When a Marquess Loves a Woman Read online

  Besides, it would also make tongues wag. As it was, heads were already turned in their direction.

  “Perhaps,” Max said, turning marginally toward her. “The pockets are too small for me to search, though you are welcome to discover their contents.”

  If it were any other man, she might imagine that he was flirting with her. Since this was Max, who hated her above all others, however, she knew better. Therefore, she chose to ignore the thread and the comment. “I was to attend with Zinnia and Ivy, but the former was concerned that the abundant sunshine would cause spots, and the latter was unwell.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.” And to Max’s credit, his sincerity was evident.

  “An effect of her delicate condition,” she said, referring to the baby that the Duchess of Vale was carrying. “I am told that the early stages are a trial for some women.”

  Of course, Juliet had no experience in such matters, nor any opportunity to hope for such. Lord Granworth never wanted anything, even pregnancy, to alter his most prized object—her. She’d been for display only, to admire but not to touch.

  Thankfully, Max did not comment further on the topic. He stirred again, shifting his stance and staring out across the park. “Yet you still chose to attend, even without an escort. One might wonder at the reason. Or if you’d planned to meet someone.”

  “Are you intimating that I have a lover here? That I chose the Minchons’ park for a tryst?” A wry laugh escaped her. “I could say the same of you, as you spend your afternoons in the gallery of the House of Commons and not attending social events. Are you here for a clandestine meeting or perhaps even for a bride?”

  His mouth quirked in something just short of a smile. “We have a wager to think of, have we not? Perhaps I am here to ensure my candidate’s success.”

  Three days had passed since they’d signed the contract and cast their ballots for this Season’s Original, handing them over to Mr. Saunders for safekeeping. At first, they had intended to entrust Marjorie and Zinnia with the task. Yet after careful thought, they decided that the honorable butler was the better choice. Mostly because Saunders would not inadvertently use his position in society to influence the outcome.

  Since that day, Juliet had not found herself at an engagement where Max was present. And the only reason she’d noted his absence was the simple fact that the past two events had been rather dull. So much so, in fact, that even an argument with her nemesis would have been preferable.

  “And perhaps I am here for the same purpose,” she said, using her most aloof and mysterious tone. Yet, admittedly, she was curious over Max’s selection. Though passing a glance over the guests at large, she did not see a single debutante or gentleman to shake her confidence.

  Her own candidate, Viscount Ellery, was not in attendance. Therefore, if Max was here to spy on his own, she was certain that they had chosen different names. And even more certain of her own victory.

  “Then again, perhaps I am merely here to take in the fine weather,” Max said, his tone dipping lower into an aura of mystery as well. With a sideways glance, he suddenly shook his head. “Though it is a shame that you have come unprepared. I see that most of the other women have parasols to protect their complexions. One single spot, Goddess, and you could lose your moniker.”

  He was trying to spark her ire, she knew, and she fought all the harder to remain unaffected.

  “I am amazed at how you can still underestimate me, Max.” Proving her point, a dozen footmen in bright cerulean livery descended the terrace steps, toting silver trays. She gestured to the bronze-handled walking stick beneath the grip of Max’s large hand. “I hope you are adept at balancing a saucer on your hat.”

  By the sudden twitch of his jaw, his gaze on the servants, she saw the instant his foible occurred to him. But Max was nothing if not quick-witted and decisive, for he summarily tucked the stick beneath his arm.

  He dusted his hands together. “Every problem has a solution.”

  She pretended to turn her attention to the seam of her lace mitts and, in that split second, spied Max’s gaze sweep down the length of her pink-and-white striped walking costume. A surge of heat, that had nothing to do with the sun, filled her stomach and radiated outward. She was accustomed to being watched and scrutinized by men and women alike, so it shouldn’t have made her feel anything at all. Yet there was something in the way that Max studied her that caused the unbidden response.

  She wasn’t entirely sure what it was. Though perhaps the reason stemmed from knowing that he disliked her but seemed to observe her against his will. A peculiar sense of triumph filled her at the thought.

  “Mmm . . . ” she mused. “You are clever, to be sure. Yet you missed a perfect opportunity.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Why, to ask me to feed you cakes, of course.” With a jaunty wave of her fingers, she left him to stand there, as she relished the stunned, somewhat slack-jawed expression on his face.

  Max stared after Juliet’s retreating figure. Her hat was tilted enough to show her eyes dancing with delight beneath the pink netting as she glanced over her shoulder at him. And he might have laughed as well at her cleverness if he hadn’t been distracted by the view.

  Her dressmaker should be sent to gaol for such a design. The gathers and pleats revealed the perfect delineation of her narrow waist and the slight flair of her hips, as if she wore no garments at all. He felt as if he’d fallen victim to a mesmerist’s charm, which swayed ever-confidently back and forth.

  Still recovering from her suggestion that he should have asked her to feed him cake, he couldn’t seem to banish the image from his mind. Correction—images—for several, highly detailed visions instantly formed, including various methods and positions in which to indulge in cake.

  Fighting against these errant thoughts, he reminded himself that one cannot eat his cake and have it as well. Not with Juliet. Besides, given their rivalry since her return, he doubted that her comment was intended as a flirtation. More likely, it was a device of distraction, the same way that members of Parliament argued against a bill by attacking their opponents on a more personal level.

  And if Max knew anything at all, he knew that Juliet was a skilled adversary. As a widow as well as an experienced player among the ton, she knew exactly how to use her wiles. He wondered how many others had fallen under the same spell, only to have found in the end that it was all a ruse.

  Abruptly, his mood darkened. He didn’t want to think about the past and how he’d once thought she was a different person. Nor did he want to imagine all the other men who’d been lured by her . . . cake-feeding skills.

  But did she have a lover? He couldn’t seem to rid his mind of the question.

  There had been no whispered allegations regarding that fact. In truth, since her return, the only name hers was linked to was his, which was confirmation that the ton was frequently misled and misinformed. Clearly, society hadn’t an inkling of the insurmountable animosity between them.

  Still, that did not stop him from wondering if her sly wit wasn’t the only thing sly about her. Hadn’t she already admitted to wanting to skirt the stipulations of their previous wager? So was her remark just now truly a flirtation and nothing more? Or a means of distraction?

  The answers shouldn’t matter to him, but for reasons beyond good sense, they did.

  Of course, it was easy to imagine that she was merely trying to ensure her victory over him. Perhaps her candidate was, indeed, in attendance.

  In direct line of his thoughts, Juliet paused to greet the Earl of Dovermere and his eldest daughter, Lady Piper Laurent. They shared an acquaintance because Dovermere was now father-in-law to Juliet’s cousin Lilah. It seemed likely that they were merely exchanging pleasantries. However, it could also be that Juliet had chosen Lady Piper as her candidate for the Original.

  Max mused on the idea and found that it wasn’t a terrible plan. After all, a month ago Lady Piper had made one or two appearances in t
he Standard, which listed her as a favorite for the Original. And now, with Dovermere’s son, Jack Marlowe—lately Viscount Locke—in good standing among the ton, Piper had a sporting chance.

  She was poised, pretty, and refined, as most debutantes were. And having been Jack’s friend for years, Max had spoken with Piper from time to time and found her sharp wit was like her brother’s. The anonymous committee who selected the Original could make a worse choice and, in the past, had done so. Though to Max’s mind, Lady Piper Laurent did not have a chance against the name he’d written on his ballot.

  Thinking of his certain victory, he smiled to himself.

  Glancing around the park, he studied the faces beneath the shaded brims. Every gaze seemed to flit toward Juliet. Young women were fussing with their parasols, closing them and setting them aside to sip their teas, and all the while staring with transparent envy at Juliet as she progressed, unencumbered, down the avenue toward the fountain. The men wore expressions of admiration. Of course, some were far too admiring, bordering on blatant lust, as if she were walking solely for their pleasure. And Max had a sudden desire to blacken a few eyes.

  Not out of jealousy, he told himself. This surge of roiling heat in his gut stemmed from the desire to teach those young bucks a lesson in manners. After all, they were entirely too obvious in their appreciation of her figure.

  Normally, Max would laugh and pity them because they did not know what wreckage Juliet tended to leave in her wake, what utter destruction to a man’s soul. Today, however, he found that his temperament was not inclined toward humor, sardonic or otherwise.

  He blamed it on her, of course. If not for her flirtatious comment, he would be enjoying the fresh air and sunshine while keeping a surreptitious eye on his candidate. In fact, he should be thinking about finding a bride. Instead, he could not stop thinking about cake and wondering if, perhaps—

  “M’lord,” a footman said, interrupting his thoughts and stopping in front of him with a confection-laden tray.

  Max cast a cursory glance over the lace serviettes that were smaller than the palm of his hand. Were gentlemen expected to pick up one of those dainty bits of frippery merely to eat an iced cake that was no larger than a single bite? He chuckled to himself, prepared to send the footman away and to return to his prior thoughts. Then, suddenly, it occurred to him that an opportunity lay before him.

  No doubt, Juliet thought she had bested him with her parting words, expecting to take him off guard. And she had. But perhaps it was time he called her bluff by issuing a challenge of his own.

  Removing his gloves, he took a serviette and two dainty pink cakes before setting off in her direction. Not wanting to give the appearance of pursuit to any of the other guests or to his prey, he ambled about, admiring topiaries and pausing to nod a greeting to those whom he encountered.

  Since he’d inherited his title, the ton had taken a sudden interest in making his acquaintance. The marquessate was bestowed on him after the death of a fourth cousin, whom Max had never met. In fact, his late father had never spoken of the connection either. Suddenly, however, this tragedy had made Max interesting enough to garner all sorts of invitations, gaining the attention of those who’d peered right through him for years. Then again, the fortune and land he’d inherited had likely helped. Society was nothing if not predictable.

  By the time Max reached the fountain, Juliet had parted ways with Dovermere and had strolled down a side path dotted with conical cypress and spirals of juniper. Most of the guests were promenading down the other two paths, either along the shaded arcade or in the opposite direction toward a Grecian folly. Though with nothing more than a large moss-covered urn, a hedgerow cabinet at the end of the alley, and no reprieve from the glaring sun, only he and Juliet walked here.

  With every step, the soles of his boots sank into the plush grass, effectively muffling his approach. She wasn’t too far ahead of him, her pace slow as she took time to study the gardener’s work. Lifting her hand, she brushed her fingertips over the evergreen fronds. A breeze stirred, casting a sweet, piney fragrance in his direction. He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with it.

  He’d always enjoyed the outdoors and knew it was something he had in common with her. Yet there were days he wished he could forget those things.

  “Lady Granworth,” he said when he was near enough and earned the quick turn of her head. Unfortunately, the shadow beneath the brim of her hat concealed any other reaction that might have slipped through. Though with her next words, he could guess fairly well that it hadn’t been a smile of delight.

  “Are you determined to spoil my afternoon?” As she squared her shoulders, her chin lifted, exposing a column of creamy skin down her slender throat. And just beneath the edge of that pink netting, her unsmiling lips captured his attention.

  As he neared, he could see her narrowed gaze watching him carefully and her quick glance down to the arm he held behind his back.

  “How very ungracious of you,” he tutted. Now standing before her, he revealed the prize he carried. “I procured those cakes you mentioned earlier. I must say, you piqued my interest as well, for I cannot wait to sample one.”

  Those lips parted on a soundless gasp. “I will not feed you cake, Max. Imagine the spectacle it would cause.”

  Then, as she typically did, she turned on her heel to leave. Yet she must have forgotten that there was no escape behind her.

  When he saw her steps hesitate, he grinned to himself. “If that is your primary objection, then allow me to point out that we are virtually alone.”

  “Which is also enough to put our names in tomorrow’s Standard.” Once she reached the urn, her head turned, her hat angling to the left and right, as if she were searching for another exit. When she came to the apparent conclusion that there was none, she finally faced him.

  “Our names will be there, regardless.” He spread his arms out in a shrug, cakes in one hand, walking stick in the other. “Now, as you can see, I am utterly helpless”—he paused at the sound of her scoff—“and unable to taste the cake that you offered to feed me.”

  “I made no such offer.”

  “Then I cannot think of what I heard moments ago unless . . . ”—he lowered his voice—“you were flirting with me. But you, the ever-composed Lady Granworth, would never do such a thing.”

  He wanted to see her color rise, her ire flash, anything. Damn it all, he needed to ruffle her feathers and crawl under her skin. It was the least she owed him.

  “I would not even know how to flirt,” she boldly lied and without batting an eye.

  Wasn’t every nuance of flirtation woven into her being? Every downward sweep of her lashes. Every subtle curl of her lips. Every slash of her tongue. Every single breath!

  “Oh, I’m certain that is a false statement,” he said, keeping his tone smooth and even. “All you have to do is admit to flirting with me, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “I. Admit. Nothing.”

  He held out his hand. “Then feed me a cake.”

  She stepped forward so suddenly she nearly startled him in the process. “Fine.”

  The crisply enunciated word tolled a warning bell within him, advising caution. He had anticipated their continued banter and even her eventual retreat, but not her acquiescence. Instinct told him to be wary. And yet curiosity fixed him to the spot.

  Lifting her hand, she slipped the serviette into her delicate palm, the edges draping over fingers. He stared, paying close attention to every movement, noting how her lace mitts left the entire length of her slender fingers exposed. No doubt, like her dress, they were designed for a purpose, bringing to mind thoughts of bared limbs.

  Then, with a delicate pinch of her thumb and forefinger, she picked up the first cake.

  Anticipation thundered in his chest, neck, and ears simultaneously. She could still balk. Still storm off in a flurry. He was prepared for such a response but no longer assured of it. Perhaps challenging her wasn’t the best idea after
all.

  His gaze shifted from the cake to her eyes, over and again. Her gaze, on the other hand, remained fixed to his as she slowly lifted the cake—

  And popped it into her mouth. Then she closed her eyes, a smile curving her lips, while emitting a low murmur of sensual delight.

  Max couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move if someone were to set him on fire. The pulse that had pounded so hard an instant ago abruptly dropped to his trousers, banging like a drum as blood engorged his flesh.

  The tip of her pert tongue slipped out to tease him further. The taunt transformed into torture when she licked the pink icing from her fingertip and then her thumb. When she finished, her eyes opened, the blue a brighter, deeper hue than the sky overhead. He found himself unable to look away.

  “Delicious,” she purred. “So good in fact that I think I’ll have another.”

  She pinched the second cake, her lips parted. But before she could lift it to her mouth—before he knew what he was doing—he seized her wrist.

  He was half-tempted, half-wild with the need to kiss her, to lose himself in the silken texture of her lips once more. To haul her into his arms and feel the curves of her body with his hands.

  It took every shred of control he possessed not to give in. At least, not completely.

  Watching her all the while, he lowered his head and took the cake into his mouth.

  He swallowed it without fanfare or appreciation. The dessert he really wanted was still waiting.

  He slipped her finger into his mouth next, the dainty pad at the tip more silken and sweet than marzipan. In slow, searching swipes, he laved her flesh, mapping the route of every fine impression, wicking away every last bit of icing. He would have stopped if he was frightening her. Hell, he was startled by his own actions. But when he saw her pupils dilate, her gaze drifting down to his mouth, and then heard the quickening of her breath, he knew she was not afraid of him.