The Debutante Is Mine (10 page)

A muscle twitched above his jaw. “I’ve heard nothing to the contrary. In fact, she claimed to have been happy . . . until the demands of Dovermere’s family coffers led him to abandon her as well.”

Lilah saw a vulnerability within him that she’d never noticed. He’d been abandoned too, and the scar of it was now as clear as the silver
S
near his temple. She imagined her own scars were visible to him as well.

“Mr. Marlowe, I now possess a better understanding of your interference in my affairs, and I am willing to answer the question you posed to me about my”—she cleared her throat, refusing to say the word
passion
—“hobbies and interests.”

He inclined his head, the ferocity disappearing from his countenance as he seemingly accepted their shift of topic.

There was a palpable intimacy between them now, forged from something deeper than mere attraction and curiosity. And because he’d revealed so much about himself, she was willing to give his notion merit. After all, by this point, she would consider any option. “I enjoy playing the harp.”

He considered her answer without any mockery but with what appeared to be interest instead. “What appeals to you about it?”

“The sound, I suppose. It’s soothing, beautiful.” She closed her eyes, picturing herself situated on her stool. “I like the scent of the cedar wood, the coolness of the frame when I press my cheek against it, the bite of the strings against my fingertips, and the way my entire body seems to become part of the music.”

Her eyes sprang open. She hadn’t meant to admit that last part. While she hadn’t heard his step on the path, it felt as if he were standing closer now, his eyes never leaving hers. They were sure and confident, and in that moment, she felt comfortable and secure.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he chided softly. “Continue just as you were. I could almost see that passion in your expression.”

This time, she didn’t close her eyes. It was easier to continue looking at him. “I like how, with the barest touch of my fingertips, music fills the room . . . fills me.”

“
Mmm
. . . I would very much enjoy watching you play the harp.” His pupils expanded slowly into the flecks of brown and gold in his irises. “Have you played for anyone else?”

“My instructor, of course. Friends. Family.”

“Are you skilled?” he challenged.

It was improper to be boastful. Nevertheless, she grinned up at him. “I am
accomplished
.”

“And there it is—
passion
,” he said, reaching up with one large hand to cradle her face. He tilted her chin upward, this way and that, his focus solely on her mouth. “Think of your harp the next time you are speaking with a gentleman.”

The tingling returned, unbearable in its urgency. His thumb swept over the flesh of her bottom lip, not subduing the sensation but amplifying it. He leaned in. She thought he would kiss her. In that instant, she knew she would not stop him. All her professions from a moment ago abandoned her. She
was
a woman who would kiss indiscriminately. At least with this man. Right now.

Then, suddenly, he drew back—
one step. Two. Three
. He stopped to pick up his hat and raked a hand through his hair before settling it atop his head. And he kept walking. Near the garden door, he touched two fingers to the brim. “Never let it be said I am a man without honor, Miss Appleton.”

And as he disappeared, shovel in hand, she wished he would have called her
Lilah
.

T
hat evening, Jack figured out exactly what was wrong with him. The reason that he couldn’t stop entertaining erotic thoughts about Lilah was because he’d been too long without life’s pleasures. After returning to London earlier this week, he hadn’t been to Lady Hudson’s gaming hell or her private rooms upstairs since that first night back. Obviously, he required another visit before he did something foolish . . .

Such as kissing Lilah in the garden in the middle of the afternoon. And he’d almost done it. Even now, part of him wished he had. Jack never should have touched her.

And why had he come up with that ludicrous idea of asking her about passion? Their conversation earlier had unlocked something inside of him—a door, of sorts, the one that separated his world from hers. The one he kept locked from all of the aristocracy and the stupid rules they followed. Now, there was that open passageway between them, and he needed to close it—fast.

Releasing the thought, he exhaled into his glass of scotch and settled into the corner of a velvet-upholstered sofa in the empty room.

Lady Hudson’s was an upscale gaming hell with a limited membership. One had to have great wealth in order to become a member. Wolford was one. In fact, on the way back to the lounge, Jack had passed Wolford playing
vingt-et-un
in the main gaming salon.

The proprietress prided herself on her exclusivity. Adorned in jewels and elegant frocks, many assumed, at first, that she was a member of the peerage. Actually, she was a widow of a wealthy merchant, and her given name was, in fact,
Lady.
Having a sense of wit, she refused to allow her patrons to call her either
Widow
or
Missus
Hudson. She would permit only “Lady Hudson,” “my lady,” or nothing at all.

Coming up behind Jack, Lady draped her arms and ample bosom over his shoulders and whispered in his ear. “Back so soon, Marlowe?” Her seductive purr was the sound men dreamed of as much as they did the skillful play of her fingertips, which were now roaming down his chest, flicking over his waistcoat buttons in invitation. “Did my new girl not satisfy you, or do you desire a woman of more experience? I bet I could show even you a thing or two.”

He allowed her to continue, hoping that the desire plaguing him would rise up, ready to be sated. “Your girl was lovely and skilled, as you ensure that all of your girls are.”

“And yet, in all the years of your membership, you have never returned twice in one week. As I recall, you’ve mentioned a reluctance to wet your wick too often in the same pot,” she said with a saucy laugh, molding her hands over his chest beneath his now-open waistcoat.

“True. Though perhaps not as poetically as you’ve just put it.” Jack never had a desire to keep a mistress, for obvious reasons. And tonight, he did not want an opera girl or even a comely widow. He only desired release.

When Lady’s hands drifted down his abdomen toward the waist of his trousers, he kept his eyes steady on her progress. He wanted this, he told himself. He wanted her hands and mouth all over him. He wanted to be feted and worshiped. He wanted . . .

Bollocks.
His lust was not stirred. Not in the least. The only hands he wanted upon him were those that never would be.

What a fool he was. With a gentle touch, he stopped Lady’s progress. “Forgive me. You are all that is desirable, but I find that I am ill-tempered this evening.”

“Hmm . . . a man who is truly ill-tempered seldom admits it. His grousing and grumbling usually make it clear. You, on the other hand, seem . . . preoccupied.”

“Quite right,” he admitted. “My thoughts have been carelessly committed elsewhere.” Even now, he was thinking of his encounter with Lilah in the garden. The pain he’d witnessed in her gaze at the mention of cruelty had caused a surge of protectiveness to rise up within him. He’d had the sudden urge to dispatch anyone who’d ever brought her pain, even her own family. Then, an idiotic wave of disappointment hit him as well, for having presented her with plants that weren’t in bloom. He’d wanted to give her flowers that would bloom all year.

“A woman?”

He shrugged. “A circumstance remedied soon enough.”

“I shall wish it for my own sake, then,” she said with a sigh. “Tonight, my bed will be as cold as the frost that gathers on my window.”

Rising to his feet, he bowed and pressed a kiss to her hand. “Any man would be a fool if he did not warm you, as I am proving now. Good night, dear Lady.”

Yet at the mention of frost, he thought again of the plants. Hardy or not, in this cold they likely wouldn’t survive the night.

S
taying in this evening had left Lilah far too much time with her thoughts. She’d come up with plenty of outlandish worries, which should have soothed her but instead seemed small when comparing them to her true fears.

She could fail—catastrophically. Not just herself but Aunt Zinnia, Juliet, and Mother. The stakes seemed higher, now that people were noticing her. Even if those people were debutantes like her. Calling hours today had jarred her and made this endeavor all too real.

In an attempt to relieve some of her anxiety, she’d taken a hot bath with a special selection of oils that Juliet had offered her. The rose and lavender relaxed her. The vanilla from the orchid pod was luxuriant. And the sandalwood made her think of Jack.

She’d submerged herself in the fragrance until she was out of breath, soaking until her fingertips and toes wrinkled. Then, with the help of Nellie, she’d washed her hair.

Her hair was still damp now as she paced her room in her night rail. She’d sent Nellie to bed and knew that Aunt Zinnia and Juliet had turned in as well. Beneath her feet, the floor was cold—colder than it had been for the past week or more. She’d become a well-practiced pacer in the past few days and could detect the subtle differences. Going to her wardrobe, she withdrew a pair of thick stockings and sat at her window seat to pull them on. It was only when she felt the draft through the window that her suspicions about the temperature were confirmed.

Her thoughts went directly to the garden and the new plants. The plants Jack had given to her. On such a night, they would never survive. Oddly enough, she’d grown attached to those flowers in a matter of hours, taking out several pitchers of water and admiring the number of buds she saw. While the garden was Aunt Zinnia’s, those two small plants were Lilah’s—and given to her by a man who both puzzled and intrigued her. She couldn’t let the cold damage them.

Making a quick decision, she donned a wrapper and grabbed a lamp as she stepped out into the hall. Before she headed down the stairs, she pulled two folded bed sheets from the linen cupboard.

The house was dark and quiet as she padded down the hall toward the door that led to the garden. Through the glass, she could see there was enough moonlight to aid her quick errand, and so she left her candle behind. Lifting the latch, she was thankful that the hinges were well oiled and didn’t alert the cook, who slept in a room not far from the kitchen, just around the corner.

A shock of cold air hit her, biting right through her wrapper and night rail and tightening her flesh. Wanting to stop the sharp sensation of the cotton against her taut nipples, Lilah clutched the bed sheets to her breasts and rushed down the garden path. She kept her steps light and quick, the ground frozen beneath her stockinged feet. And it wasn’t until she breached the arbor that she, once again, stopped cold.

At the sight of Jack Marlowe piling hay around the plants, a sense of hilarity broke over her. She was forever encountering him when she least expected it. A strangled laugh left her. And when the sound of it caused him to start, jerking his head in her direction, she giggled.

“Why are you here?” he asked, mirroring the same question she’d asked several times since they’d first met.

The coincidence only increased her giggles. Who knew she was so easily amused? But she felt unaccountably giddy in this moment and inordinately happy to see him.

Jack stood erect, his greatcoat parting to reveal the whiteness of his shirt and the absence of a cravat. The sliver of moonlight offered a glimpse of exposed flesh at his throat, tapering down to the V of his open collar.

Abruptly, her giggles caught in her throat. “I came out to cover the plants.” She could barely get the words out. Worse, she couldn’t peel her gaze away from his bared throat, where the shadow beneath his Adam’s apple formed an enticing hollow. She’d never seen a man’s neck, except for her father’s and brother’s. Until this moment, she didn’t realize how interesting they were. The sight made her want to walk the few steps between them and study his more closely.

“You’re in your night rail,” he said with a low growl that hummed inside of her.

A terrible sensation
, she reminded herself.
Not at all pleasant
.

“And my wrapper,” she corrected, as if the fact made all the difference between being decently or scantily dressed. Lifting her gaze to his, she realized he wasn’t looking at her face. Not directly. She must look like . . . like she was prepared for bed. Which, of course, she was. But seeing his gaze take in every ruffle and ribbon as if he could see through them to her skin suddenly turned the notion into something less commonplace. “There are linens in my arms as well.”

At that, his gaze lifted, as did one corner of his mouth. “Yes, of course, the linens. Otherwise, I might have assumed you’d rushed out to greet me for a tryst.”

It was a chilly night. She could see her breath. So then why did she feel warm all over? “I am not a romantic moon-gazer, keeping watch over the garden. As you see, there is no balcony outside my window,” she said with an absent gesture toward her window.

At the same time, she wondered what she’d have done if she had seen him. Until a few days ago, she knew she would have done the sensible thing. Now, she wasn’t certain at all. Especially because she was still standing here with him and had no desire to return to her chamber.

He offered the house a passing glance. “The upstairs is dark, aside from your bedchamber. Why are you not fast asleep?”

She wasn’t going to admit to being anxious about her transformation endeavors. Or confess to having a talent for worry. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell him that thoughts of him settled the worrying part of her mind. So instead, she said, “I was merely allowing my hair to dry after my bath.”

He groaned, shoving a hand through his hair as his gaze raked down her body again. “You’re standing out here in your stockinged feet. You must be cold. You should return to the warmth of your chamber.”

He was right. She should return. But she didn’t want to. Not yet. “I still need to cover the plants.”

“Very well. Then we will be done with this before irreversible damage can be done.”

“Do you think it is too late for them?”

He stepped close to her. “I was talking about you, Lilah. Your reputation—your innocence—is not safe with me. Not tonight.”

He reached up, his hand curling over the first sheet. Watching his long fingers slip between the folded layers caused a tide of warmth to rise up inside of her, and she wasn’t even certain why.

“Why not tonight? Does the moonlight affect you strangely?” She tried to make a jest of it, but her words came out breathy.

As he whipped open the sheet and tucked it over the first plant, he shook his head. “Of late, neither moonlight, daylight, cloudy skies, rain, nor fog can make my thoughts predictable. The only thing they have in common is you. I fear my behavior will soon follow their path.”

She frowned, concerned when he made no sense. He’d been thinking of her? No. Surely not. “Are you . . . unwell?” She moved closer, tempted to lift her hand to his forehead.

He released a hollow laugh and shook his head. “I should not be here. I should have stayed with a woman who could have helped to tame this alien need.”

Stayed with a . . .
He’d been with another woman tonight? Suddenly, every compulsion she had to feel his brow turned into something far less tender.

“Instead, I am here,” he continued, prowling toward her again. “And you are standing in a bit of nothing, your dark hair in waves around your shoulders, your face lit up with moonlight, your eyes on my body, and your lips turning plump and crimson, as you are—no doubt—ready to scold me about being in the company of another woman.
Damn
. Even your jealousy is arousing.”

She straightened her shoulders, clutching the last sheet like a shield and wishing she had a sword to match it. “I am not jealous. Not at all. Why should I be?”

He reached up for this sheet, his hand curling over the part that was directly between her breasts. Because his hands were so large, even grabbing the center of the sheet caused his knuckles to brush the inner swells. The flesh surrounding them drew tighter in response.

“Why, indeed. And why am I not half as tempted by another woman’s charms as I am by the mere thought of you?” As he withdrew the sheet, the backs of his fingers grazed her nipple accidentally. Surely, it had to have been an accident.

The shock of it tunneled through her. She gasped but did not flinch or retreat. Instead, she lifted her gaze to find him looking back at her with dark, feral intensity.

Something inside of her tilted, drawing taut, warm, and liquid at once. A low, foreign mewl left her throat. She found herself nodding, even when he hadn’t asked a question. And in answer, he dropped the sheet to the ground, snaked his arms around her, and hauled her against him.

He captured her mouth, his kiss hard and unapologetic. Lilah met him with the same force. Her fingers dove into his thick mane. His ears were cold beneath her palms, but his scalp was burning, inviting her closer.

She practically crawled up his body, wanting to be nearer to his mouth. Her head slanted instinctively, her nose pressed alongside his. She could hardly breathe. Opening her mouth, she inhaled at the same time he exhaled, and in that instant, she could taste him on her tongue. A sweetness of liquor, an enthralling heat combined with an unnamed spice, created an elixir that filled her lungs, flooded her veins, and incited her curiosity. What if she pressed her open mouth to his? She didn’t know why she wanted to do so, but she needed the answer.