Page 2 of Make Mine a Marquess

He opened his hands wide. He did not wish to appear threatening. At least not to her. “I would not harm you.”

She eyed him warily. “Says the rogue to the lady.”

“What makes you believe I’m a rogue?”

She shook her head, as if the question wasn’t worth answering. “Feminine instinct.”

He flashed her a wolfish grin. “Who am I to argue with such intuition?”

She tilted her head to the side and studied him for a moment. “I did not see a pirate inside the ballroom.”

She was observant. He made a mental note of it. “Perhaps you missed me in the crush.”

She let out an unladylike laugh. “I doubt that.”

“Please tell me you have a weakness for pirates.” Before she could answer, he took a daring step closer until he was an arm’s length from her. She did not back away, and her perfume wafted to him, a delicate lavender, not the cloying scent of many of the other ladies he’d known. This close, her eyes were like the Mediterranean Sea on a warm summer day. The water could be deceptive—lovely and calm on the surface, a dangerous undertow beneath.

“You have an inflated sense of self-worth, lord pirate,” she said.

“I don’t deny it.” He dared to reach out to touch a fat blond lock that had escaped her pins to curve around her cheek. “Perhaps you are right, and you should be wary.”

Pursing her pink lips, she arched a delicate eyebrow. “Why? Will you toss me over your shoulder like a pirate would his booty?”

The image made his cock twitch in his trousers. He was momentarily at a loss for words. Frustration tightened his chest. He’d wanted to fluster her. Instead, she was turning the tables.

A flash of disapproval crossed her face—her lips thinned, and her brows drew slightly together. Had he not been watching her as closely as he was, he would have missed it. “Do not worry,” she said. “I have more sense than to fall beneath your rakish spell.”

She spoke like she’d once been a fallen woman. His curiosity was piqued. As Landon stepped back, the curl slipped from his fingers to bounce upon her smooth cheek.

“It’s been interesting, lord pirate.” She slipped her mask back on, and without a backward glance, she picked up her quiver of arrows from the stone bench, and walked away, leaving him in the moonlit gardens. He watched as her white-clad figure ascended the terrace steps and disappeared into the ballroom.

The baron’s betrothed was no wallflower. She was unexpected, a challenge, and if he wasn’t careful, she could throw him completely off his course of revenge.

…

“Who are you searching for?”

Phoebe Dawson was aware of her cousin and friend, Beatrice Stanwell, standing beside her in the ballroom. “No one.”

“Liar,” Beatrice said. “You’re flustered and have been vigorously fluttering your fan since your return from the gardens.”

“I am not vigorously fluttering. It’s warm in here.” She refused to admit her cousin was right. She was looking for someone.

“Hmm. It’s been warm since we’ve arrived. Was it Lord Willard? I saw him escort you to the terrace. What happened?” Beatrice tucked a wisp of red hair into her chignon. Her jade dress emphasized her green eyes and the spattering of freckles across her nose.

Phoebe shook her head. “It’s not Lord Willard.”

Beatrice nodded once. “I didn’t think so.”

Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I’ve known you since we were children playing hoops in the garden. It’s not too late to tell your mother.”

“Tell her what?”

“That you do not want to marry the baron.”

Phoebe shifted from foot to foot. “Why would I do that? Our families have agreed. My father gave his consent.”