Excerpt: Her Scoundrel Earl
Book 2: Escape with a Scoundrel
“Sir, if you are any kind of a gentleman, you will let me go. And if you do not, I shall scream.”
Despite her threat, Marcus found himself unwilling to let go of her hand.
He had been wandering the grounds for an hour, trying to think of some reasonable way to get inside and meet Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley, when she had neatly presented herself… a pale wisp of lavender moonlight, floating over the lawn in her silk gown.
She hesitantly raised her head, and he felt the strangest clenching sensation in his gut. Her eyes, so bright—and somehow so haunted—drew him in like a song of bittersweet beauty. Her blunt, straight nose and slightly uneven lips didn’t detract from her charm. On the contrary, they elevated her looks to the realm of the uncommon.
This was no angel drifted down from heaven, made for poets to sing of. This was a woman as real and dark and intriguing as the night itself.
“You really must let me go,” she said.
“No,” he heard himself whispering, “I don’t think I shall.”
There was no mistaking her voice, either. The Cockney accent was gone, but the husky tone was still there… all the more sensual now for its softness.
A flush stole across her cheeks as their gazes held, and she seemed to lose her ability to speak at all.
A rather distressing condition he seemed to share.
He should just let her leave. Couldn’t for the life of him understand why he had stepped in front of her in the first place. One look at her face—and that amusing, old-fashioned oath she had used—had told him all he needed to know.
There was no doubt in his mind that Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley and Blackerby Swift were one and the same. This stunning brunette dressed in silk and lace was none other than the brazen, quick-witted outlaw who had shot him on Hounslow Heath and ridden off with all the silver.
The London magistrates, however, would never believe him if he presented this woman, looking like she did now. They would laugh him out of the Old Bailey.
If he wanted to stop Blackerby Swift’s raids, he would have to capture her at the scene of one of her crimes, in her disguise. He guessed that was the real reason she was so eager to leave: she intended to take Montaigne’s midnight coach. He might catch her in the act this very night.
So why didn’t he just let her go?
The moon bathed her skin in pearl-white light, from the delicate line of her chin to the shadowy edge of her shoulders. The upper curves of her breasts were just visible above her décolletage. His fingers itched to touch her, just there, at that vulnerable spot where lavender silk and white lace gave way to warm, soft woman.
Marcus’s whole body tensed at the sudden, unexpected image of Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley—or Blackerby Swift, or whoever the devil she claimed to be—lying naked beneath him, here on the grass.
All at once, he lowered his mouth to hers.
“Please.” She turned her head aside and pulled her hand from his. This time Marcus released her, astonished at his own impulsiveness.
This wasn’t like him at all. Any of it.
She backed away a few steps and stood staring at him, those eyes of vivid amethyst wide with confusion, her black lashes and brows stark against her skin, like ink strokes on a fresh white page.
An instant later, her expression changed to one of feminine ire at the liberty he had nearly taken. Raising her chin, she hiked her skirts, turned her back on him, and walked off with a proud, graceful sway that sent Marcus’s blood hammering through his veins.
He couldn’t resist having the last word. “Good night, Lady Barnes-Finchley.”
At the sound of his voice she broke into a run like a startled doe, fleeing from him toward the house in a flurry of shimmering silk.
And he simply stood there, staring in the direction she had vanished. Until he shut his eyes and forced himself to turn away.
Trouble. This lady was trouble from the top of her chignon to the toes of her slippers. It was madness to allow himself to even think of kissing her. What was wrong with him? Wasn’t the newly healed bullet wound in his left arm enough incentive to keep his mind on the matter at hand?
Marcus grimaced as he headed back toward the south end of the grounds, where he had tied his horse. Best to finish this as soon as possible and hand Blackerby Swift over to the authorities, before she wreaked further havoc with his plans and his senses. He flipped open his silver pocket watch. Nine-thirty. More than enough time to catch her on the North Road out of London. There was no reason to put this off.
Absolutely no reason.
He would capture her tonight.