Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons #4)(12)

“My brother will…” She gave her head a shake, and seemed to pull herself from the reverie she’d been trapped within.

But damn it.

Those three words.

My brother will…

Her brother would what? Scold her? Be the death of her? The words to follow that very important ‘will…’ mattered very much.

“Your brother will what, Miss Marshville?”

She turned her cheek to profile and studied the red velvet curtains that hung over the window with the same attention one might pay a Drury Lane production.

“Your brother will what, Miss Marshville?” he repeated, infusing a deliberate sternness into his question.

“It is none of your affair, my lord.” It would seem, a lady of her grit would not be cowed by even him, then.

That appeared the first correct thing the lady had uttered all evening, and yet, the minute she’d gone to St. Giles street, and hailed him like he was a hackney in wait, well, then she had become his affair.

“I must admit, I’m intrigued, Miss Marshville.” Nor was he one easily intrigued. “What manner of woman would come out this late evening and boldly confront a gentleman, demanding he return that which was rightfully won?” His lips twitched. “I do not know if you have pluck or whether you’re the biggest lack-wit I know.”

She jerked her gaze angrily back to his. “I am no lack-wit.”

Studying the sparks in her eyes, he acknowledged these were no vapid, empty-headed young misses eyes. “So then, pluck it is. Now you’ll make me wonder what has brought you out this evening. Very well, I do enjoy a nice game from time to time, Miss Marshville.” Though in actuality, the only games he cared to play with the lady would require a proper bed, satin soft sheets, and her completely naked before him.

Her color deepened as though she’d understood his private yearnings.

“Your brother would make a match between you and some gentleman, but you seek a love match?” he predicted.

Stony silence met his supposition.

“You first fell in love at your cottage and would dread losing the reminder of that first love.” Something dark and primitive churned in his gut at his own pondering.

She shook her head once, and the oddest relief swept through him. Then, she met his gaze with a frank directness he admired. “It is my home, my lord, and it would crush me to know you own a property that will never mean anything to you.”

Perhaps Miss Marshville would have been correct in making that charge a short while ago, before he’d known her. Now, whenever he heard mention of the cottage or at last visited, he would think of the night a brazen vixen had confronted him.

He caught his jaw between his thumb and forefinger, and rubbed back and forth as he examined her. “How old are you, Miss Marshville?”

Crimson red stained her cheeks. He suspected she might not reply but shocked him by answering, “Two and twenty.”

The lady had never had a Season. Jonathan would have remembered a beauty such as she. He’d wager she stood six inches or so smaller than his own six-foot three-inch frame, and she would therefore tower over most gentlemen of his acquaintance.

“Has he foiled a match between you and a gentleman you’ve set your marital cap upon?”

“I’ve set my marital cap upon no one. I’d be content to spend the remainder of my days in Rosecliff Cottage with no one but myself for company.”

Now, that would be a tragedy of the greatest kind; this spirited beauty, unwed, a forever virgin who never explored passion under the veneer of ladylike gentility. An ugly, needling idea slipped into his mind. He didn’t know where the thought came from, and knew there was no merit to such an idea, but… “Some gentleman has set his cap upon you.”

Her body jerked, and he knew with the intuitiveness that had won him Rosecliff Cottage and vastly heftier purses he’d been on the mark with his statement.

It rankled that some nameless gentleman had discovered the hidden beauty when Jonathan and the remainder of the ton were unaware that one such as she bloomed in their grimy, city grounds. Suddenly, Jonathan wished he’d taken the time to learn more about Sir Albert Marshville who’d wagered at the same table as him a number of times, because then he might have known there was a sister, and the identity of the gentleman who intended to claim her.

He reached over and distractedly pulled back the curtain that covered his window, just enough to study the passing streets. “You know, I still do not know where you make your home, Miss Marshville.” He glanced over at her. “Other than my Rosecliff Cottage,” he amended when she opened her mouth to speak.

She quickly closed it, only confirming he’d been correct in his thoughts about what she’d intended to say. She was as tenacious as a pup with a bone from Cook’s kitchens, he’d grant the young lady that much.

He dropped the curtain and it fluttered back into place. “I’m left to wonder why a young lady such as you would not return home.” A muscle twitched at the right edge of her lip. She remained silent. “Ahh, so you’ll not tell me,” he said, when she folded her arms, almost protectively, about herself.

How interesting, indeed. For the first time, in a very long time, interest hummed through him. “I have a proposition for you, Miss Marshville.”

“A proposition?” she repeated through taut lips. Another crimson stain flooded her cheeks, and he realized what manner of proposition she thought he put to her. Ahh, the poor beauty would be deplorable at a game of chance.