Page 15 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“Since when?”
“Since your grandfather most kindly suggested that I give up my lodgings and become his guest-about a fortnight ago.”
“A fortnight!” Phaedra sputtered. “Then last night when we met, you knew you already were-would be—” Sleeping but yardsaway, divided only by one wall from where she had tossed in her bed, tormented with dreams of him threatening her, caressing her. The thought brought heat rushing into her cheeks.
“You did not trouble yourself to inform me of the fact!” she accused.
The corner of his mouth twitched, a faint trace of amusement shading his eyes. “It was one of the few questions you did not ask me, my lady.”
Taking a hesitant step backward, she scarce knew what to do next. She could not bodily eject Armande from Ewan’s room as she would have liked to have done. The most ladylike course of action would be to stalk away in high dudgeon to find her grandfather. The marquis was half naked, and even now she could hear one of the maids coming down the hall.
Impulsively, Phaedra bolted forward and slammed the door closed behind her. The abrupt movement brought her brushing up against Armande. Flinging out her hands to ward him off, her palms pressed against the warm, firm flesh of his shoulders. She received the briefest of warnings from the sudden intensity of his gaze and jerked her hands back as though she had been seared. But it was too late. His arms banded about her, imprisoning her against him. Heart thudding, for one moment she forgot herself enough to allow him to draw her close. But at the first heated touch of his lips, his mouth grazing hers with the promise of sweeter fire to come, she struggled to be free. To her surprise, he readily released her.
“How dare you!” she gasped.
He shrugged, and whatever desire she had seen flare to life in his eyes was gone. “Millespardons, my lady. It would seem I misread your intent. In France, there is only one reason for a woman to so rush into a man’s bedchamber.”
So the kiss had been but another of the marquis’s mockeries. Phaedra drew in a tremulous breath, raising one hand to herburning cheek in an attempt to cool it. “This was my husband’s room. I came to see what you are doing here.”
“Dressing myself.”
He was baiting her she thought, and enjoying every minute of it. She replied in as cool a voice as she could muster. “You cannot stay here, especially not now that I’ve returned from Bath. This room adjoins my bedchamber.”
“You can always keep your door bolted, if you wish,” he said. In his voice was the barest suggestion that she might not wish it.
Phaedra’s hand fluttered to the neckline of her gown. “So I shall, for the rest of your brief stay here.”
He merely smiled and walked leisurely toward the bed, where his plain white shirt lay spread out on the blue velvet counterpane. He picked up the shirt, easing the .linen over the muscular contours of his shoulders. Did not the man have a valet? Phaedra wondered. That was odd for a great nobleman. Either he could not afford a manservant or he wanted no one in such close attendance upon him. The elegant cut of his clothes, and the heavy ruby glinting upon his finger, made a lack of funds seem unlikely.
When he had put on the shirt, he glanced up, looking as though he were surprised to find her still there.
“Should I invite you to take a seat, my lady? Forgive me. I am not accustomed to holding levees for ladies.”
Phaedra realized she been staring, the blush threatening to rise into her cheeks anew. She blurted out, “You don’t look like a marquis.”
“And have you examined that many marquises so closely that you can pass such a judgment?”
For once, the smile tugging at his mouth was more teasing than mocking. Her mouth curved in reluctant response. “No, you are the first.”
She knew she was behaving outrageously, lingering in this room with the same man who had threatened her only last night. And yet he scarcely seemed like the same man. Could the absence of the wig and white powder make that much difference? She studied the way his rich sable-brown hair waved back from his brow. It softened the planes of his face, making him appear less arrogant, and the light in his blue eyes was not quite so chilling. Perhaps Gilly was right. Perhaps it was only her imagination that made such a sinister figure of the marquis.
“If you continue to stand there watching,” Armande said, “I may press you into service, tying my solitaire.”
“Would you trust me to knot something about your throat?” she retorted.
His smile faded, his hand going up toward his neck. The gesture drew Phaedra’s attention to a small scar at the base of Armande’s throat. Could the marquis have been pierced there with a sword? Phaedra could well imagine him as the sort of man to fight duels, but she rather thought that he would not be the one carried from the field.
“For the sake of your reputation,” he said, “I’d best tend to the dressing myself. If you will excuse me, my lady, I must see if I can locate my tan waistcoat.”
The abrupt change in his manner indicated a dismissal, but as Armande disappeared into the small powdering room that adjoined the bedchamber, Phaedra made no move to leave. Without Armande’s presence to distract her, her gaze roved curiously about the chamber that had once been her husband’s.
Ewan’s personal belongings had all been swept away, giving the room, although completely furnished, a strangely barren appearance. Armande said he had been living here for a fortnight but that was not strictly true. The marquis was simply inhabiting this place, the evidence of his presence quite sparse-a pair of immaculate boots perched near a needlepoint-coveredstool, his wicked-looking sword resting on the seat of a straight-backed chair.
Phaedra skirted past the weapon, eyeing the top of the dressing table, cleared except for a shaving mirror, a jar of snuff, and an intriguing box shaped like a treasure chest.
She glanced nervously over her shoulder, but there was no sign of Armande returning. She could still hear him rummaging about in the other room. Maintaining what she hoped was a casual flow of chatter, she began inching her way toward the box.
“I know you are loath to answer questions, but I wonder if you mean to make a long stay. Summer is unbearable in the city. Most of the ton will leave for the country. Only my grandfather adores London so much that he insists upon staying.”
