My Wicked Marquess (21 page)

 

It was a blessing to be home alone for once. The whole villa was so marvelously quiet. Penelope had taken the girls shopping in Town, bringing Wilhelmina along to assist. Papa had driven them in and would visit with his gentlemen friends at White's while the ladies shopped.

Curled up on a stone bench on the terrace behind her house overlooking the garden, Daphne balanced her sketchpad on her lap, her hand moving in long, idle strokes over the page. She was making a charcoal drawing of the birds that congregated around the birdbath.

With her noisy family gone, there was nothing to hear but the breeze rustling through the yellowed leaves, and the birds chirping as they flittered about the garden. The silence suited her pensive mood, though she was keeping one ear anxiously cocked for the sound of footman William returning from his errand.

Considering the great expense of the sapphire necklace, she had asked him to deliver it personally into the hands of
Dodsley, Lord Rotherstone's butler.

The great mystery now was how the Demon Marquess would respond to her rejection. Honestly, though, she thought, after the unpleasantness of their parting yesterday, he was probably going to be relieved.

It should be easy for him to find some other woman who did not mind if he locked himself away behind walls of silence. But
she
did not wish to spend the rest of her life trying to decipher the hidden meanings behind his words or riding out the storms of his inscrutable moods.

And yet, strangely, having sent off her note with the sapphire necklace, she had begun to feel as though she had abandoned him. He didn't know anyone in Town, her heart insisted as softly as the whisper of the wind. People did not understand him. The things they said about him were almost as unfair as Albert's lies about her.

Unpredictable as he was, she knew better than to try to foretell what answer he might send back, if any.

That was why she had not yet told her father that she was refusing Lord Rotherstone's offer.

It seemed prudent to make sure first that it was truly finished between them before she broke the news. After all, if she spoke up too soon before the break was truly decisive, then her father and would-be fiancé might unite against her once more to coerce her into the match.

At that moment, in the quiet, she heard a muffled clatter of hoofbeats approaching around the front of the house, entering the courtyard.

William.

At once, her heart began to pound. She threw her sketchpad and charcoal pencil aside, jumped to her feet, picked up the hem of her dark green walking gown, and hurried inside, cutting through the house to see what tidings her footman had brought back from Lord Rotherstone.

Hastening through the central corridor, she reached the front door, threw it open, and rushed outside, only to gasp aloud. William was not back yet.

It was the Demon Marquess himself who had arrived, galloping up to the villa astride a powerful black stallion.
Instinctual fear darted through her when he sent her an ominous glance, his pale eyes full of fury as he reined in his horse to a stamping, snorting halt.

Daphne gulped as he swung down from the saddle, commanding the horse to stay. The blood drained from her face when she saw him striding toward her with a look of wrath. “Daphne!”

She let out a small cry and fled back into the house. She threw herself against the door to shut it, but before it could close, his black-gauntleted hand was planted on it, one dusty riding boot shoved in the way.

“Don't you dare,” he warned. “We are going to talk about this. Let me in.”

“What do you think you're doing?” She tried to push against the door. “Go away!”

“Daphne. You cannot keep me out. Move!” When he thrust the door harder, she tried to stay planted, but instead, her soft kid slippers skipped over the hardwood floor.

“Damn you!” she cried, jumping out of the way.

“Such language,” he drawled, his eyes glittering with reproach as he stepped over the threshold, looking much too large and darkly threatening in his black clothes, a loose white shirt beneath his jacket.

He wore no neck cloth and appeared as tousled and dangerous as he had that first day in Bucket Lane, when she had first spied him leaving the brothel—with one exception.

He had shaved off the goatee, just as he had promised yesterday in an effort to please her.
How sweet.
Goodness, she could not take her eyes off him as she backed away. He looked simply gorgeous clean-shaved, a few years younger, and ten times more handsome. She refused to admit, however, that his chiseled male perfection had any effect on her.

She was not marrying him, and that was final.

He glanced around, taking in the fact that no one else was home. A glint of wicked intentions passed behind his eyes when he turned to her again. Staring at her in chilly, fierce reproach, he drew off his black riding gauntlets. “That is no way to greet your future husband, my love.”

“How dare you barge in here like some sort of robber?”

With a defiant look, he walked over to her, captured her in his arms, and roughly kissed her.

Her heart pounded with wild confusion as he invaded her mouth with his claiming kiss and got her foolish body to react much as it had yesterday in the long gallery. In fact, her burning reaction to him was even worse now, since his shaved chin did not chafe her. But she refused to revel in the sensuous rubbing of his skin against hers.

His smell was that of pure, potent masculinity, and when she planted her hand on his chest to try to push him away, she felt hot bare skin where the V of his shirt fell open slightly. He tried to gather her closer, but with an aching moan, she summoned up her fury and found the strength to push him away.

“Let go of me! You are not,” she added, panting, “my future husband.”

“Daphne,” he chided softly. “You are already mine.”

“The devil I am! I belong to no man—and you should not be here.” She took another backward step. “As you can see, I am alone.”

“Not anymore,” he whispered with a lusty stare.

It routed her. Her body trembled. Striving for clarity, she shook her head. “You can show yourself out. My father will be home very soon,” she lied as an afterthought.

Forbidding herself to linger for fear of getting caught up in him again, she pivoted with a show of great confidence and retreated into the familiar safety of the parlor on legs that shook beneath her.

To her trepidation, however, with every step, she could already hear the slow, rhythmic striking of his boot heels following her, like a hunter stalking his prey.

When she reached the parlor, she turned around again to face him, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Thankfully, though he joined her, at least Lord Hellfire now saw fit to keep a slightly safer distance.
As if he somehow knew that she did not really want him to leave.

He eyed her warily as he reached a hand into his pocket. When he took it out again, the glittering strands of the sap
phire necklace spilled through his clenched fist.

“Why did you send this back to me?” he demanded, his eyes aglow with cold accusation.

She swallowed hard, lifting her chin a bit. “I saw no way I could accept it. Returning it was obviously the proper thing to do.”

“Proper?” he echoed, his lip curling in slight mockery. “Do I look like a man with whom you can play games, my dear Miss Starling?”

“It isn't a game,” she replied calmly. “If anyone's playing games here, it's you.”

“The hell I am!” he bit back. “I'm not taking this back. It's yours. I don't care what you do with it.” He tossed it onto the end table as though it were some cheap trinket. “How dare you send me this, this—dismissal without any sort of explanation? Exactly whom, Miss Starling, do you think you're dealing with?”

Daphne fought the urge to shrink from his show of bluster and forced herself to sound as calm as possible. “I put my explanation in my letter. I believe I said quite plainly that I feel we will not suit.”

“Why?” he demanded.

“Because we are too different.”

“In what way? Defend your argument. Prove to me you are not just being fickle and vain, as Carew said!”

She inhaled sharply through her nostrils at his goading, for she recognized those charges. “We are too different in our
values
, my lord, as I said plainly in my note.”

“How so?”

“How?” She scoffed. “You frequent brothels! You associate with libertines! You treat your own family like strangers, and if you can treat your own sister that way, then I'm sure it would only be a matter of time before I would suffer the same indifference from you, for some unwitting transgression.”

“You don't know anything about it.”

“I asked! You would not tell me! You ask for my hand, but you don't even want me to know you. What am I to make of a man who claims to appreciate my heart but won't share his
own with me?”

Emboldened by his attentive, though angry stare, she forged on.

“Perhaps you can be satisfied with a match based on advantage, but I told you, I need more than that—and I don't mean rank or riches. You must excuse me if I fail to be dazzled by your wealth and power.”

“That you are not dazzled only makes me want you more,” he uttered quietly. His stare intensified; he took a step closer. “Come on, Daphne,” he urged, his deep voice taut. “What the hell is it going to take?”

“You think I have a price? A bigger necklace, a larger house? Is that how you measure everything? Because that's just sad. Or is that merely what you think of me? Does this house look like another brothel to you?” Her voice climbed in pitch and volume with her building anger. “For your information, Lord Rotherstone, I am not for sale—no matter what my father said. But if you conspire with him to find some way to force me into this, then let me warn you in advance that I've learned from Penelope how to make a husband's daily life a living hell,” she finished with a chilly smile.

He just stared at her. “Well, well, well,” he said at length. “It seems I've found myself a little spitfire. The perfect lady, eh? I knew there was more to you than meets the eye.” Pacing restlessly across the parlor, he ran a knuckle along the crisp line of his jaw as he sauntered past her.

“Please go,” she said, refusing to rise to the bait. “You have my answer.”

“No.”

“No?” she echoed, furrowing her brow in astonishment. “Will you make me send for the constable?”

He was peering at a picture on the wall, then he looked askance at her. “Why would you do that?” he murmured. “Are you so afraid of me?”

She narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin a notch. “Of course not.”

“I know,” he countered softly. “That's another reason I want you, Daphne.”

“Stop saying that!”

“It's true.”

“Why are you so fixed on me?” she cried. “You don't really want a wife, you want another piece of art for your collection! So, keep looking, by all means! There are plenty of other girls out there who are prettier than I.”

“I don't care about their looks any more than you care about my riches. I want
you
,” he added, even more decisively as he began prowling toward her.

“For what purpose?” she exclaimed. “Oh, but of course—as a broodmare! Well, if you are so keen to restore your family name, then you should go and find a wife who hasn't already been the target of ton gossip.”

“I don't care about any of that anymore.” He stepped closer. “I just want you, Daphne.”

“Why?” She had to hear him say it, say the words.
Because I love you.
If that was true.

“Because I do,” he growled, refusing to say it.

She shook her head at him. “You want to gain me only to hold me at arm's length. Yesterday I got a taste of how you shut people out. I did not enjoy it, Max.”

“Well, I got a taste of something yesterday, too. Something I want more of.” He reached for her, but she pulled away.

“You want, you want! Is that all you can care about?”

Unable to get through to him, she saw it was time to resort to her last secret weapon. “I'm sorry, Max. My father should've told you. There is someone else I care for.” She willed her face to look convincing. It was true, after all, though it suddenly felt like a lie. “Someone very dear to me, whom I love, and who loves me in return. I cannot marry you,” she said, “for another holds my heart.”

He studied her for a second, then he began laughing softly. “You are so amusing.”

“Wh-what?”

“I take it that you are referring to young Mr. Jonathon White.”

Her eyes widened. “You know about him?” she breathed, and then immediately wondered if she had just made a horrible mistake. Dear God! “You will not hurt him?” she cried.

He just looked at her.

“Promise me you won't touch him!”

He gave her an irritated frown. “You probably think I drown puppies in my spare time, as well.” He paused. “You don't love him, Daphne.”

“I just told you I do! I
do
love Jonathon—dearly!”

“As a brother, yes. A friend. I can live with that.”

“And—as a man.”

“No.” He sent her a heated, knowing smile.

She was flustered as he drew closer. “What do you know of it? Nothing! Why don't you believe me?”

“I have just one question,” he murmured softly, staring into her eyes. “Do you want him like you want me?” She quivered when he touched her.

“I always get what I want, my love, eventually,” he whispered.

“Oh, don't do that. Please. You mustn't. Oh, Max, no.”

“Yes,” he breathed as he ran his fingers down the side of her neck.

She swallowed hard and turned away.
I must be strong.
“It isn't going to work.”