The Heart of a Scoundrel (8 page)

What would Phoebe’s two friends say about her unwitting fascination with the Marquess of Rutland? Heat spiraled through her as she recalled his kiss. There was nothing staid or stodgy about the marquess. And with the desire he stirred, staid and stodgy were a good deal safer.

“Why are you looking like that?” Gillian cocked her head and then looked to Honoria. “Why is she looking like that?”

Phoebe’s cheeks warmed. “Shall we go before Honoria is forced to return and be courted by Lord Thistlewait?”

The lady in mention narrowed her eyes and then opened her mouth as though she wished to say something on Phoebe’s deliberate evasiveness. But Phoebe implored her with her eyes and Honoria gave an imperceptible nod.

A short carriage ride later, with no further talk of Lord Thistlewait or questions about Phoebe’s peculiar reaction, the ladies and a rightfully wary maid made their way not shopping but through the broad columns of Egyptian Hall.

Phoebe glanced up at the sweeping ceiling of the darkened Egyptian-style space. Hieroglyphics marked the walls of the famed place constructed by Mr. Bullock. She paused beside the menagerie of stuffed creatures at the central portion of the hall and, reaching up on tiptoe, craned her head about in search of the items belonging to the famed Captain James Cook. From the corner of her eye, she noted Honoria grip Gillian by the forearm, staying their forward movement. Her friends paused and looked back at her.

“I do not see them,” Phoebe murmured, turning a small circle in search of the display of those revered items returned by Captain Cook’s crew.

“I imagine that is the fun in coming here, taking the time to look.” Honoria paused. “At everything.”

Gillian nodded her agreement. “Oh, yes. I daresay the ferocious snakes eating their prey is a good deal more interesting than some horridly boring explorer who—”

Phoebe frowned, personally offended for the gentleman. “He is not boring,” she said defensively of the legendary explorer and cartographer. She rather resented Gillian filing the Captain Cooks of the world into the company with the Lord Thistlewaits of the world.

“Come along,” Honoria urged, motioning Phoebe forward. “We shall search. Gillian shall enjoy her horrific snakes, I shall have the opportunity to appreciate the gold recovered from…from…wherever it was recovered from and you may have your Captain Cook.”

Phoebe returned to her friend’s side and, maid in tow, fell into step beside the young women, all the while scanning the enormous space for those famed artifacts. The story of Captain Cook had intrigued her from the time she’d been a small girl. Her mother had regaled her with those fascinating stories of the man and his great, fascinating explorations. And though she’d known even then the foolishness in imagining a life of exploration and adventure, excitement had stirred in her heart at the dream of it. Now she realized her mother had likely dreamed of escape for herself. Selfishly she’d not given thought to the woman her mother had been prior to the marriage arranged by Phoebe’s grandfather. Had she dreamed of escape even then? Or had she willingly ceded over all control unquestioningly as the dutiful daughter and that longing for escape came later? Regret stuck in her chest. She would never cede control over to a gentleman strictly because her father commanded it. No, she would steal her happiness when and where she could…and be the sole controller of her fate.

She turned to her maid. “Marissa, you may take yourself about the museum. No harm shall come to us,” she said when the young woman hesitated. But then she dropped a curtsy and hurried off.

“That was well done of you,” Honoria complimented. “I only wish my aunt’s maids were as obliging.”

Phoebe’s father’s servants were loyal to the Viscountess Waters and her children. That devotion was likely a product of pity for the horrid father and spouse the Barrett family suffered through. It was well known that the servants in Honoria’s aunt’s employ were loyal to her harridan of an aunt and not much more.

From the corner of her eye, a ray of sunshine slashed through the windows at the top of the room and splashed light off a glass display case. She squinted down the length of the room at the wide map contained within that particular exhibit.

Gillian followed her gaze and groaned. “There is hardly anything interesting in a map. Bah, what does it show?” She jabbed her finger toward the stuffed snake. “As opposed to that magnificent—”

“Go.” Phoebe laughed. “I’ll not be long.” Still they hesitated. “I assure you the nefarious sort is hardly lurking about the Egyptian Hall.” Not allowing the young ladies an opportunity to issue protest, she started down the hall for Captain Cook’s collection.

*

At last the young ladies were alone. Invariably, those scheming ladies with scandalous families ultimately found a way to disentangle themselves from their chaperones.

From where he stood behind the massive Doric column, Edmund tucked away the note from the lady’s father, a bald, greedy Judas, and lazily studied Miss Barrett’s hurried steps. She cast a longing gaze forward, walking with purposeful strides. He narrowed his eyes. She met a lover. There was no other accounting for her solitary presence in Lord Delenworth’s gardens a few days ago and now the eager glint in her brown eyes.

Never taking his gaze from the young lady, Edmund moved with slow, stealthy steps along the perimeter of the famed Egyptian Hall. He strode past the handful of visitors present, those other patrons foolishly engrossed in the useless artifacts collected about the room.

It mattered not that there was some other gentleman who’d ensnared her notice. He’d seen the stirring of interest in her eyes, the breathless whisper of a sigh as his lips touched hers. Then, she stopped abruptly before a broad, crystal case. She cast several furtive glances about, her gaze lingering upon her two friends thoroughly engrossed with the massive, coiled serpent and the prey the frozen snake intended to devour. Phoebe turned her attention back to the case and he strode forward. With the same ruthless speed of a lethal serpent, he stopped just behind her.

Her shoulders stiffened and her singular focus shifted from one of Cook’s worthless artifacts to his hovering presence. She spun around, hand to her breast, and then a smile wreathed her cheeks. “You.” Her eyes made her more transparent than the crystal panes of the case. Shocked pleasure lit her blue irises and then the familiar wariness replaced her earlier excitement. “My lord,” she said again, this time more composed.

He sketched a bow. “Hello, Miss Barrett. What an unexpected pleasure.” He lied. There was nothing unexpected in this meeting. This had been carefully planned since Lord Waters had sent round a missive detailing the ladies’ plans for that week. He angled his head toward the case. “Never tell me you are also an admirer of the legendary Captain Cook.”

Flecks of gold danced in her eyes. “Oh, quite!” Ah, so she didn’t meet a lover. Her love was for a dead explorer. How singularly…odd. He’d never before known a woman who’d worn that silly, starry look about anything other than a bauble or the promise of passion between the sheets. He shifted, disconcerted in a world where he was always only sure. She gestured to the map. “This is…” Her words trailed off. “You’re an admirer of Captain Cook?” she whispered.

He was, now. With her breathless question, he was restored to the ruthless Edmund. He made a show of studying the display case. “I must confess it is not Captain Cook who has singularly captured my attention.”

She widened her eyes and a hand fluttered up to her breast. “It isn’t?”

With a deliberate slowness, he returned his attention to her. “No,” he murmured. He dropped his gaze to her lips, studying them, remembering the taste and contour of the plump flesh. And just then he was ensnared by his own game, wanting to take her mouth under his and explore the hot depths of her and more. He blinked back the momentary lapse in sanity. “Travel,” he managed at last.

Phoebe tipped her head, the passion dipped and faded from her eyes, replaced by the thick haze of befuddlement.

“I find myself fascinated by exploration and those who’ve traveled and been places and seen the wonders and magnificence beyond the confines of the stifling London Society.”

Her breath caught.

Everyone had their weaknesses. The trick to life was identifying those weaknesses and exploiting them; taking them and twisting them to suit one’s uses for that person. He grinned. This was the moment where he’d effectively trapped Phoebe Barrett. “What of you, Phoebe? Do you, too, dream of far-off places and escaping,” he gestured about the walls of the museum. “This?”

She followed his gesture and then ultimately fixed her gaze upon that map trapped behind its crystal confines. “I do,” she said softly.

He put his lips close to her ear. “It begs the question, what would you escape from?” The safe answer she wasn’t aware of was, in fact, him.

Her brow creased. “That is a rather intimate question.” There was a faint hesitancy to those words that hinted at a logical, practical woman of some caution. She angled her head back, craning to look at him. “What if I were to say I’m not escaping but searching?” she asked, instead, proving she was not cautious enough, not when those unguarded words let him, a stranger, far more into her world than she should ever dare allow.

“And what are you searching for?” For the span of a heartbeat that question was borne of a desire to know what would make a polished, English lady seek a life beyond the glittering world of their London Society. Why, when ladies were mercenary creatures, driven by greed and a lust for the material and their own pleasures?

Her expression grew shuttered. “I…” She flicked her gaze about and then settled her stare on his cravat.

He’d unnerved her. A triumphant sense of power filled him. It was entirely too easy.

“Do you know what I am searching for, Phoebe?”
Revenge. Domination. Control.

She gave her head a little shake and again looked up at him.

“The thrill of knowing more,” he said on a soft, gentle whisper he’d not believed himself capable of any longer.

She folded her hands together and then stared down at the interlocked digits. “I understand that.” Those quietly spoken words barely reached his ears. “I believe we are kindred souls in that way, my lord.”

“Edmund,” he automatically corrected. The lady was wrong in that regard as well—everyone knew the devil didn’t have a soul.

“Edmund,” she whispered. Phoebe stole a glance about. Ah, so she had at least some sense to know they shouldn’t be viewed conversing, unchaperoned, in this public manner. She slipped by him and walked the length of the giant elephant, running her gloved fingertips over the ropes about the massive creature.

He trailed after her, allowing her the freedom of the slight distance, and the sense of control she strove for—strove and failed.

When she reached the back middle portion of the gray beast, she froze beside a tall column.

Edmund stopped and stared at her expectantly.

“Would you find me silly if I say I detest London?”

He frowned as she confirmed his earlier suppositions. “I would say you are truthful and wise,” he said, giving her the first truthful words he’d spoken in either of their exchanges up to this point. He closed the remaining distance between them and then stopped when but the span of a hand separated them. “I also detest London.” And that was the second truthful piece he’d imparted. A sudden unease filtered through him at this sense of being exposed before her—when he never laid any part of himself bare before anyone.

She clung to his words. “The insincerity, the glittering opulence, the cruel gossips, and unkind words and whispers. What person would prefer such a place?”

In short, she spoke of a world Edmund had always been suited for. An increasingly familiar disquiet continued to roll through him; powerful and volatile and all the more terrifying for it. “If you could go anywhere, Phoebe,” he said, shifting the conversation to this woman who represented a means to an end of the one chapter in his life that had seen him defeated.

A wistful smile played upon her lips and he stilled at the sincerity of that unabashed expression. Had he ever been so unrestrained? One time, yes. Before he’d confronted the vile depravity of his own parents, and then everyone else around him.

“Wales.”

Wales. When presented the possibility, even imagined, to go anywhere—the decadent halls of Paris, the crystalline waters of the Caribbean, the wonders of the Orient—she would choose Wales. It spoke to the lady’s imagination…or rather lack, thereof.

Merriment danced in her eyes. “By your expression you find exception with my choice.” Hers was a statement.

Edmund leaned against the pillar. “I gather there is nothing you do without purpose, and certainly a woman of reason…has her…reasons.”

She dropped her voice to a soft, husky whisper. “Anglesey.” That whisper washed over him, drowned out her word, his question, their discourse. All he heard, felt, or saw was her and the eager gleam in her eyes. Some unidentifiable force of emotion slammed into him, something more potent than lust for the unfamiliarity of it—a desire to crave something with such ferocity for nothing more than the mere unjaded want of it; sentiments not driven by revenge or power.