I Love the Earl (5 page)

Margaret’s mouth was bone dry. She couldn’t have answered if she’d known what to say. She wanted all that, too—she even wanted it from him—and if he wanted her dowry, too, well, why shouldn’t Francis’s money be appreciated? It wasn’t as though her other suitors didn’t want it.

She wet her lips and forced her throat to work. “Come with me.” She got to her feet and moved toward the door, shooting a look at Clarissa when her friend glanced up in surprise. Clarissa’s eyes darted to Dowling, on his feet and following close behind her, and she gave Margaret a tiny smile brimming with glee.

Outside the box, Lord Dowling offered his arm, and she laid her hand on it very properly. They strolled along the gravel walk, well lit by a profusion of oil lamps hung among the branches of the trees. Behind them the orchestra played, and the murmurs of conversation from other supper boxes didn’t quite drown out the singer. Margaret took a deep breath and sighed with pleasure at the sight. She had always liked Vauxhall, even though Miss Cuthbert sniffed at its lack of exclusivity. Her parents had brought her to Vauxhall during her long-ago debut, and those trips figured among her happiest memories of that time. Ranelagh was more fashionable, but there was something a bit easier and less restrained about Vauxhall, where the lowest maid in London could walk out with her beau and make as merry as any heiress.

The path grew dimmer, the lamps less numerous as they moved through the Grove. Dowling seemed content to let her lead, and she searched carefully for the right spot. She took care not to wander too far from the path, mindful of being pursued by Miss Cuthbert, but wanted some privacy for what she had to ask of him.

Finally they reached a darkened turn of the path. This far from the orchestra and main walks, the cooing of thrushes and a pair of nightingales murmured around them. She stopped and faced Lord Dowling, suddenly nervous but trying to hide it. They had spent a great deal of time together, but never truly alone. “If you intend to marry me,” she said, “you’d better kiss me first.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Now?” he murmured in his dark, raspy voice.

“Yes.” She swallowed. “Please do.”

He continued to look at her mouth. “You haven’t answered my question yet, about your intentions. I hope you don’t plan to tease me and seduce me, only to refuse me later, madam.”

The notion of her seducing him was so—so—
tempting
—no, not tempting,
ridiculous
— She took an unsteady breath. “You claim we suit each other. Prove it.”

Rhys took a step closer. Prove it. He longed to prove it to her, to kiss her until she moaned in his arms, to carry her deeper into the woods and show her just how much he wanted her and how well he could satisfy all her longings. His blood was coursing hot and fast in anticipation, but he kept a tight leash on his visceral reaction to her bold demand. “Is this the last question in your mind? Your last doubt?”

Her expressive lips parted. The silver pendant on her choker winked at him, fluttering ever-so-slightly on the rapid throb of her pulse. “No, not quite the very last,” she said. “But it is an important one.”

Dimly he supposed the last one was still about the money, that damned dowry that cast every suitor in a shady, avaricious light. Courtesy of Miss Stacpoole’s wagging tongue, he knew three other men had already proposed marriage to Margaret, and she had turned them all down. Two were acknowledged fortune hunters, but one was a decent fellow with expectations. He had steadfastly resisted the urge to ask her about other suitors, but that third refusal gave him hope. He could tell she liked his attentions. His strategy of charming her friends had done wonders to thaw her opinion of him. He even found he liked Miss Stacpoole and her Freddie, which was fortunate; it seemed clear they would be part of his life for as long as Margaret was.

But best of all was that the lady herself only improved on closer acquaintance. The sharp tongue and undaunted spirit that flayed him so mercilessly when they first met were scintillating, when not turned on him. Even when she did turn on him a little, he still found it more exhilarating than shrewish. One evening they had a vigorous disagreement over the American colonies, where his fortune had gone to wither in the hot Carolina sun. Rhys was all in favor of letting those benighted lands go and good riddance, while she strongly felt such a valuable possession should be retained if at all possible. Arguing with an intelligent, informed woman was a novel experience for him; she acknowledged his points, but had sound points of her own. When she made him admit he would support sending British troops to protect private British property and investments, despite his disgust for anything to do with the Americas, he knew he was hers. Wanting a woman was one thing. Finding her fascinating was another.

Now he stared down at her upturned face, pale and unearthly in the moonlight. Kiss her, she asked. He’d dreamed of nothing else for weeks. He raised his hand to her jaw, letting his fingers brush over the exposed swells of her breasts, pushed high by her stomacher. She inhaled sharply at his touch, and he took advantage of the motion to draw her to him. Her waist felt small and slender under his hand, nipped in under her corset and the folds of her mulberry silk gown, but when her body pressed against his, it was unmistakably a woman’s body.

He stroked her cheek, fingering a loose tendril of hair before smoothing it back. No one wore powder to Vauxhall, and her pale tresses were as soft as silk. “How many kisses?” he murmured.

“Just one will do.” She sounded as breathless as he felt. Good. Raw male satisfaction ripped through him. He was no green boy, undone by the sight of a woman’s parted lips, but by God, he wanted her to be as aroused by this as he was.

“How long a kiss?” He brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth.

“How long do you need?” She swayed against him, her hand resting lightly against his chest.

“To kiss you properly?” He smiled. “A lifetime, Maggie.” And finally he kissed her.

Rhys had no expectation that it was her first kiss. She had alluded to a debut in her youth, and since her brother ascended to the dukedom, she must have had dozens of suitors. It certainly wasn’t his first kiss, either, and he could see benefits to being the last man to kiss a woman instead of the first.

But it was
their
first kiss, and he wanted it to make an impression—and leave her aching for more.

Her lips were soft against his. For a moment he just savored the feel of them—and the feel of her, in his arms—but it wasn’t enough. He deepened the kiss, sucking lightly at her lower lip until she gasped. Rhys pressed his advantage a little, tasting her mouth, sweet with arrack punch. He flattened one hand against the small of her waist, drawing her to him, and felt her fingers curl into the facings of his coat. Satisfaction fizzed in his veins. Kissing her was more delightful than expected, even if she was more pliant than responsive.

And then, Margaret gave a soft sigh before she went up on her toes and began kissing him back.

Rhys was not prepared for it. Of all the kisses in his life, none had ever been so honest and so longing. He could taste the desire in her, from the way her tongue twined with his to the way her body strained against his. She clung to him as if she would never let go, and the flare of lust shot right to his groin. Good Lord. He’d expected to be the seducer, and instead he was drowning in desire, so hard for her he could hardly stay on his feet. He cupped his shaking hand around the back of her skull, and threw restraint to the winds.

“I say there, sir,” said a frosty voice behind them some minutes later. “Unhand the lady!”

Margaret gave a violent start in his arms. Rhys held her for a moment so she wouldn’t fall, then loosened his grip and let her step away. She looked delectable; her hair had gotten a bit mussed, and her breasts were almost spilling from her bodice. Another sign how much he’d lost himself, that he had gone so far in a place where they could be interrupted at any moment. He turned to the intruder slowly, giving a discreet tug to right his breeches and blocking Margaret from sight so she could repair herself, only to grimace when he recognized the fellow. “Always taking an interest in other people’s affairs, aren’t you, Branwell?” he asked dryly.

The Marquis of Branwell drew himself up and glared back. “I might have known it would be you assaulting a lady in a public garden, Dowling.” He craned his neck to the side. “Are you well, Miss de Lacey?”

“Yes, yes, perfectly well,” she said breathlessly, stepping around Rhys. “What made you think otherwise, sir?”

Branwell’s nostrils flared in obvious disgust as he glanced at Rhys. “Perhaps you are not aware, Miss de Lacey, that the paths in the Grove are not safe for the delicate sex. This part of the garden is frequented by scoundrels.”

“So I have heard.” She smiled regally, despite the blond curl drooping from her coiffure. “I shall be alert for any, sir. Thank you for the warning.”

Branwell pointedly looked Rhys up and down. “You have already erred rather badly, madam, if your goal is to avoid scoundrels. I will escort you back to your brother, who will no doubt be appalled by your actions.”

Rhys felt her slightly shocked glance, and wanted to punch Branwell in the face. How dare that priggish hypocrite poke his nose into the concerns of others? “No need, sir,” he said thinly. “I’m escorting Miss de Lacey this evening.”

The marquis physically recoiled. He shot Margaret a look of pure disdain before turning the same expression on Rhys. “So I see. I might have known you would try to remedy your problems by luring a woman into ruin. Your father would be ashamed.”

Rhys curled his mouth in grim imitation of a smile, and swept an elaborate bow. Branwell hissed in disapproval. Without a word of farewell he turned on his heel and walked away.

The silence was ringing. All the heat and glow of the kiss had faded into nothing, like a fire put out by a bucket of cold water.

“Not a friend of yours, I presume,” said Margaret softly after a minute.

“No,” he muttered. “Rather the opposite.”

Her skirts rustled as she came to stand beside him. “I hear such wicked things of you,” she said. “Everyone except Clarissa assures me you’re purely after my fortune and are such a rascal, my ears would burn to hear of it. And yet my own eyes tell me something different.” She paused. “I’m sure I wouldn’t have to beg a true scoundrel to kiss me.”

He smiled without humor. “What do your eyes tell you about me? I confess I would like to know.”

She studied him. “You dance with my friend, when other gentlemen laugh at her looks and snub her for her frankness. You are cordial to her fiancé, whom society mocks as a dim-witted fool. You bow out when I tease you that your company discourages other men from asking me to dance. You say you want to marry me, but then talk to me of politics and business, of family and home—of things that truly matter to me—rather than flirting and praising my fine eyes. And now a man insults you to your face, and you bow as if he did you great honor. I cannot understand it.”

“No?” He sighed. “Perhaps it makes no sense.”

“It makes sense,” she said slowly, “if you are an exceedingly cagey fellow who will go to great lengths to fool me about the depths of your devotion. Or . . . if you really care to know me.”

Rhys looked down at her. Her face, even turned up to his, was dim and shadowed in the faint moonlight, but he remembered the feel of her lips against his, of her cheek against his. He’d meant to tell her all this, but not tonight, when he wanted only to revel in the passion that sparkled between them. His courtship had gone almost perfectly, from the discovery that they were well suited to each other in intellect, temperament, humor, and now physical desires. He was sure he could have proposed tonight and been accepted, if not for the yawning difference in their financial states and the aspersions it cast on his motives. Cursed Branwell.

“I dance with Miss Stacpoole because it gives her as much pleasure as it gives me. Eccleston is no scholar but he’s a decent, honest man and a steadfast fellow. He doesn’t care how I choose to address my financial straits.” He paused, but there was no way to avoid it. The marquis would surely tell her brother, and this was his only chance to explain before others told Margaret Branwell’s version of the tale. “Branwell was my guardian—my father’s cousin who managed my estates until I reached my majority.”

“He—what?” she exclaimed. “You said your guardian squandered the estate!”

“He doesn’t see it that way.” Rhys shrugged, trying to keep the familiar, well-worn ire at bay. “I notice he didn’t make the same investments with his own funds, though. But he will never forgive me for revealing how low the Dowling fortunes had sunk when I came of age, casting well-earned blame for it on him.”

“Revealing,” she repeated. “How does one hide it? Especially a marked reduction in circumstances?”

She really was from a different society, if she didn’t know. “By living on credit. By using your station and name to intimidate merchants into supplying you, while never paying their bills. By bleeding every farthing out of your lands and tenants in order to maintain appearances, while they starve. An earl must live like a nobleman, not like a vagabond, even if he is as poor as one,” he finished a bit harshly, remembering Branwell’s last lecture to him on the subject.

“A vagabond.” Her voice rang with doubt, as if to say, how can a man who attends balls be a vagabond?