Page 82 of Make Mine a Marquess

Dinner lasted an eternity. At last, Lord Willard held her chair as she stood.

“The ladies are meeting in the parlor.” She knew the gentlemen would stay in the dining room to enjoy their port and cigars. She’d never been so relieved to follow the women out of the room.

“Have a good evening, my dear.” Willard seemed just as eager for the women to depart. But then, he was already attending to the cigars Malvern and Roxborough had pulled out of their coat pockets.

As she left the dining room, Phoebe surprised herself by not following the women to the parlor. The thought of sharing a sofa in a crowded room, drinking tea while listening to gossip, was suffocating. Instead, she detoured for the French doors leading to the terrace.

A full moon hung low like a Roman coin in the sky. The crisp air was refreshing, and she inhaled, filling her lungs, then slowly exhaling. Other than the music of chirping crickets, it was quiet. This was what she needed—time to silence her thoughts and find a moment of peace. She sat on the terracotta steps and took off her heeled shoes. Letting out a sigh, she rubbed her feet.

“Shall I rub them for you?”

She dropped the shoe and turned to find Landon standing behind her. She pressed a hand to her heart. Good grief! For such a large man, he moved with stealth. She hadn’t heard his steps on the patio. It was just like the last time he’d appeared out of thin air while she’d sat on the steps.

“You startled me.”

He came to join her on the steps. “I apologize. Are you well?”

“Yes.” No.

“Are you certain? You look pale.”

Did she? “Did you follow me to ask?”

“I noticed you appeared uncomfortable at dinner.”

He’d noticed? No one else had. Not even Beatrice and she’d sat beside her. To be fair, Beatrice had been engrossed elsewhere. She’d caught her cousin sneaking glimpses at Aram.

“May I join you?”

She scooted over. “You’re here now.”

He settled beside her, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He turned toward her, his face half illuminated by the moon, half in shadow. “Do your feet hurt?”

“They are new shoes to match my dress.”

“Hmm. Let me see.”

“I really don’t think—”

He patted his lap. “There’s no one here.”

He lifted her foot and placed it on his lap. Then he began to rub her foot. His strong fingers were capable of many things. Never did she think they could bring her pleasure with a simple foot rub. He worked the knot out of her arch.

“Oh, that feels wonderful.”

“Good. Now tell me what’s really wrong. I need to know. Was it because of our evening?”

She knew what he meant. He wanted to know if she was uncomfortable sitting at the dinner table with him this evening after their shared night together. As she thought of how best to answer, his fingers continued to work their magic.

“No.” Not entirely. “I don’t like fowl,” she blurted out.

He arched one dark eyebrow. “Then don’t eat it.”

Such a simple statement. Willard felt differently. “And if your spouse insisted?”

“Why would she care what I ate?”

A simple question backed by all the logic in the world. Why would Willard insist she eat it? Was it simply about control?