“Wretch. Cad,” she whispered under her breath, trying not to think of the way her lips still throbbed from his kiss. Or how each of those words sounded more like an endearment than anything else. Josephine pressed a palm to her chest, feeling the hurried rhythm of her heart.
“Well?” Willa said as Josephine returned. “Did he agree to give you the brooch?”
“Not exactly,” Josephine replied, her heart still skipping at the thought of Lavisham. The way she’d unintentionally hurt him. That gentle, searching kiss he’d bestowed upon her. She looked out over the ballroom, seeing nothing but her giant of a duke.
“More negotiation,” she said quietly to Willa. “Is required.”
Chapter Eight
Marcus stared into the fire, rolling the glass of brandy between his hands, his mind on Josephine Harrington, a girl he shouldn’t want but absolutelydid. He glanced at the brooch sitting on the table before him, the sapphires and diamonds mocking him.
Returning the brooch to Josephine so that she might collect her inheritance was absolutely the correct thing to do. Thegentlemanlything to do. Because he didn’t want or need a wife. Didn’t want Kenbrooks to have been right in his assessment.
Their heated discussion at that ball the other night—an event Marcus only attended because he’d suspected Josephine might be there, weighed on him. He hadn’t been sure of his feelings about Josephine until he kissed her again. Had continued todismiss the ache in his chest as nothing more than lust for a virginal Valkryie whom he absolutelyshould nottouch. He was a disreputable duke. Scandal ridden. Older than she.
But the stabbing jealousy at the way Wilkes had jumped to offer Josephine protection had convinced him this was more than lust.
“Damn it.”
He took a sip of the claret, a splendid bottle that had him wishing Josephine was here to share with him. They could argue. Debate the merits of the brooch. He could explore every inch of that glorious form to his heart’s content.
Maybe even discuss the fact that the late Duke of Kenbrooks, her father, was a far better gambler than at first glance. He’d been playing a much longer game than Marcus had suspected. Deliberately losing the peacock, later claiming it to be an heirloom—well, he mused, it could be—and then sendingexactlythe right Harrington daughter to retrieve it from Marcus.
Clever.
“I’ll return you, hideous bauble,” he said. “Though I think you resemble a chicken more strongly than a peacock.” He’d send her the brooch tomorrow with a note of apology for behaving like such a prick. Then he’d make plans to close the London house and return to his country estate for a time, where he could brood in private.
What bothered Marcus, what had his entire chest feeling cracked open, was not that Josephine was willing to offer her virtue for the stupid thing, because that is absolutely something his Valkyrie would do, but that she thought him so devoid of character, so lacking in feeling for her that he would agree to it. Granted, expressing emotion wasn’t something Marcus was good at, nor had he ever courted a woman before or faced the possibility that one didn’t want him. So he was at a loss with howto further his cause with Josephine. He was…unpleasant, but that was only because he wasn’t sure how to show her his heart.
It was all bloody confusing.
“I should have kidnapped her on Bond Street. Ruined her. Taken her to Gretna Green and been done with it. Now I’m not even sure if she’ll have me.”
He stared into his glass of claret, listening to the snap and hiss of the fire. The soft steps of his servants as they walked past the study door. Marcus had refused most invitations sent to him since Josephine had burst into his study like pure sin in a pair of breeches. No courtesans. No visits by any of his former paramours. He had little interest in visiting his usual haunts.
“Good God. I’ve become maudlin.”
A sharp knock on the study door interrupted his descent into claret-induced misery.
“Your Grace.” His butler, Roberts, entered with a bow. “You have a caller.”
“At this hour?” He glanced at the clock. “Far too late. Tell whoever it is I’m not receiving. Or I’m sick.” Marcus didn’t even bother to turn around. “Bring me a tray, if you don’t mind. I’ll eat in here.”
“Youwillreceive me. Your Grace.”
The pads of his fingers pressed into the glass of claret.
Good lord, she sounded angry.
His lips curled into a smile. Hope filled his chest.
“Leave us,” she snapped at Roberts, sounding very much like the duchess Marcus hoped he could convince her to become.Hisduchess.
Vanilla and lavender filled the air along with her footsteps. Boots, if he wasn’t mistaken. The lower half of his body grew stiff immediately at the thought of that luscious form once more clad so…improperly.
“Your butler informed me that you’re departing London tomorrow.”
“Did he?” Marcus returned in a mild tone. He nodded to the brooch on the table. “I was going to have it delivered on my way out of town. Take it.”
