The Heart of a Scoundrel (5 page)

He released it suddenly. “The garment is so very important that you’d risk your reputation with me, a stranger.” His was not a question but rather an observation of a man with an intelligent gleam in his brown eyes.

She nodded anyway. “It belongs to H…”
Honoria
. “My friend,” she settled for, rightfully cautious.

Silence descended. The intermittent cry of a night bird split the quiet. She should have left long ago. Her father shut away in those card rooms would never note her absence. Her loving mama, on the other hand, would very well note she’d gone missing, as would her friends, and still she remained.

“Well,” they spoke in unison.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I am in your debt.”

He swept a respectful bow. “It was, indeed, nothing, Miss Barrett.”

“Phoebe.” At her own boldness, embarrassed heat slapped her cheeks. There was nothing polite or proper in giving him leave to use her given name, and yet by the nature of their meeting and her debt to him, there seemed a bond of sorts between them. “Considering the kindness you’ve shown, I thought it appropriate you call me by my Christian name.” He said nothing, just continued to study her in that inscrutable manner until a pained awkwardness replaced the ease that had existed between her and this tall stranger only moments ago. Phoebe toyed with the fabric of Honoria’s shawl and cleared her throat.

“Edmund.”

She cocked her head. “Edmund,” she murmured. There was nothing proper or appropriate in knowing him by his Christian name. She’d but heard the faintest whispers of this man; whispers she’d taken care to avoid. As victim to that same gossip, she detested any talk about other people. Though, there was nothing proper or appropriate in any of this exchange.

He gave her a gentle smile. “You should go,” he said quietly.

Phoebe gave a reluctant nod. “I should.” And yet, perhaps she was more of her shameful father’s daughter than she’d ever feared because her feet remained fixed to the ground.

Edmund closed the space between them with languidly elegant movements. She swallowed hard as the gentle gleam in his eyes darkened, replaced with a harsh, angry glint. Then he blinked, so she thought she merely imagined the frigidity there. He angled his head down and touched his lips to hers.

A startled squeak escaped her and she danced out of reach. Her heart threatened to pound out of her chest. “What are you doing?” Her voice emerged as a breathless, barely-there whisper.

He opened his mouth.

Phoebe continued her retreat, never taking her gaze from his piercing brown eyes. She knocked against a stone statue and grunted.

Edmund took a step forward.

She jabbed a finger in his direction. “Stop.” He froze. He’d intended to kiss her. She’d seen as much in his eyes. Gentlemen didn’t kiss her, even those who’d determined her worth of little value for her connection to the lecherous, reprobate Viscount Waters. But this gentleman had. She kept her finger outstretched, warding him off.

“Forgive me.” There was a harsh, almost gravelly quality to that whispered response. “I was taken by your beauty.”

Phoebe knocked into a fountain and an inelegant snort escaped her. And gentlemen certainly were not taken by her
beauty
. She didn’t possess the otherworldly exquisiteness of Gillian, or even the blonde prettiness associated with a proper English miss. Nor did she believe a stunning model of masculine perfection such as Edmund, 5
^th
Marquess of Rutland, would be overcome with passion for one such as her.

A frown formed on his hard lips. “I don’t know what you believe of me.” The marquess folded his arms. “But I am not…” Heat blazed a path up her neck and burned her cheeks. He quirked an eyebrow.

“Immoral,” she said on an angry whisper and then glanced about to be certain they weren’t discovered and she was indeed forever labeled exactly that.

Edmund spread his arms wide. “It was never my intention to disrespect you. Perhaps I was caught in the moonlit moment or perhaps it was the splendor of these grounds, for I assure you, madam, I am not a gentleman to be so unwise as to give my attentions to a respectable lady, particularly an uninterested lady.” He sketched a stiff bow. “Forgive me.”

Guilt roiled in her belly and mixed with shame over the staggering truth—she’d not been uninterested. Which only made her body’s awareness of a mysterious stranger all the more alarming.

He made to leave.

“Wait!”

He immediately halted at her exclamation.

“I didn’t mean to question your motives.” Up to that faintest meeting of lips, his intentions had been honorable and good. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Edmund turned back and searched her face with his gaze once more, as though seeking the veracity of that apology. He gave a curt nod and then stalked over with a languid, almost panther-like sleekness that again sent warning bells clamoring. Or was that the rapid beat of her pulse? Her heart fluttered as he came to a stop beside her and she detested this inexplicable awareness of him that defied logic—something she’d always prided herself upon. He ran his knuckles over her cheek and her heart skipped several beats. “You wear your doubts upon your face, Miss Barrett. You’re guarded.”

She wet her lips, uncomfortable with that unerring accuracy. A mere stranger, he’d seen so very much to know… What he couldn’t know is that having been born to a disloyal, black-hearted bastard such as her father, she’d learned long ago to be wary of a man’s motives, while hopefully daring to believe there were men of honor.

“You say nothing, which is your confirmation,” he admonished.

Unnerved by his ability to seemingly know her thoughts, she retreated, placing much needed space between them. Desperate to give her fingers some task, she ran them over the pink peonies, curled tightly in rest for the spring night. “I’ve learned to be cautious where a gentleman is concerned.” She leaned forward and drew in the sweet, fragrant scent of the bud.

He narrowed his eyes to impenetrable slits, following her every movement. “And has there been a man who has hurt your heart, Phoebe?”

Phoebe, he called her Phoebe again, and that menacing, possessive whisper that was her name hinted of a man who’d likely stalk off and cut the cad if she gave a name. “Just—”
my father.
She pressed her lips into a tight line. “No one,” she said at last, unwilling to trust this man she’d only just met with those protective pieces she carried close to her heart. “No one has hurt me.”

“You wear a frown,” he said quietly, boldly touching a finger to the corner of her lips. “A young woman such as you should not know this sadness.”

A protestation sprung to her lips. She wasn’t sad. She had a loving mother who was more friend than anything else. She had a brother and sister she would have walked across the coals of hell for, and she knew would do the same for her. And yet…there was sadness. The gold flecks in his eyes glinted with knowing, but he said nothing, for which she was grateful. Instead, he bent down, and she studied him curiously as he fiddled with something upon the ground, and then he stood. She widened her eyes at the rose he’d managed to free from the bush. “What is that?” she blurted.

The subtle twitching of his lips was incongruously hard with that gentle movement. “It is a rose. To remember our meeting.” He held it out. He set his mouth in a serious line, driving back all earlier teasing. “I’d not have there be sadness between us, Phoebe.”

She eyed it cautiously. “And should I remember this meeting?” Her cheeks warmed at the boldness of her own question.

“Undoubtedly,” he said in that smooth baritone that washed over her.

She claimed the flower and drew it close to her heart. The sweet, fragrant hint of the bloom wafted about the air, wrapping her in this magic pull, a product of the spring night and the forbiddenness of their exchange.

“She is not here,” a young lady’s impatient voice cut through the quiet.

“But I saw her go down the hall. Where else would she be?”

God love her friends for being so devoted as to set out in search of her. And yet, why was there this tug of regret?

Gillian spoke on a hushed whisper. “You do not believe something sinister has befallen—”

Honoria snorted. “You’re so fanciful, Gillian. Nothing sinister happened to her and she is not here. We’ve walked the entire length and she’s not…”

Had anyone else discovered her with Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland, there would be nothing but a hasty union based on her own ruin.

Silence.

Then the shuffling of slippered feet as the two ladies scrambled down the stone steps and stole into Lady Delenworth’s gardens. She looked about, momentarily contemplating escape, but too late. Her friends found her. They staggered to a stop with their mouths agape, their eyes widened in a blend of horror and shock.

Heat splashed Phoebe’s cheeks and she unwittingly took a step closer to the marquess.

“Phoebe?” Gillian asked. There was skepticism in that one-word utterance.

“The same,” Phoebe said, in an attempt at nonchalance.

Honoria’s wide, brown eyes alternated rapidly between Edmund and Phoebe. “What is the meaning of this?” she hissed. “Come away from him this instance, Phoebe Eloise Barrett,” she snapped in the same angry tones of a mama who’d discovered her daughter…well…just as Phoebe had been discovered—in a compromising position.

Edmund remained stoically silent. His dark gaze lingered upon Honoria and then he returned his attention to Phoebe. “I should leave,” he admitted, taking a step away.

“Yes, you should,” Honoria tossed back with an unexpected cruelty in her tone that Phoebe didn’t remember of her friend.

“Honoria,” she chided. “I lost your shawl and he merely found it and returned it to me.”

Fire flared in her friend’s eyes.

She opened her mouth to say something, but Edmund touched his hand to hers, silencing the defense of him on her lips. Gillian stifled a gasp with her fingers.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he requested and sketched a deep, deferential bow to her and her friends, and then walked briskly off.

Honoria launched into a stinging rebuke. “What are you doing with one such as him? Do you have any idea who he is?”

Actually, she’d never before seen a glimpse of the dark, dashing stranger. There had been something menacing there in his eyes, and yet for the momentary flash, there had been warmth, something more that told a tale, and God help her for always longing for the story. “No,” she said. Though that was not altogether true. “Well, now—”

“The Marquess of Rutland,” Honoria hissed once more.

“Yes, he said as much.” And he’d said a good deal more.
Edmund.

Gillian widened her eyes to the size of moons. “You exchanged greetings.” She shook her head disapprovingly, sending a golden-white curl falling over her eye. “That is not at all appropriate.”

Phoebe bristled. At what point had her scheming, oft trouble-seeking friends become this stodgy, judgmental pair? “It was a chance meeting—”

Honoria jabbed a finger out. “Nothing about the Marquess of Rutland is a matter of chance. He is a heartless scoundrel.”

She hesitated. Her friend’s words borne of abhorrence spoke of a familiarity. “Do you know him?”

The too cynical for her years, young woman pursed her lips. “Not per se,” she said with a touch of reluctance.

Phoebe released a breath.

At the knowing look given her by Phoebe, she added. “But I know enough of him.”

“I’ve not seen him at any
ton
functions this entire Season.”

“Nor will you,” Gillian said, interrupting before Honoria could reply. “The marquess quite studiously avoids polite events. He is on Mama’s list of gentlemen to avoid.”

Ah, the infamous, ever growing list of suitors her daughter was not to look at, talk to, dance with, or breathe around. After her eldest daughter’s elopement, she’d attended with far greater care the reputation of her other children.

“As he should be,” Honoria snapped. She began to pace a small path along the row of peach rose bushes. “There is nothing honorable about him. He is dark, vile, evil, and…” She paused mid-stride and leaned close. “And he is rumored to tie his ladies up.”

Phoebe furrowed her brow. “Whyever would he tie a lady up?” There really was no end to the limitless, shameful gossip put forth by Polite Society.

A blush stained Honoria’s cheeks. “Well, for…for reasons that aren’t appropriate.” Her words so whisper soft that Phoebe strained to hear.

Gillian scratched her forehead. “I daresay I agree with Phoebe. The man might be whispered about, but I don’t think any polite lady would take to being tied up.”

Honoria’s lips turned downward in a frown. “Regardless of his odd proclivities, he only enters Society when there is some poor person he’d destroy. The scandal sheets say he takes pleasure in destroying anyone and everything.” At that impassioned speech by her friend, Phoebe scoffed. Honoria made Edmund out to be an utterly horrid beast, and yet the man who’d waited patiently above while she searched for the lost shawl, and then tried to beat a hasty retreat, surely was incapable of deception. “We do not read the scandal sheets,” she politely reminded her only pairing of friends. Nor had Honoria been one to possess a fanciful imagination.

Honoria tossed her hands up. “Your fancifulness will mean your ruin.”

There was an almost prophetic quality to that pledge that caused a chill to race down Phoebe’s spine. She tipped her chin up. “I understand we have reason to be cautious where gentlemen are concerned.” She looked at Gillian first, until the young woman shifted on her feet, and then turned her attention to the other young lady. Honoria, however, in her unflinching opinion, remained proudly fixed to her spot. “However, I still say I far prefer a world where you are cautious and yet still trust in the goodness of man.” Because to believe the alternative…that there was no trustworthy, honorable figure, would make for a very dark world, with little reason for hope in the sentiments of love she and her friends and so many other young ladies secretly aspired to.

Honoria gave her head a pitying shake. “Then you’re a fool,” she said, wringing a shocked gasp from Gillian.