Chivalrous Rake, Scandalous Lady. Mary Brendan
He’d led her by the hand to a shadowy spot where boughs of whispering leaves almost disguised the sighs of secret lovers, but through the dense dark hedges could be glimpsed fragmented silhouettes. In her tender inexperience, it had seemed incredibly exciting, also reassuring to Jemma, to know that just a few feet away other young ladies were being wooed by handsome gallants. She felt her breath catch, her pulse accelerate with the memory of the sensual delight that Marcus had awoken within her.
Swiftly she began to collect the teapot and used china and put them back on to the tray. But the stimulating thoughts bombarding her consciousness would not be put to flight. She felt her breasts begin to throb, her legs to weaken and put a hand to the table as she swayed into it for support. She’d too generously allowed him to take liberties on that occasion just as she had at the Cranleighs’ ball.
‘How is your friend Mr Chadwicke, sir?’ Jemma turned from shuffling cups to blurt that out. ‘I don’t recall seeing him in town for quite a while.’ The question had been spontaneous, designed to eject memories of her bodice buttons being slowly slipped from their hooks and his fingers gliding inside…Of course the distraction was ill devised. The steady intense glitter in his silver eyes, the hard smile, made it clear he knew what was on her mind and how it had led her to remember his friend.
Marcus felt the tightening in his loins as he sensed anew tender flesh swelling to fill his palms, tasted again the sweetness of her novice kisses, her tongue-tip touching his with alternating ardency and wonder. He thought of Randolph too, and his welcome assistance in creating a diversion that evening. Then he wondered if the two of them might manage to remain friends for much longer…
‘I danced with Mr Chadwicke earlier in the week,’ Maura chirped up helpfully. It seemed to her that Mr Speer was taking rather a time to find an answer to Jemma’s simple question about his friend. ‘He was at Almack’s on Wednesday. He made a point of coming over and speaking to us. He danced with Deborah too. Oh, he is so charming.’
Marcus dragged his mind from memories that were making him feel increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Indeed he is,’ he drawled. ‘There, you have your answer, Miss Bailey,’ he said in a voice roughened by lust. ‘It seems Randolph is doing well.’
‘That is good to know,’ Jemma murmured, casting about in her mind for an innocuous topic of conversation. She could not find one. But she knew the matter of his betrothal stalked silently between them. The closest Marcus had come to referring to his fiancée was when he’d said that she and Theo were aware he was no longer unattached.
Now, with several mentions of his future bride’s name hovering in the air, Jemma knew she should say something to acknowledge Deborah’s position in his life. She would hate him to think that his impending marriage bothered her in any way. ‘I must offer my rather tardy congratulations on your betrothal to Miss Cleveland, sir.’ It was a light remark coupled with a sweet smile and then the tea tray, replenished with a fresh set by Polly, who’d whizzed discreetly in and out, again had her attention. Belatedly she recalled having offered him refreshment. She snatched at the pot and watched the stewed brew stream out of the spout. Jemma frowned at it; she feared the beverage might now be unpalatably strong and cool. She handed him his tea anyway with a polite, ‘Please do sit down, sir, if you would like to.’
Marcus took a seat and then a sip from his cup. His expression gave nothing away, but he placed the cup and saucer down on the table and looked at Jemma with rueful humour far back in his eyes.
‘Are you going to Vauxhall Gardens with the Clevelands later in the week, Mr Speer?’ Maura looked hopeful of hearing an affirmative.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Marcus replied.
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ Maura’s small mouth twisted in disappointment. She peeked under her lashes at Jemma as though expecting her to contribute something to the conversation.
‘Will you be going to Vauxhall with the young ladies, Miss Bailey?’ Marcus asked.
‘I won’t, sir. I have been invited to the Sheridans this week,’ she truthfully told him, but omitted to pinpoint the exact day.
Mr Sheridan had dealt with her father’s bank affairs and had given her guidance on financial matters since John Bailey’s death. Once in a while he and his wife invited her to their neat villa outside Marylebone to enjoy cosy at homes with their growing family.
Jemma was sure she’d detected a hint of challenge in what had seemed to be an idle enquiry from Marcus. When he relaxed back in his chair, and continued regarding her steadily, she knew for sure he was keen to gauge her reaction. Jemma felt her indignation rising. He was obviously aware that invitations to join the Clevelands’ lofty circle did not come her way. Her parents’ openly adulterous marriage and subsequent divorce had put paid to her and her sisters becoming popular as débutantes. Never the less Monica and Patricia had found husbands to love them. But neither of her sisters had added to their infamy by acting like shallow flirts in their youth.
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