, I’d rather not walk straight into danger, but the main stables—they’re massive. You’ll never find the satchel in the dark without me.”
He moved his hand to caress her neck, her jawline. “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.” And he turned away.
Of course, Phillippa Benning wasn’t one to leave well enough alone. Catching up to him as he headed out the front doors of the Hampshires’ manor house, he discovered a strong grip latched to his wrist.
“Rotten luck, Mr. Worth,” Phillippa said, catching up to him. “You’re not rid of me that easily.”
Marcus knew he had a choice. He could escort her back the ballroom and force Totty or Broughton to take hold of her. He could take her upstairs and lock her in her room. But truth be told, he didn’t have the time to waste for the former, and he highly suspected that if he attempted the latter, he’d lock himself in with her. And knowing his options were limited, Marcus did the only thing he could.
He prayed.
“God save me from meddlesome females,” he said, rolling his eyes heavenward, and took off for the main stables, Phillippa keeping pace beside him.
It was over a mile of winding path to the main stables from the manor house, and the quickest way to get there was through the rear, past the fountained gardens, beyond the twelve-foot-tall hedge maze that had grown since the Stuart era. Several couples had sought the cool night air of the grounds as opposed to the oppressive heat of the ballroom, and knowing this was a possibility, Lady Hampshire had thoughtfully lit the gardens and hedge maze with sconces, allowing the illusion of respectability but really casting only darker shadows than before.
Marcus and Phillippa skirted the edge of the gardens, keeping out of the light and out of other couples’ way as much as possible. They avoided the hedge maze and its amorous occupants altogether by cutting through the paddocks, Marcus quick to point out the animals’ leavings to the careful-stepping Phillippa.
“Just over that rise,” Phillippa whispered, her voice barely above the hum of the party, faded in the distance. “And then it should be to the right.”
Marcus followed Phillippa’s directions, took them over another paddock fence on the rise of the hill, and then discovered the Hampshires’ main stables.
Phillippa was right; they were massive, Marcus thought, and he squeezed her hand as they made their way to the structure.
“It houses all Lord Hampshire’s best horseflesh,” Phillippa said, reading his thoughts, “when they’re not racing, or outfitting a brigade, that is. He has room for over a hundred.”
As they crept closer to the building, Phillippa drew his attention to a number of water barrels lined up against the building. “I hid behind those when they came looking for me.”
Marcus eyed the barrels and the tiny space between them and the building.
“You wedged yourself in there?” he asked, incredulous.
She drew herself up, as if affronted. “I’m quite slender, you know. I can fit in a number of small spaces.”
“Yes,” he grinned, “like already occupied sarcophagi.”
She punched him weakly on the shoulder for that but smiled. He grinned down at her, and for a moment, he forgot his purpose.
Damn, he thought, shaking it off and moving silently around the building to the main door, every time she smiled at him, he lost his focus. And that could not happen. Certainly not now.
The stable door was unlocked, but pushing it in was a frightening experience, the hinges squeaking with every inch. Once he had it wide enough to accommodate his long frame, he slipped through. Phillippa followed, and after some silent debate, they left the door open to facilitate their escape and avoid squeaking.
Two long rows of stalls, housing the finest in English horseflesh, lined the long building. No light came from the tack room or the rafters, where the stableboys kept their cots. Since fireworks were expected, and their chores done for the day, obviously they went out to watch. Marcus worried that one or two might have stayed behind, but no one emerged as Phillippa and Marcus made their way into the darkened stables.
“All right,” Marcus whispered, turning to Phillippa. “Where were they standing?”
She made to move down the row, but something had him stopping her, taking her arm and holding her still.
He pressed a finger to his lips, urging her silent and then listening to the night air, silent except for a few snores from the building’s tenants.
Nothing.
He was about to release her, when suddenly, he heard a creak issue from the stable doors, the crunch of booted feet on fresh hay. And Marcus did the only thing he could think of. He took Phillippa and ran toward the far end of the stables. There, he threw her into a shadowed corner, pushed her up against a wall, and hid as much of her distinctively dressed body as he could with his own.
He heard the feminine giggle before Phillippa did, he was certain. It was matched by an amorous tenor, who spoke low, in a working-class accent.
“George said the lads would be watchin’ the pretty lights from the field, so we are all alone.”
The girl giggled again. “Gor, I’ve been waitin’ to get you to mi’self all this weekend . . .”
Marcus heard their footsteps coming closer, their breathless murmurs. He had to find the device. These two servants couldn’t be here. And he could think of only one way to get them to leave.
Phillippa’s hand was resting gently on his shoulder, her body pressed against the length of his. Her eyes sought out his in the dark, locking on with a question as she listened to the approaching couple.
And that fight that had been twisting through his body for days, weeks, was finally lost.
“Forgive me,” he mouthed in silence, as his lips descended to hers.
Nineteen
H
EAT. It drugged him, lured him. She drugged him. When his mouth met hers, she opened to him immediately, as if she, too, had been thinking of this.
Dreaming of this.
His tongue slid tantalizingly over her lips, beyond the barrier of her teeth to mate with hers. The moment they touched, every nerve of his body dazzled awake. She let out the softest sigh, as if she were drifting down from the sky and more than happy about it. Urging him forward.
His mind knew that he was taking advantage of the situation. But the blood coursing through his veins did not care.
He pressed her back into the corner, his hand coming up to embrace her head, caress the skin at the nape of her neck—
oh, that skin
—the other hand at her waist, kneading her soft flesh, working its way up, to cup her breast, graze the hardened peak of her nipple.
She squealed at this intimate touch, but pressed into his hand, begged for more. And he was more than willing to give it.
As his thigh nudged its way between her legs, his thumb dipped below her scandalously low neckline, brushing against the nubbed evidence of her arousal.
At that, she broke the kiss, gasping. Marcus moved his mouth to her neck, her ear, her collarbone, murmuring his adoration against her skin. Clasped as she was against him, holding onto him for dear life, he was lost to all other thought, all other sounds.
It must have been Phillippa’s gasps, the little breathless sighs that clouded his mind, that drew the attention of the other occupants of the stables. The girl spoke first.
“What was—oh,” she cried, her footfalls stopping short. Marcus broke off his attentions from Phillippa’s earlobe to glare menacingly over his shoulder. There he met the eyes of the young man, giving silent warning to stay away. He nudged Phillippa a little farther into the shadows, praying that she was hidden enough to not be recognized.
The young footman—as his unbuttoned uniform informed him to be—apparently was wise enough to leave trysting gentry alone and quickly tugged at his ladylove’s hand.
“Come on, Sal,” he said, hiding the smirk in his voice. “I know a better spot for us, under the old oak tree.”
As he pulled her away, Marcus could hear the rushed whispers between the two. But Marcus didn’t care what they gossiped about. As soon as their footsteps fell away and the squeak of the stable door signaled their exit, he turned to look back at Phillippa.
Her lips were swollen and reddened from his assault. Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes shining bright in the darkness. She looked up at him expectantly, waiting. For him to move toward her, or to move away?