Page 12 of Stealing a Scoundrel's Heart
He bowed. “A good night to you, Lady Marjorie. Sleep well.”
The use of the honorific was for his own benefit, to remind him the woman was a lady. A lady he should never touch. He would taint all her goodness. She was honest, pure and wholehearted, while his whole life was a lie. He was a scoundrel. A fraud.
Alister marched out of the room, but he couldn’t help but peek around the door as he closed it. The blasted woman was grinning from ear to ear and twisting at the waist with her hands firmly clasped together in front of her, pushing those lovely bosoms of hers together. He slammed the door shut and ran. Not far, for his room was just next door. Argh. He flopped onto the bed with the image of Marjorie, pleased with herself, burned into his mind. There would be no slumber for him tonight if he did not ease the ache in his loins. No. Even if he did pleasure himself, her image would only return and he’d be left uncomfortable once more. Alister rolled over onto his side and punched the pillow, not bothering to disrobe for it would do him no good, not this eve.
Marjorie shook her head as she scanned the courtyard. She frowned up at the three sets of red, bleary eyes surrounding her. Where was Alister, the man whose image had haunted her dreams and kept her awake most of the night? Had she known sharing a meal alone with a gentleman would cost her her sanity, Marjorie would have never agreed to the wager. Having two married best friends who rarely spoke in hushed tones, Marjorie had a fairly clear picture of what heated gazes like those she had shared with Alister last eve could lead to. She flickered a quick glance at the men flanking her once again. Yes, if she were to seriously entertain the idea of a paramour, Alister would be the gentleman of her choice… especially since he was a scoundrel.
She looked to her left, to her right, and back at the inn for the third time. “Lord Foxton, do you know of Lord Dartman’s whereabouts?”
The man squinted and shook his head. With one eye closed, he answered, “Haven’t seen him since we arrived yesterday eve. Did he not dine with you last night?”
“He did.” Marjorie put her cold, gloved hands up to her warm cheeks.
The traveling coaches rolled to a stop in front of them.
A footman jumped off the back and approached. “The coach is ready to depart, my lady.” He waved to the large vehicle with Lord Dartman’s crest embossed on the door.
There was no point in standing in the cold; best to wait for Alister in the coach. She walked forward as another footman opened the door and placed the stairs into position.
Her foot hadn’t even hit the second step before Alister asked, “Sleep well, Lady Marjorie?”
She scrambled into the coach to find Alister was already seated on the forward-facing bench. Blast the man. She’d been worried about the fool.
The door slammed shut behind her. “What about Lord Foxton?”
“He’ll be traveling with Hurlington and Whistlestop.”
“Why?”
“He reeks of liquor.”
Her nose crinkled. She detested the musty scent of cigars and liquor on a gentleman’s clothing. It reminded her of her papa. Pleased at Alister’s thoughtfulness, she sat next him and arranged her skirts. “Do you anticipate we will reach Brighton by nightfall?”
“I’d like to reply in the affirmative; however, it is not likely.”
They were setting out earlier in the day than yesterday, and after a long day of travel yesterday, she estimated that they were at least halfway to their destination. Torn between desire and trepidation at the prospect of dining alone with Alister once more, Marjorie let out a deep sigh.
Her gaze fell to the tops of his thighs. Muscled thighs clad in tan colored breeches only inches away from her. Subconsciously she ran her gloved fingertips along her décolletage before she remembered Alister was a scoundrel. She shoved both hands under her legs, closed her eyes and leaned her head against the coach wall.
Sordid stories of rakes and trysts in coaches swirled through her thoughts. Over the years, she had perfected the art of blending into the background or finding her way to a hidden corner of a ballroom where the gossip flowed freely. Tales of women emerging from coaches with mussed hair, gowns unlaced, and lips full of color after traveling alone with a scoundrel—scoundrels like Alister—were not uncommon. She glanced at Alister once more. No longer under her father’s ruthless rule, and a widow in the eyes of the Ton, there was no apparent reason to stop her from experiencing such activities. No reason other than she remained a virgin. If it were discovered that her marriage was a sham and never consummated, she’d lose the freedom Maxwell had generously provided her. If she were to engage in such activities, she would have to either feign experience or trust the gentleman to guard her secret. Marjorie shifted in her seat and managed to inch closer to the man who had left her all flustered and filled with curiosity the evening before. Could she trust Alister and dare to entertain the idea of a dalliance?
Alister reached into his coat pocket and produced the set of cards they had used yesterday. “I’m eager to discover what you are willing to wager today.”
What would she be willing to wager? Her innocence?
She would never dare to be so bold… or would she?
Marjorie glanced about the interior of the coach, which appeared even more spacious without Lord Foxton’s presence. A tendril of fear or excitement or a mix of both trickled down her back. If she dared to be bold enough to embrace the persona of a wicked widow, she could finally experience intimacies she’d only ever heard about with a scoundrel. A very handsome scoundrel.
Thank the heavens Alister’s attention was on shuffling, for she’d been told by many and often, that anyone with half a brain could take one look at her and know what she was thinking. With nothing to hide, the fact that she expressed her thoughts without uttering a word had worked in her favor, but her thoughts were veering into subjects she knew nothing about. Her curiosity mounted, and for a person who loved to learn, this type of curiosity could only lead to trouble. But if she wanted to become a Wicked Widow, then mayhap a little trouble wouldn’t be so bad.
Her gaze locked on Alister’s long fingers masterfully handling the rectangular cards.
She wasn’t one to waste an opportunity. She inhaled deeply and declared, “I’m no longer interested in your tutelage of card games.”
Alister’s hands froze mid-shuffle. “Is that so?” He slowly turned to face her.
She expelled all the air in her lungs, but she seemed to have lost the ability to breathe. If only she was better at reading others' expressions.
