The Heart of a Scoundrel (14 page)

Hardly anything at all. For if she truly gleaned the black mark upon his soul, she’d not have that warmth in her eyes whenever she looked at him, just as she did now. Edmund growled. “How trusting you are,” he spat the words dripping with scorn for Phoebe because of her misguided faith and trust, because of him for his deceitfulness, but more for caring about this treachery when he’d never cared before. “You would see good where there is none.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he recognized that irrational attempt to have her shut him out of her life and then he’d be done with his plan.

“Perhaps.” Phoebe took a step closer; the prey now turned predator. “And yet, I also realize a person can claim to be angry ten times to Sunday but if the smile on their lips meets one’s eyes, there is happiness somewhere deep inside.” Coming to a stop before him, she claimed his hands in a boldness that would have shocked any dowager, matron, and mama. She turned them over studying his gloveless palms.

A garbled sound lodged in his throat. “Is that what you believe, that I’m smiling?” All laughter had died from his life twenty-five years ago.

“Here.” Phoebe ran her finger over the right corner of his lip, shocking him with the innocent seductiveness of that faint touch. Her caress somehow more erotic than any of the scandalous, forbidden games he’d played behind chamber doors. “You smile, and then it is as though you remind yourself you do not want to smile and this muscle twitches,” she said, having no idea the havoc she now wrought upon his senses.

Edmund shot a hand out and encircled it about her wrist, capturing the delicate flesh in his unrelenting grip. “What have you to smile for?” His words were not to taunt, but rather a desperate desire to know how she’d risen from the ugliness of life, the daughter of Waters to become…
this
woman who spoke of laughter and hope and happiness. It was too much. He dragged her wrist to his mouth and touched his lips to the wildly fluttering pulse there. Phoebe’s thick, nearly black lashes swept down as he continued to worship the soft skin, nipping at the juncture where her hand met wrist.

Then, as though it were a physical exertion, she forced her eyes open and peered at him with an intensity of emotion that robbed him of logical thought. “I can go through life bemoaning the circumstances of my life.” Her lecherous sire. “Or I can choose to smile and celebrate where I can.” She met his gaze squarely. “I choose to celebrate, Edmund.”

When she spoke with that resolve, she made him believe he, too, could try again at life and, as she said, smile where he could and bury the memories of the shameful deeds no child should ever bear witness to.

Edmund lowered his head, to claim her lips under his once more and stamp the sincerity of her promise upon his soul. He took her mouth in a gentle meeting. There was none of the violent, desperate passion he reserved for every lover to come before her. With a whispery sigh, she leaned up and wrapped her arms about his neck, availing herself to him and all he could offer. Emboldened by her eagerness, he deepened the kiss, devouring her mouth with his, over and over. Gentleness gone, he parted her lips and mated with her tongue in a bold thrust and parry. He swallowed her moan of desire, catching her to him as her body collapsed against his. “I want you, Phoebe Barrett,” he said harshly against her lips and, guiding her to the edge of the wall, he anchored her with his chest. He trailed his lips down her neck then kissed the silken shell of her earlobe.

Phoebe captured her lower lip between her teeth, her head falling back. “M-my maid—”

“Can go hang,” he whispered, worshiping the long, graceful stretch of her neck. He’d never worried about discovery before and he didn’t now. He drew her flesh between his teeth, gently nipping until she was moaning with unrestrained desire.

In this moment, nothing but they two mattered. Not his plans for Miss Fairfax or his use of Phoebe’s father to advance that plan. What if there could be more between them? What if he abandoned this driving need for retribution? The curtain fell agape. It was as though the fates jeered his momentary weakening.

Through the crack in the velvet curtains, his gaze snagged upon Miss Honoria Fairfax, the woman he’d take to wife, the sole reason he was even now with Phoebe, as she stepped down from her carriage, a mutinous set to her mouth. The pale-haired Lady Gillian followed along behind her. With a curse, Edmund wrenched away.

Phoebe’s chest heaved with the force of her desire and it was all he could do to keep from conquering her mouth once again. He quickly set her hair to rights, adjusting the floral, jewel-encrusted combs woven into her hair. The light reflected off the too-dull gem and his gut tightened with the truth that she wore nothing more than paste baubles. And he who’d never felt an ounce of remorse, shame, or regret in his life, was consumed by a numbing guilt. He’d divested the lady of her dowry.

“Wh-what i-is it?” Hesitancy underscored that question.

He steeled his jaw. Nay, the lady’s father was responsible for those crimes. There were many other sins that could be laid at Edmund’s feet. “You’ve visitors,” he murmured, deliberately misinterpreting the question she put to him.

They looked to the door just as her maid rushed into the room, head downcast. The young woman lifted her eyes a moment and a flush stained her cheeks as she continued to the corner of the parlor, swiftly claiming a seat. Ah, the loyal maid had allowed her mistress that scandalous privacy. She’d see Phoebe ruined.

No, I’ll see her ruined…

Footsteps fell in the corridor, punctuated by the excited chatter of one of those visiting ladies. Conditioned to living in the shadows, Edmund backed away. The surly and rightfully wary butler reappeared and announced Phoebe’s two friends.

Lady Gillian stepped into the room with a wide, innocent smile. “Hullo, Phoe—” The warm greeting withered on her lips as she caught sight of Edmund. Silence marched out long and stilted between them.

He broke the quiet. “Lady Gillian, Miss Fairfax.” Despite his polite greeting, Miss Fairfax lingered in the doorway with a staying hand rested upon her other friend’s forearm, as though she’d been unable to adequately protect Phoebe but would not so fail the innocent, golden-haired lady.

Phoebe looked between them and then rushed over to greet the woman he’d take as his wife. Why was the taste for retribution less potent than this hungering to claim another? He slid his gaze over Phoebe’s lean frame, taking in the gracefulness of her back.

“Gillian, Honoria.” Only one as deaf as a dowager would fail to hear the forced cheer in her tone. She motioned them to sit. “Will you see to refreshments?” she called to the maid in the corner. The too-obedient young woman hovering in the corner of the room raced to do her mistress’ bidding. “Lord Rutland was just visiting.”

“Why?” the tart-mouth shrew who’d find herself his bride, snapped.

Lady Gillian gasped, stifling the sound with her fingers. “Honoria,” she chided.

Alas, it would seem there was but one sensible woman of their lot—a cynical, wary creature with loathing in her eyes. Yes, in temperament and cynicism she would make him the perfect wife. Why did that thought leave him strangely hollow? “If you’ll excuse me,” he murmured. “I’ll leave you to your visit.” He sketched another bow.

“No,” Phoebe cried out. Her friends rounded their eyes in response. Color bloomed on her cheeks and she ran her palms over the front of the gown. When she spoke, her words emerged far steadier. “That is…” She wet her lips and then looked about as though in search of some desperate device to keep him here amongst two young women who appeared as if they’d rather have his head on a platter than his company for tea. Her gaze alighted on the small, rose-inlaid side table and she rushed over in a flurry of white skirts. “Your package, Ed—” Lady Gillian’s shocked gasp cut into that impropriety. “That is, you’ve forgotten your package, my lord.” With fingers atremble, Phoebe rescued the wrapped package and held it out. She lifted her gaze to his. Entreaty, apology, and a whole host of sentiments he was undeserving of, lit her expressive eyes.

Edmund held his hands up. “You’re mistaken.” He lowered his voice, speaking in hushed tones. “It is yours.” Running his gaze over her face once more, he sketched another bow and adjusted his awkward gait then took his leave. He made his way out of Viscount Waters’ townhouse and away from Phoebe. This scheme he’d forced her into plunged Edmund into a realm in which he could never be redeemed.

His lips turned up in a smile that likely would have chilled her back into a logical miss. Then, there was no redemption for a blackguard such as he.

P
hoebe stared down at the small, wrapped package in her hands. It was the height of impropriety to accept a gift from a gentleman. It was the level of scandalousness that saw a lady ruined, and when said gift was given by Lord Rutland, she might as well don crimson skirts and declare herself the next Harriette Wilson.

“What have you done, Phoebe?” The desperation infused in Honoria’s tone brought her attention up.

Had she been the furious, guarded, snapping young woman she’d been since she’d stepped onto Lady Delenworth’s terrace and discovered Phoebe and Edmund together, that would be easier to bear than this pitying, alarmed figure. “He wants to court me.”

Her friends spoke in unison. “He wants to court you?” The young ladies, her confidantes these two years, shared a look.

“Is that so difficult to believe?” She could not keep the affront from her voice.

“Yes.” This from Gillian, the most hopeful romantic one of their lot.

Honoria pounced, throwing support behind Gillian. “Don’t you see?” She swept over and stopped before Phoebe. “The Marquess of Rutland is a monster.”

Gillian gave a hesitant nod. “It is true. He is.”

The more cynical of her friends pursed her lips. “He doesn’t court young ladies.”

Again, the world saw in Edmund what they chose to see. They looked at the veneer of him constructed of whispers and rumors alone, and failed to see a man who believed in hope, and dreamed of escape from the rigid confines of their cruel world. “You’re wrong.” Phoebe promptly pressed her lips into a firm line. Honoria bristled and settled her hands on her hips. “My aunt knew him well and…” she wrinkled her nose. “Though she’s not provided me details about
how
she knew him, it is enough to know the gossips are indeed correct about the man.”

Her
aunt
? She gritted her teeth. “You’d expect me to condemn the gentleman based on tales you do not know, and on nothing more than your aunt’s words alone?” Disappointment filled her. Given each of their circumstances, she expected more honor from her friend. “Come, what manner of person would I be to judge another so.” She gave Honoria a deliberate look.

Honoria had the good grace to flush.

Surprisingly, it was Gillian who shattered the quiet. “Look at you, both, arguing.” She sailed over in a flurry of noisy taffeta skirts and positioned herself directly between Honoria and Phoebe. “Perhaps there is good in him, Honoria.”

The cynical one of their trio slashed the air with her hand. “Bah. There is not. He will hurt you,” she said to Phoebe and then turned to Gillian. “He will hurt her. Scoundrels, rakes, and rogues are not to be trusted.”

Annoyed with the ease in which Honoria fell into the ranks of every member of the
ton
who’d serve as arbiter and executioner of a person’s reputation, she said, “I’ll not let myself be hurt.” As soon as that assurance left her mouth, she recognized the futility of that promise. Gillian and Honoria’s silence said they, too, recognized it. For Phoebe couldn’t
truly
protect herself—not fully. Edmund was not the monster Society painted him to be, but he was still a scarred and broken creature, and those were the most difficult to heal.

Phoebe passed the gift he’d given back and forth between her hands. His unyielding visage flashed behind her eyes. “I know he is not…the most gentle of men.” She continued over Honoria’s disbelieving snort. “When I am with him,” she said, picking her gaze up, “I’m not the shameful Lord Waters’ daughter. I’m simply Phoebe.” And that is all she’d longed for people to see—not her familial connection to a letch who lived at his clubs and shamed her mother. Some of the tension left Honoria’s stiffly held frame, hinting at a wavering on her part. Phoebe pressed her vantage. “Surely you see no one could ever make him do something he does not wish.”
I want you, Phoebe Barrett
. “You warned me that his intentions can never be honorable and yet he wishes to court me.” Phoebe drew the gift given her close, hugging the package to her chest. “Why should he do that unless he wished it?”

“I don’t know.” That terse admission came as though dragged from Honoria.

Phoebe continued her defense. “I will do nothing foolish where the marquess is concerned.” Her friends exchanged a doubtful look and she steeled her jaw. Both women were entitled to their cynicism but she’d not have it jade her own interactions with Edmund. “Nor will I not allow myself to explore the possibilities that exist with Lord Rutland and what is within my heart.”

Her maid entered bearing the tray of refreshments, effectively quashing any further discussion on Lord Rutland’s intentions, for which Phoebe sent a silent prayer of thanks skyward. Marissa set her burden down and then took her leave once more.

Gillian motioned to the package in Phoebe’s arms. “Well then, what has he given you?”

“I…” Did not want to open such an intimate item before anyone, even her friends. Particularly following Honoria’s damning opinion about the gentleman. Clearing her throat, she wandered over to the sofa and claimed a seat. “I’m not certain,” she settled for.

“Of course you aren’t, silly.” Gillian pointed her green eyes up. “That is, after all, the purpose of a gift.” She rushed to sit beside Phoebe and the gift in question.

With a grudging reluctance Honoria joined them, taking a spot on the mahogany shell chair. “Go on, then.”

The expectant stares trained on her indicated that, short of a blunt refusal, she had little choice but to comply. To issue any other protest would merely rouse their over-cautiousness where Edmund was concerned. She bent her head and slid the tip of her finger under the fold in the covering. Her skin pricked from the intensity of her friends’ scrutiny. Phoebe drew the item out of its packaging, setting the brown fabric aside. Her heart started.
Resolution
. He’d given her the book he’d sought and found. Swept deeper into his hold, the same panicky fear that gripped her friends reared powerfully strong, when presented with this…considerateness. He knew her interests. Shared them.