The Heart of a Scoundrel (22 page)

The rakish stranger, who’d once delighted in shocking her, would have likely tossed any number of improper words to that statement. This new man, the one she’d looked close enough to see, merely studied their hands side by side with the same intensity as one who’d first stared upon a da Vinci masterpiece. “The maids had coarse hands and my mother had smooth hands and do you know what I have, Edmund?”

“What?” he asked in a gravelly whisper.

But he asked.

Phoebe pressed her palms together, steepling her fingers. “I have my father’s hands.”

“You don’t—”

“Oh, but I do,” she interrupted his harsh protestation. “I am, after all, his daughter. These hands were made by him. One day I was in the nursery and I should have been attending my lessons. Instead, I kept glancing at my nursemaid’s hands. They were stained with ink and wrinkled and I was so very bored that I then began to really study my
own
hands and I noticed the lines.” She turned one palm up for his inspection and trailed the tip of her finger down those intersecting lines that had once fascinated her as a child. “Do you know what I realized?”

He gave his head a brusque shake.

Phoebe claimed his hand and ran the tip of her index finger down the marks that were only his upon his palm. “They are different.
We
are different. We may have been gifted these hands by people we admire, abhor, or love, but ultimately they are our own hands and it is what we do with them that truly defines us.”

Silence met her words and with it a reminder of where they were and the manner in which she held him and the humiliating admissions she’d made. His stiff, unbendable quiet made the moment all the more excruciating. She released him with alacrity, a flush climbing her neck. “Er…well, silly, I know. That is, it must sound silly to you, my fascination with hands as a child.” She was prattling. “I—”

He shot a hand about her wrist, gently enfolding the smaller flesh in his more powerful grip. He drew her hand to his mouth and her pulse pounded hard there in anticipation of that caress. Then he pressed his lips to the skin and the gentle movement—sweet yet seductive—brought her eyes fluttering closed.

With Society observing this whole interlude, the gossips would bandy her name about and whisper about his kiss upon her hand at Hyde Park and yet, she could no sooner chop off that hand than she could pull free of him.

“Marry me.”

W
here had that impulsive request come from?

There were a million reasons Phoebe Barrett should never belong to him, nay, could never belong to him. He’d fleeced her hazard-loving father of her family’s possessions and properties, even as she didn’t know it—including her dowry. He’d used her to advance his goals of revenge against Margaret, using the duchess’ beloved niece, Miss Honoria Fairfax—who also happened to be one of Phoebe’s closest friends. And yet, he’d not given a bloody thought to Margaret or Miss Fairfax or anything and anyone that was not Phoebe Barrett since he’d collided with her backside on Lord Delenworth’s balustrade. He fisted his hands. Only, a relationship built upon that rather muddied foundation was but begging for a summer storm to erase anything that had been real between them.

Yes, there were a million reasons to move on from Miss Phoebe Barrett. And only one sufficient reason to make her his—he wanted her. Having known the pleasure of her body in Lord Essex’s gardens had not filled this aching need for her. It had only fueled his hunger to wake her every morning with a hard, passionate loving. This wanting defied the physical and scared the bloody hell out of him. It consumed him with an intensity that got men carted off to Bedlam. Those two words he’d vowed to never speak, in fact, belonged to him.

It did not fail to escape his notice that his question met with nothing more than the rattle of passing carriage wheels and the noisy squawking of gray geese. The slight moue of surprise on her lips and her widened eyes indicated that she’d very well heard. As the silence stretched on, a flush heated his neck and climbed higher, up to his cheeks. After Margaret, he’d never weakened himself before another man, woman, or child. Yet on this day, he should so publicly humble himself before this slip of a lady and before the eyes of the passing
ton
. Why did that endangering truth not rouse unholy terror in his gut?

He fixed his gaze on her long, naked fingers, thinking of her earlier words, the tale she’d told of her fascination with hands, making him believe he was different when he could never divorce his past from his present. The lady’s prolonged silence said she knew it, as well. With a growl, Edmund shifted the reins and made to guide the carriage from the copse, when she shot out a staying hand, resting her silken, soft palm over his. “You want me to marry you?”

If he were a true gentleman, he’d give her the verses of sonnets, managed by those still naïve, foolishly hopeful young swains—much the way he’d done with Margaret. Yet, where had been the honesty in any of that relationship?
Then, where is the honesty in any of this?
The snake whispered into his ear. Edmund scoffed at the taunting devil. He could give her what no other man likely would. “I have thought of the benefits in your marrying me.”

Did her lips twitch with amusement? “Oh?” Had she been any other woman, he’d have offered her the finest French fabrics and expensive baubles and those trinkets would have sated the lady’s greedy wants. In the days he’d come to know Phoebe, she’d proven herself an Incomparable in ways the gossips and polite Society would never understand. Incapable of the words a romantic such as she hoped for, he gave her his truth. “I will see you have any Captain Cook artifacts you may desire.”

“Captain Cook?”

He didn’t know what to make of her oddly tentative tone. Edmund pressed his vantage. “I’ll permit you to visit whatever blasted curiosity shop or museum you desire.” He slashed the air with the reins in his hand. The horses shifted, letting out nervous whinnies. “Whatever book, curiosity, or creature you desire shall be yours.”

“Is that what you believe I wish?” Phoebe trained her gaze on his face. “For artifacts belonging to a man who has traveled the world?” The disappointment underscoring that question indicated his error. “I don’t want those interesting, if empty, mementos, Edmund. Surely you know that?”

Then he narrowed his eyes as it at last came to him. What did she desire above all else? Uncaring of any witness who might see and the implications of his actions, he touched her chin and nudged her gaze up to his. “As your husband, I will allow you to travel.” It would be enough knowing when she was gone and, more importantly, when she returned, she belonged to him.

“And will you travel with me?” There was a hesitancy to her inquiry. His answer mattered to her and scoundrel that he was, the lie should roll easily from his lips.

And yet, he stared blankly down at her delicate hand. Travel with her? The experience he had with marriage came from the sorry state shared by his parents, which had been mimicked by the philandering Society members through the years. Married women and men did not travel together. They did not even tend to move in the same circles. “And would you want me to travel with you?” he asked, in a carefully flat tone. He’d not give her an indication he wanted that answer, nay, needed that answer to be yes.

She snorted. “Well, we would be married.”

By Phoebe’s own experience as the daughter of a depraved lord, a man who was faithless and fickle, she should have long ago learned what that state meant to the majority of the peerage. He eyed her, this woman who with her hopeful naiveté was more peculiar than any of those creatures they’d observed at either Egyptian Hall or the Leverian. Yet, strangely, the lady had altogether different expectations of marriage.

That would change. The moment she tasted the freedom of being a wedded woman and was courted by clever rakes with glib tongues, she’d be the same.

Rage fell like a thick curtain over his vision, blinding and real. He blinked, and when he looked at her again, she bore the same innocent, unabashed openness upon her face that she always wore. “I would be there if you wanted me there,” he said gruffly. “Just as I will give you whatever you desire.” Phoebe stroked her fingers over the top of his hand in an almost distracted little rhythm. “You would marry me and yet you still don’t know me enough to know I don’t care about any of the material gifts you might offer me? Those are not reasons to marry a person, Edmund.” That accusatory edge to those words cut into the next worldly gift he would have put to her.

He raked his hand through his hair. Any other lady would think of nothing but the fact that she’d been divested of her maidenhead and, as such, had no option except that of marriage. And yet, Phoebe pressed him, relentless as a military general. She wanted more.
Demanded
more.

A desperate panic began to lick at his senses as he confronted the horrifying possibility that she intended to say no. With a silent curse, he leveled her with a stare, laying himself bare before her, even as it would likely destroy him—if not now, then later. “I need you, Phoebe Barrett. I don’t know your favorite foods or even your middle name, nor do I believe that much matters as to who you are.” He was making a greater muck of this. Her slight smile said as much. “Regardless, I don’t want anyone and I do not need anyone, but I want you, and I’d have you marry me.”

Phoebe angled her head, as though wisely searching the veracity of those words, and then a slow smile spread on her lips. “That is a reason,” she whispered. The organ that had knocked around his chest all these years but hadn’t felt much more than the dull beat, stirred for the first time in years, proving he was, in fact, alive.

“I will marry you.”

Yet, not for any of the promises he’d already made her? What he could offer her? The stability he’d won in several games of faro and hazard opposite her father, she knew nothing of. For if she did, she’d not even now be staring at him with this glimmer in her too-trusting eyes. And for the first time, fear spiraled through him, those sentiments loathsome and potent.
I
wish I’d never met you, Phoebe Barrett
. For then he’d have never known this vulnerability. The fleeting thought died a quick death. For he was more selfish than coward, and craved her still, even as she weakened him.

“You want to know why?” She settled back in her seat, calm when he was at sea.

He stiffened. When had he become so transparent that an innocent young lady could manage to read him? Edmund said nothing, instead silently pleaded with her to reply when he’d given her no reason to suspect it mattered.

“I want to marry you because, despite the life you knew as a child, part of you still clung to hope and dreamed of travel and that is the man I’d have for my husband.” Her smile widened. “You shall speak to my father?”

Then, for the second time in the course of his entire life, that new emotion pricked at his conscience, a conscience he’d not even known he possessed—guilt. And all because of Miss Phoebe Barrett. “I shall speak to your father,” he pledged. The other man would say nothing to her. Edmund all but owned him and therefore would own that silence, too. A surge of satisfaction filled him as with that ruthless control, he was restored once more to the emotionless bastard he’d been before the innocent Phoebe Barrett.

*

Later that afternoon as Phoebe sailed through the front entrance of her home, she tugged her bonnet off and handed it to the butler. She smiled and started for the stairs, feeling as though she’d worn a perpetual smile since Edmund had in his gravelly, harsh whisper professed to wanting her, nay needing her, and then he’d asked to wed her.

“My lady, you have visitors.” She jumped and turned to face the old, frowning servant. He never frowned. Why was he frowning? He cleared his throat. “I’ve taken the liberty of showing them to the parlor and having refreshments called for.”

“Visitors,” she said dumbly and then gave her head a shake.

“Yes, Miss Fairfax and Lady Gillian.”

Her smile dipped for the first time that afternoon and she then moved with no little reluctance through the townhouse to meet her friends. The easy relationship and friendship they’d celebrated these years had become a stiff, awkward one since Edmund had stumbled upon her on the terrace at Lady Delenworth’s. Their times together now consisted of their suspicious looks and veiled warnings about his worth and value. They would never share in her regard for Edmund, nor would they celebrate the offer he’d put to her. As much as she told herself their rejection of him did not matter, she lied. It mattered very much whether they liked him and she detested that they saw him in the same black light as the rest of polite Society.

Phoebe reached the parlor and paused at the edge of the door.

“Perhaps he truly cares for her.” Oh, saints love Gillian for her devotion and hopeful heart.

Honoria snorted. “He does not care for anybody. Nor will he marry her. Men such as him do not marry ladies.”

Gillian’s response was lost to the wall.

Phoebe frowned. She’d long known the cynicism Honoria had wrapped herself in, yet she hated to see her friend broken and bitter. And just as much, she hated that Honoria spoke words of Edmund that he himself had come to believe.