Page 34 of Loving a Beast of a Marquess
He loomed over her. In her drawing room, a place where she had expected not to ever feel intimidated, she found herself stepping back, her heart pounding. No one appeared to notice the fact that the Marquess stood over her in all his statuesque glory.
“What would you do to stop me?” he murmured. It was a challenge—and one she fully intended to meet—but here, like this, she could think of nothing to say. “Unless you intend on directing my attention another way?”
“You are reprehensible,” she hissed. A flush spread up her cheeks and across her face at the memory of what he had done—and the idea that he could do it again.
She had no intention of ever letting him touch her in that way again. But her body had entirely different ideas, and she felt her nipples harden against her dress as she looked up at him and the lascivious hunger on his face. A hunger that faded somewhat as he watched her, replaced by confusion, and—a level of tenderness she hadn’t thought possible she would see on him.
“Dance with me,” he said, holding out his hand. Hardly the most prepossessing offer; the Earl of Riffy had told her how captivating her beauty was and begged her for the honor of the first two dances.
The Marquess was not like that. His mode of address was half command, yet that combined with the heat in his eyes—aimed solely at her, for he was looking at her as though she were the only person in the room. Dazed, kicking herself for her acquiescence even as she offered him her hand, she allowed him to lead her out onto the middle of the floor.
“I thought you intended to pay my sister a particular compliment,” she said, vainly searching for the topic of conversation that had brought them together initially. “You do not usually dance.”
“I do not,” he said, his hand firmly around hers, fingers locked. She had never realized precisely how strong he was before this moment. “You, however, dance frequently.”
“I enjoy it.”
“How did you enjoy dancing with my friend?”
“The Earl of Riffy?” Evangeline took a moment to consider. The Earl had been everything a girl could, theoretically, wish for. He had been kind, refined, and an excellent dancer. They made a handsome couple, and from the admiring glances about the room, she knew the rest of the party thought so, too. Yet for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to warm to him beyond being an eligible suitor.
“He’s nice,” she said after a moment. “Very charming.”
“A comparison you may easily make to me.” Evangeline glanced up at the unexpected bitterness in his voice. The Marquess was a conundrum; a complication in her life that really didn’t need any more complications. He was angry, bitter, kind, considerate, harsh, aggressive, and gentle. He was, in short, everything she didn’t know what to do with.
“If you believe yourself so deficient, why do you not take steps to change your behavior?” she asked. “Is your fate not in your own hands?”
“My fate is in the hands of everyone around me,” he said, holding her a little tighter. She wanted to hate it—wanted to despise the way, for an instant, her hips locked against his and their bodies were flush—but the contact merely sent awareness skittering across her body. “Look at the way they watch us, Evangeline.”
“You do nothing to help your reputation.”
“I am dancing now as I have not danced since my father’s death, yet will thetoncompliment the decision or deride it, do you think?”
“Kind of you to involve me in your scandal.”
“You could have said no.”
She ought to have done. Heavens, she had sworn never to dance with the Marquess. Her aunt was glaring at her from the corner of the room, furious with her decision. And with good reason—she was opening herself up to rumor. Yet, although she knew all this, she could not take her gaze away from the Marquess’.
“Why did you ask me to dance?” she asked.
“I hardly know,” he said slowly, his eyes searching hers. “Why did you agree?”
“I hardly know.” They were trapped in this moment of almosts, of not quites, and of half-ashamed wanting. He had seen her as no other man had seen her, and she had half expected that fact to fill her with embarrassment, but he did not look at her as though she should be embarrassed. Rather, the heat in his gaze convinced her wholly otherwise.
“You should not marry my sister,” she whispered.
“Is that not for her to decide?”
Evangeline could not explain it, this frantic desire for him to never experience Emily the way he had experienced her—for the two sisters to share this. It was worse than imagining him taking pleasure in others.That, at least, she was aware in a distant way men did. They had their opera dancers and their bits of muslin on the sides, and women were not supposed to know or comment on such behavior.
But her sister? Her fragile, innocent sister, touched by the same hands that had touched her? Would he look at her the same way as he looked at her now, that secret lying opened between them, its fragile petals bared to his heated gaze? Would he want Emily as much as she was sure he wanted her now? She could not bear it.
“I beg you,” she said, her voice low and throbbing in its urgency. “I know you have taken a fancy to her, and I grant you there is much in her to attract a man, but she is my sister, and I cannot—I ask you that you do not—”
“And you?” he asked, matching her in intensity. “You are pursuing Riffy with single-minded determination. If I were to stop my pursuit of your sister, would you stop your pursuit of Riffy?”
Evangeline stiffened. “Iam not pursuing him,” she snapped.
