Why a Marauding Marquess is Best (Romancing the Rake 4)

He slipped

into a chair as he watched Dashlane wrap the cravat about Juliet’s face. She reached up, pressing the fabric against her eyes, a frown marking her lips. Dashlane’s fingers brushed her hair and Dane clenched a fist on his thigh, jealousy making his muscles tighten. Then he shook his head. This shouldn’t be happening. He didn’t grow jealous over women he’d just met.

Drawing in a shaky breath, he watched as Dashlane put his hands on Juliet’s shoulders, spinning her about several times. He looked down, trying not to allow the anger bubbling up inside to come out. But as he looked at his lap, he realized his knuckles had turned completely white.

He tried to relax his hands but only succeeded when Dashlane let Juliet go and stepped back. Hands out in front of her, she stumbled until she reached the first set of knees in the circle. She skimmed them along Ophelia’s legs and then she reached Chase. He held up a hand, helping her move around him.

Dane’s gut flopped again. The sight of her delicate fingers clasped in Chase’s larger hand made him shift in his seat. She stopped, reaching out, attempting to touch his face and mashed his nose. He laughed and she smiled. She knew who he was, Dane was sure of it, but she didn’t call out his name. Instead, she kept going, trailing her hand along Craven and then Bianca. Cordelia next and then she reached his chair and touched his knee.

Now his breath stilled for an entirely different reason. The feel of her fingers made his nerves tingle and his jaw clench.

She gave a gentle stroke to his knee, feeling the fabric between her fingers. She wobbled and he leaned forward, reaching to steady her. Juliet’s soft, velvety fingers wrapped about his, looking so pale and delicate in his own larger ones. Then he saw her nostrils flare, just the tiniest bit. What was she doing? He found he didn’t care as long as she stayed in front of his chair.

Juliet’s evening gown was cut to expose a good deal of the creamy skin and bent as she was, her cleavage was clearly exposed to him, giving him an amazing view of her full, rounded breasts. And when the scent of summer meadows filled his nostrils, he wanted to bury his face in her neck and then kiss a trail down her chest.

Would she taste as good as she smelled? And if she did would he fall helplessly under her spell?

* * *

Juliet held a man’s strong hand, her other fingers caressing his knee. Lord, she hoped this was not one of her sisters’ soon-to-be husbands. The man felt so rugged and capable under her light touch as his large hand engulfed hers.

Then there was his scent. Sandalwood and leather, a hint of cigar and something deep and masculine. It made her flutter in the most intimate of areas. Which meant one thing. This must be Lord Dashlane.

“It’s you,” she murmured, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Funny. But when he’d been tying his cravat about her face, she hadn’t taken note of his scent. But now…it surrounded her. Masculine and exciting, she squeezed his fingers.

“It’s me,” he whispered back.

She frowned. Even in a whisper, his voice didn’t sound quite right. It was so deep and dark, heavier and…

“You’re not supposed to answer her, you fool,” Dashlane’s voice sounded from the other side of the circle. Which meant the man holding her hand and the knee she caressed wasn’t Dashlane at all.

She swallowed a lump, confusion knitting her brow. If not Dashlane, then who was it? “Lord Hartwell?”

A cheer rose from the crowd and she felt the man, whose hand she was holding, stand. The angle of his hand changed and his body drew closer, his heat seeping through the silk of her dress.

“Yes. It’s me.”

His words whispered over her ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin of her neck. He still held her hand but he used the other to loosen the knot Lord Dashlane had tied in the cravat.

She tried to slow the racing of her heart as he worked out the knot. She still couldn’t see, but that only heightened her senses. Was her heart racing at her mistake? Or because of Hartwell’s proximity? She didn’t need to ask. She already knew the answer.

The cravat slid from her eyes and she looked at Hartwell. Had she not noticed how muscular his shoulders were, the strength of his neck, the squareness of his jaw?

“Should we play another round?” Adrianna asked. “It’s Lord Hartwell’s turn.”

“Dinner is served,” the butler called from the door, giving a slight bow.

Mr. Moorish stood. “Blind Man’s Bluff will have to wait,” he called. “We must feed our guests.”

Without a word, Hartwell tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Who did you think I was before you knew it was me?”

A jolt of regret slid down Juliet’s spine. For some reason, she didn’t wish for Hartwell to know about her crush on Lord Dashlane. “I didn’t think you were anyone. I was tricking you into revealing your identity.” A blush crept into her cheeks at the lie.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Are you fibbing? You seemed so certain of yourself and you were clearly searching for someone. You passed Chase and I know you knew who he was.”

She licked her top lip, not eager to continue to lie but also reluctant to tell the truth. But why not? She wasn’t interested in Hartwell beyond making certain he didn’t ruin Ophelia’s wedding, was she? But then she thought of the way she’d responded to the feel of his hand and his masculine scent. “I didn’t want the game to end so quickly.” She looked away, sure he’d see the truth in her eyes.

“It’s odd because I had a completely different picture of you this morning.”