“I? Why would I give myself such a task?”
She gritted her teeth. “So I can escape. Unless you were lying about your intentions for being here, in which case let me assure you, I am not that sort of lady.”
“To be sure you are not,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I know that well enough. I believe my cheek is still bruised from our last encounter.”
“You deserved it!”
His smile was entirely devoid of humour. “Perhaps I did.”
She shrank back until she collided with a tree. The moon came out, drifting light across the garden like snow. If Helmsley came any closer, he would see her.
She closed her eyes.
There was a sigh of resignation, then the Marquess stepped closer, positioning himself so his body was directly in front of hers. And close, so close, one hand braced against the tree, the other up by her waist. Not touching, not quite, but still close enough that she couldsensewhat his touch would feel like. The searing heat of his palm.
“Do not make a sound,” the Marquess whispered, bending closer. “If you value your reputation at all, that is.”
Her entire body vibrated from the force and speed of her heartbeat.
“Come out, Annabelle,” Lord Helmsley called plaintively. “Enough is enough. I will find you.”
For a moment, darkness crossed the Marquess’s face like a shadow over the moon, but a second later, it was gone. He lowered his head to hers, crowding her in. At this angle, he was so large and all-consuming, he blotted out the bare branches above them. All she could do was try to remember how to breathe.
“If you know what is best for you, you will trust me,” he murmured against the line of her jaw. She felt the rush of his breath, felt the proximity of his lips, but he did not touch her. This was no kiss; it was a disguise.
Her head was spinning, caught betweenrunandfreeze.
The footsteps grew even closer.
“Keep your head down,” he breathed, the hand by her waist finally landing, just as hot as she had imagined. And larger, too; his thumb pressed against her stomach. “When Helmsley sees me, the last thing he would assume is that I’m here with you, so play along, little bird. Can you be coquettish?”
That was the very last thing she was capable of. Her hands came up to his lapels in a silent plea, and he stiffened. The gesture wasn’t designed to bring him closer, but after a moment, it appeared to; his nose nudged her earlobe and her breath stuttered. There was something illicit about the darkness, the way his breath grew heavier, his head dipping lower, his lipsjustgrazing the corner of her mouth.
There was a weight in her legs even as her head swam. Their breath mingled in the scant space between them.
“Lady Annabelle?” Lord Helmsley called from close by. “I know you’re there somewhere.”
She jumped, and the Marquess’s hand flexed on her waist. A silent warning.
Then he turned his head, glancing over his shoulder, his voice impatient as he said, “Mustyou be so loud?”
Annabelle fought back the urge to squeak and practically pressed her face into his chest so Lord Helmsley wouldn’t see her face. Then she prayed the moonlight could perform magic and turn her dress a different colour.
After a heartbeat, the hand that had been braced behind her on the tree came to cup the back of her neck, holding her against him. He smelt like cotton and amber and something darker that reminded her of a rain-soaked night. Wild, yet oddly comforting.
“God, Barrington,” Lord Helmsley said. “At every event?”
“What is the point of accompanying a lady to a house as large as this if one cannot take advantage of the privacy,” the Marquess drawled. He pinched the back of her neck, which was presumably her cue to do something ‘coquettish’.
She, unsurprisingly, froze.
“I quite agree,” Lord Helmsley said. “And on that note, have you seen Lady Annabelle? She came outside, presumably so we can enjoy the privacy of the garden, but I can’t find her.”
Annabelle’s fingers curled more firmly against the Marquess’s lapels. If he moved or revealed it was her, she would be ruined forever. Her heart was uncomfortably large in her throat. She closed her eyes.
“If you have not found her despite all that abominable noise, I suspect she doesn’t want to be found,” the Marquess said, and turned back to Annabelle, crushing her so firmly against the tree, she would have been unable to breathe if she’d tried. The hand cupping her neck tilted her head, and his mouth came within half an inch of hers, his breath hot and steady. She opened her eyes and looked into his face. His eyes were dark holes, shadowed voids, a honey trap.
She was the fly.
