Chivalrous Rake, Scandalous Lady. Mary Brendan

in this little vixen’s vicinity. She could infuriate a saint with her acid tongue, and he was tempted to haul the infuriating chit against him, but whether to kiss her or throttle her he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been so close to her in five years, but he remembered well enough how she could stir his blood with just a saucy smile or a deliberately subtle scuffing of her skin on his. Once she’d captivated him to such an extent he’d risked ridicule when she’d rejected him. Inwardly he’d pined for her for a year; outwardly he’d seemed to become polite society’s most predatory rake.

      But he could admit to himself what he’d been keen to keep from others. At the time a girl barely out of the schoolroom had brought him to his knees—quite literally—he’d proposed in traditionally humble pose. Then she’d gone home to her swain to find a broken heart awaited her in Essex. When he’d heard about it he’d briefly felt a sense of malicious satisfaction that she’d tasted her own medicine. But much as he might have wanted to continue using the balm of vengeance, it had lost its efficaciousness, leaving him simply feeling bereft. He’d hoped her father might bring her back to London during the following Season. But she’d not appeared, and he’d wondered whether he might find the humility to travel to Essex and propose for a second time.

      During those twelve dark months when his moods were unpredictable and his business dealings neglected, his uncle Solomon had watched quietly from the sidelines, keeping his own counsel on the matter of Miss Jemma Bailey. But Solomon had had no hesitation in taking him to task over bad business deals and impatiently had guided his nephew’s investments back on course. Thus it had been left to Marcus alone to decide whether to swallow his pride and follow his heart or to salve his wounds in customary male fashion. His pride had won. He’d stayed in town and submerged his sorrows by carousing nightly with licentious friends and promiscuous women. After two years had passed he’d been sure he’d forgotten all about Jemma Bailey. At Christmas time, he’d travelled through Essex to see his mother and new stepfather in Norfolk and not once had it occurred to him during that trip to take a minor detour from his route and go past Thaxham House, John Bailey’s small estate. His healthy ego had helped him survive his first disastrous encounter with falling in love. He’d been determined not to appear a maudlin fool in front of his family and friends. Thankfully he had not. And now he was over her.

      * * *

      Jemma fidgeted as the tense silence between them lengthened. She’d been very rude and regretted it. Yet she wasn’t sure why she felt guilty when his implied insults had equalled her spoken ones. A moment ago she’d been ready to sweep away from him, feeling victorious. Now something about his attitude held her quiet and still. Instinctively she knew what was in his mind. He was brooding on what had happened between them five years ago.

      She glanced about. Passers-by were starting to take an interest in them. Sidelong glances and sibilant whispers alerted her senses to potential trouble. The last thing she wanted was to stir more gossip.

      ‘Shall we walk and talk, Miss Bailey?’ Marcus had also become conscious that they were under observation. With studied gallantry he offered Jemma his arm. ‘It might be wise if we do not appear to be involved in a tiff in the middle of the street.’

      Jemma hesitated but a moment later nodded. She knew he was heading home, and so was she. Her small town house on Pereville Parade was not fashionably situated, whereas his mansion on Beaufort Place was in a prime spot. But they had to walk in the same general direction before their paths diverged. It would be silly for one of them to stay a step or two in front or behind to avoid the other’s company. She knew too that it was sensible advice to maintain an appearance of civil acquaintance rather than one of being at loggerheads. Her small fingers hovered over the crook of his arm as a poignant feeling fluttered in her chest. Once she’d adored having the feel of his clothed muscle beneath her hand when they’d danced or promenaded. Yet all the while she’d felt so terribly guilty that she’d found him attractive for she’d believed Robert to be patiently awaiting her return to Essex so they might elope.

      ‘What did you say to Theo?’ Jemma forced her eyes up to his and her mind away from painful memories. She looked at him, really looked at him, and the ruggedly hewn, handsome features close to her made icy fire streak through her veins. He looked only slightly older than he had at twenty-six. There were a few silver threads in the thick blackish hair springing back at his temples and the grooves bracketing his thin yet sensual lips seemed a mite deeper than when last she’d studied his face. Her eyes diverted to the long firm fingers close to her own and unwanted images of being intimately touched by them made blood fizz beneath her skin. She’d been wanton—at such a tender age, too! It was little wonder that a moment ago he’d looked at her, spoken to her with such lustful amusement. He hadn’t forgotten her lack of restraint either.

      She hadn’t been wholly to blame! The excuse ran back and forth in her mind, calming her embarrassment. She’d been a naïve young débutante under the spell of an older, more experienced man. He’d known exactly how to tease a response from her on those nights she’d allowed him to take more liberties than any young innocent ought. Had her papa known what he’d done to her beneath intoxicating moonlight on midsummer evenings he’d have called for his pistols. She recalled the whispered cautions from envious young friends when Marcus had invited her to step outside for a little air at the Cranleighs’ ball: He’s a rake…a terrible flirt…tell him no…he’ll break your heart. In the event he had, but she’d had no one to blame but herself and circumstances had forced her to lick her wounds in private.

      At seventeen she could have been married to the dashing heir to an earldom. Instead she had yielded to her conscience and gone dutifully back to Essex and to Robert Burnham, whereupon she’d had her loyalty tossed back in her face. But by then it was too late to contact Marcus and humbly say she’d changed her mind. She’d known him only a matter of a few months but during that time she’d learned enough about his character to understand he’d refuse to be her second-choice husband.

      Within a week of returning home she was thankful she’d not written to him, abasing herself with pleas and promises and the laying bare of her soul. She’d had a letter from her cousin Maura describing the latest tattle doing the rounds. It had concerned Marcus and a new opera dancer who had been the toast of Drury Lane. It seemed to Jemma that for many months after that first awful communication every letter she received from her cousin contained a fresh tale of Marcus Speer’s debauchery.

      Finally Jemma had accepted that he hadn’t fallen properly in love with her, as she had with him. He had never told her he loved her, and now she knew why that was—for him it had been just an infatuation and he’d settled too quickly on her to fill the role of his wife. She’d thanked her lucky stars she had not married a man who would doubtless betray her with a string of mistresses before they’d reached their first wedding anniversary.

      A dispiriting truth had then settled on Jemma: Marcus would never come, in true romantic style, to Thaxham House and rescue her from her sorrow and loneliness. He would, at some time, be an Earl, but he wasn’t the noble hero of her wistful dreams.

      As though Marcus could guess at her memories his mouth tilted into half a smile and a smouldering grey gaze was slanted at her softly skewed mouth.

      ‘I thought it was neither here nor there to you what I said to your guardian.’ His smile deepened as she looked away with a regretful frown. She’d been so lost in her private thoughts that she’d forgotten she’d announced herself uninterested in the outcome of the heated meeting he’d had with Theo. ‘I said nothing to your cousin that could be repeated to a demure young lady.’

      ‘In sending those letters Theo acted outrageously and without my knowledge or consent.’ Jemma’s voice was hoarse and forceful, her cheeks burning. His mocking levity made it clear he considered her far from demure. If he was hinting at her wild behaviour at seventeen, he’d a right to his scorn. But she wouldn’t have him think her a brazen hussy now because she had designs on trying to steal him from his fiancée. ‘Do you believe me?’ Jemma gazed earnestly at him.

      ‘Why should I?’ Marcus enquired casually. ‘From past experience I would say you hardly inspire me to put trust in you.’

      It