The Heart of a Scoundrel (The Heart of a Duke #6)(10)

*

The stranger’s softly spoken promise carried down into Lord Delenworth’s gardens. Phoebe lingered, staring up at the dashing stranger far longer than was appropriate and then gave her head a clearing shake. She resumed her search for a splash of ivory fabric amidst the darkened landscape. Though in truth, her efforts, her attention, which should be reserved for the very important task at hand were instead reserved for the gentleman, a man whose name was even more talked about than her own.

Phoebe picked her way down a row of expertly pruned circular boxwoods. Then, a gentleman of his stunning beauty well knew the risk faced of being discovered, unchaperoned with a lady. He had the face and form that hinted at a masculine perfection that made a lady do foolish things…such as forgetting she was alone. With a gentleman. In a garden. Under the pale moonlight.

She cast one glance back up at the marquess with his broad, powerful back presented to her while he stood sentry, then…she wasn’t most ladies. She was one of the Scandalous Row of ladies from illicit families. A flash of white snagged her notice and hope stirred in her chest, drawing her steps in that direction. She paused beside a full rosebush of white blooms, tightly closed from the evening’s chill. Only, he’d displayed no outward reaction to her given name. No shock had flared to life in his eyes at her connection to the lecherous Lord Waters and his excessive drinking and wagering.

She sighed, shaking aside the poignant musings and scanned the grounds for the fabric given her by her devoted, loyal friend. Phoebe knew but pieces of the story behind the shawl but it was a cherished gift and all that remained of her friend’s departed father. And now it was gone because of Phoebe’s carelessness. She stopped and surveyed the grounds for a hint of white in the inky darkness. Gone, all because she’d rushed off in an attempt to avoid loathsome Lord Allswood and—

A shadow fell over her shoulder. It blotted out the moon’s light and she shrieked, but the soft cry died on her lips at the length of ivory cashmere dangling before her eyes. Phoebe whirled around and impulsively plucked the muddied shawl from the gentleman’s fingers. She crushed it to her chest. “How…Where…?” Her throat worked convulsively. “Thank you,” she said, her voice roughened with emotion.

The marquess’ hard lips turned up in a grin, the only softening of the harsh, angular planes of his chiseled cheeks. “Alas, I fear it is more rough for the wear,” he said sympathetically. He shot a hand out and captured the edge of the cashmere, rubbing the soft material between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thank you,” she said once more, studying his powerful hands encased in gloves. Something appealed in those slight distracted movements of his long fingers.

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.