The Debutante Is Mine (4 page)

At last, he extended the flowers with one hand and doffed his hat with the other, revealing a mane of thick wheat-colored hair swept back from his forehead and ending just above his collar. “Jack Marlowe.”

Jack Marlowe?
The name was familiar to her but only through rumor. Apparently, he was one of the richest men in England and a rogue to boot. But what had earned him an ever-present marker on the lips of the
ton’
s preeminent gossipmongers was the fact that he was the bastard son of the Earl of Dovermere.

His smirk returned. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

“Perhaps, though it does not explain why you are here.” Distracted, Lilah realized she hadn’t accepted the bouquet of pink and white primroses. She reached out but hesitated when she noted the size of his hand. His grip enveloped the entire bundle of stems. As large as his hands were, there would be no way to avoid touching him. The flesh was darker too, as if he spent little time, if any, wearing gloves. Not a gentleman’s hands. Most likely, they would be rough and calloused. At the thought, a peculiar sort of the thrill raced through her, quickening her pulse.

She took a half step toward him. Then she made the mistake of meeting his gaze. This close, she noticed that the color of his irises were more the golden brown of freshly nipped sugar than that of a glowing ember. His eyes were warm and clear but with a surprisingly alluring sharpness that spoke of intelligence and confidence. As any warrior should, he had a scar—a tiny S-shape of silver flesh just above his cheekbone, close to his temple. A strange temptation to ask him about it nearly rolled off her tongue. But in that same moment, she realized she’d been standing close to him for far too long.

Bracing herself now, she settled both of her hands just beneath the blossoms, cradling them. As she suspected, his hand was warm, his knuckles rough. So then why did a jolt of surprise rush through her?

A quiver vibrated through her at the slight touch. It seemed to hum in her ears, as if she’d plucked the longest string on her harp and rested her cheek against the curved frame. She pressed harder against his hand to quell this unexpected feeling. Slowly, he withdrew. The heated length of his fingers grazed the undersides of her palms, sending those vibrations to the very center of her body.

She let out a staggered breath and took a step back.

He stared at her, his expression nonplussed as he flexed his hand at his side, as if the brief touch had bothered him as well.

“Have you nothing to say of the flowers?” he asked after a moment, reminding her of the blossoms in her arms. “Or do you receive them with such frequency that you simply tell your maid to tend them with a shooing flip of your fingers?”

Had she been clear-headed, she might have laughed. Instead, she absently looked down and stroked the pink fan of a petal, her mind still contemplating the lingering reaction she’d had to his touch. “They are beautiful. It is a shame that they will be dead in two days’ time, like all cut flowers.”

“Would you have preferred a potted flower?”

“I’m not quite certain. These are the first flowers of any kind that I’ve received.” When she realized what she’d just admitted, her sense returned with a snap. She looked at him, horrified that she’d revealed such a personal—not to mention embarrassing—detail.

When his gaze widened, she wondered if he would laugh at her again. Instead, he unfisted his hand and raked it through his hair before donning his hat. “Hmm . . . well, that adds to the mystery, doesn’t it?”

She was almost afraid to ask. “What mystery?”

“The reason the Duke of Vale rode to my house in the dead of night on Christmas Eve, handed me a card with your name and address, and asked me to send you flowers.”

Lilah recalled being at the duke’s party that night. Ivy had been heartbroken and worried for the duke’s safety. Fortunately, the following day had brought good tidings for both Ivy and Vale.

Looking down at the flowers cradled in her arms, Lilah calculated the time. “It is
March
. And you were given this task on Christmas Eve?”

When she remembered how lonely she had been without Ivy to talk to—but also abundantly happy for her friend—a handful of flowers might have been just the thing to cheer her. This man had been set with such a task, yet he’d chosen to wait for however long it suited him.

His self-important, tawny brows lifted. “
That
is the only thing you find noteworthy in all of what I said?”

“More than two months have passed. Surely a man of your . . . ” Her words trailed off, and she blushed because it was inappropriate to mention money in polite conversation.

“Riches? Wealth? Well-endowed . . . fortune?” he supplied, mockery saturating those smug syllables. “You have permission to use any of those.
I
harbor no rules against stating the obvious.”

In that moment, she decided she did not like Mr. Jack Marlowe. Not one bit. “An
affluent
man is bound to be in possession of a hot house, and therefore flowers at any time of the year. You could have honored your promise much sooner.”

W
hen Miss Appleton’s wide brown eyes had first spotted the posies in his hand, she’d offered such a bland glance that Jack had assumed she didn’t care for flowers. He still wasn’t certain if he believed her confession about these being her first. What young woman of—well, judging by the enticing firmness of her figure, he’d suppose—
one and twenty
had never before received flowers?

While her nature was uncompromising—at least what he’d witnessed thus far—her lashes were as thick as bed curtains, softening even the harshest looks she fired at him. And even with that unflattering fringe of curls drooping over her forehead, she possessed a certain appeal. Her skin was creamy. Her posture, perfect. Her hands, elegant. Her mouth, however, was relatively unremarkable, seemingly without form or color . . .
until
she’d begun to scold him. Then her lips bloomed into a lush, inviting red. They were still in full color.

Were the men among the
ton
too blind to appreciate a subtle sort of beauty?

Then again, perhaps not
all
men were immune. After all, Vale had sent him on this errand. Perhaps he had noticed Miss Lilah Appleton. Which would explain why she had suddenly become interested in the flowers only after she’d learned of Vale’s involvement.

Jack studied her closely. Did she harbor a secret
tendre
for Vale? Was there an attachment between them?

For some reason, the notion sparked his ire. “How quickly you alter. One minute you do not even look twice at the flowers, and next, you are directing me where I might find them in the future. No doubt, you’ll be expecting a fresh bouquet each time we meet.”

“No, Mr. Marlowe.” She shook her head with superfluous enthusiasm. “We will not meet again. Your promise has been fulfilled, even though
quite
delayed.” Concluding her reprimand, she stepped forward and angled herself as if to pass by him.

Jack, however, was too eager to solve this mystery. So he blocked her retreat. He’d been carrying her name on a card inside his pocket for the past ten weeks. Each morning, he transferred it, along with his pocket watch, from one coat to the next. And each morning, he was reminded of the promise he’d made, saying the name
Miss Lilah Appleton
aloud for good measure. It had become a matter of habit. Her name had been with him every day, under his care. In the very least, he deserved to know why he was here.

“And now we are back to the important matter,” he said, standing close enough to pluck at the blue ribbon tied around the stems. “Are you not curious about the reason Vale would send me on such an errand? Or is the reason, perhaps, one you would rather not divulge, considering he married your friend?”

She gasped in swift understanding. Outrage widened those bed-curtain lashes. Then, she thrust the posies at him, crushing them against his chest. “You dare to insult me again! Ivy is my friend, and therefore
you
—blackguard that you are—should fear the scathing report on your behavior that I will send.
Then
let us see how quickly both she and her husband rally to my defense! If you do not recant your insufferable insinuations, you will likely find yourself labeled a dishonorable cad, even amongst your own friends.”

He wondered if she was aware how red and kissable her lips were right now. In fact, he wondered what she would do if he slid his hand to her nape and kissed her here, beneath the shadow of the arbor.

For the moment, however, he cast those thoughts aside. He knew he’d crossed a line. There was no excuse for such slander. For the life of him, he didn’t know what had possessed him. Or why he’d suddenly
needed
to know that neither she nor Vale shared any romantic inclinations—though her honest indignation convinced him just now. “You are correct. That was unforgivable of me. I cannot excuse my words just now. Please accept my humblest of apologies.”

To make amends, Jack untied the ribbon around the stems and carefully rearranged the posies. Only a few blossoms were completely crushed and a similar number of broken stems. He did his best to tuck those toward the inside. Then, while struggling to retie the ribbon with one hand, Miss Appleton issued an exhausted sigh and shooed his fingers out of the way, taking over the task.

She liberated the flowers from him and rested them along her forearm. The pink buds nestled between the curve of her elbow and the generous swell of her breast. “Since we are not likely to meet again, I will forgive you so that neither of us is burdened by this encounter. It will soon be forgotten.”

Jack frowned. “There still remains the mystery of why Vale would have sent me on this errand.”

“I think it is obvious,” she said, lifting her gaze from the bouquet, her lashes tangled at the corners.

Standing within arm’s reach of her, he felt a peculiar impulse to brush his thumb across them. But he did not act upon it. Instead, he tugged on the ribbon once more. “Oh?”

“His Grace married my dearest friend. A gesture of flowers is a token of Vale’s own regard, likely stating that whatever friends Ivy has, Vale would have as well.”

“A possibility,” Jack offered. “Yet this task was put upon me
before
their nuptials.”

She lifted one softly rounded shoulder in a shrug. “Since he has a scientific nature, perhaps he thought it all out beforehand.”

When her feet shifted on the path, and she began to step apart from him, Jack held the ribbon firmly between his thumb and forefinger. “There is the matter of his
Marriage Formula
to consider. You know of it, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she said, clear puzzlement wrinkling the bridge of her nose as she looked from the ribbon to his fingers.

“Do you think it possible that the reason Vale gave me your name was because he’d used his equation on the two of us?” Jack wondered why Lilah hadn’t leapt to that conclusion. Women were always trying to marry him. “Though I must warn you that I have no intention of marrying.”

Suddenly, she laughed, the sound as sumptuous as her lashes and those lush, scolding lips. Her cheeks lifted, turning her eyes into dark half moons of delight. The corners of her mouth tilted upward in pleasure, looking somewhat secret and hedonistic at once. “You needn’t worry on that account. I would not marry you, regardless.”

He found himself wondering again what she would do if he kissed her. Wondering what her laugh would taste like, which was odd, considering that laughter did not have a flavor. Though hers just might . . .

Then he reminded himself that he preferred women without nobility or innocence. “That is what most women claim, yet they play all manner of coy games to garner my interest—a drop of a handkerchief, a pretense of windblown debris caught in their eyes, a sudden stumble that puts them into my arms . . . ”

“You are quite possibly the most arrogant man in existence. It almost pleases me to prove you wrong,” she said, the top and bottom rows of her white teeth on display as her smile deepened. “Even if I were inclined to marry you—solely for amusement’s sake—I
could
not. My father’s will states that I have until the end of my third Season to marry a titled gentleman of noble birth.”

“It is my experience that aristocratic families are easily swayed in their initial wishes, once a fortune is involved.” He was approached daily with offers from desperate men of
nobility
.

She frowned. “Not my family. My mother still holds true to my father’s wishes. We are loyal to each other.”

Likely, he could prove her wrong. His fingers inched up the ribbon, drawing her closer. “And this is your wish as well?”

Either playing coy or unwilling to flirt, she withdrew a step, loosening the knot in the process. “Mr. Marlowe, I believe it is time for you to leave.”

“I find you rather intriguing, Lilah,” he confessed, twisting the ribbon around his finger until it came free from the stems. “I believe I will return during calling hours tomorrow.”

“
Miss Appleton
, if you please. And I find you rather annoying,” she said in a clipped but somewhat bored tone. It was as if she didn’t believe him. Then she glanced at his shoulder. “
Oh bother
. You have a spider.”

Jack grinned. He knew he’d charmed her. Her censure was quite the clever ploy too. She’d almost convinced him that she was completely unaffected. Even so, watching her take the initiative by reaching up to brush a hand against his collar surprised him. He hadn’t taken her for such a bold chit. Not that he minded.

“You have an odd way of using your feminine wiles. If you wanted an excuse to be near me, then—” He broke off as a spider filled his vision. The creature was huge—as large as her palm. Black with yellow markings. He took an involuntary step back. “That is no spider. That’s a rat, or the size of one.”

“Hold still. I don’t want you to frighten her,” she crooned softly, her tone having a calming effect.

At least on him. He wasn’t certain about the spider, which had become alarmingly still, as if prepared to attack. However, Lilah had a steady hand and eased the spider away.