The Heart of a Scoundrel (The Heart of a Duke #6)(11)

She jabbed a finger in his direction. “Stop.” He froze. He’d intended to kiss her. She’d seen as much in his eyes. Gentlemen didn’t kiss her, even those who’d determined her worth of little value for her connection to the lecherous, reprobate Viscount Waters. But this gentleman had. She kept her finger outstretched, warding him off.

“Forgive me.” There was a harsh, almost gravelly quality to that whispered response. “I was taken by your beauty.”

Phoebe knocked into a fountain and an inelegant snort escaped her. And gentlemen certainly were not taken by her beauty. She didn’t possess the otherworldly exquisiteness of Gillian, or even the blonde prettiness associated with a proper English miss. Nor did she believe a stunning model of masculine perfection such as Edmund, 5th Marquess of Rutland, would be overcome with passion for one such as her.

A frown formed on his hard lips. “I don’t know what you believe of me.” The marquess folded his arms. “But I am not…” Heat blazed a path up her neck and burned her cheeks. He quirked an eyebrow.

“Immoral,” she said on an angry whisper and then glanced about to be certain they weren’t discovered and she was indeed forever labeled exactly that.

Edmund spread his arms wide. “It was never my intention to disrespect you. Perhaps I was caught in the moonlit moment or perhaps it was the splendor of these grounds, for I assure you, madam, I am not a gentleman to be so unwise as to give my attentions to a respectable lady, particularly an uninterested lady.” He sketched a stiff bow. “Forgive me.”

Guilt roiled in her belly and mixed with shame over the staggering truth—she’d not been uninterested. Which only made her body’s awareness of a mysterious stranger all the more alarming.

He made to leave.

“Wait!”

He immediately halted at her exclamation.

“I didn’t mean to question your motives.” Up to that faintest meeting of lips, his intentions had been honorable and good. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Edmund turned back and searched her face with his gaze once more, as though seeking the veracity of that apology. He gave a curt nod and then stalked over with a languid, almost panther-like sleekness that again sent warning bells clamoring. Or was that the rapid beat of her pulse? Her heart fluttered as he came to a stop beside her and she detested this inexplicable awareness of him that defied logic—something she’d always prided herself upon. He ran his knuckles over her cheek and her heart skipped several beats. “You wear your doubts upon your face, Miss Barrett. You’re guarded.”

She wet her lips, uncomfortable with that unerring accuracy. A mere stranger, he’d seen so very much to know… What he couldn’t know is that having been born to a disloyal, black-hearted bastard such as her father, she’d learned long ago to be wary of a man’s motives, while hopefully daring to believe there were men of honor.

“You say nothing, which is your confirmation,” he admonished.

Unnerved by his ability to seemingly know her thoughts, she retreated, placing much needed space between them. Desperate to give her fingers some task, she ran them over the pink peonies, curled tightly in rest for the spring night. “I’ve learned to be cautious where a gentleman is concerned.” She leaned forward and drew in the sweet, fragrant scent of the bud.

He narrowed his eyes to impenetrable slits, following her every movement. “And has there been a man who has hurt your heart, Phoebe?”

Phoebe, he called her Phoebe again, and that menacing, possessive whisper that was her name hinted of a man who’d likely stalk off and cut the cad if she gave a name. “Just—” my father. She pressed her lips into a tight line. “No one,” she said at last, unwilling to trust this man she’d only just met with those protective pieces she carried close to her heart. “No one has hurt me.”

“You wear a frown,” he said quietly, boldly touching a finger to the corner of her lips. “A young woman such as you should not know this sadness.”

A protestation sprung to her lips. She wasn’t sad. She had a loving mother who was more friend than anything else. She had a brother and sister she would have walked across the coals of hell for, and she knew would do the same for her. And yet…there was sadness. The gold flecks in his eyes glinted with knowing, but he said nothing, for which she was grateful. Instead, he bent down, and she studied him curiously as he fiddled with something upon the ground, and then he stood. She widened her eyes at the rose he’d managed to free from the bush. “What is that?” she blurted.

The subtle twitching of his lips was incongruously hard with that gentle movement. “It is a rose. To remember our meeting.” He held it out. He set his mouth in a serious line, driving back all earlier teasing. “I’d not have there be sadness between us, Phoebe.”

She eyed it cautiously. “And should I remember this meeting?” Her cheeks warmed at the boldness of her own question.

“Undoubtedly,” he said in that smooth baritone that washed over her.

She claimed the flower and drew it close to her heart. The sweet, fragrant hint of the bloom wafted about the air, wrapping her in this magic pull, a product of the spring night and the forbiddenness of their exchange.

“She is not here,” a young lady’s impatient voice cut through the quiet.