How to Marry a Marquess (Wedded by Scandal 3)

“I would like that, Lady Evie, if our meeting permits. I sincerely doubt we will socialize often within the same circles.”

“But you will visit my brother, won’t you?”

“Yes,” he said softly.

“Will you be staying for the remainder of the house party? There is archery tomorrow in the day and hunting on Friday.”

He’d planned to leave immediately, but confoundedly that plan had just been aborted. She’s sixteen, he reminded himself sternly. Yes, and many young ladies are married at that age, the lustful devil in him said slyly. He almost stumbled. Marriage? Of course, if his interest remained he would have to act with honor. Such genteel innocence and beauty should not be debauched, no matter how terrible the temptation to be wicked. Worse, nothing could ever convince him to want to marry again, unless it was dire, and he could not imagine a situation that would necessitate him taking a wife. “Yes, I shall.”

“And will you ask me to dance?”

It was then he saw the awareness in her eyes, and he acknowledged that in this instance she was reacting as a woman would to a man. H

is heart lurched and distressing lust swam in his veins. He suppressed it with a willpower he’d not known himself capable of. Instinctively, he recognized she was dangerous. Though it was foolish, for she was a mere girl, an innocent child, but she made him yearn to break free from the coldness that had been slowly encasing his soul. How in God’s name that was possible from a chance meeting, he had no idea.

Emerging from that shattering awareness, Richard carefully retreated a few steps. “I have it on excellent authority the waltz will be played at tomorrow’s ball.”

“How scandalous,” she murmured, a twinkle in her eyes.

“Promise my dance to no other gentleman,” he impulsively added.

“Nothing could induce me to, not even the threat of a severe scolding from Mamma.”

Her fervent whisper rooted him to the spot and he could only stare at her helplessly.

She rushed over to him and lightly touched his arm. “Thank you, my lord.”

His entire body hardened, tensed, thrilled at the barely-there touch, and then she dropped her hand. After bestowing the sweetest of smiles, she turned and disappeared toward the insistent calling of her name.

Devil take it, she was the sister of one of his good friends, it was unpardonable he should react in such a manner to her closeness. Ravenswood would challenge him to a duel or thrash him within an inch of his life if he even knew Richard had met with her in such secrecy. He couldn’t imagine what his friend would do if he had an inkling of the lustful thoughts she had provoked. God’s blood. If Richard had any honor left or respect for his friend, he needed to marshal his thoughts into order whenever he came near her. There was an unstated code: one did not lust after friends’ sisters, nor did they befriend them. Yet he had done both.

What in damnation just happened?

…

Tonight, Lady Evie was a princess at her very first ball, or so her brother, Elliot, had reassured her moments past. She certainly appeared like one in her exquisite white ball gown with tiny transparent gauze puffed sleeves trimmed with silver ribbon. The modest neckline was trimmed with matching silver ribbons that tied in a long bow at the front of her dress. She liked it better than many of her more complicated gowns because it was so classically simple. Her mother had spared no expense on Evie’s coming out wardrobe, insisting that lavish ornamentation be added onto her ball gowns, and several had been festooned with seed pearls and complex embroideries made from gold thread around their bodices. Her silver satin slippers glinted under the light of a thousand candles, and her elegantly upswept hair shone like burnished gold.

Instead of feeling joy at an occasion she’d anticipated since she had entered the schoolroom, she was a nervous wreck. She’d once again snuck into the kitchens for a few hours, where the cooks tolerated her presence and had taught her how to bake cakes herself, a very unladylike but wonderful skill she had acquired several months past. One of the kitchen maids had pounded the sugar for an hour to make the sugar paste to decorate the cakes. Evie had made mille-feuille for the first time, a classic French pastry that consisted of layers of razor-thin puff pastry and cream filling with a feather-patterned iced top. They were some of Evie’s favorite confections and now she knew how to make them herself.

Desperate to soothe the fear and uncertainty, she had lingered too long and Mamma had caught her in the act. Evie had endured the most severe scolding, and Mamma had even threatened to relieve Mrs. Potter, their cook, of her position. That incident, and the pressure of securing the duke, had her most anxious.

A lady is always refined, elegantly poised, and serene, especially when her composure has been shaken. Holding close the words of her genteel governess, Evie lifted her chin, determined for tonight to be a success, despite the potentially ruinous plan to which she had committed herself.

Her stomach pitched, and she feared she was on the brink of committing the most horrifying social gaffe, which would surely ruin her reputation before she’d even had a chance to be presented at Almack’s. Evie was about to once again cast up her accounts, in full view of the lords and ladies staring up at her with such great expectations.

“You look quite green,” a smooth, cultured voice said to her left.

Poised to descend the stairs to the wide open ballroom, Evie hovered, her heart leaping into her throat and staying there.

“Lord Richard,” she said softly, a dangerous thrill bursting in her heart. She tightened her hand on the staircase railing and shifted slightly so she could peer left.

He was partially in the shadows on the landing of the hallway, leaning against a column. He was the darkness to her purity, dressed in stark black with only a white shirt, a golden waistcoat, and an immaculately tied cravat to lighten the overall impression of darkness. He looked totally at ease and so very confident that she felt as if some of his nonchalance had been gifted to her. Scanning his lean, lithe length and striking features, a strange heat surged inside her. His eyes were the most beautiful shade of amber, the color of rich, dark honey with bright flecks of gold. Very much like the whisky her father thought he had carefully hidden in the bottom of the French rococo cabinet in his study.

“You are staring, Lady Evie,” he murmured with a slightly ragged edge to his voice. Perhaps he was not so confident after all? But his arrogant, dark head tilted back, almost as if he was inviting her bold appraisal to continue.

Color flooded her cheeks and an aching, terrifying awareness of him as a man shot through her. “You are handsome,” she said, then blushed at her forwardness. Surely he would think her gauche and unrefined in the art of flirtation.

He stiffened, amusement and something far more elusive shifting in his beautiful eyes.