How I Married a Marquess (5 page)

Why
her
he had no idea. But he knew for certain that he wasn't willing to part with her just yet. Hulking brothers or no.

“Well.” Robert removed his hand from Thomas's shoulder with a friendly pat. “While we're glad a man is taking an interest in Josie—”

“I don't think we can allow her to dance with you—” Quinton interrupted.

“A man to whom she hasn't been formally introduced,” Robert finished.

Quinton nodded in confirmation. “Certainly not.”

Both brothers ignored the ice-cold daggers she stared at them, and Thomas suspected she was already plotting her revenge. Emily certainly would have been.

“Oh, but we have been introduced,” Thomas smoothly informed them. “How else would I know that your sister, the lovely Miss Josephine Carlisle, loves to dance, although her friends consider her a bit too clumsy for the quadrilles, so she prefers to waltz despite a sorely small pool of men in Lincolnshire who don't step on her toes?”

Her brothers stared at him curiously, clearly not knowing how to respond to that. And neither did Josephine, who stared at him as if he'd just admitted to stealing the crown jewels.

Dancing with her had been only an excuse for her brothers, to explain why he was holding her elbow, but now he wanted to do exactly that. “I believe our waltz is starting. Miss Carlisle, may I?”

Josie blinked, then gave a stunned nod of permission. As if knowing a refusal would draw even more attention to herself from the curious crowd around them.

He took her gloved hand and rested it delicately on his sleeve, the same one she'd doused with punch just moments before in that adorable but obvious scheme to meet him. “Gentlemen, if you'll excuse us.”

As he led her onto the dance floor, she murmured in a soft voice, “That was smoothly done.”

“Self-preservation,” he replied in the same low tone as he drew her into position, “isn't just for toes.”

Despite her earlier annoyance at him, she gave a small laugh. The soft, melodic sound flitted through his chest, easing even more the year-old weight he carried inside him. He couldn't help but smile at her.

Whatever he'd done earlier to offend her dissipated as he twirled her into the waltz, and she fell gracefully into step with him. “Robert and Quinn are quite protective of me,” she explained.

He threw a pointed glance at her brothers. “So I noticed.”

“Hmm,” she replied knowingly. “And I could have sworn you noticed far more than just that.”

His gut clenched in warning at her implication that he was more than he seemed, the reaction a remnant of a survival instinct honed sharply during his years as an army officer and agent. And yet…well, she wasn't wrong. He supposed he should be alarmed that she was the only woman save his sister who suspected he led a double life. What he actually was, however, was intrigued.

He shrugged as he twirled her into a circle, and she followed naturally, not missing a step. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Oh, come now. We've already established that you don't like deception, so don't dissemble with me,” she chastised lightly even as she smiled, not at him but to appease her brothers who hovered on the edge of the dance floor like a pack of wolves. Interesting…she clearly didn't want to dance with him, yet she wanted a scene with her brothers even less. He'd never before been the lesser of two evils for a woman. His pride would have been pricked if she
hadn't fascinated him so much. “I have a feeling those eyes of yours don't miss much.”

His brow rose slightly. “Is that a compliment?”

“Would you like it to be?” she countered cheekily.

Yes, very much
.
He wasn't certain why, but from the moment they'd made eye contact, he'd wanted to make an impression on her. Perhaps because he'd caught her scanning the crowd just as he'd been doing, or because she'd held his gaze unflinchingly without an ounce of trepidation or self-consciousness. Such boldness in a young lady was decidedly rare.

But he knew one thing for certain—he would have made his way through the crowd himself to meet her if the Sinclair ladies hadn't trapped him into conversation. Instead she'd surprised him first with her ploy of spilled punch.

If he'd been in London and any of the ladies there had attempted such a maneuver, whether with aims to wed him or to bed him, he would have responded with a cutting remark that would have sent her scurrying for safety. But Josephine Carlisle was curious about him. Which made him curious. About her.

“You're an unusual woman, Miss Carlisle,” he answered instead.

“Is that a compliment?” She tilted her head as if studying him.

He crooked a half grin. “Would you like it to be?”

She flashed a genuinely brilliant smile that made his heart skip as she played out her part. “And you're an unusual man, Mr.…” She blinked, her face suddenly blank. Then, she gasped, “Good heavens, we
haven't
been introduced!”

He bit back another laugh. “Matteson,” he offered encouragingly, hoping she'd return the familiarity of the introduction. “Marquess of Chesney.” Then he lowered his mouth close to her ear, close enough to feel her shiver when he murmured, “Thomas.”

He pulled back to a proper distance before her brothers could pounce and pulp him, but even then he could still feel the rustle of her skirts around his legs as they danced together and the heat of her fingers lightly folded around his. He'd hoped the introduction would soften her more to him; instead it drew a faint flicker of suspicion and distrust in the emerald depths of her eyes.

The woman perplexed him. She'd made the first move, but now, every time he encouraged her to be flirtatious and increase the intimacy between them, she pulled back. Like a skittish foal exploring its new stable, she was afraid of the very thing that drew her curiosity.

She raised her chin primly. “And what have you noticed, then, Lord Chesney?”

He smiled, amused at her doggedness
to maintain a sense of formality between them while at the same time unduly pleased that she'd noticed him enough to know he'd been watching—and watching not just her but everyone in the room. Few people paid close attention to their surroundings the way he did, let alone society ladies, and in her he found the trait fascinating.

“Well, Miss Carlisle,” he murmured hotly, holding her gaze, “I certainly noticed you.”

She swallowed nervously, and as he watched the soft undulation of her elegant throat, a ripple of pleasure sped through him. “And what did you notice?”

His voice sounded unexpectedly husky, even to his own ears. “Beyond how alluring you are, you mean?”

That
comment drew a soft pink to her cheeks, exactly as he'd hoped. She was even more beautiful when she blushed.

She followed his lead effortlessly as he twirled her through the circle, not missing a step. More proof that she wasn't nearly as clumsy as she'd led him to believe. Which immediately had him wondering what else about herself she'd hidden from him. And that mysteriousness intrigued him even more.

“What have you noticed about me, Lord Chesney?” she urged gently, and he was struck by the peculiar suspicion that she wasn't fishing for compliments as much as trying to learn about him from what he was able to reveal about her.

“Well, your brothers are constantly at the center of attention, but you prefer not to be.” He admitted honestly, his voice lowering, “Although I'm very glad that you decided to spill punch on me tonight despite that.”

“
That
was an easy guess,” she countered skeptically, but her blush deepened, proof that she liked the comment despite her determination not to let it show. Hmm…how dark could he make that blush grow before her brothers pounced?

“Not as easy as you think,” he muttered, flicking a glance at her brothers, who still watched the two of them like hawks. Then he looked down at her dress, noting both the style and the delectable way it draped over her curves. “Well, then, I also noticed that you travel to London once a year but never for the entire season.”

That
got her attention, and her green eyes widened. “How,” she asked in an astonished whisper, shifting away from him, “can you possibly know that?”

He gently pulled her closer, unwilling to let her go. “Because your dress is last year's fashion,” he explained, “so you were in London for the fitting, but you weren't there for the entire season.”

“How do you know that?” she whispered, her pink lips parting delicately in surprise.

“Because I was there,” he told her honestly, unable to prevent his gaze from dropping to her succulent mouth. “And I certainly would have remembered a woman like you.”

At his unbidden confession, she stared up at him with eyes as dark as a storm-tossed sea, and he felt the pull of her. And the equally undeniable pull of her toward him. At that moment, despite being surrounded by the crush of the ballroom, he wanted to wrap her in his arms and shamelessly wipe away that teasing smile at her lips that had him longing to smother her mouth with his. How sweet it would be to hear her moan, to feel the warmth of that soft little body pressed eagerly against his as she kissed him back…When he stroked his thumb against her palm, she shivered, and he knew she wanted to do exactly that.

His heart pounding, he murmured, “Josephine—”

“Is that all you know about me, then?” she asked suddenly, the words coming out in a breathless rush. “Nothing else?”

“I know I'd like to learn more about you.” He dared to stroke the small of her back in a slow circle as he stared down into her eyes. “A great deal more.”

She missed a step and would have tumbled to the floor if not for his arm at her back catching her. As he drew her back into position, she dragged in a breath so deep, so hard that she shook. In fact,
all
of her trembled now. As if she were…afraid.

“Miss Carlisle?” Concern instantly gripped him as he stared down at her, his hand tightening around hers. “Josephine?”

She refused to look up at him now, her gaze trained at his chest and her body stiff in his arms. That wonderful blush he'd stirred in her cheeks had vanished, her pretty face gone pale.

He frowned with bewilderment. Good Lord, he'd only flirted with her, and an incredibly mild flirtation at that, compared to those scandalous whisperings the London ladies liked to hear so they could pretend to be shocked even as the words titillated them. With the way those brothers of hers guarded her, she was most likely still a country innocent, and yet what on earth had he done to cause
fear
? Surely nothing to make her shake, for God's sake.

And
damnation
, he was chasing her away again!

“If I overstepped…” He apologetically squeezed her hand. “I didn't mean to offend you.”

“You didn't offend me,” she protested, but as the waltz ended she pulled away quickly. She retreated a step and gave him a shallow curtsy. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lord Chesney. If you'll excuse me, I—I suddenly feel unwell.”

Unwell?
His eyes narrowed on her. A damned lie.

But she was gone before he could stop her, and he fought the urge to run after her as she hurried from the dance floor toward her brothers, already feeling the tightening in his chest and the darkness pressing in around him from the sudden loss of her. He forced himself to breathe steadily and deeply—and to let her go.

He watched as she pressed her hand against her forehead in feigned illness and quickly gave excuses to her brothers as to why she wanted to leave so abruptly when the dance had just begun. Surprisingly, the glances the men sent his way were curious ones, not any that had him fearing for his life, so whatever excuses she made were wholly believable. And not blaming him. Thank God for that, at least. But knowing she didn't place the blame squarely on his head was little consolation for her sudden departure and the solace she took away with her. What had he done to chase her away?

One of the brothers—Sebastian, the one he hadn't yet met—took her arm and led her toward the front entrance.

As she disappeared from sight, an unexpected stab of loss tore into his chest. Needing air, he stepped outside onto the terrace, where he took deep breaths to steady himself. Only a few minutes later he watched her leave as the coach disappeared down the moonlit drive, carrying the enigmatic woman away, along with the last peace he would feel tonight.

He ran a hand through his hair in aggravation, his fingers already shaking at the thought of the night ahead. One he knew would be spent sleepless and moving restlessly in his room, when pacing for hours was the only way to burn off the anxiety that descended upon him when the night was quiet and he had nothing to do but think. And remember.

Blowing out a breath, he leaned on his palms against the stone balustrade. Who
was
this woman, that she of all people had such a calming effect on him when no one else had been able to help him? For the first time since the shooting, he had been completely at ease with someone other than Emily, Edward, and Grey.

She wasn't the most beautiful woman he knew, nor the most sophisticated. Yet with nothing more than a dribble of punch and a waltz, Josephine Carlisle had distracted him more deeply than Helene or his other lovers had done with their naked bodies, more than Emily had done with all her pots of tea. The pleasant distraction of her smiles and her teasing wit had him thinking of her and not of everything he'd lost when that footpad shot him. Or how desperate he was to have that life back, no matter what he had to do to get it.

Including hunting down a highwayman.

But his investigation for Royston certainly wasn't proceeding as planned. He'd been at Blackwood Hall for over eight hours now, and instead of actively pursuing leads, he'd been wasting time trying to impress a woman like some starry-eyed green pup, only to end up driving her away. That was different, because he couldn't remember the last time a woman had fled from him before. If ever. And that was oddly bothersome, because he found himself wanting to see her again. Because tonight, for a precious few minutes, there had been only her. And peace.