Chapter 7
Marguerite took another turn around the small but impeccably groomed garden, even the lush scents of roses doing nothing to calm her mounting irritation.
Why, Walker might not have come to the town house to see her at all—not that she wanted him to! He’d come to visit with Jared or Donovan and since neither of them were here, he’d probably left by now or Lindsay was regaling him with Justin’s latest antics and…and why did she even care?
“I don’t care!” Marguerite fairly shouted, stopping so abruptly that she startled a pair of mourning doves from an apple blossom tree. And she refused to pace around this garden another moment longer!
Lifting her skirt so she might run all the faster inside and upstairs to her room, Marguerite spun around only to again, stop dead in her tracks.
Her jaw dropping.
Her eyes widening.
A shriek that sounded more like a squeak escaping her throat as one foot caught in the other and she toppled into Walker, who had come up like a phantom behind her.
Except she didn’t fall, his strong arms flying around her to catch her and draw her against him.
Her hands splayed upon his chest.
Her heart beating so hard that for a moment she didn’t know what to do or what to say other than to stare up at him while a familiar wry smile lit his striking features.
“Don’t care about what, Miss Easton?”
The huskiness of his voice thrilling her, Marguerite nonetheless began to struggle in his arms as outrage overcame her.
“You, Mr. Burke!” she blurted, growing even more flustered that he seemed in no hurry to loosen his embrace. “Oh, forgive me, I meantLord Summerlin—and if you’ll kindly let me go!”
Still he held her, and now she heaved an exasperated sigh and ceased her struggles, staring boldly into his eyes. “Clearly you are a rogue, sir, for if you were truly a gentleman, you would have released me by now—oh!”
He did release her, and with such abruptness that she felt instantly bereft not to have his arms around her, which made her all the more disconcerted and angry with herself by turns. He was dressed more casually than the night before—a dark brown coat over a simple white shirt open at the neck, matching breeches, and black riding boots—and she could not deny the attire made him appear even more handsome in a rougher sort of way. Suddenly feeling rather breathless, she made to brush past him.
“I must go.”
“So soon, Marguerite? When I came here today first and foremost to speak with you?”
She stopped right next to him, drawn to the intent expression on Walker’s face. He gazed at her now with a look in his raven-black eyes that reminded her of when they were dancing last night—as if she were the only woman that existed. Feeling strangely uncertain all of a sudden, she had to remind herself that had beenbeforeLady Belinda Cavendish had so easily turned his head.
“I don’t understand why,” she said tersely, her pique rising again. “I can’t imagine what you might have to talk to me about—”
“I’ve no interest in Lady Belinda, though I danced with her last night. Absolutely none at all.”
Walker had turned to face her and gathered her hands in his much larger ones to hold them fast against his chest. Still he looked at her so intently that Marguerite found she could not have looked away if she’d tried.
“I…I don’t understand why you think that would be of import to me,” she began as he bent his head closer to hers. Oh, Lord! Why was he staring at her so? “Truly, what you do is your own affair—”
“Yet you called me a rogue, so clearly something distressed you from when I held you in my arms last night until now.”
He’d drawn closer, so close that Marguerite could but stare at his lips, his breath warm against her cheek. His hands no longer held hers but had fallen to her waist, the weight of them sending shivers coursing through her.
