Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
P ercy made his way down to breakfast with surprising energy, given that he'd scarcely slept.
Instead, he'd spent half the night lying awake, plagued with thoughts of Lady Marina.
Despite his intentions to not engage, he had done, frankly, a piss-poor job of not admiring her from the start. No matter how many times he told himself to keep his eyes on his dinner, or on Richard, who was delighting Percy's mother with some tale of misadventure at the printing press, or on the bleeding ceiling if that was what it took, Percy kept finding his eyes wandering back to Lady Marina, who had been conversing with Lucy in a way that made both women light up with happiness, which had suffused Percy with a brotherly warmth for Lucy and a…different kind of warmth for Lady Marina.
He'd tried again not to pay her any mind after his mother had had the simply horrible idea of mingling the sexes for after- dinner drinks. The setup of the drawing room and the smaller conversational groups it inspired promised greater success, given that he could situate himself with his back to her without being rude, such that the lure of her rosy cheeks and the way she scrunched her nose when she laughed would not be within his line of sight.
Except then he had looked over his shoulder, and thank goodness, because he'd seen that Joseph and Richard had descended upon her, which spelled trouble even with Joseph's good influence in play, and by the time Percy had crossed the room to reach them, feet heading in that direction without any clear permission from his head, Richard had already been flirting with her .
Even in hindsight, Percy didn't know what he'd planned to do—rescue her? Murder Richard? Cancel the party and send everyone home, never mind that it was full dark out?—but, as it happened, Lady Marina hadn't needed his assistance, not to navigate the social scene of the party, nor to put him handily, and wittily, in his place.
He had tried so hard not to enjoy it. Given the way his whole day had been going, it was not surprising in the least that he had failed.
She had been pretty when he'd first seen her, almost as if someone had taken a description of all the things would call attractive about a woman and brought them to life. When she had fought back against his careless rudeness, when she had smiled at him like a shark, pitched her voice sweet like a poisonous flower—well, then she had become everything he hadn't known he found attractive in a woman.
The thing that had truly broken his resolve, though, had come after Lady Marina had walked away, summoned by her odious cousin. Lucy had looked at him sidelong and murmured, "I like her, too."
Which was, Percy figured, as close to permission as he was going to get.
And while Percy rather doubted that Lucy had meant, "Do feel free to attempt to seduce my new friend," she had not seemed opposed to Percy, er, liking Lady Marina.
Thus, Percy's mood was bolstered considerably from the day prior as he entered the nearly empty breakfast room. He was no longer in conflict with himself. He would indulge in a flirtation with Lady Marina, perhaps even some light seduction, and no doubt by the end of the party would have this absurd infatuation out of his system.
So he ate a leisurely breakfast, enjoyed his newspaper, and waited. And when Lady Marina entered, he waited some more, until she finished eating and excused herself from her conversation with Lady Grandville, one of his mother's friends. When she left the room, he slipped out after her.
"Lady Marina," he called, lengthening his stride to catch up with her in the corridor.
She paused and turned, eyes widening in momentary when she saw who was calling after her before a guarded expression took over. Percy suppressed a grin. He was going to enjoy working his way past that guardedness.
"Your Grace," she said, not bothering to hide the annoyance that colored her tone.
Percy had reached her now. She was wearing a lavender day dress, its cool tones a compliment to her fair complexion and warm eyes. "It's a fine morning, don't you think, Lady Marina?"
She narrowed her eyes. "It is."
"Shall we take a walk?" He offered up his arm.
Lady Marina looked at his face, then his arm, then at the hallway behind him, as if she were searching for a reason to refuse. Evidently finding none, she sighed. "Very well," she said, resting her fingertips oh so lightly on his sleeve.
Before she could change her mind, he led her out into the cool, damp air of the spring morning. It was early in the season, still—the house party had been scheduled late enough in the year that the guests wouldn't have all ended up mired in mud on their way down the precarious country roads but early enough that everyone could return to London in time for the Season to begin in earnest—and sunlight still felt like a gift after the dreariness of winter. Lady Marina closed her eyes and tipped her face up into the light, and Percy took a moment to admire the sweep of her eyelashes and the upper curve of her cheek. When she opened her eyes and caught him staring at her, she scowled.
"Ah, there it is," he said as they began to meander down the well-manicured path. "You don't look like yourself until you're scowling at me."
To his surprise and delight, she laughed. "Oh yes," she said. "I'm sure from your perspective I am always scowling. I'll have you know, however, that most people consider me quite amiable. What does that say about you, do you think?"
"That I have uncommonly good judgment of character, obviously," Percy shot back immediately and was rewarded with the sight of the side of her mouth hitching up, just a little bit, in a rueful sort of half-smile. "It comes with the title, most likely. Have I mentioned I'm a duke?"
Often, Percy resented his title. He resented the obligations, he resented the reminder of his idiot father, and he resented himself for resenting what was obviously an enormous privilege. But all that seemed worth it in this moment, when he used his ancient title, lauded and held dear by eight generations, to make this one young lady laugh.
"You know," she said with false thoughtfulness, "I think I had heard that. Congratulations, of course."
"Of course," he echoed with a chuckle. The weight of her arm grew heavier against his sleeve, less trepidatious. They continued through the garden for a few moments, the exercise banishing the last dregs of coolness of the morning.
"You know," Lady Marina said after a moment of quiet, "far be it from me to tell you—a duke, that is—"
"Just so," murmured Percy.
"—what to do. But if someone asked me whether this was a good opportunity to apologize for one's rude behavior—say, storming off in the middle of an introduction, just to pull an example entirely out of the ether—I might offer that this was, in fact, such a chance."
She cut him a sly sideways look. She was testing him. He enjoyed it immensely.
Percy adopted a mournful tone. "I would," he said apologetically. "Except, alas, I fear there is no point."
Lady Marina turned to face him head on, clearly sensing a trap. "No point?" she echoed. "I could argue that there's always a point in politeness and making amends, but I daresay I'm more interested in your rationale. Do enlighten me?"
"Well," said Percy, drawing out the word. "If I apologized for my previous rudeness, I'd have to apologize for my future rudeness."
"You could," offered Lady Marina, "just endeavor to avoid rudeness in the first place."
"I'm afraid not," Percy said, drawing them to a complete stop. "Because then I could not say what I intend to say."
"No?" asked Lady Marina. Her eyebrows cut low slashes across her brow, which only emphasized the fullness of her cheeks, her pouting lower lip. "And what is that?"
He took a step closer, crowding her just a bit—just enough. "I," he said, pitching his voice low, "am going to romance you."
What? thought Marina.
Then, lacking a better response than what her first instinct had provided, said, "What?"
The duke grinned, apparently enjoying her confusion. She should have known that their entertaining repartee was too good to last. "I'm sure you understood me, Lady Marina. I like you. I find you—" his gaze dipped down to her mouth for a second and Marina prayed that she wouldn't blush "—charming. You have a fire in you that I cannot help but admire."
He was mad. This was mad. But he also had taken another step closer and it made Marina struggle to think clearly. Not because of any personal quality that he possessed , Marina told herself sternly. Simply because standing this close to a near stranger was just not done, and thus it was a novel experience.
"You're clearly spoiled by your title," she said. "Or else you've spent too long mired in the countryside. Women are encouraged to be demure to appeal to men. We aren't meant to ever talk back."
"My lady," the duke said, and Marina wondered how her title could suddenly sound so seductive. It certainly didn't sound like that coming from anyone else. "The rules of Society are the farthest thing from my mind at this moment, allow me to assure you."
He took another step forward and Marina was furious with herself for the automatic step back that she took in accord. The hem of her skirts brushed against the well-manicured flowers that lined the garden path. "Sir," she said, trying to inject as much sternness into her tone as she could manage. It wasn't his proper title, but one could hardly sound firm when using the term "Your Grace"—and hadn't he said he wasn't concerned about the rules of Society? "You cannot mean to court me."
The duke's wicked grin widened, but Marina thought she saw a flicker of disquiet in his gaze. "Court? No. I said 'romance,' my lady. There's a world of difference."
Marina was two and twenty—she was not blushing, missish debutante. Yet she couldn't help it; she gasped. From shock, yes, but worse than that, too—from a bolt of desire that twisted in her stomach.
"Your Grace!" she sputtered. "Perhaps you can afford to make such—such propositions —" she lowered her voice "—in a garden, no less, but I cannot! I have my reputation to think of!"
The duke looked around. The sun glinted off his hair, revealing streaks of gold in the brown locks. "You object to the locale?" he asked. "I thought it was rather lovely, myself, but if you'd like, I can certainly proposition you elsewhere. Do you have any requests?"
"Do I have any--?" Marina broke off as she realized. Oh, the utter louse . He was mocking her. This must be how bored, rich country gentlemen without a care in the world entertained themselves, by blowing hot and cold. No doubt he relished the power he held—he, a handsome, unmarried duke—over the young ladies of the ton . Likely it was funny to him, to know that he could be as rude or strange or flirtatious or mercurial as he liked, and ladies would still simper and bat their eyelashes because he was a duke .
Well, not this lady, Marina resolved.
"You're mocking me," she said, scowling. If he wanted rudeness, he'd get it. If he wanted argumentativeness, she had it in spades. "I do not appreciate it."
To her surprise, something like hurt flashed through his eyes, though the look was quickly replaced with that flirtatious grin. "My lady Marina," he drawled, and, Lord, the addition of that possessive my caused her insides to quake. "You wound me." He grabbed her by her elbows and whirled her, then guided her backwards until her spine was pressed against the cool brick of the garden folly.
The instant her back touched the wall, he released her elbows so that he wasn't touching her, giving her the opportunity to step away. Yet this freedom felt more like an illusion than anything else; Marina was quite certain, as their breaths—hers a bit more heaving than it had been a moment before—brought their chests into the barest, most glancing contact that she could not have broken free from his intense emerald gaze if her life had depended on it.
The duke leaned closer until she could feel the faint brush of his breath against her cheek, then closer still until his lips grazed against her ear.
"I do not jest about such things, my lady," he murmured.
Marina couldn't help herself; she tilted up her chin to look at him, lessening the already miniscule gap between them. His head was canted towards her and she bit her lip, willing herself not to gasp, not to twitch, not to shiver—not to do anything that would bring their bodies closer together.
His gaze darted down to her mouth.
And suddenly Marina was so hideously tempted to move, to make the minute adjustment that would bring their mouths together, because even though it would be a mistake to kiss him, she wanted to, so very badly.
She wanted it with a kind of foreign desperation that almost frightened her. She was looking at his mouth, now, and it looked soft, a perfect contrast to the hard lines of his jaw and sharp planes of his face, and as she watched, his lips parted just the tiniest bit. Marina felt as though she were under some type of enchantment.
She was seconds away from her self-control snapping, from pressing her mouth to his, when the duke suddenly gave a sharp, ragged inhale and staggered a few steps back, almost as if he had been shoved away from her by some unseen force. Marina felt herself gasp for air, as if she had gone too long underwater. The duke ran a hand through his hair.
But when he spoke, his voice sounded smooth and even. "I do not rush these sort of things, either, my lady," he said, squaring his shoulders until the intense, seductive aspect was put away and the self-assured aristocrat took its place. Marina took a moment to marvel at the difference between the two attitudes she'd seen this morning and the frowning, cantankerous man she'd met yesterday. He was a bit of an enigma, this duke. "Nor will I risk your reputation. I understand what is at stake for young ladies such as yourself."
"Yes," she said eventually, prizing her hands away from where she'd pressed them against the brick of the folly. She had no idea what she was agreeing to. She swallowed. "Yes," she said again.
"Yes," echoed the duke and it sounded oddly like a promise.
They turned back down the path towards the house, and though Marina did her best to act as though nothing had happened—she couldn't think of a better way to protect her sanity, in all honesty—something had shifted between them. The duke didn't offer her his arm, much to her relief, instead keeping his hands clasped behind his back.
Yet, even with the distance they carefully kept between them, Marina could feel some invisible thread tying them together, vibrating with energy as they moved in unison back toward the house.
It wasn't wholly unpleasant.
They rounded towards the front of the estate, just as a carriage was pulling up. Marina paid it little mind, instead musing pleasurably—and a bit nervously, but a fun sort of nerves—on what the duke might have meant by "romancing." She was lost in her reverie—would there be additional near-kisses? Actual kisses? More than actual kisses?—when the sound of her name jolted her back to the present.
Marina's head jerked up and her stomach sank as all her hopes for a fun, frivolous romantic interlude died before they'd even begun.