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She caught her breath and stepped back slightly, still feeling the solidity of his broad chest against hers. “I get the feeling that you dance your way out of trouble often, Mr.—”
He bowed deeply, still balancing the glasses in one hand. “Marbrook, at your service, milady.”
Phoebe laughed again and curtsied. “My thanks, sir knight. I am no lady, however. My name is Phoebe Millbury, of Thornton.”
He straightened with a grin. “Might I offer you a glass, Phoebe Millbury of Thornton?”
She eyed the glass dubiously. “Proper young ladies do not drink champagne.”
“Proper young ladies don’t douse the ballroom in it, either.”
She shuddered. “Don’t remind me.” She took the glass. “I suppose I’m already in enough trouble this evening.” She sipped it. “Oh, that’s rather nice!” She took another, larger sip.
“Whoa, there.” He took the glass from her. “You might want to wait a moment, since you’ve never had it before.”
It fizzled delightfully going down and warmed her stomach. Suddenly the incident in the ballroom seemed less deadly and more amusing. She giggled. “Did you see their faces?”
He shook his head. “Two sips and she’s gone.” He tossed the rest of her glass over the railing. “You, Miss Millbury, are what we gentlemen would call a ‘lightweight.’”
She curtsied. “My thanks for your timely rescue, Mr. Marbrook. It was very nice to meet you, but I ought not to be out here alone with you.”
“You’re not going back in there, are you? Lady Tessa looked thoroughly frightening.”
She hesitated. “You know my aunt?”
He grimaced. “Everyone knows Lady Tessa. I only wonder what Lady Rochester might have done to be blackmailed into inviting Lady Tessa this evening.”
She gazed at him with one brow raised. “I ought to defend my aunt. She has taken a great deal of trouble to launch me in Society.”
He smiled, the corners of his mouth crinkling. “Launch? Like a rocket, to rain destruction on innocent ballrooms everywhere?”
She shook her head, a rueful grin slipping through her arch pose. “No, I fear I did that all by myself.”
“I am partly to blame. I startled you—though not half as much as your … examination startled me.”
She went very still, her gaze frozen on his face. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said testily.
“Yes, you do. It is only fair that I have my turn.”
Her brows crinkled slightly. “You’re an odd man, Mr. Marbrook.”
He smiled. “Hold still.”
She did so obediently, but he could sense her fingers twining nervously behind her back. She wasn’t as cool as she’d like to pretend.
She was a pretty girl … but not an exceptionally beautiful one. Her fair hair shimmered in the moonlight, the many different colors combining to defy categorization. Was she blond or brunette? It was a mess, part falling down, part twisted up high to show off her neck and rounded shoulders. It was mutinous hair, as if her inner rebellion could not be truly contained.
In the ballroom, he’d been struck by the blue of her wide, vulnerable eyes—like a hazy summer’s day—but in the moonlight they washed almost clear to sparkle like diamonds as she gazed up at him.
He tipped a finger to her chin, absorbing the delicacy of her features one by one. Her lips were sweet and curved rather than his usual preference for full and sensual and her chin tended toward pointed. She was stubborn, he’d wager.
She reminded Rafe of a porcelain doll—if porcelain dolls came outfitted with stunning bosoms. If they had, he might have been inclined to play with them a bit more in his curious boyhood.
“Well, do I pass inspection, sir?”
Don’t kiss the pretty girl. The pretty girl likely has friends in high places and a papa with a pistol.
Do
not
kiss the pretty girl.
Unless perchance he could convince the pretty girl to kiss
him
…
He decided to chance it. He leaned close, putting his lips close to her ear. “You know, I’m told I’m quite good at making rockets explode.”
“Oomph.” A small fist made forceful contact with his waistcoat.
She tossed her head. “You’re not
that
handsome.”
He stepped back, grinning and rubbing at his stomach, his estimation of her moral fiber strengthened. Right, then. No jaded, innuendo-laden Society banter for this lady. “I suppose I deserved that.”
She was shaking her hand from the sting of the blow. “Indeed. That was beneath you. I have a very heroic view of you. Do not spoil it.”
Heroic? There was no reason for the spread of warmth in his belly. The opinion of a silly debutante mattered not at all.
Although she did look fine in the moonlight, bosom high and shoulders back, the light of battle in her eye. And that shot to the stomach—that had been no playful slap. She’d meant every bit of it. Apparently, country girls from Thornton struck hard.
He bowed deeply. “My apologies, Miss Millbury. I was much too bold.” When her defensive stance eased, he gave her his most charming smile. “Where is this Thornton, that it breeds such warrior damsels? It sounds a harsh place—Thorn Town.”
She smiled back, as if she could not resist. She would not be the first.
“On the contrary. It is said that it was named when a long-ago king rode by with his entourage of knights one
winter’s day and called the valley ‘a worthless briar patch.’ As a jest, he gave it to his least valued knight on the spot.”
“Ouch.”
She smiled. “Ah, but that is not the entire story. When the poor knight returned to his valley in the spring, he was stunned by the beauty and scent of the landscape, perfumed by many thousands of roses left to grow wild by some chance of wind and storm. Since he did not wish his capricious king to take it back, he named his manor Thornhold and the village he built for his cottagers Thorn Town. The king and his court never deigned to visit, and so never knew that he had given his lowest knight one of the most beautiful portions of England.”
She was quite transformed as she spoke. Her voice took on a dreamy quality and her eyes grew soft. Rafe found himself utterly captivated.
“A fanciful tale.” He kept his voice low, so as not to break the spell.
She continued to gaze somewhere far away. “Indeed. I used to imagine that I was the lady of Thornhold, won by the clever knight from the king’s favorite, and brought to the manor in the dark of a midsummer night. When I awoke, I looked from my marriage bedchamber out to a sea of roses and swore to my love that I would keep the secret forever.”
He chuckled. “Put a lot of thought into that, did you?”
She pursed her lips slightly, but he thought he detected a twist of humor there.
“Well, there is a variation where the king’s favorite comes to steal me back and I am taken away from Thornhold in the dead of winter and the roses never bloom again.”
He laughed, delighted by the fancy. “And if you do not return to Thornhold now, will there be no more rosewater for the baths of Thornton?”
She laughed and a pleasant sensation warmed the pit of Rafe’s stomach. On impulse, he wrapped his hands about her waist and swept her up to stand upon the bench.
She gasped and teetered. “Mr. Marbrook!”
Once she steadied, he released her and made a flourishing bow. “O, Lady of the Roses, I am but a humble knight, scorned by my king. But I have a valley of exquisite beauty beknownst only to me. I shall bestow this valley, which fades next to your own beauteous glow, if you will only grant me your love!”
She gazed at him, wide-eyed, until he thought he must have mistaken her nature and shocked her too deeply with his actions. Then a smile teased her lips before she donned a haughty mien. “Who are you, lowly sir, to offer nothing but a tangled bramble patch and expect a wife?”
“It is not a bramble patch, lady fair, but the garden of Eden itself.”
She lifted her chin disdainfully. “And in this valley of roses, would you expect me to be your lady or your chattel? Would I be allowed a mind of my own, sir knight?” Her gaze became distant. He had the feeling she was somewhere else entirely for a moment. “Would I be chastised for being myself?” she said softly. “Must I keep hidden behind a mask of others’ making?”
Her words resonated against something old and raw within him.
Hidden behind a mask of others’ making.
Yes, he knew what that was like.
“No,” he whispered. “There, my lady is a queen in her own right. There, my lady can do no wrong.” He pretended to pull something from inside his coat and presented it with a bow. “I offer you a single rose from my valley—for one of my roses is worth a hundred of any other in everlasting splendor.”
A dreamy expression replaced the haughty one as if Miss Phoebe Millbury entirely forgot the role she played.
“Everlasting splendor,” she repeated softly. She reached to take the flower, and in the moment when their fingertips touched, Rafe could have almost sworn that something did actually bloom between them.
Nonsense. He blinked, then stepped back, intentionally shattering the moment with a short laugh.
His abrupt motion caused Phoebe’s balance to shift. The sole of her soft dancing slipper skidded on the dew-dampened bench and she began to topple into his arms.
The dark-eyed knight—er, gentleman—caught her easily, taking her breath away with the ready swiftness of his strong arms. One instant she was on her way to an embarrassing sprawl on the stones of the terrace, the next she had two large hands wrapped about her waist and her entire weight taken on a broad chest. Only one foot remained on the bench, on tiptoe at that, yet he smiled up at her astonished face as easily as if he carried a pillow—although she knew very well she was
not
stuffed with feathers!
Then it struck her—that spreading warmth, that humming of her nerves … that wonderful, dreamy, dangerous feeling that she’d thought she’d banished from her senses forever.
Again. I want to sin again … and again … and again …
She pushed her hands on his broad shoulders to lift her bosom away from his chest.
I will not be a creature of animal passions. I will be a …
His shoulders were rigid with muscle, hard and flexing beneath her palms. He would be a miracle of manliness without his shirt—like one of the workers of the fields when they thought no women were about …
Stop it!
Obviously a firm grip was needed, for she was …
She was sliding slowly down his long, hard body, inch by inch. Her softer flesh melted and molded to his as he
gradually lowered her to stand on her own. It was a lovely trip down, and over far too soon, although some part of her was aware that he’d intentionally drawn the entire process out to a vastly improper length.
He was being very bad. She was being much, much worse, for she was not only allowing it, she was enjoying it. He was big and handsome and he liked her—Phoebe, simply Phoebe.
Not the demure, perfectly behaved daughter of Mr. Millbury, the vicar. Not the scandal-waiting-to-happen girl who had spent the last ten years waiting for her secret to erupt and ruin her future forever. Not Aunt Tessa’s well-dressed creation at her first London ball.
Simply Phoebe.
“Marbrook.” She sighed his name, just like a heroine in one of those tawdry novels she wasn’t supposed to read.
Rafe’s mouth went a bit dry but he wasn’t complaining.
He stole a long, admiring glance down her décolletage, then found his gaze actually drawn back to her face. She truly did look like a milk-fed country girl who wouldn’t turn up her nose at a good pudding or a good laugh.
On the other hand, she was finely dressed and moreover, she was at Rochester’s ball, which meant she was neither common nor friendless.
It was past time to return Miss Phoebe to her chaperone. Yet, for some reason, he did nothing but remain where he was, standing a bit too close, with his hands about her waist, a bit too high, staring down at her as she stared back up at him.
Her blue gaze was like a cool clean pool, the sort that could wash away any sin.
“Are you a rake?” Her voice was husky in the quiet, yet the words rang loudly in his ears.
Rake.
He smiled slightly, despite the sudden and shamed
pounding of his heart.
A rake indeed.
Worse, actually.
I am a bastard.
Suddenly he had the overpowering urge to become precisely what she thought him—an honorable man with only the best of intentions.
But not yet. Right now he didn’t want this moment with Miss Millbury from Thornton to end. He tucked her closer into him, until his thighs pressed alongside hers and her breasts moved against his chest as she breathed.
Phoebe allowed it. After all, it wasn’t much closer than two might stand while dancing. She did not take offense.
When will you take offense? When he ravages you in the garden?
She hushed that thought, for it held the taint of the vicar’s voice. Besides, the opportunity of being ravaged in the garden by this man might be too interesting to pass up.
“Although that is probably the champagne talking,” she said out loud. “I am beginning to see why young ladies are not supposed to drink spirits. It does strange things to one’s guard.”
As in slaying it, beheading it, and burying it in the aforementioned garden. But no matter.
He crinkled his brow, not losing his smile. “I wish I was in on that conversation, but I fear I have no idea what you and the champagne are talking about.”
“The garden,” Phoebe informed him, opening her eyes to gaze up at him again. Goodness, wouldn’t she love to have this man stretched out in the flowers for her exploration? She sighed deeply. He did not hide his interest in her neckline, but it was only a rather politely admiring glance. His gaze came directly back to meet hers again.
“I see. Is it a fine garden or a poor one?”
Her eyes grew heavy-lidded as she let her gaze travel over his lips close to hers. “A very fine one. The finest.”
“Does it suit you, this garden you speak of?” His voice
deepened, betraying a hint of … vulnerability? “Do you like it?”
Her heart melted. “I like it above all others.” She longed to embrace him—nay, to sink into him like water spilled in desert sand. “I wish …” She bit her lip. “I wish it were mine.”
His gaze went to her lips and stayed there. “Do you truly want this garden to be yours?”
Oh, yes, please.
Her heart was both racing and at peace. It was an odd thing, to have found what one was looking for so desperately, when one didn’t even know one was looking.
Gazing up at him, at his fine clothing and dark hair and delicious mouth and the shadow of masculine cheek and jaw … The wrapping was quite perfect—including that posterior view, which still lingered in her mind’s eye—but it was something more that tugged at her as if he had her soul on a string.
His eyes. It was if she was looking into still water, only the self she saw was the half of her she’d been missing all the days of her life.
Magic. Old magic, like in those stories her cousin Sophie was always reading. “I believe I am bewitched,” she said huskily.
His eyes knew. “Are you?” he said.
She could not look away. It was as if he recognized her as well, as if he could see directly into her and always had.
The astonishing thought that followed was that she had the distinct impression that he liked what he saw. Which was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
Yet, the longer he held her gaze trapped in his—the longer the silence grew and blanketed them, isolating them in a moment out of time—the more she began to believe in the impossible.
In his eyes, she saw herself as beautiful and more. She felt understood, as if her very nature were bared to his observation and he saw no wickedness, no inherent flaw, no dark and decadent seed of sensuality—or at least if he did, he didn’t mind it one little bit.
His expression was one of acute fascination. It was as if she were the first woman he’d ever seen—which was nonsense. Only … it didn’t feel like nonsense. He seemed as surprised by her as she was by him.
Wouldn’t it be lovely if it—if he—were real?
Rafe couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, which made no sense. She was a mess, really, in that fine but unflattering dress, with her hair clumped into that unwieldy bun …
It would be long, perhaps to her buttocks. It would curl around his fingertips when he stroked his hands through it and dragged it forward to drape over her bare breasts …
Need hit him so hard he could scarcely draw a breath. Not lust—well, not simply lust, at any rate. It was
need,
much like the need for air, or water. He needed her, in all her sweet boldness, in all her clear-sighted wholesomeness, in order to go on.
But this was nonsense. There was no such thing as “the one.” There was no shortage of ladies eager to be his lover. Women surrounded him, glittering, stylish creatures with polish so perfect and hard that it seemed as though they had crystallized.
She was nothing like that, this country girl with the vulnerable eyes and the resolute chin. She was so unpolished that his fingers twitched with the urge to discover every rounded texture she possessed.
Before he knew what he was about, before he could stop the impulse—the
need
—his head tilted down to kiss her.
It wasn’t a real kiss—more of a breath of a touch, mouth to mouth, a sweet, nearly chaste brush of softness to
firmness. It wasn’t really a kiss—except in that it was a kiss that turned Phoebe’s entire world sideways forever.
His big hand came up to cup the back of her head and the not-kiss lingered. They stood, pressed together, their only movement the rising and falling of their chests, the pounding of their hearts.
He groaned aloud, then froze, as if hearing himself in surprise. He pulled back from her, his breath coming fast. “God!”
Phoebe was a bit breathless herself. She wrapped her arms about herself, feeling cold without him close. “The vicar would say that God had nothing to do with that … although I have always wondered if that were really true. I mean, if God created us and if we—”
He was looking at her oddly. “The vicar?”
Oh. Perhaps it was a bit early to bring up the vicar. Then again, it was a bit early to be kissed on the terrace, so there. “The vicar is my father. Mr. Millbury, vicar of Thornhold in Devonshire.”
“Ah.” He wrapped his arms about her and pulled her close against the chill, dropping his chin on the top of her head with a deep exhalation. “Of course. Your father is the vicar. How … fitting.”
Rafe was very surprised at himself. He’d always been a bad seed, but manhandling the vicar’s daughter in the dark? That was low, even for him.
Not to mention the danger that at any moment, this country vicar would emerge from the ballroom and demand a betrothal at the business end of his blunderbuss.
Betrothal. Wed.
Something rather interesting rolled through Rafe.
Wed to pretty Miss Phoebe Millbury, unfashionable little nobody fresh from the wilds of Devonshire. Now, why did that thought hold him caught in its warm, generous, pliant embrace for so long?
He very nearly opened his mouth to propose on the spot.
At the last instant, he caught himself. He could hear Calder now, carrying on about the ills of impulsiveness. Rafe leashed the strange possessive urgency that this girl mysteriously incited within him and firmly tied it down. The Season had scarcely begun. There was plenty of time to get to know Miss Millbury better.
Besides, the idea appealed. The thought of spending the summer in her company, courting her, surprising her with small gifts—just enough to delight her without turning her head, mind you—driving her through Hyde Park in his phaeton …
He would do this properly. He would play the gentleman for her. There was plenty of time.
A new calm descended, smoothing the jagged edges of his earlier frustration with Calder’s highhandedness. An unhurried courtship of Phoebe Millbury would be just the cure for his current restless dissatisfaction.
And then, when his investments paid out and his ship came in, he would approach her very respectable father with gold in his pocket and his hat in his hand. Perhaps with Calder’s backing, that would be enough to convince such a man that his daughter should wed a bastard.
Then, just in time for their seasonal return to Brookhaven he would wed her with all appropriate fanfare. Then he would wrap her up and stick her in his pocket to be his talisman against the stifling pressure of being forever in the shadow of the perfect scion, the Marquis of Brookhaven, Calder Marbrook.
He smiled easily at his delightful Miss Phoebe Millbury. She smiled back, shyly at first, then with a growing confidence. Oh, yes …
She was the one.

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