Page 46 of Make Mine a Marquess

She listened, fascinated, absorbing every detail. “It sounds wonderful.”

“The closest I’ve come to a similar experience in England is a London market where people from different countries gather, shop, and live. I’d like to take you there one day.”

She’d love to visit this diverse London market. But how? She’d be married to Lord Willard and would never have the opportunity. She wouldn’t have contact with the marquess, other than at Society events. Even such contacts would be brief—a proper hello and good day would be exchanged, at most, at a boring ball or garden party. Nothing as exciting as a game of backgammon, a ride in the country, or a swim in a lake.

“Tell me more. How do they dress?” Leaning an elbow on the table, she moved toward him. She wanted to picture everything.

“Arabic dress can vary. Men wear tunics with loose baggy trousers called shalva. The women wear loose gowns, and depending on their religious beliefs, some cover their hair and face. Armenian women do not.”

Their form of dress sounded less constraining than Phoebe’s corset and stockings. The layers of her clothing were uncomfortably warm in the house. It’s what had driven her to swim that day. “What do they eat? Drink?”

He chuckled and held up a hand. “The food is full of flavor, some even spicy, far different from plain English fare. I have a preference for the mezze, their version of hors d’oeuvres. Hummus—a chickpea, lemon, and sesame seed puree—is served before almost every meal. As well as baba ganoush and tabbouleh. The main course could be shawarma or lamb stew, grilled shish kebabs or stuffed vegetables. Do you have an adventurous palate?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice soft. She absorbed everything as eagerly as a schoolgirl. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to travel. To see the world.

“As for a drink, if you are, as you say, in an adventurous mood, we can share arak.” He went to a sideboard in the corner of the study and held up a bottle. “Arak is an anise-flavored liquor.”

She sat up straight. “May I try it?”

He came over with two glasses and the bottle. He brought over a pitcher of water that was also on the sideboard. “It’s served over ice or water and turns it milky white.” He poured two fingers’ worth in one glass and only a finger’s worth in the other.

“The smaller one is for me?”

“It’s strong. Taste it first.”

He added water and the liquor turned a milky white. He handed her the glass. She took a sip. The anise licorice flavor was delicate and delicious. “It’s good.” She raised the glass again, taking a larger sip this time.

“Easy,” he said, watching her closely. “It’s potent.”

Her tongue darted out to lick a drop of the anise that lingered on her full bottom lip. His dark gaze dropped to her mouth, and she froze, fearful he could hear the pounding of her heart. If he did, he showed no outward reaction. A second passed, and he rose and set the bottle back on the sideboard before returning.

“Shall we resume?” His voice was smooth. An undeniable magnetism built between them and she could only nod.

They played two full games. He beat her in the first game, and she suspected he allowed her to win in the second.

He winked. “I won’t be as easy an opponent next time.”

There would be a next time? A thrill of excitement hummed in her veins. She lowered her eyes. She couldn’t chance for him to see her enthusiasm. Nothing good could come of it. She should find an excuse. A polite way to decline. It wasn’t proper to be alone with him. Even more imperative, it wasn’t proper for her to spend time with a man who was not her betrothed. The problem was…a deep-seated part of her, a buried part, wanted to meet him again. He made her feel, when for so long she’d tried to suppress feeling anything that could threaten her decided future.

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Yes,” she said. “I look forward to besting you, my lord.”

Chapter Thirteen

Sunlight shone on Phoebe’s hair like molten gold. He knew she was intelligent, but she was far shrewder than he’d thought, and a fast learner. On their third afternoon playing tavlou, he acknowledged she was a challenging player as well. Mimi joined them, taking up residence on the settee in the corner, her eyes watching them. As in the past, the door was kept slightly ajar, and Miss Stanwell and Aram kept watch.

The ivory dice rolled across the board. “Doubles!” she cried out. “I get to roll again.”

He watched her slender fingers as she slid the white markers from point to point. She even managed to find one of his single black markers in a “hit” and send it back to the beginning.

Her blue eyes sparkled with enjoyment. Good God. Not for the first time, he wondered what she would be like in bed. If she had half the enthusiasm as she did for the game, she would be a firecracker. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking of her. The more time he spent with her, the more his desire grew. He was the experienced one, she the innocent. He was supposed to seduce her, dammit, not the other way around.

Did she have any idea the effect she had on him? He doubted it. If she did, she’d pick up her skirts and sprint from the room.

Needing to put distance between them before he succumbed to his desire to sweep the game table aside and pull her into his arms, he stood and went to the sideboard. Picking up a bottle, he offered it to her. “More arak?”

She lowered the dice, her blue eyes imploring. “Yes, please.”

He was careful only to add a finger’s worth to the water in her glass. He hadn’t lied about the potency of the arak. Phoebe sober was tempting enough. Phoebe slightly tipsy would be a different type of torture.