My Wicked Marquess (20 page)

His vehemence warned her back. She stared ahead again, her heart pounding. “What are we going to tell her? She thinks we're getting married.”

“We are. What?” he demanded when she went silent.

Daphne shook her head, holding on to her tact against the urge to clobber him. “Oh, I don't know. If this is the way you treat the people who care about you, it really doesn't bode well for your future wife.”

“That's different.”

“Is it? Why do you hate them so much? What did they ever do to you?”

“I don't hate them,” he replied. “I just don't give a damn.”

“Max,” she chided gently. “You're not a very good liar.”

This remark made him turn to her with a startled flash in his eyes; but if he had any response, he swallowed it, and drove on without a word.

“I guess I might as well be talking to myself here,” Daphne remarked to the air as she flicked a piece of lint off her glove. “Why won't you tell me what's wrong?”

“Because there
is
nothing wrong.”

“So, you ran off to the Continent to escape your family, then. They were more of a threat to you than a war going on everywhere?”

He gave her an impatient look, indeed, a warning look, but he still did not reply. She knew he was getting angry at her, and though he was formidable in the extreme, she was not quite ready to give up yet.

The longer he refused to answer, the angrier she got.

She waited another moment, then steadied her courage for one last try. “Why didn't you go and see your sister when you returned to Town? I mean, for her to have to find out from others that you were at the Edgecombe ball, that must have been hurtful and embarrassing—”

“Do me a favor,” he cut her off sharply. “Don't tell me how to treat my sister, and I won't tell you how to deal with your stepmother, agreed?”

She flinched at his harsh tone, but she had caught a fleeting glimpse of turbulent pain beneath his hard, polished veneer.

He sent her a dark glance. “Her brats will get a large inheritance from me. That's all that matters to them, or to anyone else.”

“No, it's not. She obviously loves you!”

“You are naïve,” he uttered bitterly.

Stung, Daphne stared at him. “At least I am not heartless.”

He took a deep breath, and shut her out completely.

For the rest of the ride home, there was nothing more to say. Fortunately, they were almost there. The final minutes seemed to drag. At last, he brought the carriage to a halt before her home. Once more, he set the brake, stepped down, and came round to assist her.

“Here we are.” He lifted his hand as before to help her down, but far from the charming persuasion that he had employed to lure her into his Town mansion, his expression now was quite inscrutable.

His eyes, so full of secrets, only mirrored her unanswered questions back to her defiantly, as polished and unyielding as the flat surface of a blade.

She fought with herself to let the matter go.
Fine
. If he did not wish to confide in her, what was that to her?

If that's how he wanted to be, she only wished she wouldn't have let him kiss her or have been foolish enough to be lured into his house, alone with him.

It had been mad of her to jeopardize her reputation further with a man who wanted only a china doll to set up on the mantel, not a wife, not a living, thinking person.

She lowered her gaze in simmering fury, accepted his
steadying hand as she picked up the hem of her skirt a bit, and climbed down from his stupid, show-off cabriolet.

Without another word, he walked her to her door.

She sent up a prayer of gratitude that no one from her family came out to pester them. They were probably off having a party over the hope of getting rid of her at last.

Little did they know their celebrations were premature, because there was no way she was marrying this hard, cold, rude, domineering iceberg of a man.

People said that Hell was flames, but they were wrong. This Demon Marquess ruled over an underworld of darkness and cold.

“Must the day be ruined?” he inquired in a mild tone as they neared the graceful entrance of her home. “It was all going so well, I thought.”

Unable to hold back, she pivoted sharply to face him. “I want to ask you a question!”

“Another one?” he murmured dryly.

“Yes, and you're not going to like it! But I would appreciate it if you would answer with perfect honesty.”

He just looked at her.

“You didn't happen to arrange for your sister to pop by while we were together, did you?”

Angry astonishment flashed in his eyes. “Of course not.” He shook his head at her. “God, you don't trust me at all, do you?”

“You, who would set out to manipulate the whole ton? Dashed right I don't!”

“Daphne.”

“How can I trust you if I don't know you, and how can I know you if you won't talk to me?” He dropped his gaze with no response for that, it seemed. She studied him intently. “You are a difficult man, Lord Rotherstone.”

“It is a difficult world,” he replied, his whole demeanor turned to steel. He had shut her out now as completely as he had his sister.

Was this the sort of marriage he was offering, as well? Sharing her life and her bed with a virtual stranger?

His riches as a substitute for love?

Very well
Daphne nodded in taut anger and a cutting pang of disappointment. “Very well.” She turned away, already knowing what she had to do. “Good-bye, Lord Rotherstone.”

“Miss Starling—wait.”

“What now?” She jerked her elbow out of his light hold.

He searched her face, at a loss. “I'm sorry.”

She did not know what to say. “Is this bitter attitude supposed to be endearing?”

“This bitter attitude is simply who I am,” he said with a benighted shrug. “Please don't be angry. I told you I'm not perfect. But I'm trying.”

“No, you're not, Max.”

“Yes, I am! Shall I prove it to you? Done! When I go home, I will, I'll…” He cast about for some worthy evidence of his sincerity. “I will shave off my beard!” he declared, actually thinking, it seemed, that she would fall for his charm again. That he could get away with it.

The hopeful, roguish half smile that he offered said it all. But Daphne stared icily at him.

“Don't bother,” she replied, then walked back into her house, and let the door bang in his lordly face.

T
hat night, Dresden Bloodwell arrived in London, his new post, replacing Rupert Tavistock. He got settled in his luxurious new quarters, and prepared to get down to work.

On the journey over from France, he had studied the information that Malcolm had given him about Tavistock's various projects and contacts.

Well-versed in the details of his new post by now, he was eager to pick up where Tavistock had left off; however, he had a very different approach to things than his predecessor. Tavistock had been lazy and rather timid.

Dresden did not share these flaws. Nor did he believe in wasting time. He was nothing if not efficient.

That was why Malcolm had specifically entrusted him with an additional task that the leader had purposely concealed from the rest of the Council.

Dresden had orders to find a replacement for their agent in Carlton House, the Prince Regent's private residence in London.

Carlton House in Pall Mall was always filled with Prin-ny's various toadies and courtiers, pampered dandies and assorted eccentric bon vivants.

The Prometheans' spy among the Carlton House set had been discovered and dispatched by one of the Order's thrice-damned warriors some months ago.

Now Dresden needed to find or recruit someone new to put in there, someone he could rule through fear or greed or both. The selection was very narrow, however, considering how few men were highborn enough to be worthy of the Regent's royal conviviality.

It would be no small feat, but Dresden was eager for the task. His forte of killing had grown dull long ago.

Now he was armed with a copy of
Debrett's Peerage
on one hand, with its neat listings of every aristocratic male in London; Malcolm had also given him the name of one of their lesser members who could get him into Society.

From there, it would be a simple process of observing different highborn men until he could identify a few possible new recruits.

By and by, he would home in on one by a process of elimination. Finding the right pressure point to apply once he'd picked out his man—that would be the fun part.

He smiled to himself in anticipation as he glanced out his window at bustling London Town. He intended to show Malcolm that his trust in him had been well-placed.

Soon, there would be changes in the Council.

 

Later that night alone in her bedchamber, sitting at her vanity, Daphne slowly, hesitantly, picked up the little box that Lord Rotherstone had brought for her yesterday.

Until now she had been afraid to open it. But she supposed she owed the enigmatic marquess the courtesy of at least acknowledging his gift.

As she pulled one end of the ribbon tied around the box, the family cat joined her, leaping up onto her vanity with an agile pounce.

The bow came undone. The cat played with the ribbon, while Daphne's mind churned, filled with thoughts of him.

Going near the Marquess of Rotherstone, she mused, was like standing in front of a deep, stone cave that led down to God-only-knew-where in the earth, some dark, subterranean maze. Where other women might have succumbed to the irresistible pull to climb in and start exploring his darkness, Daphne could feel the palpable danger around him, and ever
the rational being, she had the good sense to turn around and walk away as quickly as possible.

And yet…

Sliding a fingertip into the edge of the painted pasteboard box, she opened the lid and stole a peek inside.

A swathe of black silk still concealed the gift. She reached in and lifted it out, but when she unwrapped the silk handkerchief, her jaw dropped.

The silk drifted away, sliding down onto her lap. She lifted up an eye-popping sapphire and diamond necklace.

Holding it up to the candlelight, she stared at it in amazement. The luxurious thing glittered like sunlight on the sea, especially the bright blue central stone, round-cut, surrounded by diamond brilliants.

“Oh, for goodness' sake! Who does he think I am, the Queen?” she said under her breath to the cat, laughing a trifle nervously.

The gift was meant to awe her. And in truth, it did. But it also helped to crystallize her suspicions about his true motives for making sure she saw his house today. He thought he could bribe her into compliance by dazzling her with his wealth and power.
Restless, difficult man
. Did he really think that was what mattered in life?

The glitter of the necklace caught the cat's eye. Its dark-tipped ears pricked forward. Daphne held up the necklace and swung it gently before the animal; the furry head followed its teasing motion. While the cat batted at the necklace with one velvet paw, a troubled expression settled over Daphne's face.

There was still the possibility that her father had arranged this match to make up for his losses in the stock market, but if the situation was that serious, then surely, he would have told her so.

Papa kept saying there was no problem, and after the way things had gone today with her would-be husband, she desperately wished to take him at his word. She should probably go and ask her father point-blank, she thought, but the truth was, right now, she did not want to know.

All she wanted was to get out of this match that was beginning to feel like her doom.

Jonathon
, she reminded herself halfheartedly. She was marrying Jonathon. Someday. He did not make her heart feel so threatened. It did no good remembering the helpless passion she had felt in Lord Rotherstone's arms when he had kissed her.

What a relief to know she would never be plagued with that sort of thing when she married her childhood friend. It was just as well, for Lord Rotherstone's sensual expertise threatened to sweep away her self-control.

“I am sorry, Lord Rotherstone,” she whispered. “I'm afraid you are just too fine for me.” With that, she wrapped the excessive necklace back up in the black silk, and put it once more in the box. Her mind made up, she retied the bow, wanting no more truck with the thing—or with the Demon Marquess.

He had volunteered to provide some assistance with the orphanage, but she had enough faith in his honor to believe he would not be so petty as to retaliate at her by refusing to help the children. If he was mean-spirited enough to renege on his offer of charity, then he would thereby prove himself truly no better than Albert, and she would be glad to know she had successfully avoided marrying yet another cad.

With a brooding expression, she went and sat down in her window nook with her portable writing desk on her lap. She sharpened a quill and pricked her finger on it, making sure it was as sharp as she would need to be to deal with him.

Taking out a creamy sheet of linen stationery with her monogram tastefully engraved, she dipped her quill in the indigo ink, and considered how to word her now fourth refusal of a suitor.
Hm
…

Maybe she deserved that reputation as a jilt.

 

The next day, Max hosted Warrington and Falconridge at breakfast after the three had spent the morning at the fencing studio. His friends were in high spirits, but Max was in a strange mood. After the unexpected turn his visit with Daphne had taken yesterday, not even the morning's exertions at combat practice had exorcised his discontent.

Ripples of long-submerged anger had begun breaking the calm surface of his usual cool control. While his friends
bantered about nothing in particular, merely glad to have the weight of the world finally lifted off their shoulders, Max found himself brooding on the price they had paid for their involvement in the Order.

Their families had done it to them, and that, he supposed, was the real reason he had been avoiding his sister since he had arrived in Town.

Of course, Bea had had nothing to do with Father's decision to hand him over to the Seeker in exchange for a large sum of gold. Yet, whenever Max looked at his sister, he could not help but see a member of the party that had sold him off like a slave, knowing full well he could be killed. He had been but a child, an innocent.

No wonder he had not wanted to see his sister until he was good and ready. But now that Daphne had uncovered his callous attitude toward Bea—and now that he had seen his coldness toward her through Daphne's eyes—he felt like a miserable cad for his neglect of his closest living kin.

He had been so concerned about his own scars that he hadn't considered Bea's feelings.

In addition, seeing his little sister all grown up, with children of her own, reminded him anew of all the time he'd lost. He knew the war against the Prometheans had to be fought; but he also understood now how he had been exploited when he was too young to understand what he was getting himself into. The Order might be the side of good in their battle, but they had certainly not hesitated to take advantage of his family's misfortune.

Max did not know what to make of the resentment he felt surfacing toward his old mentor, Virgil. But with his father dead, he had no one else on hand to blame.

He pushed the whole painful tangle of it away, reminding himself again that the war was over. What mattered now was getting on with his life and his future with Daphne…

And yet, these leftover thorns stuck in his flesh from all his ordeals had already begun to pose problems between the two of them, like yesterday. Max saw now all too clearly how the Order's requirement of secrecy isolated him and his friends and threatened to keep them from ever truly becom
ing a part of the world.

Their secrets separated them from the humanity they protected, and had left Max unable to tell Daphne who he really was.

She wanted answers, but her questions had put him adrift, oddly disoriented. His calculating brain was of no use in this realm. Who the hell was he, anyway? He could barely find the solid truth about himself beneath so many years of dissemblance and deception.

Given the shape-shifter he had become,
which
Max was supposed to answer her questions? Which version of him, for which audience? The Grand Tourist? The so-called Demon Marquess?

Or the man beneath it all? Isolated, lonely, though he would not admit it under torture. She would never want
that
Max. No one ever had.

Secrets had a way of slipping out from time to time, and until that moment, Max had managed to hide this one from himself: the real reason he had chosen Daphne.

Gazing into those heaven-blue eyes, he had sensed in her a great capacity for love, and the softness of her heart, based on all he knew about her, made him hope that one day, his own most secret longing might finally be fulfilled. A longing for something he had never known and never thought he could have until he had met her.

It was too threatening. Inwardly, he backed away from it, shocked to grasp in that instant what was really driving him.

The desperate need for love.

But, God, if he could not share himself with her, he thought in despair, then how would he ever win her heart and the love he craved from her?

“By the way,” Jordan spoke up, “are either of you going to that End of Summer Ball next week? The one down in Richmond?”

Max masked his suffering from his friends. The men exchanged a jaded glance.

“Why the hell not,” Rohan said wryly. “Stir things up a bit. Maybe Max will introduce us to his future wife.”

The other two looked at him expectantly.

Max heaved a rueful sigh. He wanted his friends to meet Daphne, but Lord, these were his fellow Inferno Club hellions, and after yesterday, he was already on shaky ground with her.

Dodsley marched in with his tray before Max could explain. “My lord?”

“Yes?” He turned to him. “What is it?”

“A footman from Miss Starling's residence just delivered this with a note for you, sir. I was asked to see that you got it right away.”

Max glanced at Dodsley's silver tray, and his stare homed in on the jewelry box containing his gift to her. The second he saw it, his blood ran cold; his heart began to pound. “Bring it here.”

Dodsley did so, advancing into the morning room.

“Isn't that sweet,” Rohan drawled. “Where can I get a chit that sends me presents?”

“I don't think she sent it
to
him, Warrington,” Jordan said warily, eyeing Max's ashen countenance. “I think it may be something the young lady's…sending back.”

“Oh, damn,” Rohan murmured while Max opened her short note and read it:

Friends? He looked up from her letter with flames in his eyes. “Tell the stables to saddle the stallion.”

“Is she jilting you now, too?” Rohan asked bluntly.

“Over my dead body.” Max rose from his seat in one angry motion and headed for the door. “If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, it appears that I have business to attend to.”

“Good luck, Max,” Jordan offered.

“Don't need luck,” he ground out. “I know just how to handle her, believe me.” Slipping the note and the sapphire necklace into his breast pocket, he stalked outside in a cold rage with a vow that she'd
not
get away with this. He refused to be cast off like he was nothing.

Beneath his fury, however, lay an unnerving fear, that if someone as softhearted as Daphne Starling could not be made to care about him, then surely he was always going to be alone. He could not bear it, would not stand for it; he would not be denied. Not after all he'd given, all he'd sacrificed. This was
his
time, and
she
was his reward that he had chosen, the prize he would obtain at any price.

Moments later, he was swinging up onto his towering black stallion, urging him out of the mews, and galloping hell-for-leather toward South Kensington.