How the Marquess Was Won Read Free Page B

he’d pulled them from his fingers and bunched them in his fist. He lifted off his hat and held it, pushed his dark hair back from a high pale forehead. The candle flames of the chandelier swinging overhead danced, reflected in the polished toes of his boots—made by Hoby, she knew, because the broadsheets said so.
    His bearing was almost aggressively erect.
    He either didn’t notice or didn’t care that she was staring at him. Perhaps it would have been more notable if she hadn’t been staring. She wondered if charisma—and his poured from him in veritable rays—was simply a patina formed from the accumulated stares of countless people over years.
    “I should like to see your selection of silk fans, if you would, Mr. Postlethwaite.”
    His tone was brisk, impersonal, and surprisingly kind. But she heard restraint thrumming through it. He was clearly aware of his impact and was making a concerted effort not to frighten the rabble and freeze them like rabbits before wolves. After all, frozen people could not do his bidding.
    Herself and Postlethwaite being the rabble, of course.
    She half resented the loss of the game she played with Postlethwaite. Because it was clear that this was the sort of man who could never be a figure of fun.
    But just in case she was dreaming, she succumbed to an impulse to reach across her body and pinch her own arm.
    Too late she realized the marquess had a perfect view of her in the mirror over the counter.
    He swiveled his body a quarter turn.
    She felt his attention like an explosion of light smack in her solar plexus.
    His cheekbones were high and stark, and somehow this made his gaze seem particularly potent, as though he were calmly viewing a siege from the crenellations of a castle. His eyes were clear, just a shade darker than whiskey.
    Not a gentle face. Nor a safe face.
    And not a face one could get accustomed to in a glance.
    Three or four or fifteen more glances of the lingering sort, perhaps.
    She touched a hand to her wind-ruddied face, as if it was a wand that could change her into a princess before his eyes.
    He turned away without a change of expression.
    Which was when she began breathing again.
    “Of course, of course, my lord.” A whiff of glee had entered Postlethwaite’s voice. “I’ve a lovely selection of silk fans, from plain to ornate.” He gestured to a case in a shadowy corner of the shop near the girls, far away from sunlight that could yellow or fade painted silk. “I hope you find something that pleases you.”
    Fat chance, Phoebe thought.
    Postlethwaite bustled out from behind the counter and strutted across the floor. “May I ask what brings you to our town, Lord Dryden?”
    “I’ve been invited to a party.” She’d never heard the word party sound so ironic. “I am also here to visit Miss Endicott’s storied academy on behalf of my niece.”
    Storied? Was it really ? Was the niece the recalcitrant girl? And would he be attending the Redmonds’ party? But where else would he be going?
    “Miss Vale is a teacher at the academy.” Postlethwaite made a vague gesture in her direction. The marquess dutifully turned.
    She took advantage of the moment to show off her curtsy, while he devoted another tick of the clock to her. “An honor to meet you, Lord Dryden.” Her tones were low, and, she liked to think, dulcet.
    His long firm mouth turned up only faintly. Perhaps he calibrated smiles according to rank. This time she saw surprising faint shadows of fatigue beneath his eyes.
    “Miss Vale.” He gave her a bit of a bow. “I’m to meet with Miss Endicott at the academy.”
    The faintest conclusive emphasis landed on the words Miss Endicott . Likely he was accustomed to females of all sorts flinging themselves at him and hoped to discourage her from doing the same.
    “Of course.” Too late Phoebe heard the hint of irony in her voice: of course you’ll be meeting with the most important person at the academy.
    She could have sworn his eyes