Struck by her insight and calm, his brows drew together. She had always possessed composure, now it was something more. She had matured far beyond her years since he’d been gone. He keenly felt the loss of time with her and wished, not for the first time, that he’d returned sooner. “I have to think him a very stupid man who would try to win you by disparaging your intellect.”
Phoebe laughed softly. “Yes, there is that. Strangely enough, he would not be the first to try that particular approach.”
“Indeed?”
“It’s not really very complicated, though it may well be convoluted.” Phoebe smiled. “Men like Lord Travenor, who try to ‘disparage my intellect’ as you put it, have noticed that the gentlemen who make up my court respect my opinions and do not try to woo me. Therefore, those men attempt the opposite. Of course, none of them would ever respect a female’s opinion over his own.”
She paused and glanced out at the moonlight and continued in a wistful, bittersweet tone, “I don’t know how it was, but even though I discouraged my usual court’s romantic pretensions, we have remained friends. I suppose one would now call them my
chevaliers.
”
Marcus had never wished more that he’d behaved differently with her. It may not have stopped his father from banishing him, but perhaps she would have married him long ago. “Rutherford warned me not to try to kiss you as you had the most punishing right.”
An interested twinkle appeared in her eye. “How did you respond?”
Though Marcus didn’t remember either of them moving, he would swear they were now standing closer together. “I told him I knew and that you had a very sharp tongue as well.”
Phoebe smiled teasingly. “It is well for you that you remember, my lord.”
He frowned. “How many men have you had to hit?”
Her brows flew up in surprise. “Oh. What a question to ask. During my first couple of seasons, too many. Of late, only a couple. Word must have got around.”
They stood quietly for a moment, once again staring into each other’s eyes. His gaze dropped to her lips. They were definitely nearer, and even though he was too late to have protected her in the past, he’d do it now.
Would Lord Marcus kiss her? Phoebe’s lips tingled as if they, on their own, wanted contact with his. Her breathing quickened. She felt as if she were on a cliff, about to jump off. “Would you like to kiss me?”
“I would very much like to kiss you.” He grinned. “Are you going to hit me if I do?”
He didn’t wait for her answer before placing his hands on her waist and drawing her the last few inches to him. Phoebe went willingly. Her breasts were almost touching him, his heat radiated through her. She rested her hands on his chest, reveling in the feeling of hard muscles beneath her palms. How strong he was. As he had the last time, his lips touched hers. She sighed at the warm, feather-like touch. Responding slowly, returning his pressure, she would never have imagined she’d knowingly allow Lord Marcus Finley to hold her.
His lips firmed on hers, urging her to continue, this was better than the last time. As their mouths merged, Phoebe’s skin warmed where the heat of Marcus’s hands touched her through her thin silk gown, sending shivers of delight through her body.
Oh, how could she crave these sensations so much? It seemed as if their last time together made her anticipate this one and the excitement she’d had, the feelings she now desired in spite of her fears. His body tightened in response to her, lightning coursed through her veins, and her heart pounded so hard Phoebe was surprised no one could hear it. She pressed her mouth against his, responding to his intoxicating, addictive lips, as they moved firm and warm on hers. Putting one hand on his face, she leaned forward to caress the dark sable waves at his neck, but couldn’t reach and tried to remove all the space between them.
He held her tightly in place. “No.”
“But I want to put my arms around you.”
He groaned. “Trust me. It’s too soon.”
Never had Marcus enjoyed such an innocent kiss so much. Phoebe’s lips were soft and offered a tantalizing hint of champagne and honey, her hair smelled of citrus and something else he couldn’t place. He ached to draw her into his arms as he responded to her hand moving on his chest, scorching him through the fabric of his waistcoat and shirt. He yearned to feel her soft curves against his.
His need for her raged, urging him to pull her into him, to brand her, make her his. But despite his desire or perhaps because of it, he kept his hands on her waist.
Marcus wanted more than her kisses. He wanted all of her forever.
He hid a groan as he fought the urge to take her further. Not now, not yet, not here. Marcus finally realized they’d been gone long enough.
Deliberately, reluctantly, he broke the kiss, lifting his head.
Phoebe’s gaze was questioning as she stared up at him.
“We’ve been gone long enough.”
She blinked. “Oh, yes, of course. Strange, it didn’t feel that long.”
He tried to keep the smugness from his smile and bent his head, taking her lips one last time. His lingered as if to make their touch last until they could be alone again.
Phoebe put her hand on his arm. He covered it with his own, and they strolled back to the doors.
“Is that what you wanted to do at Lady W’s house?” she asked tentatively.
He was without humor. “What I wanted then doesn’t bear thinking of. I don’t blame you at all for knocking me down. You were completely right to do both. That day changed me. You changed me.”
She flushed, then said with a twinkle in her eyes, “You are not at all troll-like now. You have changed, or I wouldn’t have kissed you.”
Marcus stifled a laugh. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an incorrigible imp?”
Phoebe’s eyes widened. “No, am I? How nice. So much better than boring.”
“You? Boring? Unlikely.”
She smiled. “Will you come to St. Eth House to-morrow morning at ten o’clock?”
Still in the morning. At least she’d asked him to come. “I’d be delighted.”
When he’d arrived at the party that evening, Lord Thaddeus Travenor had stood against a wall, staring across the ballroom at Lady Phoebe. Now that he was a lord, he vowed he’d have her. There had been no hope before. Travenor’s father had been held to have married far below his station and he wasn’t the first one to do so. That side of the family had not been considered by the rest of the Tra-venors to be very genteel, frequently marrying into the merchant and gentlemen farmer classes in the area around Bristol. Despite that, Thaddeus had still managed to become heir to his cousin.
He snagged a glass of champagne from a footman. The first time he’d had it, he’d almost spit the drink out. Why in the bloody hell couldn’t port or brandy be served? He smiled. Four months previously, the former Lord Travenor’s body had been found with his throat slit. Mr. Thaddeus Travenor had inherited the title to the minor barony. There had been quite a bit of speculation as to why Baron Jonathan Travenor, a well-liked Pink of the Ton, was in Whitecastle, in the early morning hours, but Thaddeus was not going to enlighten them on his “beloved” cousin’s last moments. The man died as he deserved.
Thaddeus had first seen Lady Phoebe in Bond Street over two years ago. When he’d inquired about her, the baron had laughed at him. She, Jonathan told Thaddeus, had spurned suitors with far greater rank and much greater address than Thaddeus would ever have.
Jonathan’s lip curled in scorn as he’d said, “It would be worse than Beauty and the Beast, at least the Beast had manners.” The baron refused to introduce Thaddeus to Lady Phoebe or, indeed, foist him upon any of Polite Society, despite Thaddeus’s position as the heir. The remarks were Baron Jonathan Travenor’s final words.
Thaddeus wanted Lady Phoebe and he didn’t care how he got her, so long as he did. He wanted her creamy skin under his hands and to feel her body beneath his. He fantasized about her until his obsession grew to the point where he’d tried to abduct Lady Phoebe. But the attempt failed.
How was he to have known that she, a gently bred lady, would be so handy with a pistol? He’d got away with a ball in him, but fortunately he’d worn a mask. Still she hadn’t dissuaded him. In fact, he wanted her more, desired her more after she’d shot him than before.
He knew how to treat a woman who tried to fight back, as he had no doubt she would. She’d be on her knees, naked. Rubbing his fingers together, he could almost feel her soft skin, and the silky texture of her hair. All women were whores at heart, and he’d school her, using the whip if he had to. He imagined her taking him into her hot mouth. Travenor’s groin grew hard, and he downed the champagne.
Thaddeus had managed to join Lady Phoebe’s circle, but struggled to keep his face calm when he was introduced to Lord Marcus Finley, the man who’d ruined him. He scowled. Lord Marcus would rue the day he was born if he thought he’d steal Lady Phoebe. That prig had taken one treasure from him, causing Thaddeus years of suffering, having to make and scrape. He wasn’t going to give Lord Marcus a chance to take another prize.
Lady Phoebe was Travenor’s, her money and her body, even if she didn’t know it yet. He’d burned with rage when Lord Marcus walked off with her.
After grabbing another glass of wine, Thaddeus moved out onto the terrace. He had heard Lady Phoebe had never been kissed. Maybe it was because none of these
gentlemen
were men at all. Travenor glanced around. There were plenty of people, but no Lady Phoebe. Suddenly something sparkled at the far end of the veranda, and Lady Phoebe and Lord Marcus were walking toward the doors.
Lord Travenor’s fists clenched and he started to shake with fury. He narrowed his eyes and was having a hard time keeping his face schooled in the calm, slightly bored expression he’d learned to assume in Polite Society. Something had happened between them. He stepped back into the room, and when Lady Phoebe entered, her lips were swollen, and her cheeks flushed. Well kissed and possibly more. He’d have to start making his move to get her soon.
Phoebe thought of nothing but Marcus during the carriage ride home. About his kisses, and her contradictory feelings, how they were changing, or were they? Once in the house, Ester signaled Phoebe to follow her to the parlor.
“Tea, my dear?” Ester asked.
“Yes, please, Aunt Ester.”
Her aunt appeared troubled. “Phoebe, who was that short, rather undistinguished gentleman who joined your group this evening? I did not care for his look.”
“Oh, Lord Travenor,” Phoebe responded, waiting for her aunt to come to the point. “He spent most of his time denigrating my opinions and views. Did you know, Aunt Ester, that we poor creatures cannot possibly have a rational thought unless it was put there by a male?”
Ester gasped. “He dared not say that to you?”
Phoebe’s eyes sparkled. “Indeed he did. His manners are atrocious. He joined us without benefit of an introduction. Rutherford and the others defended me, of course. The most outrageous part was, after being so stupid as to say what he did, he asked blithely if I would like a stroll on the terrace.”
“What a very stupid man, to be sure. And very bad
ton
.”
“Yes, indeed, I told him what Uncle Henry told me when you first began taking me to political parties. That he should listen more than talk.” She paused. “Then I asked Lord Marcus to escort me for a walk on the terrace.”
Aunt Ester gazed at Phoebe over the rim of her tea-cup. “I see. Did you enjoy your stroll with Lord Marcus?”
She would not tell her aunt they’d kissed, and she tried to stamp down the heat rising in her face. “It was very pleasant. We walked the length of the terrace and . . . talked.”
Ester gazed suspiciously at Phoebe as she lost her fight against her reddening cheeks. Her aunt must have suspected they had done more than converse.
Phoebe was relieved when Aunt Ester merely asked, “Do you meet him again in the morning?”
“Yes, he will be here at ten o’clock.”
“My dear, do you know how you feel about him yet?”
Phoebe looked down. She never should have allowed him to kiss her, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “I don’t know. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by his awareness of political issues. He’s very intelligent and interested in my opinions.”
“Do you see him now in a more favorable light?”
Phoebe glanced at her aunt. “I just don’t know. If it were not for that memory of the way he treated me before, I would”—she paused—“it would not be so difficult to decide how I feel. When I’m with him, it’s different somehow. When he’s not there, I remember the way he was, then I don’t know what to do.”
Ester leaned forward and patted Phoebe’s arm. “Well, it is early days yet, my love. I understand your memories of him are not pleasant. That said, you must answer the question for yourself. Is it fair—to either of you—for you to ignore the man he is now, in derision of the youth he was?”
Phoebe frowned. “Yes, I see what you are saying. I wish I knew of a way to—to banish the memories from my mind.”
Her aunt sat back and picked up her cup. “What other plans do you have for to-morrow? There is a drawing room at Lady Thornhill’s. Would you like to join me?”
Grateful her aunt changed the subject, Phoebe responded, “Yes indeed, I always enjoy her gatherings. I have always thought that I would someday like to be like Lady Thornhill. She is such a famous bluestocking, and her drawing rooms include quite an amazing group of diverse people including artists, writers, politicians, and anarchists.”