more than once.
To his surprise, she looked away, small spots of color rising in each cheek. It was the sort of response one might expect from a schoolgirl, not a wicked widow. It caused an answering, protective response in himself.
Defend the maiden
. He examined that response with detachment, decided it was only to be expected from a gentleman of his caliber, and dismissed it.
Nonetheless, he went on his guard. The chivalrous man within didn't seem to have many defenses against her gamesmanship. That man saw a sweet, untarnished beauty who needed protection and devotion.
Stupid fellow. Marcus knew better.
But damn, she was good.
She'd had a lover, perhaps many. She'd likely drawn in man after man with that dewy, "protect me now" façade…
"Oftimes the best way to play a target is to use their own game."
Wise words from the Prime Minister—and quite probably the answer to Marcus's dilemma. He had the advantage. He knew her deepest weakness, her lustful nature… he also knew she found him attractive despite her caution.
There might be a reasonable explanation for the exotic pet. There might be a rational purpose behind the strange household staff. There might even be some sort of understandable reason for the wicked diaries—although he doubted it.
Yet he would never know unless he became closer to her—much, much closer.
As usual, he acted instantly.
He stood smoothly, one eye on the lion, who did not object this time. Marcus bowed deeply, smiled, and held out his hand. "My lady, would you care to walk with me through the garden?"
Julia blinked at the inviting light in his green eyes.
The garden
? There was little to see there but mulch and brown vines… yet her hand rose to nestle into his anyway.
"Yes," she heard herself say. "That would be lovely."
6
« ^ »
The scent of the rose petals beneath seep into my bare skin until I feel steeped in perfume and passion and him.
Well, damn
. Marcus looked about him in alarm. The garden was a mess, all brown and dry. The rose garden he'd pictured from her diary entry was nothing but rows of skeletal sticks, truncated a foot from the ground. There was nothing but stripped vines covering the grim stone walls and nothing but yellowed grass and gravel on the ground. In the pearly morning light it looked more like a graveyard than a garden.
How was a bloke supposed to stage a seduction in such surroundings?
Lady Barrowby walked slightly ahead of him down the gravel path, her hands clasped behind her back. He noticed that her fingers were twisting together. Another display of girlish nerves from the Beauty of Barrowby?
That was reassuring, but also a reminder of their other companion, the great Beast who padded along at the lady's side, his tail twitching ominously.
Why was he having so much trouble with this mission? He knew what he needed to do and he knew how to make her respond to him. He was a charming fellow usually, prone to making ladies smile and flip their fans his way. What was it about Lady Barrowby that left him tongue-tied with mingled lust and fury?
Lust he'd felt before, so it must be the fury. He'd charmed the knickers off a few widows in his time, but he'd never faced one who held the power to destroy his dreams.
He was going to have to put his mission from his mind, that was all. He was going to have to pretend that she was just another pretty widow, albeit one with a penchant for lions and making love out of doors.
He bottled his fury, stoppered it and put it away for the day he would need it—the day he destroyed her. Finally, with a mind cleansed of anger, he stepped smartly up to her side and smiled down upon her with easy sincerity. "Lovely day, is it not?"
She blinked in surprise. Surely he'd not been all that much of a bear?
"Well," she said slowly. "It is chill and damp, I don't have a wrap, and I think I smell something dead over in the alliums."
"No," he said firmly. "It is a lovely day." He shrugged free of his coat and