A Duke is Never Enough Read online

  Identifying additional victims and ensuring Drobbit made restitution was of the utmost importance to Marcus. He wasn’t going to stand by while a member of his family ruined people.

  “Tedious how?” Sir Robert prodded.

  Anthony snorted. “Tedious means it doesn’t bear discussion. Good God, man, go find something interesting to talk about. I heard Lord Fenwick’s gout is acting up again, and I understand he’s organizing a pilgrimage to Bath. However, everyone going must agree to take the waters in the nude. The rumor is he’s already recruited Mrs. Dorris.”

  Sir Robert’s eyes lit with this information. “Well, you would know,” he said to Anthony with a chuckle. “How delicious. I must see who else is going. It may be worth the trip just to see Mrs. Dorris…”

  The knight took himself off, and Marcus moved to take his place so he could turn his back to the wall and face the room. “Thank you for the diversion.”

  “You seemed annoyed with his interrogation.” Anthony sipped his brandy. “In fact, there was a dark gleam in your eye I’m not sure I’ve seen before.”

  “This situation with my cousin is infuriating.” Marcus glanced about for a footman.

  Anthony was aware of Drobbit’s swindling. “Provoking enough to fight with him,” he murmured. “In public. It’s shocking. People see you as a lover, not a fighter.”

  “People should mind their own damn business.” At last, a footman came by with a glass of Marcus’s favorite port. “Thank you,” Marcus said before taking a fortifying drink. Then he looked back to Anthony. “Let us find a private place to speak.”

  Anthony’s dark brows arched in mild surprise. He turned and led Marcus from the subscription room to an alcove off the main hall. “Will this do?”

  Marcus withdrew the folded piece of parchment from his coat and, juggling the glass of port, managed to open it up so Anthony could see. “I’m looking for this woman.”

  Anthony’s gaze barely scanned the drawing. “That’s Miss Phoebe Lennox.”

  Victory thrummed in Marcus’s chest. “I was hoping you might know of her, but you didn’t even hesitate. How well do you know her?”

  “Not terribly. She’s a founder of the Spitfire Society with Miss Jane Pemberton. My sister, along with her good friend Lady Northam, is friendly with both of them. You may recall hearing of Miss Lennox last Season after she jilted Laurence Sainsbury at the altar.”

  She suddenly sounded familiar. “Have you mentioned her before?” Yes, he had—Marcus remembered now. “You suggested her as a potential bride for Halstead a few weeks ago.”

  “I did. And you joked that she was more your type—because of her blemished reputation, to which I said she absolutely was not.”

  Dammit.

  “Do you know where she lives?” Marcus still had to return her handkerchief.

  “Cavendish Square, I think. Why?”

  “You only think, or you know?”

  “Why is this important?” Anthony poked his head from the alcove and waved at a footman. When the man came around, Anthony set his empty glass on the tray and asked for a fresh brandy.

  “It just is,” Marcus said when Anthony had ducked back into the alcove.

  “You’ve set your sights on her, then? An unmarried miss isn’t your typical quarry,” Anthony observed.

  No, it was not. Marcus kept his sport to paid professionals and the occasional widow. Once or twice, in his youth, he’d dallied with a married woman. He preferred his liaisons tidy and short. “She’s not my quarry.” Then what was she?

  Intriguing. And right now, that was all that mattered.

  Anthony continued as if Marcus hadn’t spoken. “She is a self-declared spinster—which is why she founded the Spitfire Society—so I suppose she isn’t like other unmarried misses. Still, please remember that my sister likes her.”

  “I’m not in the habit of ruining young ladies.” Marcus refolded the parchment and put it back in his coat pocket before drinking more of the delicious port.

  “No, you are not,” Anthony agreed. “That was quite a likeness. You drew it?”

  “Yes.” Marcus shared his drawings with only a handful of people—his butler and valet and most recently Anthony, who’d happened to catch him in the act one day. Many of Marcus’s drawings were not fit for public consumption. They were detailed and provocative…erotic in nature. He’d been tempted to draw Miss Lennox nude, but while he could guess what she would look like, he found he didn’t want to. He’d much rather discover the reality instead of rely on his imagination.

  The footman stopped by with Anthony’s brandy. Anthony quickly drank half the glass. “I’m for Mrs. Alban’s. You’re coming?”

  Marcus shook his head. He wasn’t in the mood for his favorite brothel. Anthony’s eyes widened briefly.

  “Why not?” Anthony’s lips curled into a teasing smile. “Miss Lennox.”

  “No.” The protest sounded weak, even to Marcus’s ears. “I’ve no plans to debauch Miss Lennox.” That much was true. Thoughts—and he’d had a few since meeting her that afternoon—were not plans.

  Yet.

  Marcus finished off his port and stepped from the alcove. “After today, I require a quiet night at home.”

  “Except you opted to come here in search of the identity of the woman you drew in excellent detail. Truly, I knew her straightaway—the likeness was extraordinary, as if she’d sat for you.”

  Marcus wished she would. Perhaps he’d ask…

  “I have something that belongs to her.” Marcus had made her a promise—that he’d find her before tomorrow and deliver her laundered handkerchief—and he meant to keep it.

  Anthony sipped his brandy. “How in bloody hell did you obtain something of hers without knowing who she was? There’s a story here, and you’re being damnably cryptic.”

  He was and would continue to be. “Have a good evening at Mrs. Alban’s.” Marcus inclined his head, then turned and deposited his empty glass on the tray of a passing footman.

  As he approached the main entrance, another gentleman stepped in his path. “I hear you’re fighting a duel. Should we show up at Hyde Park at dawn?” He glanced toward a pair of gentlemen standing nearby.

  Marcus resisted the urge to pound his fist into the man’s face. “You’re more than welcome to. However, I shall be warm in bed at that hour.”

  “Whose?” one of the other gentlemen asked, drawing laughter from everyone within earshot.

  Reining in his irritation, Marcus found Anthony’s gaze. To his credit, he was not laughing, but there was a glint of humor in his eyes. Along with curiosity. Because he knew there was more going on with Marcus than his idiot cousin.

  While Marcus would put up with Anthony’s curiosity, he found himself annoyed by everyone else. He summoned a sharp grin. “You know I never fuck and tell.” The forced smile instantly fell from his lips the moment he turned his back to the group and exited the club.

  He directed his mind back to Drobbit and what needed to happen next. Marcus would visit the man soon.

  Marcus’s driver opened the door to his coach. Before stepping inside, Marcus directed him to Cavendish Square.

  The destination had spilled from his mouth unbidden. But there it was, and he found he didn’t want to change it. The ride through Mayfair was short, and he was soon passing into Cavendish Square.

  His coachman drove to one side and stopped. The door opened, and he asked if Marcus wished to depart.

  “Yes.” Marcus stepped out and surveyed the square. Which house was hers? If, in fact, any of them was, since Anthony hadn’t been completely certain.

  This was folly. He knew her identity. He would certainly find her location in the morning, and then he could deliver her handkerchief. Still, he began to walk around the square, sweeping his gaze over each building and wondering if she was inside.

  An image of her sparkling green eyes and elegant brows came to his mind, followed by the rest of her alluring face—the small, charming tip of her
nose, the lively dimples that danced in her cheeks, the inviting curve of her lips…

  Yes, he’d been able to draw her exactly because he’d memorized every detail.

  What in the hell was he doing? He could find her location and simply send the handkerchief. There was absolutely no need for him to go in person. Unless, as Anthony suggested, he’d set his sights on her. For seduction.

  His cock stirred. And it shouldn’t. She was unwed, probably a virgin, the type of woman who’d never turned his head. Even in his youth, he’d been drawn to older, experienced women. They’d taught him everything he knew, and he’d been an eager student.

  He didn’t have the patience or interest to do for someone what they’d done for him. Or did he?

  Suddenly, the thought of tutoring Miss Lennox sent his cock into a full stand. The sound of a coach driving by prompted him to pick up his pace. He needed to get back to his coach and then home. Where he’d take the edge off his lust with the aid of his right hand. Or he could follow Anthony to Mrs. Alban’s…

  The coach stopped a few houses in front of him, and out stepped the unmistakable form of Miss Lennox. She walked up the steps to one of the largest houses in the square, the door opening and then closing behind her far too soon as she disappeared inside.

  Marcus’s heart began to pound as anticipation sparked through him. He glanced toward his coach—and sanity—before staring at her house. He knew where she lived and could now deliver the handkerchief.

  But of course, he didn’t have it with him. Because for all that he’d wanted to find her tonight, he hadn’t expected to. Not this easily.

  He waited for the thrill of the hunt to dissipate. Instead, it intensified, forcing him to again ponder what the hell he was actually doing.

  Go home. Send the handkerchief. Be done with this. You’ve other things to occupy your mind.

  Too bad none of them were this fascinating.

  * * *

  “I trust you passed a pleasant evening,” Phoebe’s butler asked as he welcomed her home.

  “I did, thank you, Culpepper.” She removed her gloves and handed them to the man, a robust fellow in his late thirties.

  “Would you care for your customary nightcap in the garden room?”

  “Indeed.” Phoebe enjoyed a glass of a particular port most nights. When she thought of her life now that she was an independent—and wealthy—woman, she felt incredibly grateful.

  Culpepper turned to leave the hall, but a knock on the door halted him. He turned, one dark brow arching as he contemplated the door. “Are you expecting someone, Miss Lennox?”

  “I am not.” Who would call at this hour? Jane was the only person who came to mind, and since Phoebe had just left her a short while ago, it likely wasn’t her. Phoebe supposed it could also be her parents, but they didn’t call very often and surely wouldn’t do so this late.

  Culpepper answered the door, and right away a deep, masculine voice slid into the hall.

  “Good evening. Is Miss Lennox receiving?”

  Recognition caused Phoebe’s heart to speed. No, it couldn’t be him.

  “It’s rather late,” Culpepper said coolly. “Would you care to leave a card?”

  “Yes.”

  Culpepper responded with a note of surprise. “My lord.”

  It was him.

  Culpepper looked toward her, and she inclined her head. He opened the door further so she could fully see the marquess. He filled the doorway, dressed to evening perfection in stark black and pristine white.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  She should say no. “Briefly.” She glanced at Culpepper. “Two nightcaps, please.” Then she tossed another look at Lord Ripley before turning and leading him into the garden room.

  A low fire burned in the hearth, and Phoebe went to stand near the mantel. She pivoted to face him as he strode into the room. The space had always felt particularly feminine, with its floral wallpaper and rose-colored furnishings. Now, however, there was a distinctly masculine air. It was surprisingly…pleasant.

  Pleasant? No, stimulating.

  “You found me.”

  He removed his hat and set it on a table beside the settee. “I did, and it is my distinct pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, Miss Lennox.” He came toward her and took her bare hand. Sadly, he still wore gloves.

  Sadly?

  He pressed his lips to her knuckles, allowing his flesh to touch hers. A shiver tripped up her arm and through her, settling somewhere in the vicinity of her belly. Or perhaps just a tad lower.

  Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand. “I must ask, how did you find me?”

  “Luck.”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Hardly.” A terrible thought occurred to her, and she was rather furious with herself for not thinking it sooner. “Did anyone see you?”

  He rested his forearm on the mantel. “No. It may not seem like it, but I am quite discreet when the situation warrants.”

  Culpepper returned with a tray bearing two glasses of port. Phoebe took one and indicated Ripley should take the other. The marquess did so, and Culpepper retreated from the room.

  Ripley raised his glass. “A toast to your divine hospitality.”

  “A toast to your ingenuity. I didn’t think you’d find me by tomorrow, let alone this evening.”

  He gave her a confident smirk that should have been annoying but instead only added to the awareness pulsing through her. He sipped his port, and she did the same.

  Phoebe decided some space between them was necessary. She pivoted and sat down in her favorite chair. That way, he couldn’t sit next to her. He did, however, perch on the small settee near the chair—as close to her as possible without sitting on her lap.

  “I appreciate your discretion,” Phoebe said. “Still, you should not have called.”

  “And yet you invited me in.” He relaxed into the settee, his posture one of comfortable nonchalance, as if he called on women in this manner and at such a late hour all the time. “To my great benefit. In any case, are you concerned about your reputation? I would think a spitfire like you wouldn’t care.”

  “Just because I don’t wish to follow Society’s rules doesn’t mean I want to make myself the center of attention. You are the notorious Marquess of Ripley. A visit from you at this hour—at any hour—would surely set the tongues wagging.”

  “Apparently, everything I do elicits such a response.”

  She heard the weariness in his tone, as well as a touch of irritation. “You’re speaking of something in particular?”

  “Just what happened at the park today.”

  For a brief moment, she thought he referred to their encounter, and her stomach dipped toward the floor. Of course he meant his altercation. Suddenly, she recalled his head and was angry with herself for not asking about it straightaway. “How is your wound?” She looked at his hairline but couldn’t see the injury.

  “Much better, thank you. I am not suffering any ill effects.”

  She noted he specified the physical hurt, but she recalled his earlier tinge of annoyance. “From the gossip, then, I take it?”

  “There was a wager at the club this evening that I would call my cousin out.”

  “Because he injured you this afternoon?” He nodded after sipping his port, and she couldn’t resist pointing out his hypocrisy. “Why should you care about such things like that wager, particularly given your reputation?”

  He chuckled. “Touché. Like you, I prefer not to be at the forefront of ton gossip. However, I do not mind my reputation at all. Do you mind yours?”

  She wondered what he meant, what he knew. “That depends on what it is.”

  “A spitfire with the courage to jilt an unwanted betrothed.”

  He knew everything, then. Well, everything that could be known by way of gossip. “You’ve been very busy since this afternoon—learning my name, where I live, and my personal history. I wonder how you managed it.” She purposely said this with the tone of
a question.

  Frustratingly, he said nothing. He took another drink of port instead.

  “You’re being frightfully secretive about how you found me. I think you owe it to me to explain.”

  His gaze locked with hers. “I wanted to find you, and I always get what I want.”

  Again, she shivered. Just from a look. From him. She refused to fall prey to his charm. “Your flirtation won’t work on me. Either tell me how, or I’ll snatch your port away.”

  He clutched his glass, drawing it close to his chest in mock alarm. “But it’s delicious. I do love a good port. Fine. Lord Colton told me who you are.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a piece of parchment. “I showed him this.” He handed her the paper.

  Phoebe set her glass down on the small table next to the chair. Opening the folded parchment, she sucked in a breath at what she saw. There, staring back at her in exquisite detail, was herself.

  She lifted her gaze to his. “Where did you—”

  He hesitated the barest moment. “I drew it.”

  She looked back at the drawing, amazed at how completely—and accurately—he’d captured her likeness. “It’s extraordinary.”

  “Keep it.”

  “Indeed?” She didn’t want to deprive him of such a fine rendering, and yet, why should he want it? Furthermore, he could simply draw another. “How enterprising of you to use this skill to find me.”

  “One does what one must.”

  “Yes, one does,” she murmured, staring at the drawing another moment before setting it on the table and picking her port up once more.

  “Such as refuse to marry a scoundrel, as you did with Sainsbury.” He even knew whom she’d jilted. “In my opinion, that only elevates your reputation. I admire a woman who knows what she’s about.”

  It was hard not to feel flattered, so she did, even as her mind was screaming at her to keep this dangerous man at bay. Dangerous? Did she think he would take advantage of her as Sainsbury had? A wave of apprehension rose over her. She barely knew this man, and his reputation was one of scandalous behavior. But was there more to it than that?