Page 7 of Stealing a Scoundrel's Heart
She blinked her eyes open and find Lord Foxton looming over her. “Are you paying attention, Lady Whalen?”
“Yes, of course, my lord. You were just detailing the fourth key element, which was eye contact. Next was touch, and you have yet to share with me what numbers six and seven are.”
“Ah, wonderful; you have excellent recall.”
The compliment sent a rush of heat to Marjorie cheeks. Oblivious to the effect he had upon her, Lord Foxton resumed his pacing. “Next is space; now, this can at times be rather tricky…”
Marjorie let her eyes flutter closed once more and listened intently to the man’s lecture. It might prove to be of benefit… maybe. When Lord Foxton paused for an extended period, Marjorie opened her eyes to find him seated next to her studying her with an intensity that had her bolting upright in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest.
“Hmm… defensive. Uninterested,” Lord Foxton surmised.
The man was spot on—she was not in the least bit attracted to the man, despite his charming features. She studied Lord Foxton for a moment longer. They shared a friendly yet slightly personal rapport, much like she imagined it would be if she’d had an older brother.
Her valise packed with books at her feet, Marjorie stood at the foot of the front steps awaiting the traveling coaches. She raised her gaze to the sky and inhaled.All will be fine.A little rain wouldn’t jeopardize her travel plans. She refused to allow the dark clouds hovering in the morning sky dampen her fine mood. After an evening dining in the company of the four gentlemen her late husband had summoned, her worries had been summarily dispatched one by one as each gentleman had shared with her tales of how they came to know Maxwell, none of which were as nefarious as she had imagined. Oh, they were rakes for certain, but they all had legitimate connections to Maxwell, which set Marjorie's nerves at ease. Lord Foxton was the nephew of Maxwell’s school mate; Lord Hurlington owned a neighboring property to Maxwell’s country estate; the Duke of Whistlestop’s seat in the House of Lords was next to Maxwell’s; and Lord Dartman was the son of Maxwell’s childhood friend.
Marjorie smiled as she recalled how Lord Dartman’s features had softened at the mention of his late mother and he’d recited his favorite story of how Maxwell had assisted his mama in dressing up as a boy to accompany him to the horse races because she’d wished to see them run like the wind, and not at the sedate pace she was subjected to.
A large figure came to stand next to her. “A good morn to you, Lady Whalen.”
Her pulse remained steady at the greeting, which meant it wasn’t Lord Dartman, who sent her heart racing and heat radiating throughout her every time he addressed her.
She glanced up and gave Lord Foxton a smile. While Lord Foxton was by far the easiest to converse with, she still found herself tongue tied when the rake revealed his dimple. To think, it had been only a few days ago that she had dared to sneak into the Fairmont gardens with the sole purpose of seeking out a rogue or a scoundrel.
It took Marjorie but a half hour in the company of the four gentlemen who had declared themselves as her new protectors for her to realize that securing the attentions of a rake was going to take more than a new wardrobe filled with gowns that drew attention to her full figure and a desire to be more daring. It was going to require her to converse and interact with men, handsome men, that she would normally shy away from. Marjorie inwardly groaned. Who was she trying to deceive? She shied away from everyone, regardless of whether they were male or female, attractive or not.
Summing all the courage she could muster, Marjorie forced her mouth open to squeak, “Is it still morn? I’ve been up for hours… w-waiting.” Her chin dipped to her chest and let out a sigh. It wasn’t quite midmorn and yet she had already broken one of the Wicked Widows’ rules: Never appear too eager.
A gloved finger slid beneath her chin and she came face to face with Lord Dartman. “My apologies for our tardiness this morn. We shan’t keep you waiting again.”
Blast those sparkling blue eyes. She should tear her gaze away or at the very least object to his overly familiar touch, but when she met his gaze all her ire evaporated and was replaced with desire. Desire to lean closer.
She darted her gaze over the man’s broad shoulders to find both the Duke of Whistlestop and Lord Hurlington grinning at her and muttering similar apologies.
Lord Dartman swiveled and offered his arm to her. “Ahh… I see the travel coaches have finally arrived. Shall we?”
Marjorie glanced over at Lord Foxton, who was scowling at his friend's winged arm. She had noted on a few occasions during last evenings supper that Lord Foxton appeared displeased with Lord Dartman, but what had caused his displeasure was a puzzle to Marjorie.
She slipped her arm through Lord Dartman’s. Lord Foxton shook his head, turned, and marched toward the awaiting coaches. An ache settled in the middle of her chest. She hadn’t done anything wrong, yet it felt as if she had disappointed Lord Foxton in some way. The unlikely bond that had formed between her and the rake played havoc on her conscience.
She began to pull her hand away from Lord Dartman’s arm but he covered her hand with his, keeping her close until they reached the coach where Lord Foxton held the door open for her.
Unable to meet Lord Foxton’s gaze, Marjorie ducked her head and stepped up to enter the coach. She froze at the sight of the array of bolsters and pillows artfully arranged upon the plush rich forest-green velvet seats. This… this was a coach designed for the travelers’ comfort with extra deep seats and nice thick curtains to ward off the cold night air.
“Is there an issue, Lady Whalen?” Lord Foxton questioned from behind her.
Marjorie half leapt, half fell on to the forward-facing seat. “No, my lord. It’s just that I was… I was expecting to be traveling in one of Maxwell’s conveyances.”
Lord Foxton, followed by Lord Dartman, entered and settled into the seat opposite her. The coach had barely moved when the two large men joined her. Traveling in a well-sprung coach would be a first for Marjorie. Her papa’s vehicles were practical, not luxurious, and Marjorie fully believed Maxwell’s coaches had been the height of fashion when purchased, but he hadn’t invested in a new traveling coach in years since he resided in London year-round.
“Ah, Lord Dartman here is rather particular when it comes to traveling in comfort.” Lord Foxton removed his hat and gloves and placed them in the space next to him.
Marjorie noted that neither man was cramped for space. Seated all by herself, she was faced with the decision of choosing to position herself directly in front of Lord Dartman on her left, Lord Foxton to the right, or to remain in the middle. If she remained in the middle there was no coach wall to lean up against, which would be uncomfortable to say the least. She opted to slide to her right, which prompted a smirk from Lord Foxton that was replaced by a frown as Lord Dartman repositioned himself next to her.
Lord Dartman shifted and slung his arm along the back of the seat. “Comfortable, Lady Marjorie?”
With her back pressed up against the padded coach wall, Marjorie nodded. The mischievous gleam in the scoundrel’s eyes sent a tendril of exhilaration down her spine and simultaneously stole her ability to form words. The gentleman annoyed her to no end and yet… she couldn’t remain angry with the handsome devil.
“Grand.” He rapped on the ceiling and the vehicle smoothly rolled forward, no jolting lurches forward and not a bump as they progressed through the cobbled streets of London.
