Page 11 of The Marquess' Wicked Wager
Miss Worthington—Blue—was buzzing through his brain. How brash she had been in laying her hand on his chest, brushing her lips against his ear. And more than anything the sound of the tiny moan that had escaped her lips when he kissed her. In the very short period they’d been together, she’d somehow managed to surprise him over and over. But such soft and tantalizing thoughts did not exist independently because everything his father had said about her was ringing in his ears.
“I say,” Jonathan said as he clambered up beside him. “What is the rush, Albie?”
He turned to his uncle with an easy smile, concealing all the turmoil in his heart. “I told you, I didn’t want to come here.”
“You spoke to your father.” Not a question. An unfortunate resignation. Albert clenched his jaw until his teeth squeaked.
“This game is far from over,” the old bastard had said. “I will take her, have my way as I see fit. I’ll lock her up in my house and visit every single night, again and again.”
The words had been horrible enough when he’d first heard them, but now that he’d met Miss Worthington, the events that had transpired at the card table took on something of a nightmarish quality. The very thought of his father’s hand on her hand, his eyes on her face, his lips on her skin. It was too much to take.
The footmen pulled up the coach, and Albert climbed inside, Jonathan at his heels. As the horses lurched forward, Albert pulled aside the curtain, hoping that the brisk night air would cleanse some of the heat from his blood.
“Tell me what happened,” Jonathan inquired after a long beat of silence.
Albert ran his finger through his hair. He rested his elbow in the windowsill and his temple against the heel of his hand. “Do you think me a rake?”
Jonathan didn’t answer. As the silence dragged on, Albert slowly pulled accusing eyes to meet his.
“Son, you are an extraordinary man with an extensive list of very desirable qualities.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
“You’re not a rake. You’re just a good-time boy. There’s nothing wrong with that.” Albert grunted and looked back out of the window. “You’re nothing like your father if that’s what you’re thinking. Why are you thinking that? What happened tonight?”
“I'm nothing like him,” he muttered. “She has no idea what she’s talking about.”
Jonathan leaned forward until his face was in Albert’s line of vision. “Who’s she?”
“Miss Worthington.” Albert drained his fingers on the window. “What is her Christian name?”
“Edna, I believe.”
“Edna?” Albert smiled to himself. “I think I still prefer Blue,” he added under his breath.
“She’s a respectable young lady,” Jonathan said, a warning in his voice.
“No doubt.” Albert’s fingers fluttered over his lips. He could still taste her there and smell her perfume. “Father has set his eye on her.”
Jonathan’s eyes widened painfully. “You cannot let that happen.”
“I know that!”
“Have you spoken to her father?” Albert scoffed his reply. His Uncle added, “Well?”
“The old fool might as well have gift wrapped her for him.”
Jonathan looked so scandalized and shocked, his blue eyes seemed like they were about to pop out of his skull. “Well, what are you going to do?”
Albert chewed on his lower lip. The card game had been nothing more than a declaration, a message to his father that he wasn’t about to stand idly by. But Jonathan had gotten right to the crux of the situation. What was he going to do?
He needed to speak with Miss Worthington again, to try to make her understand the danger she was in. Perhaps he should even attempt to reason with her father though the prospect made his blood boil.
He chastised himself in earnest for having stolen a kiss the way he had. All he’d managed with that was to put himself on shakier ground. When he called on her, he would be a perfect gentleman. She would have to listen. And then what?
What was he going to do?
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