Page 99 of Make Mine a Marquess

Bond Street was busy with strolling pedestrians, some arm-in-arm, others carrying packages. Shoppers bustled to and from the establishments. His mind worked as he thought of reasons why he would frequent a dress shop. He was looking for his grandmother (his had passed away a decade ago), he was the newly appointed guardian to a young girl (a complete lie), he needed to purchase fripperies as a gift for a female relative.

Every excuse sounded less convincing than the last. Surely, Phoebe would see through each one.

His best course of action was to wait until Phoebe emerged from the shop and he “ran into her.” He told himself she had no reason to avoid him. It was Willard who was in prison. As far as she knew, the constable had found evidence of Willard’s crimes on his own and Landon had nothing to do with the arrest.

He’d ask for permission from Hillary Dawson to call upon her daughter. He would do everything properly. God only knew Phoebe would suffer from wagging tongues if she hadn’t already. Her suffering didn’t sit well with him.

He waited and watched. After a good two hours, his patience was rewarded when Phoebe and her mother emerged from the shop.

Landon’s hand tightened on the hackney’s handle as he immediately took in every detail—Phoebe’s glorious blond hair which was fashioned in a loose bun at the back of her neck. Her pale pink gown emphasized her breasts and slim waist. A bonnet shielded part of her face, but when she turned to step toward the carriage, he caught a glimpse of her features. Her movements were graceful, and when she turned to wave and smile at the dressmaker who appeared in the doorway, his heart thundered in his chest, and he stared like a besotted schoolboy gazing at a pretty girl. He was powerless to tear his gaze away.

With great force of will, he did not burst from the hack and sprint across the street.

What must she be thinking? He’d never had a chance to explain why he’d left her bed without a kiss goodbye that night. He hadn’t even been present to wish her family well and thank them for attending the house party before they’d left Landon Hall. She must think him a cad for bedding her then disappearing.

She couldn’t know that he’d planned revenge against the baron or that he’d used Phoebe as part of those plans.

She couldn’t know. And that meant he had a chance.

With pulse pounding certainty, he realized he loved her.

He was capable of loving another, of loving Phoebe. Of pursuing her, not as a means for revenge, but as his wife.

Aram had been right all along, blast the man. He’d fallen in love with Phoebe soon after he’d met her. His fascination had started in the gardens that very first night when he’d encountered her dressed as the goddess Diana and she’d challenged him. Then there had been lawn bowls the following day. She hadn’t fled, hadn’t backed down, but bravely partnered him. The hours of facing her across a tavlou board had deepened his entrancement.

He’d been lost, hadn’t he? Instead of acknowledging his feelings, he’d shoved them aside, too consumed with revenge, justice, and his own twisted sense of unworthiness to think of anything else.

But now, sitting in this wretched conveyance spying on her from across a crowded street, his heart ached in his chest. An ache that could not be rubbed away. For a man who’d lived so long for revenge, love was the most fearsome emotion of all. Phoebe had come into his world and turned it upside down.

Love, he realized, was more unnerving than hate, and the thought of losing her was unbearable. Aram had warned him of her intentions to move to Scotland. Good God, he couldn’t stand by and watch her leave. There was only one thing to do.

The two women stepped inside the carriage and with a snap of the reins, the driver was off. With renewed determination, Landon banged on the roof of the hackney with a walking stick. “Follow that carriage.”

…

“You have a gentleman caller, miss.”

For a heart-stopping moment, Phoebe thought it was Lord Willard. Panic momentarily welled in her chest until she realized he’d be the last man to come calling.

Imprisoned men awaiting trial for murder did not pay house visits.

“It’s Lord Landon.” Her mother moved around her maid and into her bedchamber to make the announcement.

Phoebe pushed back her escritoire chair and stood. She’d been drafting a letter to Aunt Ginny in Scotland to say she would be happy to come to offer her companionship.

Phoebe’s stomach sank at her mother’s announcement, and a different type of panic arose. She gripped her hands before her to prevent them from trembling. “Lord Landon? Are you sure?” She regretted asking as soon as the question escaped her lips. It was a stupid one.

Her mother stared. “There is no mistaking that handsome, bronze-skinned lord.”

Her mother had never spoken of him that way when they were in the country. Most likely because her daughter had been engaged to Landon’s cousin.

“What does he want?”

“Go see and find out. Anne can accompany you as chaperone.”

Phoebe didn’t want to see him. Liar. She’d spent two nights tossing and turning, recalling every vivid detail of their time together. Not just their heated lovemaking, although that would forever be seared in her memories. But of their long conversations during challenging games of tavlou, their shared afternoon with the unwed mothers of Hertfordshire. No matter how hard she tried, she could not scrub the images from her mind.

“Go on,” her mother urged.