Page 2 of Stealing a Scoundrel's Heart
“Allow us to escort you home,” Mr. Knight replied.
Marjorie sized up the four men. All slightly taller than average and none slight of build. “We can’t all squeeze into a hack.” Marjorie shook her head and attempted to slip away from the four men who were scowling at her.
Lord Foxton turned to face Mr. Knight. “Are you certainsheis Lady Whalen? This woman is brazen and speaks her mind, not at all how Maxwell described his wife.”
Marjorie’s spine stiffened. She had been a mouse all her life, but it had been Maxwell, in his last few weeks, who had encouraged her to be brazen in the face of uncertainty.
Her mind struggled to picture her frail husband as a young, formidable rake. There had to be some other reasonable explanation for Maxwell’s connection to these four gentlemen.
Pretty honey-brown eyes peered up at him and Alister Knight, Viscount Dartman, refrained from rolling his eyes heavenward and shaking his head up at his recently departed father. Once again, the old man had managed to leave him utterly shocked and yet amazed. Maxwell, who had been his mama’s childhood friend and confidant, who had come to her aid when she had been subjected to beatings and ridicule for failing to produce an heir from the man Alister had called Papa for the first six years of his life. If heaven was up, then Alister’s namesake, the former Lord Dartman, had definitely been sent below. The man Alister had inherited his title from had been a cold-hearted bastard. Desperate, his mama had risked the wrath of his grandparents to seek out Maxwell, who agreed to impregnate her. It was only years later, on her deathbed, that Alister’s mama had shared with him the truth. The truth that the man who had claimed to be a friend of the family all throughout his youth; the man who had assisted Alister in learning how to manage the estate and become a man worthy to sit among the other lords in the House; Maxwell, Marquess of Whalen was his biological father.
Having discovered the truth, Alister found relief in knowing he didn’t share the blood of the man who took no exception to disciplining Alister’s mama with fists and only cared for his own welfare. However, the truth also meant that Alister had inherited Maxwell’s charm and rakish behavior. The same devilish habits that had prevented his mama from marrying the man she loved, for Alister’s grandparents had declined Maxwell’s request for his mama’s hand and had forced her to marry the brute, the former Viscount Dartman. Alister hated the title he was cursed to fraudulently bear. The Dartman title was a constant reminder of the man who had squashed every ounce of confidence and self-worth his mama possessed. Even after his namesake had perished, according to Maxwell, Alister’s mama had never regained the conviction and pluck that had set her apart from all the other ladies. Alister remembered well Maxwell’s attempts to bolster his mother’s spirits. Except the years of beatings his mama had endured left wounds so deep, Maxwell’s words and acts of kindness were rendered mute.
The fluttering of material as Lady Whalen planted her hands on hips broke his reverie. “I have no inkling of how Maxwell might have described me to you or your friends, nor do I wish to know.”
Moonlight fell up on the woman’s lips that were full and all too kissable. He flicked his gaze back up to the lady’s eyes before he gave into temptation and let himself feast once again on the petite form he had slowly and carefully memorized earlier from inside the ballroom. Lady Whalen’s sweet yet firm tone played havoc with his self-control. Foxton had been right; the woman standing before him was nothing like the amicable, soft-spoken lady he’d pictured from Maxwell’s letters. The flash of defiance in Lady Whalen’s eyes had blood rushing from Alister’s head to pool elsewhere—lower, much lower—leaving Alister befuddled and extremely uncomfortable. “Beg your pardon, Lady Whalen, could you repeat that?”
Lady Whalen’s eyes narrowed and then twinkled with amusement. Damn—if she continued to surprise his jaded soul, he’d be in danger. Danger of wanting more than a mere liaison with a woman. The same alarm bells that had rung in his head years and years ago, when he’d spied Lady Marjorie during her debut ball, rang again. Only this time he wasn’t a poor lordling finding his way in this world.
Entranced by her mesmerizing gaze, Alister blinked twice and forced himself to focus.
“I said…” Lady Marjorie twisted to glance at the others. “I need the four of you to return to the ball immediately and pretend this entire encounter never happened.”
Never happened? The likelihood of him forgetting Marjorie now that he’d met her face to face was slim at best. Blast Maxwell for constantly referring to this spellbinding woman by her given name. Alister had taken up the habit of referring to the chit as Marjorie instead of by her honorific, which he should keep firmly planted in his mind out of respect. Alister froze as Marjorie turned back around to face him. He studied the woman’s pretty features, and again tried to reconcile the woman in Maxwell’s letters and the lady before him. Alister reflected upon the lengthy correspondence he’d received from his father while abroad over the past six months while he toured the Continent with the three gentlemen standing beside him. Maxwell had rarely referred to Marjorie as his wife and in fact, the old man had on more than one instance insinuated that he had yet to make their union legally binding. If Marjorie was in fact still an innocent, then she was as much of a fraud as he was, purporting to be a widow when she hadn’t in fact even been a wife.
Head cocked to the side, Marjorie arched a brow at him, and his breath caught. It had been more than a few years since a women garnered an unintentional reaction from him, and Marjorie in less than a half hour had both his mind and body aching to get closer to her. If Alister was to be honest with himself, the deeply buried tendre he’d held for the woman had only grown as a result of the stories his father had shared with him via correspondence.
The corner of Foxton’s lips curved into a smile and revealed his dimple that women could not resist. “Rule number nine: never object to a woman's request.” His friend was a veritable rake, through and through. Blast Foxton for quoting the rules of a rake Maxwell had instilled in all of them.
“Agreed,” Hurlington and Whistlestop replied in unison, which was not at all surprising. Since the pair spent an inordinate amount of time carousing together, they often shared the same thoughts.
Not ready to leave Lady Whalen’s side, Alister said, “Very well, you lot return to the ball and I’ll see to it that Mar…Lady Whalen returns home safely.”
“Hurlington and Whistlestop can do as they please, but if you are to accompany Lady Whalen, so shall I.” Foxton’s scowl was suspiciously fierce.
Damn Foxton for interfering. Did his friend not trust him with the young and extremely attractive woman his father had decided to marry in haste?
While Alister was well aware that Maxwell never acted rashly nor without purpose, the old man’s decision to marry Marjorie while he was still on tour with his friends had caught Alister by utter surprise. For the last decade and a half, Maxwell had limited his association with women to those who were widowed and were of an age that exceeded Alister’s. Six months ago, Marjorie had been neither. Hell, Alister would wager Marjorie was still an innocent. Alister’s hands balled at his side as a theory hit him. Maxwell had found his secret journal. The journal that outlined in detail his darkest fears. The journal in which he’d foolishly made mention of his brief sighting of Marjorie and the irrational feelings she had evoked with a mere smile. He crossed his arms over his chest before he could lash out at one of his friends. Damn the old man if he had discovered the journal and acted upon the information.
Hurlington chuckled.“It appears none of us shall be escorting Lady Whalen home this eve. The chit’s gone and slipped away.”
Alister glanced down at the spot Lady Marjorie had occupied a few moments ago. Moving about unnoticed by others apparently was a skill the woman had retained even after marriage.
He sidestepped around his friend and came face to face with Foxton. “Move. I need to find the silly woman.”
“I understand cutting our tour of the Continent short and returning to London to pay our respects to Maxwell, who acted as a father to us all; however… Lady Whalen is none of our concern.”
Foxton was correct. Maxwell made no mention or left any request for them to watch over Marjorie, yet Alister felt honor bound to see to it that the woman was taken care of. No one, not even Maxwell, had met the heir presumptive—a Mr. Wade North who resided in the wilds of Americas. What if the man was a degenerate and wished to take advantage of Marjorie upon his arrival? She was a trusting innocent with big, honey-brown eyes and a lush form that any gentleman worth his salt would want to explore and possess. Except, why had he been blinded to those details prior? What a fool he had been for avoiding her all these years.
“Out of my way.” Alister shoved his way forward.
Three sets of booted footfalls followed close behind him as he reentered through the terrace doors and marched directly to the foyer to summon his coach. Foxton, Hurlington, and Whistlestop may not like the idea, but they wouldn’t let him go alone.
Alister paced the foyer, hands clenched behind him. Even if the world wasn’t aware he was bound by blood to Maxwell, he was, and the honorable thing to do was to see to Marjorie’s safety at least until Mr. North returned to England. It was his duty to see to the safety of his late father’s wife—wasn’t it?
To date, the men in Marjorie’s life could easily be placed in one of two categories: those who ignored her and those who avoided her. So when Marjorie found the four gentlemen from the terrace cajoling and loitering in the foyer of her normally quiet townhome, she had been entirely unprepared for their leader’s questions regarding her agenda for the day. Which in turn resulted in her being flanked by four large and extremely handsome men as she walked sedately through the doors of Neale and Sons, the offices of Maxwell’s solicitor.
The young man who had been kind enough to offer Marjorie his handkerchief immediately at the sight of her red teary eyes on her first visit after Maxwell’s death greeted her with a warm smile. “Lady Marjorie.”
