Chapter 8
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 absolutely did. 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. The gentlemanly thing 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 to dismiss the ache in his chest as nothing more than lust for a virginal Valkryie whom he absolutely should not touch.
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 sending exactly the 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 how to 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.”
“You will receive 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. His duchess.
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.”
Josephine, clad in another borrowed coat and a pair of breeches far tighter than the ones she’d previously worn, marched around the chair to stand before him. She placed her hands on her hips.
Blood surged between his thighs. Marcus became somewhat light-headed.
The coat, unlike before, was unbuttoned. Josephine wore nothing but a shirt of fabric so bloody sheer, he could make out the dusky hue of her nipples. And the breeches. The leather pulled so tight, he could see the outline of her—
Marcus cleared his throat. Crossed and uncrossed his legs to try to ease the ache in his cock.
She looked at the brooch. Then at him. “My father wagered the brooch, did he not?”
“He did.”
“I’ve no idea why he would do such a thing. He was not a gambler.”
He knew exactly what Kenbrooks had done. The old duke had wagered that Marcus would be unable to resist Josephine and deliberately lost the brooch, then sent his daughter to retrieve it.
Yes, because I refused to entertain the notion of meeting her.
“Father knew the jewels in the brooch were valuable. The piece belonged to his mother.”
Marcus made a derisive sound. “Paste and glass, Josephine. A clever fake.”
Surprise rippled across her features. “Worthless?”
He nodded. “I knew your father, not well mind you, but on occasion, he would visit Brooks’, and we would share a glass of claret. That night, we consumed…a bottle. Or two.”
“Father was never much of a gambler,” she said.
“I disagree.” Kenbrooks had wagered that Marcus would want Josephine, and God help him, he did. Apparently, there had been no plan if she didn’t desire him in return. Though given her attire, Marcus might put that fear to rest.
She stepped forward and picked up the brooch and the shirt she wore gaped open. Marcus could see…well, damn near everything.
Dear. God. His cock felt like a piece of marble between his legs.
“I’ll play you for the brooch.” She smiled. “You won it fairly from my father. It was wrong for me to simply ask you to give it to me.”
“Not at all.” He sighed catching sight of one nipple.
“I disagree. You have something I want, Your Grace.” Josephine leaned over just a bit more, breasts swaying gently. “And I believe there is something I have that might pique your interest.”
She is trying to kill me.
“No,” he choked. “Take it. I give it freely, expecting nothing in return. No need to…” Tempt me more, he nearly said. “Do anything you may regret.”
“Regret?” Her breasts bounced in an enticing manner. “Do you like the outfit, by the way, Your Grace? Willa’s brother Isaiah refused to lend me anything after what happened before. So I had to bribe one of our footmen. Abe is a bit skinnier than Isaiah. Things are much…tighter.”
I am going to faint.
She reached into the pocket of the coat and withdrew a deck of cards. “One and twenty. Five rounds. If I win the majority, I get the brooch.” Josephine gave him a saucy look.
“And what if I win a hand?”
“You get to cut a piece of clothing off of me.”
Josephine’s voice didn’t even tremble as she stated the stakes to Lavisham.
She had no intention of even winning one hand since she wasn’t very good at cards in general.
In the days since he’d kissed her at the ball, she’d done a great deal of thinking about her scandalous duke and why he’d been so upset.
Lavisham did want to bed her, that was the whole point of Josephine wagering herself, but it had not occurred to her until much later that he might want more. Or that Lavisham would come to the insane conclusion Josephine didn’t want him.
One of her sisters, she couldn’t recall which, often said men could be thick-headed.
Josephine honestly didn’t care about the brooch any longer.
But what she cared deeply about was Lavisham, which seemed ridiculous but also…
right. Father must have suspected as much upon meeting the duke as well else he wouldn’t have deliberately lost the brooch and then sent her to retrieve it from Lavisham.
The peacock, which was of no value at all, was merely a means to an end.
So here she was, dressed as a lad once more because it had made the heat in Lavisham’s eyes flare, daring to live as her father had wished. Boldly. Bravely.
“Cut a piece of clothing off you? Are you out of your bloody mind?”
“That doesn’t appeal to you, Lustful Lavisham?” There wasn’t any doubt that it did, given the hard length stretching down one thigh. His breeches were rather unforgiving as well.
“Josephine.” His gaze never moved from her, lingering over every inch of her body with a great deal of hunger. Lavisham seemed unable to say more.
“You may do anything you wish, once you cut something off.” Josephine shifted her shoulders, making the mounds of her breasts ripple. “You may also rip or tear if warranted.”
“Anything?” he breathed.
“Oh, yes, Your Grace. I don’t cheat at cards.”
“Fine,” he grunted. “But I won’t be gentle. I’ll ruin you, Josephine. Surely you know that,” he warned.
“Stop teasing, Your Grace. I’m not afraid of you.”
“I’ll take all of you. Every inch. Create an enormous scandal. I’m sure my servants are whispering about you being here even now.”
“I’m aware.”
Lavisham frowned. “I won’t—I won’t let you go after this. I may even keep the brooch so that you lose your inheritance and have no way to escape me.”
“Do your worst, Lavisham.”
He picked up the deck of cards. “I intend to.”