Proper Scoundrel by Annette Blair Page A

men.
     
    Pups adored him.
     
    Fearful little girls followed in his wake.
     
    He turned wallflowers into belles, melted ice, and fears from hearts.
     
    Could Marcus be that rarest of creatures, a man to depend on? “I’ve never been so tempted,” she said, because he waited, because she wanted something—everything—he offered and couldn’t bear to think of saying no. Except that she feared saying yes, though she barely understood the question.
     
    “How long have we known each other?” she asked realizing how fast this malady that passed for fascination had come upon her.
     
    “Since eternity,” he said. “We’re meant to be.”
     
    “I’m not certain I believe that.”
     
    “I can wait until you do.” He never gave her the answer she expected, but one that touched her in unexpected ways.
     
    “I’m not sure I can wait,” she admitted as the music ended and he offered his arm to take her in to supper.
     
    When he placed a plate before her, she grasped his wrist and he leaned close.
     
    “I know I can’t wait,” she whispered.
     
    He dismissed his hired carriage and shared hers on the way home, sitting close of necessity, bringing her a warm satisfaction. And in the darkness, while Lacey touted their success and Molly laughed like a girl again, Marcus found Jade’s hand and held it under cover of her skirt, infusing her with contentment.
     
    When they arrived at the Manor, they bid everyone goodnight, and Marcus asked her to walk with him outside for a bit to take the air.
     
    He removed his coat, placed it on her shoulders, and made her slip it on, then amid owls’ calls and sea breezes they strolled across the lawn, her hand on his arm.
     
    When they reached the cliff overlooking the Channel, a vast expanse of shimmering silver slashed by moonlight, he covered her hand with his and squeezed. “I have a favour to ask.” He faced her. “I’d like to bring my brother, Garrett, to stay here for a while—another fledgling for your nest. He’s in ... he’s been hurt. An accident; my fault, rot my soul in hell.”
     
    “Oh, Marcus. Does he blame you?”
     
    “Of course not.”
     
    “Then I suspect you shouldn’t blame yourself.”
     
    He waved away her attempt at absolution, a certain indication he needed absolving too much to acknowledge her words. “May I invite him?” he asked. “Please.”
     
    “Of course you may, but I don’t understand why you’d wish to.”
     
    He started them walking again, absently stroking her hand on his arm. “For several reasons, really. So I can spend time with him, help him become the old Garr again. There’s so much healing going on here, Jade—emotional as well as physical. Garrett needs both. He may stay ... as he is ...” Marcus cleared his throat with impatience when his voice cracked, “for the rest of his life. Your ladies would be good for him. I think he might be good for them. What do you think?”
     
    “I think I would like to be kissed, please.”
     
    Marcus didn’t need a second invitation. He brought Jade hard against him, closing his mouth over hers—no gentleness, no patience. He wanted to bury the horror and guilt of Garrett’s accident in her silk and scent. In her.
     
    Deep inside her.
     
    He wanted her.
     
    She wanted, too, judging by her trembling. She opened to his coaxing lips, slipped a soft hand beneath his waistcoat, and caressed the hair at his nape with the other. A woman’s hands in his hair always drove him wild, but never so much as now, with Jade.
     
    He slid his seeking hands beneath her coat, his coat, lucky coat, wrapped around her the way he’d like to be, and he learned her with his palms, from her shoulders to the small of her back, to the bottom he’d known from the start would fit his hands just right.
     
    She arched, meeting the evidence of his need and didn’t withdraw, but rocked against him as if she’d done it a hundred times, yet he knew by the kiss that this was a