Revealed (40 page)

“Apparently some rabble tried to get in by breaking a window,” Mariah supplied to the eager crowd.

“How horrid!” “My goodness, is nothing safe?” “Its those Frenchies, I know it,” was the general hue and cry from the twittering ladies.

“Its likely someone trying to discover the secret to the Benning Ball.” The mention of which set the room to a titter. “Mariah, I’m afraid you must excuse me, I should go speak to my housekeeper, and the constable.”

“Yes, of course,” Mariah replied, rising as Phillippa did. Kissing her on the cheek, she whispered into Phillippa’s ear, “Brava, by the bye.”

Totty rose to join her, as did Nora and Lady De Regis. However, the latter were met by protests.

“Oh no, Nora, Lady De Regis, you should stay; I should hate for my evening to sour yours,” Phillippa supplied, gesturing them back to their seats.

“But we all came in your carriage, Phillippa,” Nora said, only a slight strain to her voice.

“Its quite all right, my dear,” Mrs. Hurston spoke up. “You’re going to the Blackwells’ card party next, correct? Well, I’ve the barouche.”

Thus settled, Nora and Lady De Regis returned to their seats, and Phillippa and Totty headed out the door.

Once ensconced in her carriage, trotting along at a surprising pace for the fashionable neighborhoods of London at this time of night, Phillippa turned to Totty. “Darling, I’m going to ask you a favor. I’m going to drop you off at the house.” Totty looked as if she were going to ask a question, prompting Phillippa to continue, “And you’re not going to ask me any questions about it. Oh, and if you could, break a window. A cheap one, on a low floor, around the back.”

Totty eyed Phillippa suspiciously. “No need for me to ask questions. I’m not blind, you know,” she said. “Or stupid. I’ve seen where you’re headed, long before you did.”

Phillippa met Totty’s gaze. It was clear, cool, almost sober. It always surprised her how much Totty knew. Perhaps it shouldn’t.

Phillippa squeezed Totty’s hand as the driver pulled up in front of Benning House. As the footman opened the carriage door and escorted Totty down, Phillippa called after her friend. “Totty?”

She turned.

“Thank you.” Phillippa smiled.

Totty dismissed this with a wave. “Young people always think they’ve stumbled across something new when they fall in love.” She dropped the footman’s hand, and began looking around the ground. “Ah, here we are,” she said, as she picked up a large rock decoratively lining the walkway to the house. “Ta-ta!” she cried, and she disappeared around the back of the house.

Leaving Phillippa pale with shock, she wondered what Totty meant by love, and why her heart was beating so queerly, when the carriage pulled away into the dark night.

Marcus Worth had not the foresight to know that a guest would be arriving at his door that evening, and as such, he had determined to go to bed and store his strength for when Byrne returned, hopefully with Miss Meggie, or at least some word as to her whereabouts.

But not until he finished his letter to Phillippa.

He had started it a dozen times, each time escalating in insufficiency, awkwardness, and rambling. His most recent effort was the worst.

“Dear Mrs. Benning”—they all started in this way—“thank you for your assistance when last we met, it was most kind.” Kind. She pulled a bullet out of his shoulder and he called it kind? Utterly ridiculous. “However, I feel your assistance in the future would be unwise, considering the circumstances of said assistance.” He really needed a different euphemism for
assistance
. “And as such, feel that your assistance will no longer be required. Therefore, such occasions in the future when next we meet, we should not assist each other . . .”

It devolved from there. Marcus rubbed his tired eyes. He should go to bed. He should go outside. He should do anything other than sit in this purgatory, writing away the person he ached for.

But it had to be done. The situation had become too dangerous. Surely, she would recognize that. In spite of her penchant for frippery, she was an eminently practical woman. She could arrange dinner parties with the same skillful ease that she chased dangerous villains through hedge mazes. She could memorize the entire attendance of Almack’s and their wardrobes. She was utterly amazing.

And he was in love with her.

And there was no way they could be together, he knew, as he rose to his bare feet and began pacing his study like a caged animal.

Forget that she had responded to his kiss in the stables, twining herself around him like ivy. Forget, too, that he had allowed her to continue her mistaken assumption about his secret identity or lack thereof. Forget, once more, her single-minded pursuit of that jackass, the Marquis of Broughton. The truth was, Phillippa Benning existed on an entirely different plane than he did. And as soon as their association ended, she would go back to hers and he to his.

Therefore, best to end their association before one or the other of them ended up dead.

He seated himself at the desk again, crumpled up his last attempt, and took a fresh sheet of paper from the pile. He pushed his spectacles back up his nose, serious, intent.

The quill dripped a dot of ink on the page as he paused, willing himself to begin.

The dot was destined to be the only mark on that page. For in that moment, in the pause after determination and before movement, there was a knock on his front door.

Placing his quill back in the well, he stood, moved around his mess of discarded papers into the foyer, and wrenched open the door.

It was threatening rain. The slight drizzle clung to her cape, giving her an otherworldy radiance. But she did not smile at him; she did not reach out to him. She merely stared at him with those large blue eyes, taking in his whole form.

“Hello,” Phillippa finally said, her voice soft and worn.

“Hello,” he responded. As her gaze traveled down his torso, Marcus became suddenly aware that he wore trousers, the bandages around his shoulder, an opened dressing robe, and nothing else. “What are you doing here?” he blurted out, which brought her eyes back to his face.

“May I . . . may I come in?” she asked, a nervous smile trembling on her lips.

He contemplated his options, and standing on the doorstep with Phillippa outside while rain began to pelt them was not one. And so, every nerve in his body aware of her presence, he stood back and allowed her entry.

“Thank you,” she said, as she passed by him and moved into the study, where the fire was lit. She seemed to steady herself by the fire, as she warmed her gloved hands. Marcus stayed by the study door, still. Waiting for her to move.

“What are you doing here?” he asked again, gently this time, his words sliding over the quiet room like smoke.

“I was . . . I wanted to make sure you were in good health,” she stammered as she turned to him. “I hadn’t heard word of you in almost a week, and I didn’t know . . . if you were all right.”

“I’m fine. You shouldn’t have worried,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I shouldn’t have worried!” she cried, almost laughing. “Marcus the last time I saw you, you were in and out of conciousness—and then in the morning, you just left! And a week goes by, and I hear no word, no small notice of your state. You could have been dead, for all I knew!”

“I’m
fine
.” Marcus gritted back at her. “And I thank you for your past assistance, but from here on out, my well-being should not be a concern of yours.”

“How can I help but be concerned?” she said as her eyes welled up with tears. “Marcus, I thought . . . I thought we were friends.”

“We had a business arrangement—and I’m calling an end to it,” he said coldly.

She stilled, her body listing, as if the slightest touch could knock her over.

“You . . . you can call an end to whatever you like,” she finally said, her chin going up in her superior way. “But it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t still be concerned about your welfare. I know too much. For God’s sake, Marcus, you were shot—”

“And it could have just as easily been you!” he exclaimed, coming off the wall as he did, coming toward her. “That bullet could have hit you, wounded you, killed you, as easily as it did me. I can’t have you involved any longer. You weren’t supposed to be in this deep in the first place. No, you were supposed to get me invited to parties, that’s all. Instead, you end up chasing evil men—men who will
hurt
you if they get the chance—and dodging bullets!” He was vaguely aware that he was ranting, pacing, yelling. But he didn’t care. This is what he had in him to say, and it broke forth from the dam with powerful force.

“You are no longer allowed in this. You are no longer to come within a hundred feet of me,” he commanded. He watched as she nodded, a single tear falling down her cheek. “If you see me walking down the street, you turn and walk the other way. Are we clear?”

She nodded again. His breaths came heavily, marking the silence like ticks of a clock.

“Phillippa,” he finally asked, his voice steadier, “what are you still doing here?”

She met his eyes, and he saw it. That moment. That pause between determination and movement, between decision and action.

Then she crossed the room and kissed him.

T
HERE was no hesitation. There was no question. There was no stalling, no what-ifs, no protests, no objections. There was only Phillippa and Marcus and what burned between them.

When Phillippa crossed the room, Marcus enveloped her in his embrace, devoured her with his mouth. It was what he wanted. What he needed. And he would not fight it any longer.

His hands came up to frame her face, dove into her perfectly coiffed hair, upsetting all manner of hairpins and jeweled clips. They bounced on the study’s wooden floor, scattered underneath the desk, lost forever. Phillippa pressed her body into his as her hands came up to his face, played over the whorls of his ears, traced the length of his sideburns. She broke off his kiss briefly, momentarily bewildering him. But she simply slid the spectacles from his nose and tossed them onto his desk. Then she found his mouth again, their tongues dancing to a rhythm they knew instinctually.

Marcus could not get enough of her. He pulled her closer, tighter, his arms wrapping around, begging for skin to touch. The heavy cloak that folded around her fell to the floor with one easy tug on the cord that brushed her throat.

She was dressed for an evening out in one of her fluttery silk things that draped against her and did nothing to hide the swell of flesh here, the rise of her hip there. He reached out, took her hips, gently ground his knuckles into her sides as he pressed her up against the evidence of his need. And she pressed herself closer. He broke his mouth from hers, moved his attentions to the slender length of her neck and the delicate pulse that beat just behind her ear. Feeling that rapid beat against his breath made his heart race faster. And hearing her soft sigh made him voracious.

As for Phillippa, she found Marcus’s dressing robe completely unnecessary, and she slid her hands under the soft fleece, pushing it off his smooth, strong shoulders. But her hands stopped there, and her whole body stilled.

“Your shoulder . . .” she whispered in the firelight, causing him to drag his head up from her throat.

Her hand skimmed the edge of his bandage, the dressing that wrapped across his chest, holding the linens in place.

“It’s fine.” He said looking into her eyes, dropping his arms to allow his robe to fall to the floor next to her cloak. Then, one hand massaging the back of her neck, he returned his attentions to that irresistible pulse behind her ear.

“You’re sure?” she asked, her voice strained.

“Here,” he said, “I’ll prove it to you.” Then, with a quick kiss on her mouth, he linked her arms around his neck, bent down, and picked her up.

“Oh my,” she breathed. He carried her like she weighed no more than a piece of paper, but as carefully as if she were the most treasured thing in the universe.

“Told you,” he said, grinning at her in the darkness. He moved quickly with her in his arms, crossing the study to another door, nudging it open with his foot.

“It doesn’t hurt?” she asked, her hand lacing into his hair.

“Nothing hurts when you’re here,” he answered, and they crossed the threshold into the bedchamber.

He had a fire burning low in the hearth, but otherwise the room was dark. Marcus placed Phillippa gently on the edge of the bed. He kissed her gently, deeply, then moved away.

“What . . . what are you doing?” Phillippa asked, the slightest tinge of nerves coloring her voice.

“Lighting some candles,” he replied, as he struck a flint, the spark flaring to life in the dark. “I want to see you.” He lit a candelabra by the door, another by the bed. Phillippa swallowed silently to herself. This was real, it seemed. As much as her body ached for him, as much as her blood sang to be with him, she still had that small dot of fear creeping into her mind.