Page 8 of A Virgin for the Rakish Marquess

“And to think that people dare to call you a jilted wallflower. People can be blind and ignorant sometimes.”

“It seems that particular detail of my identity intrigues you.”

Oh, no.

The moment she uttered the word ‘intrigue,’ his blue eyes darkened.

The Marquess straightened, dwarfing her with his immense height. He looked down at her, blinking slowly, with that playful smirk on his plump lips.

And that, ladies and gentlemen of the ton, is what ‘intrigue’ looks like.

“I pity those who underestimate you and call you a jilted wallflower, My Lady.” He leaned in, his eyes straying to her lips.

Diana suddenly developed empathy toward innocent, little bunnies cornered by hungry wolves. Once more, panic came over her, dread and something deeper that she wanted—neededto push away because this was too confusing, too puzzling, and too intoxicating at the same time. Desperate, she racked her brain for the few straws that could save her from falling into an abyss.

“What can I say?” She feigned poise. “Better to be called a jilted wallflower than a rake, My Lord.”

What?

Diana heard the words come out of her mouth, and she wished she could grab them, put them back where they dared exit, and swallow them along with her treacherous tongue. She would be content to be called the mute jilted wallflower from that day onward.

But it was too late. The words reached his perfectly shaped ears.

You are a lady, Diana. Behave like one.

“I am sorry, My Lord,” she said somberly. “That was way out of line. I made a grave mistake.”

Instead of putting an end to their dangerous banter, accepting her apology, and leaving to choke on brandy with Richard, the infuriating man took another step toward her.

His massive body trapped her as she retreated and her legs hit the table laden with the precious books. She knew she should push him back, for propriety’s sake, but her instincts told her that touching him was a bad idea.

“You must allow me to correct you, My Lady,” he said, his voice lower now, almost intimate.

“Must I?” she asked dryly, though her pulse quickened at his tone.

As he leaned closer, his voice dropped to a whisper, and her stomach tightened. It should have been fear that gripped her, but it was something else altogether.

“Your biggest mistake tonight was not that slip of the tongue, Lady Diana. Which I had coming, if I am being honest.”

“Was it not?”

“No, My Lady.” His eyes dropped to her lips. “Your biggest mistake was drawing the attention of a man like me.”

Attention?

Diana’s senses were rendered useless by his words. And speaking of attention, she was worried that even there, hidden behind ridiculously big urns, among the book stands that no one came to see, they were risking exposure. She looked around, dreading and hoping at the same time to find a reason to remind him of decorum. Unfortunately, there was none.

She had no time to think about it anymore. He leaned impossibly close, his body pressing against hers. His eyes drifted to her parted lips, lingering there long enough to ignite a warmth in her chest that spread downward, leaving her both breathless and bristling with awareness.

It was so intense that Diana felt she was drowning in the blue of his eyes, trapped by him. It only lasted an eternity of a moment before he stepped back, making her feel cold all of a sudden.

“Have a great evening, My Lady.” He bowed, turned around, and left her standing there.

What was…? Did he really…?

Diana was rooted to the spot, caught between anger and frustration, curiosity and interest.

“Did I miss something?” Richard was back with a glass of brandy and lemonade for her.

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