An image of Josephine, lying on his desk crying out as he stroked her to completion flashed before him, made his cock twitch. Dressed in men’s clothing. The breeches alone would make a priest weep.
He’d wanted her.
Damn Kenbrooks.
Thank god he hadn’t taken her like some trollop atop his desk, as he might well have had she not shouted out her nameafterbeing pleasured. Marcus had never actually been introduced to Lady Josephine Harrington, but once the light from the lamp lit her features, he recognized her as the young lady who’d ruined the hyacinths at Lady Randall’s silly little garden party. Hemighthave seen her walking in the park. And it was highly likely that Josephine was the ‘buxom young lady’ one of his footmen insisted kept eyeing the Duke of Lavisham’s home.
Damn Kenbrooks.
After the hack turned the corner, Marcus returned to his study for a brandy before bed. Pouring out a glass, he sipped the amber liquid while straightening the ledgers on his desk, which had been knocked askew by Josephine’s near ruination. Laughable she’d thought a ledger could hide that glorious bosom. Once that was done, Marcus reached inside the drawer of his desk for the enameled box with his initials. Searching through the stack of markers, he finally found the brooch at the bottom of the box. Was it truly a peacock? He supposed it could be. Marcus had thought it a rooster when he’d first seen it.
“A blind jeweler must had created this. Terrible craftmanship.”
He’d met the old duke of Kenbrooks at Brooks’, when the older man had asked if Marcus would like to share the bottle of claret on the table beside him. Never one to pass on claret, he’d done so. They hadn’t been friends, exactly. Hadn’t associated socially. But some evenings, when Kenbrooks had been at the club, they had talked politics and played cards.
Bringing the light closer, he regarded the ugly thing laying in his palm, thinking he should have just given it to Josephine. He’d told Kenbrooks several times he wasn’t in the market for a wife. Didn’t want or need one. Too much work.
I have a daughter. Several, in fact.
Pity I’m not looking for a wife,Marcus had always answered.
They’d played cards and spoken of nothing important, as they often did. Kenbrooks lost, which wasn’t unusual, but on this occasion, he asked Marcus for one more chance to win back his gold, producing the peacock brooch from his pocket.
“Valuable. Just look at those sapphires and diamonds. A treasured family heirloom.”
Even with the poor lighting, Marcus could see the damned thing was mostly paste and glass, but he allowed Kenbrooks to wager it. He liked the older man and felt a great deal ofsympathy for him at the prospect of having to marry off all those daughters.
I think you’d like her. My second youngest. Josephine.
Possibly, Kenbrooks. But I’ve no interest in meeting her as I’ve said. Nor do I want a wife. Perhaps when I’m ancient and in need of an heir. You’ve lost again.
Have I?
Marcus laughed.I’ll take your gold and that hideous dog.
It’s a peacock. Belonged to my mother. Have a care with it.
He never saw Kenbrooks again after that. Later, he’d gotten word of the older man’s death and been saddened by it. But now, Marcus was just plain annoyed. Lusting after Josephine was one thing, but any woman who went out of her way to dress as a man solely to break into his home to steal a brooch was bound to hold his interest.
Marcus took the peacock; good lord it hurt his eyes to look at it and placed it back in the drawer. He’d give Josephine the stupid thing.
Eventually.
“You scheming old bastard, Kenbrooks.”
Chapter Six
“There he is.” Josephine nudged Willa, making her friend stumble on the uneven cobblestones. “Just outside the tobacconist.”
“Consider this carefully.” Willa placed a hand on her arm. “We are not at a garden party at present, but on Bond Street, along with half of London. Also, you broke into his home.”
Josephine had not apprised Willa of what had happened between her and Lavisham during her attempt to steal the brooch. It would only worry her friend, and she would once again start agonizing over being sent to Aunt Priscilla. She’d explained the ruining of Isiah’s coat and shirt as having been the result of nearly being stabbed by the duke’s garden fence andfalling into a bed of roses. “Also, I’ve apologized to the duke. It isn’t my fault he refuses to accept.”
She’d sent Lavisham a note, even signing it, careful to spray her perfume across the page. This time, he sent back a reply.
“An excellent attempt. But no.”
“He’s incredibly arrogant. Stubborn. He doesn’t even care about the brooch. He’s merely petty.” She’d spent a great deal of time trying to hate Lavisham but her thoughts always,alwaysreturned to the press of his body against hers. The way he’d pleasured Josephine with so little effort. How he made her feel…delicate. Fragile. Which was no easy task.
