He Said Yes Page 8

  "My lord" she said her voice shaky. She closed her eyes, hoping the feelings would subside, but it only served to make them more intense.

  The kiss was like a brush of hot air over her nerve end­ings. Sensual and slow, provoking yet tender. A quiver of pure pleasure raced up her arm, then went deeper, entering the most private parts of her body.

  Instead of releasing her, Marshall turned the caress into a dance. His used the tip of his tongue, moving it in a lazy cir­cle over her skin, forcing her to feel everything he could

  make her feel. His nostrils flared slightly as he inhaled the scent of her. Soap and warm woman, clean, vibrant, and so alive it was all he could do not to drag her down on the floor and bury himself in her until everything else faded into oblivion.

  When he did release her hand Evelyn felt light-headed. Uneasiness swept through her as she realized just how vul­nerable she was to a man of his charms. She was too honest with herself not to realize that if she allowed him to continue trying to seduce her, she would probably find herself surren­dering. But even as she told herself to be wary of the mar­quis, she couldn't help but be aware of him as only a woman could be aware of a man. It was a staggering realization, one that made her breath catch in her throat.

  Marshall looked at her, knowing she had experienced the same primal emotion that was rippling through his own body. He could see it in the dilation of her eyes and the slight trembling of her body. He wanted her more at that moment than he'd ever wanted another woman. He wanted her laugh­ter and her stinging wit, her tears and the warmth of her body, the quiet hours just before dawn and the passionate ones that came in the darkest hours of the night. It was diffi­cult to gather his thoughts. All he could think about was the sweet passion that would erupt the moment he joined their bodies.

  He smiled to himself. It was only a matter of time before the attraction between them erupted into an explosion nei­ther one would be able to control. The knowledge helped him to keep his patience. "Until tomorrow, Miss Denns­worth," he said turning her name into another caress before leaving her to her own thoughts.

  Six

  Marshall left as soon as the House rose, leaving the par­liamentary hall, passing the statue of Richard the Lionhearted, and hurrying toward his carriage. After giving the driver in­structions, he settled back against the well-cushioned seat as the carriage clattered past St. Stephen's Tower where Big Ben was striking the hour. Within minutes the driver was making his way across Westminster Bridge.

  Marshall used the time it would take to reach the small house near the junction of Lambeth and St. George's Road to consider his good fortune. It wasn't the best way to think of poor Winnie's ailment, brought on by what he suspected was too much goose liver the previous evening, but at least he didn't have to suffer the Granmers' ball. His sister had sent her regrets to the lord and lady, which meant his schedule was clear to spend the evening with Evelyn.

  He had thought about her most of the day, finding the dis­traction both pleasing and frustrating. On more than one oc­casion his conscience had started prickling. Although she was a woman full grown, she was still an innocent. Seduction was something he hadn't counted on when making the deci­sion to seek a mistress. Had he picked a willing widow, se­duction wouldn't be necessary at all, no more than the short masquerade such a woman would require for vanity's sake.

  But having chosen Miss Evelyn Dennsworth, Marshall was looking forward to the challenge. Hers would be a gen­tle wooing, one that would soon have the lady admitting that she desired him as much as he desired her. It would be a mu­tual decision, when the time came, for he was still deter­mined to have her walk willingly into his arms.

  As the carriage slowed in front of the house on Lambeth Road Marshall found himself wondering how Evelyn had passed the day. It hadn't been well done of him to deposit her so abruptly then rush to the opera. Stepping down from the carriage, he thought of several ways he could make it up to her. Each one of them began with a kiss.

  Grunne met him at the door. The servant informed him that Miss Dennsworth could be found in the garden, then asked if his lordship would be taking dinner with the lady.

  "Yes," Marshall informed him, before strolling into the parlor and out the doors that led to the small private garden at the rear of the house. He saw Evelyn almost immediately.

  She was wearing a dove gray skirt and blue blouse. Her thick fall of golden brown hair was held back with a ribbon. He watched as she plucked a rose from one of the bushes. Holding it gently between her fingers, she twirled it one way then another, watching the fading light play upon its pink petals. Hearing his footsteps, she turned to face him.

  Marshall smiled his first true smile of the day. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts, saw the tremor of awareness that went through her as he approached and hoped that she had missed him one-tenth as much as he had found himself missing her.

  The moment she saw the marquis, Evelyn felt the air grow suddenly warm, as though the sun were rising instead of setting. Her heart began to pound wildly as he came closer and closer, his features outlined in the last of the day's light.

  She had awakened that morning more determined than ever to end the charade he insisted on playing. No good would come from allowing him to believe that she would compromise herself and become his mistress. The most she could hope for was a ruined life and a broken heart if she al­lowed herself to be seduced into his bed. He had come into her life so quickly, so abruptly, and considering the charges against her, he could disappear just as easily. It wouldn't do to become overly dependent upon him. Reminding herself to keep her wits about her, she greeted him with a cordial smile. "Hello, your lordship."

  "Hello," he said thinking she looked more beautiful each time he saw her. "You look rested. May I presume that you find the house to your liking?"

  "It is very comfortable," she replied. "Mrs. Grunne and her husband have endeavored to make me feel at home."

  "As they should. I want you to think of it as your home."

  Evelyn's smile faded. Still holding the rose, she walked to a nearby bench, one of three in the small stone-walled gar­den that separated the house from the neighboring resi­dences. She had taken his advice and had not offered any explanation to either Mrs. Grunne or her husband as to why she had taken up residence. Nor had she made any mention of the unfortunate circumstances that had brought her and the Marquis of Waltham together. Time would prove that she was not the lord's mistress.

  Knowing she had to say what was on her mind Evelyn framed her thoughts, then chose her words carefully. Now was not the time for euphemisms. "My lord I cannot thank you enough for all that you have done for me. Words are inade­quate to express what I fear I can never repay, but in all hon­esty, and I must be honest, this house can never be my home."

  "Let us get one thing clear, Miss Dennsworth," Marshall said. "I do not want to spend our time together replying 'you are welcome' to your endless stream of 'thank you, my lord.' Please let the gratitude you have expressed up to this point be sufficient. In addition, I will once again request that you forego formality when addressing me in private. My name is Marshall."

  Evelyn had inherited her father's strong will and his flare for speaking the truth no matter how inappropriate. Needing both at the moment, she did not hesitate to use them. "Very well, my lord." She used the address with a deliberate tone. "I have spent the majority of the day thinking about my cur­rent circumstances and your part in them. It seems I have no recourse but to speak bluntly."

  Marshall's smile was pure devilry. "By all means," he said sitting down at the opposite end of the bench so they could converse at eye level.

  It was apparent that Evelyn was preparing to give him a ver­bal dressing down for his sinful intentions. She was a stub­born bit of baggage, he thought, as she folded her hands in her lap and straightened her shoulders. God how he wanted to kiss her, to put an end to all this prim and proper behavior. The fire in her blood could be put to much better use.r />
  "I will not be your mistress," she said firmly, holding up her hand when he would have interrupted her. "The more I contemplate the friendship you request from me, the more apparent it becomes that your definition of the term differs greatly from mine. I cannot in all good conscience surrender so easily the principles my parents instilled in me." Evelyn glanced around the garden. It was easier to keep her thoughts flowing when she wasn't distracted by the mar­quis's handsome face. "Therefore, I will make arrangements to find other lodging. As I mentioned I have some funds. Granted they are small compared to the fortune associated with the Bedford name, but hopefully adequate enough to sustain me until I can find other employment. I will, of course, inform Magistrate Rivenhall of my whereabouts."

  "How old are you?"

  The unexpected question brought her head around.

  "I'm aware that it's an inappropriate question to ask a lady, but I'm curious," Marshall clarified the request. "In­dulge me."

  "Twenty and six."

  "And your birthday?"

  Evelyn shook her head. "The twelfth day of September. My lord if one did not know better, one would think you suffer from a hearing impairment. Have you not heard what I have been saying?"

  "Every word my lovely Evelyn," he responded with a smile that sent a peculiar rush of emotion through her body. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

  "Don't think to change my mind" she said impatiently. "I will not stand idly by while you seduce me with a charming smile and gentlemanly ways. Be assured that pretending to ignore my decision will not change it."

  "I am endeavoring to become acquainted" Marshall told her. He wasn't ignoring her words, but he was determined to change her mind. "This is how people become acquainted. They exchange bits of information about themselves. You will admit that this is the first opportunity we've had to con­verse freely. Therefore, you tell me about your family, and I will do my best not to bore you with details of my own."

  Evelyn laughed in spite of herself. "You are not a gentle­man. You are a rascal of the worst sort."

  Marshall threw back his head and laughed so loudly a small wren, nesting in one of the garden bushes, flapped it wings. Chirping indignantly, it sought refuge in a tree at the far end of the garden. "You are a delight," he said. Suddenly he found himself wanting the moment never to end. He en­joyed debating with the woman who was slowly revealing herself to be a charming adversary. "You must have brothers. I have found from my own experience that my sisters use me to sharpen their tongues."

  "There are no brothers. Nor sisters," she informed him, deciding she would have to reconsider her forthright ap­proach. It was apparent the marquis was having none of it. "If my tongue is sharp, it is because my father insisted upon the truth no matter how disquieting. Once instilled it is a habit hard to break."

  His interest peaked. "And what was the dreadful truth? Don't tell me that the lovely young woman who sits before me today was once a childish hellion, climbing trees and stealing sweets from the kitchen."

  "It was an apple," Evelyn told him.

  "Ahhh, the forbidden fruit."

  There was a subtle change in his tone, and Evelyn would have had to be a complete fool not to notice it. Deciding she might be able to best the marquis at his own game, she con­tinued saying, "I stole an apple from a church basket. I was only five at the time, not yet old enough to understand that the food had been collected for a higher cause than my own immediate hunger. Father saw me. Needless to say, he did not hesitate to enlighten me as to my Christian duty."

  Marshall found himself laughing again. Knowing fathers, he could well imagine how Evelyn's had enlightened her. He could also imagine her as a little girl with a tangle of golden brown curls hanging down her back and an impish nose that found its way into everything.

  "As restitution for eating the apple, I had to scrub the rec­tory steps."

  "An enlightening experience if ever I've heard one," Marshall conceded.

  "There were twenty-two of them, inside and out," Evelyn informed him. "A formidable task for a five-year-old but one that taught me a lesson I have never forgotten. It is wrong to take that which was never intended for your possession."

  Her arrow hit home with unmistakable accuracy. Not only was Evelyn reaffirming her innocence about Lady Monfrey's brooch, but she was telling Marshall that her vir­ginity was intended for the man she would one day marry and none other. As a dressing down, it was one of the best he'd ever received.

  Looking at her, Marshall got the uneasy feeling that his next question was not going to bring about an answer that would please him. "You mentioned that your father was a scholar of sorts. What exactly was his vocation?"

  "He was vicar of a small parish north of Sussex," she replied.

  "You might have told me," Marshall groaned, giving Evelyn her rightful due. Her ingenuous face was luminous with delight, an expression that increased his desire rather than diminishing it.

  A virgin, and a vicar's daughter!

  Persuading a woman of twenty-six years out of her inno­cence was one thing; seducing the daughter of a man of the cloth was something altogether different.

  "As you pointed out, we have had little time to converse," Evelyn said knowing she had caught him totally off guard.

  "Most certainly a delight," he said surprising her even more.

  The casual affair he'd been seeking was taking on a far more complex design. Marshall knew he should retreat, hav­ing been given the opportunity, but he couldn't. Which meant that he'd lost either his mind or his morals.

  Standing up, he offered her his hand. "The garden is small enough for me to see in one setting, but I've yet to have a tour of the house. Would you accompany me?"

  Evelyn frowned but she didn't refrain from accepting his hand. The sun had set behind the trees, casting the garden into golden shadows that would soon take on the softer, muted shades of twilight. The air had taken on a slight chill, and she didn't have a shawl at hand.

  He had removed his gloves upon entering the house, and she felt the unsettling touch of his skin next to hers. A fris­son of awareness overtook her as he casually placed her hand palm down, on his folded arm. They stood for the length of a heartbeat, his eyes searching her face, her mind unable to think of anything to say that would break the si­lence.

  Then, as if he realized the moment was becoming awk­ward for her, he turned slightly to the side, breaking the in­tense contact of their gazes, and began to walk toward the house. Evelyn fell into step beside him, thinking she would have to stay on her toes around the man. He was becoming more alluring by the moment.

  They walked through the parlor, with its too dark, over-furnished appearance, and into the foyer. Neither Mr. Grunne nor his wife were anywhere to be seen. Thinking the library, across the hall, might be the safest place to start, Evelyn dis­engaged herself from the marquis's gentle hold. The doors gave way with a slight creaking of hinges that she would ask Grunne to oil first thing in the morning.

  As expected the library was as much of a disaster as the parlor. The desk was large and cumbersome. A small desk globe sat at a precocious angle, displaying the lower hemi­sphere rather than the stately Isles of Britain. The remaining furniture was done in a profusion of dark woods that gave the room a morbid influence. Curtains that had once been a deep crimson red now hung dully over the windows, their vi­brant color faded to a muddy brownish red reminding Marshall of dried blood.

  "It's an insult to the eye," he said harshly. "I apologize."

  "New drapes would make a vast improvement," Evelyn said, sensing he was embarrassed. She looked at him instead of the atrocious boar's head hanging over the fireplace. "I sometimes think the aristocracy over-sensitive, my lord. No apology is needed unless you furnished the room yourself." Her remark gained her a slight smile, so she continued. "The carpet is too dark and the furniture crowded too tightly to­gether, but the room is of ample proportion. With a little at­tention it could be righted."

  "You are
an optimist, Miss Dennsworth. The only way to right this room would be to burn the house down."

  In that moment, Evelyn longed to prove him wrong. How she would love to take charge of this fine little house, to turn it into the home she longed for, to toss the heavy draperies into the fire and replace them with lighter ones that would let sunlight and warmth flood the rooms. The furnishings were old and heavy, but with the right patterns and positioning, she knew she could create a male haven where Marshall could relax. She could picture him now, sitting behind the massive desk in casual repose, his jacket cast aside, a brandy at his fingertips.

  Realizing the direction of her thoughts, Evelyn immedi­ately reminded herself that she would not be staying in the house. She had voiced her decision to leave, and she had every intention of vacating the premises as soon as she could get up the nerve to ask Mr. Grunne for the loan of the han­som fare she would need to travel to the bank.

  Marshall strolled about the room, wiggling his nose in disgust at the drab colors and tight quarters created by a sofa large enough to seat three elephants sitting abreast. When his gaze wandered higher, he shook his head. The molting boar's head over the mantel was missing one tusk, greatly lessening the animal's original ferocity.

  He turned to find Evelyn inspecting the room. Her ex­pression said she was seeing it from a different point of view. An idea came to mind and he immediately acted upon it. She had told him that the house could never be her home, but if she had a hand in its transformation, her mind might be changed. "I shall arrange for the household allowance to be increased. I care not what you do with this room, but please make it habitable as quickly as possible. I do enjoy a quiet brandy when I'm reading the Evening Mail. If Grunne requires an additional man to help with the furniture, then hire one."

  Since he was looking directly at her as he spoke, she was unable to disguise the instant pleasure that overtook her fea­tures. Marshall knew he had baited the proper hook to catch his lovely little fish when she immediately tried to look any­thing but happy over his request.