A Duke is Never Enough Read online

  Her lips spread into a wide, vivacious smile, and Marcus’s breath fixed in his lungs. “You’re welcome to try. I bid you good day, my lord.” She inclined her head, then turned to go.

  “Until tomorrow, mystery lady.” Marcus couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so…aroused. Not just physically, though he absolutely was, but mentally. He very much looked forward to learning her identity. “You know, I could just follow you,” he called after her.

  She stopped, then looked back at him over her shoulder. “You could, but where’s the fun in that?”

  Oh, this was going to be too diverting. Anticipation curled through him as he watched her go to her horse. The groom she’d mentioned appeared from behind some shrubbery and helped her mount. Marcus should have accompanied her so he could provide assistance. What a bloody missed opportunity.

  After she was gone from his view, he went back to his horse and mounted. He patted the gelding’s neck, “Did you see her, Horace?” He was tempted to follow her, but he’d learn her identity without resorting to that. How many breathtaking, self-declared spinsters could there be?

  Hell, he didn’t know any spinsters. Perhaps his friend Anthony Colton could help him. Anthony was a viscount and, until recently, in possession of a sterling reputation. Perhaps he would know who she was. Except Marcus didn’t have much information to provide. Now he regretted not following her.

  As he rode home to Hanover Square, he felt much better than when he’d set out. Recalling his earlier agitated state, he winced inwardly. The situation with Drobbit was frustrating, and he hated that he’d allowed himself to be provoked into fighting with the man. In public, no less.

  But his cousin had to answer for his crimes. Marcus owed it to his friend Graham and the countless other people Drobbit’s fraud had harmed. He’d get to the bottom of things with him.

  Right after he found his mystery beauty.

  * * *

  At last, it was time for the break. Phoebe Lennox gathered the cards on the table and set them in a stack before rising from her chair. Sweeping her gaze across Mrs. Matheson’s drawing room, she found her closest friend, Jane Pemberton, standing near the corner.

  Before Phoebe could get to Jane, Lady Pemberton moved to her daughter’s side. Jane stood angled toward Phoebe while Lady Pemberton’s side was presented. The elder woman’s mouth moved quickly as she spoke close to Jane’s ear, then Lady Pemberton cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, her gaze connecting with Phoebe’s. Pink bloomed in the woman’s cheeks, and Phoebe had no question as to what, or rather whom, she was talking to Jane about.

  Jane gave Phoebe a pleading look that clearly conveyed Save me.

  Never one to abandon a friend, Phoebe continued on her path until she arrived at Jane’s side. “Good evening, Lady Pemberton, Jane.”

  Lady Pemberton smiled broadly, the pink in her face still lingering. “Good evening, Miss Lennox. How lovely to see you.”

  Liar. Phoebe was undesirable in Lady Pemberton’s eyes and in the eyes of plenty of other Society women of Lady Pemberton’s age. Phoebe’s self-declared spinsterhood and jilting of Laurence Sainsbury on their wedding day the previous Season ensured her reputation was lacking. That didn’t stop Jane from being her friend, however, as much as her mother wished their friendship would cease.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Lady Chadwick.” Lady Pemberton took herself off in the direction of the dowager countess, who was holding court on the opposite side of the room.

  Lady Chadwick was the hostess’s great-aunt and the only reason Phoebe was invited to these card parties. The dowager had congratulated Phoebe on jilting Sainsbury, for she found him to be tiresome and sycophantic. Lady Chadwick’s approval was the only thing that had kept Phoebe from utter ruin. That and her newfound role as an heiress. It was astonishing what people overlooked if you were wealthy.

  “Your mother couldn’t escape quickly enough,” Phoebe murmured, moving closer to Jane and pivoting so they both faced the room.

  “Thank goodness,” Jane said, adjusting a blonde curl near her ear. “You saved me from another discussion about Mr. Brinkley.” Her nose wrinkled slightly.

  Mr. Brinkley was the Pembertons’ neighbor in Shropshire. A banker, he was widowed and in need of a wife for his two young daughters. Since Jane hadn’t yet attracted a title in London, her mother had begun to push for a match between her and Brinkley.

  Actually, it wasn’t only because Jane hadn’t attracted a title. She’d also become too close with Phoebe. Lady Pemberton now feared her daughter was no longer viable on the Marriage Mart, a potential truth that pleased Jane, who loathed trying to land a husband.

  “I’m glad to help,” Phoebe said. “I keep waiting for your mother to say you aren’t allowed to speak with me anymore.”

  “That shall be the day I leave and declare my own spinsterhood.” Jane wanted that above anything. “If it weren’t for Anne, I would do it tomorrow. Even tonight.” Anne was her younger sister in the throes of her first season.

  “Anne may be wed by the end of May,” Phoebe said wryly, for Anne was quite popular.

  “Indeed she may. And I hope for her sake, she is.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s desperately in love—or so she told me last night.”

  “With whom?” Phoebe asked.

  “That, she wouldn’t say. I’m afraid she has so many suitors, I can’t hazard a guess either.” Jane straightened her shoulders. “Better her than me. If she marries well—perhaps even exceptionally well—I may be able to persuade my parents to let me be.”

  Phoebe shot her a dubious look. “Do you really think your mother will allow you to become a spinster like me?”

  Jane exhaled. “No.”

  “Oh, Miss Lennox, didn’t I see you riding in the park today?” The question sailed through the air from Mrs. Matheson. Flanked by two other ladies, she came toward Phoebe and Jane.

  “You must have,” Phoebe said, though she didn’t recall seeing Mrs. Matheson.

  “Did you see the Marquess of Ripley’s altercation in Rotten Row?”

  The mention of Ripley sent a ripple of awareness through Phoebe. “I did.”

  “I daresay he could have taken that poor man apart,” Lady Faversham, the middle-aged woman on Mrs. Matheson’s right, said.

  “Unlikely,” Lady Lindsell, from Mrs. Matheson’s left, put in. “What I mean to say is that while he could have, he would not have. The man is his cousin.”

  Lady Faversham’s eyes widened, and she pursed her lips. “I did not realize. I’m usually far more aware of such things.”

  Indeed she was. Lady Faversham was a terrible gossip.

  “Well, it’s easy to be blinded by Lord Ripley’s…charms.” Mrs. Matheson waggled her brows.

  Lady Lindsell looked scandalized for a brief moment, but then her smile and the twinkle in her eye indicated her reaction was counterfeit. “Oh, but we mustn’t be. He’s a horrible reprobate.”

  “An absolute wastrel,” Mrs. Matheson agreed.

  Lady Faversham tilted her head. “Perhaps not that. I’m afraid we must reserve that description for the likes of Lord Colton.”

  The other women exchanged pitying looks, nodding somberly. Then the trio continued on their way circuiting the room.

  Jane rolled her eyes. “Why did they even stop here?”

  “So they could watch us listen to them blather. We failed to give them an adequate reaction, so they moved on.”

  Jane laughed softly. “That’s probably true.” She lowered her voice to ask, “You saw Lord Ripley fight?”

  “I did more than that. I tended the cut on his head caused from a rock wielded by his cousin.”

  “You didn’t! How on earth did that come about?”

  “I saw that he was bleeding, and when he rode away from the path into a more secluded area—”

  Jane interrupted. “Secluded?” One fine blonde brow arched in query.

  “Not very,” Phoebe said
as if it mattered. She didn’t have much of a reputation to protect. “No one saw me—or us. Together, I mean.” Why did she suddenly feel hot? And slightly agitated?

  “Tell me everything,” Jane said, her eyes glowing with curiosity.

  “There isn’t much to tell.” Wasn’t there? He’d taken her handkerchief and promised to return it in person. Worse than that, they’d flirted. Phoebe might not care about her reputation, but that didn’t mean she wanted to link herself to one of the most notorious rakes in England. “There may have been a bit of flirting,” she murmured, her gaze drifting away from Jane’s.

  “May have been?”

  Phoebe looked back at her friend. “Yes, there was flirting. What else would you expect from a man such as Ripley? Anyway, blood was streaming from his wound. I had to help.”

  “I would expect nothing less from you,” Jane said warmly.

  “He kept my handkerchief, promising to launder it before he returns it to me. In person.”

  “How gallant. That’s not typically a word one hears in conjunction with Ripley. When will he call?”

  Gallant wasn’t a word Phoebe would use to describe him either. Vexing. Masculine. Tempting… Phoebe pushed those words from her mind. “He said he would do so tomorrow, but that’s only if he can find me.”

  A laugh bubbled from Jane’s lips. “Why wouldn’t he be able to?”

  “Because I didn’t give him my name. Or my direction.”

  Jane looked at her in…admiration? “Oh, you did flirt. How did it feel?”

  “Strange.” It wasn’t that Phoebe had never flirted. Since Sainsbury, however, she hadn’t wanted to. She still wasn’t sure she did, and yet Ripley had somehow provoked her. She didn’t like that. No, she didn’t like men, especially those of Ripley’s ilk. Libertines and philanderers. Men such as her former betrothed, Sainsbury. “I don’t plan to continue.”

  “Why not? As a spinster, you can do whatever you like.”

  “Not if I value what remains of my reputation.”

  “And do you?” Jane asked.

  “We won’t be able to be friends if I fall even farther.”

  Jane snorted in disgust. “Society is too priggish.”

  “And superior,” Phoebe added, casting a look toward Mrs. Matheson and the others. “To some, it’s amusing to imagine yourself above others.”

  “It’s obnoxious.”

  Phoebe laughed softly. “And this is why we’re such good friends.”

  Jane cocked her head to the side, her expression one of contemplation. “I find myself wondering how Lord Ripley will try to determine your identity. It’s not as if he can encounter you at a social event—he rarely attends any, does he?” She snorted softly. “It’s horribly hypocritical that the same people who won’t invite you extend an invitation to him, all for the sake of creating a buzz in an effort to elevate their own popularity.”

  “I’m not sure obnoxious is a strong enough adjective to describe such people.”

  “Odious?” Jane offered.

  Phoebe nodded. “Offensive.”

  “Outrageous!”

  “Obscene.”

  They dissolved into giggles for a moment.

  Once recovered, Jane said, “I find myself still imagining how Lord Ripley will find you. I’m almost inclined to provide him with a clue.”

  “You must not.” Phoebe briefly thought Jane was serious, but realized she wasn’t, of course. “That wouldn’t be fair.”

  “A wager, then. I’ll bet him he can’t find you.”

  “Except you contacting him would be a clue.” Phoebe shook her head, knowing for certain her friend was in jest.

  The glimmer of humor dissipated from Jane’s gaze. “It occurs to me that Lord Colton has become rather close with him. Is it possible the marquess could trace you through him?”

  Lord Colton’s sister Sarah, now the Countess of Ware, was a friend of theirs. “I can’t imagine how,” Phoebe said.

  “I suppose it’s unlikely Ripley would describe you to perfection. Perhaps he will wander London in search of you.”

  “More likely he’ll forget about me entirely.” How could she compare to his countless paramours? And why would she want to? “Yes, I shall hope that he does.” Except there was a pulse inside her saying, no, you don’t.

  “Do you? I find it curious you even stopped to help him. Your incredibly kind heart notwithstanding.” Jane looked at Phoebe expectantly.

  “I didn’t really think about it. I just went to help.” She had, however, thought about it plenty since then. She kept revisiting the moment when his fingers had grazed hers. The connection had radiated through her with heat and power. She felt it still.

  “I can see that you’re thinking now,” Jane said.

  “Let us speak of something else.” Phoebe didn’t want to discuss Ripley or her reaction to him. For if she did that, she’d think about him more than she already was, and any thoughts were too many.

  “My apologies if I made you uncomfortable. I would never do so on purpose.”

  “I know that.”

  “I suppose I find it exciting to be able to flirt and engage with a man such as Ripley, if only to flaunt your independence. One of the benefits of being a self-declared spinster. Perhaps that should have been the name of our club, the Self-Declared Spinster Society.”

  Phoebe grinned. They’d formed a two-person alliance at the start of the Season. They were officially three people with the addition of their friend Arabella, but she was soon to become the Duchess of Halstead. “That doesn’t sound nearly as dashing as the Spitfire Society.”

  “No, it does not. I do think spitfires would flirt, however.”

  Jane was probably right; however, Phoebe had no intention of seeking Ripley—or any other man—out. For flirtation or anything else. “I’ll leave that to you,” Phoebe said.

  Jane laughed. “When I meet someone with whom I would like to flirt, you’ll be the first to know.” She winked at Phoebe.

  The sound of a bell chimed through the drawing room, indicating it was time for the next round of cards.

  “I do hope you’ll let me know if Ripley finds you,” Jane said as they made their way back toward the tables.

  Phoebe didn’t answer, for they’d joined the others and had to separate to find their seats. Of course she’d tell Jane, not that she expected it would be necessary. Ripley wouldn’t find her—how could he?

  Plus, she didn’t want him to find her. Their paths would likely never cross again, and for that, she should feel relieved.

  Instead, she felt more than a trifle disappointed.

  Chapter 2

  The familiar sights, sounds, and smells of Brooks’s welcomed Marcus as he stepped into the subscription room, his gaze moving about in search of his friend Anthony Colton. The scent of tobacco wafted in the air while Marcus nodded at dandies in their brightly colored waistcoats.

  “Ripley!” someone called. Suddenly, there were several gentlemen blocking Marcus’s path, all eager to speak with him.

  A broad-shouldered man pushed his way to the center of the group. “Someone wagered you’d call your cousin out before dawn, if you haven’t already.”

  “Am I a known duelist?” he asked sardonically.

  The large man—Galbraith—blinked, then laughed. Another man, a smaller fellow next to Galbraith, spoke. “No, but perhaps you’re looking to expand upon your…reputation.”

  Marcus gave them all a smile that belied his lack of patience. “I’m quite content to be celebrated as a charming libertine, thank you.”

  “Then why fight like that in the middle of the fashionable hour?” the smaller man asked. Marcus couldn’t quite recall his name, but recognized him as one who liked to stir the pot of gossip.

  “Was it the fashionable hour? I’m afraid I rarely pay attention to such things. If you’ll excuse me.” He flashed another smile, this one tighter than the first, and pushed through the gentlemen in search of Anthony.

  Marcu
s finally caught sight of the viscount in conversation with another gentleman. Cutting his way in that direction, Marcus avoided making eye contact with anyone. He’d never minded being the source of gossip because it was always about his latest paramour, and many of the rumors weren’t even true—but Marcus never kissed and told.

  No, this was different. His cousin had embarrassed the family, and he’d provoked Marcus to behave in a manner he didn’t care to. And Marcus hadn’t even obtained the information he wanted or the resolution he needed.

  Drobbit had stolen from people and, in some cases, had completely ruined their fortunes. Because of him, Marcus’s friend Graham Kinsley had inherited a nearly bankrupt dukedom and had been forced to sell a valuable property that had been an especial part of his family’s legacy. To salvage matters, Marcus had purchased it, and he would have gifted it right back if Graham’s sense of honor and pride hadn’t prevented him.

  Marcus tossed the thoughts to the back of his mind as he arrived at Anthony and Sir Robert. Both men welcomed him with smiles and raised their glasses.

  “Join us,” Anthony said. “Sir Robert was just relating the most amusing tale of a duck attacking Lord Beasley in the park this afternoon. I don’t suppose you saw it?”

  “I did not.” Marcus was relieved they weren’t discussing the other spectacle of the day in the park.

  Sir Robert chuckled. “He was likely too busy exchanging blows with Mr. Drobbit.”

  Anthony’s dark brows arched briefly. “Yes, I heard about that. I’m sorry to have missed it. Do you need a second?”

  Marcus gritted his teeth. “No.”

  “What was the cause of your disagreement?” Sir Robert asked. The question sounded nonchalant, but the eager glint in his eyes told the truth—he wanted to know the core of the matter. Likely so he could share it with all and sundry.

  “It’s a tedious matter,” Marcus answered. Drobbit’s behavior would get out. He’d fleeced too many people, and the threat of their own exposure—no gentleman wanted to be known as a financial fool or for the pitiful state of his fortune to be publicized—was no longer enough of an incentive to keep them quiet. At least, that was what Marcus suspected would happen. So far, he knew of only two of Drobbit’s victims: his friend Graham, or rather the duke from whom Graham had inherited his title, and Mr. Yardley Stoke, father to Graham’s soon-to-be wife.