Page 55 of Make Mine a Marquess

“I am.”

He rolled the dice and moved his marker. “You mentioned this charity, the Society for Unwed Mothers. It means much to you?”

Phoebe nodded as she rolled and moved her own white marker. The afternoon sun streamed in through the window and her golden hair gleamed in the light. His fingers itched to reach out and touch a stray lock that had escaped her pins to curl around her cheek and rest by her full lips.

“Other than charitable contributions, how else are you involved?” She didn’t seem to mind his questions. She was engrossed in the game, completely at ease with him. The door was closed. Aram had seen to it before slipping down the hall to meet Beatrice. Phoebe hadn’t noticed.

Her fingers hovered above a piece before she bore off her first marker from the board. He didn’t think she would answer, until her lips curled upward at her move. “I have new clothing made by my dressmaker.”

“Oh? Your mother is in agreement, if you are donating clothing, then?”

She looked up from the board. “You must promise never to tell.”

“What happens during tavlou stays in this room.” He leaned forward in his chair, keeping eye contact with her. “You can trust me.”

She nodded, her fingers restlessly playing with the marker she’d taken off the board. He wanted to touch her hand, to still her fingers and reassure her. And to tug her close and show her just how much he wanted to kiss her.

“My mother doesn’t know,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. “I’ve come to an agreement with our dressmaker. Madame Annette had a young niece who had found herself in an undesirable predicament after an affair. Madame was able to help her.”

“So, this dressmaker can afford to donate clothing?”

“Not exactly.” She bit her bottom lip, a nervous behavior he’d come to recognize.

“Mother insists we order so many dresses to keep up with Society. Day dresses, morning dresses, walking dresses. And more. I think it’s all a waste. Madame Annette provides me with one fewer evening dress, and in exchange, she makes a dozen plain dresses. I deliver them to the charity and the women are appreciative.”

“Your father pays the bills.”

“Well. Yes, but he can afford it. And my mother hasn’t noticed one fewer dress in my overflowing wardrobe. Promise you will not speak of this to anyone.”

“Never. I think your agreement with the dressmaker is ingenious. I also think you are brave.”

She shook her head. “I’m not brave. The young women who are abused by men that should protect them—fathers, husbands, even lovers—those deserve to be called brave.”

He stiffened, a cold knot forming in his gut along with a strange protectiveness. He disliked men who hurt women and those dependent upon them. Many drank too much or were addicted to the gaming hells. They could also be dangerous. “You put yourself at risk.”

She shook her head. “It’s not me they are after.”

She was wrong. If one of those angry men showed up when Phoebe was visiting the charity, they wouldn’t care who she was or where she came from. Worse, he suspected even if she did know of any danger, she wouldn’t stop helping. His Phoebe was made of sterner stuff.

His Phoebe. Christ, when did he start thinking of her as his?

Insanity. It was due to stress. Nothing more.

All he knew was that he wanted to kiss her. Craved it with every fiber of his being.

She folded her hands and looked at him. “Are you certain nothing is bothering you? Other than the linens?”

“Something else is bothering me. You see, I want something very badly, but I know I should not.” This time, he spoke the truth.

“What is it?” She leaned an inch closer, enough for him to see the tops of her breasts above the pretty peach bodice.

Powerless to stop himself, he reached out across the board and touched her cheek. Her blue eyes widened, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. His fingers moved to the wayward curl and tested the feel of her fair, shimmering hair. The curl slipped over and through his fingers.

“I want to kiss you, Phoebe. If you don’t want it, tell me.”

She didn’t move. Unlike at the lake, she didn’t swim away. When her lips parted, soft and pink, it was his undoing. He leaned forward and his lips brushed hers softly at first, barely a graze. She kept still and her eyelids slid shut. He increased the pressure and kissed her fully on the mouth. At her slight gasp, a roaring desire rushed through his head and groin. She tasted of strawberries and summer, everything that had been denied to him for so long. Then, miraculously, she kissed him back and her tongue tentatively touched his. Her slight moan increased his desire.

Suddenly there was too much distance between them. He shoved the table aside and the board fell, and the stone markers scattered across the Wilton carpet. She didn’t complain, didn’t flinch.