A Breach of Promise (The Rules of Engagement #1)(17)

“Did you?” He looked surprised.

“I did. I still do,” she answered.

“And what were they?” he asked softly.

“I once thought I might do some good as Lady Mary has.”

Sitting back against the squabs, Marcus regarded Lydia as if he had never seen her before. “I had no idea.” Guilt needled him once more. Did he really know her at all? Perhaps not. Only now did it fully strike him what a complete ass he had been. Hoping his expression was suitably contrite, Marcus claimed her hand and raised it to his lips.

“Ma c?ur, je ne savais pas. Je suis désolé, mon chou.”

“Because you never made me your business to know.” She jerked her hand back. “And I am not your cabbage.”

Damme! What woman didn’t melt with French endearments? Matters were far worse than he thought. One step forward, two steps back. It had become an exceedingly dull dance. As if to further confirm these thoughts, Lydia shifted closer to the window.

Marcus suppressed an exasperated groan. Charming her had failed dismally. Perhaps it was time to try another tack. Maybe his mother was right about exploiting his adversaries’ weaknesses. One chink in Lydia’s armor was obvious pride in her intellect. Perhaps this could be used to his advantage. Marcus returned his attention to his work with a stifled curse. “I begin to think this an impossible task.”

Lydia’s gaze slid to the papers in his lap. She pursed her lips as if fighting the impulse to speak.

“I don’t suppose you would care to put some of that untapped knowledge to use as my surrogate secretary?” He offered the olive branch.

Still wary, Lydia elevated her chin, but the flame in her eyes had dwindled to a mere flicker. “Do you mock me?”

“Not at all,” Marcus said. “You surprise me with your accomplishments. Astound me, truth be told. I know of few women who would have even the remotest interest in such matters—let alone any who would have the slightest ability to comprehend them.”

She bristled. “How patronizing you are!”

“Because I speak the truth? Name three women who are so well-informed.”

“There is of course your mother.”

“You have me there,” he confessed with a grin.

Lydia bit her lip. “And the Lady Mary Wortley Montagu,” she added.

“I would never dispute you on that account, but she is considered quite the oddity.”

“Oddity?” Lydia repeated. “A woman who has saved countless lives by bringing the smallpox inoculation to this country. Do you apply such an unflattering label to any woman with a cultivated mind?”

“No,” Marcus said with unexpected gravity. “I would describe you as quite remarkable. Remarkable, indeed.” He’d never before known such poised perfection, let alone one wrapped in such a delectable package and he wanted her more than any woman he’d ever known.

“Your flattery is wasted, my lord.”

“I do not flatter you, Lydia. I am expressing my sincere admiration.”

Lydia flushed becomingly. He noted the excited rise and fall of her breasts. While her suspicion of his sincerity lingered, the hostile tension between had abated.

“Yet, you have already revealed your contempt of women who endeavor to improve themselves.”

“I don’t recall doing so at all,” Marcus argued. “I never disparaged the female intellect, but merely asked you to name three women with interest in matters of true import. You named two, but I plainly concede the third.”

Her eyes flew to his face with uncertainty yet he thought he also read hope. “Please, Lydia,” his plaintive gaze met hers, “I’ve only a few hours to get through all this.”

Lydia removed her gloves with the merest hint of a smile. “Very well, I would be happy to assist.”





Chapter Six


After two hours of leaning over his shoulder, brushing fingers, inhaling the light bergamot-scented cologne mixed with the musky essence of male, Lydia hummed with an awareness of Marcus in every part of her body. More than once she had closed her eyes, ostensibly to search for a word, but more often to savor the sensation of his damnably appealing voice—low, fluid and smooth like warm honey—when he broke into French. At times he was even near enough for the faint cinnamon scent of his breath to evoke recollection of his ravaging kisses. His arm accidentally grazing her breast made her nipples tighten and sent warmth rushing to her core.

Clearly, Lydia had not recognized the danger when she’d agreed to help him. She thought she’d breathe more easily when Marcus declared their work finished and slid the last documents into his case. But then he took her hand in his, setting her once again on the alert.

“I do thank you for your gracious assistance. You performed admirably.” He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. His gratitude made her giddy and the light caress set her tingling from the inside out.

He raised her hand to his lips. Her gaze fixed on his mouth, powerless to retreat from the tormenting play of his lips across her bare skin. He upturned her palm to plant a kiss upon it with an agonizing tenderness. “You amaze me, Lydia. You are not at all the woman I presumed you were.”

His confession was unexpected, disarming and alarming. His words, his touch, and—God help me—his mouth, threatened to devastate her defenses. She swallowed hard, nearly losing herself in the depths of his blue eyes. “And what kind of woman is that?”