His happy continence slipped, and he leaned away. "You're still afraid of me."
"Yes." There was no point in hiding it. "And I don't see that changing in the next two days. So, perhaps this entire venture is pointless."
He shook his head and never once strayed from her gaze. "No, I intend to change your mind."
"Impossible." She straightened her skirts and the carriage moved toward the road. "Just as impossible as me proving my uncle innocent. Don't you see? We'll never work."
"We will," he told her as his smile returned.
She moved around in her seat before she said, “We should have taken my carriage. It’s much more pleasant.” She knew that was an unbecoming thing to say, which was why she’d said it. She wanted him to have no reason to wish for her to stay.
Something flickered in his eyes before he guarded it away and he asked, “How long have you had the carriage?”
“Creed purchased it for me after my father died four years ago.” She smiled. “I still recall that day. The carriage was so brilliant sitting on the street, the paint fresh in the morning air.” She shook her head and said, “I’ll always be grateful to him for it.” And she’d continue to praise Creed for the gift, which she suspected would drive him mad. He’d give up soon on their match. She was certain of it.
She waited for him to say something.
“Shouldn’t your cousin Lord Housley be caring for you?”
She thought about Mr. James Carey then. She’d only met him once at the funeral. He was an old gentleman who’d only seemed concerned for her until her father’s solicitor, Mr. Deacon, told him he’d not inherited the hotel. Carey’s anger has surprised her, and she still recalled him saying he was sure he’d been the heir. But London residences were never entitled, and it was always left to the owner as to what would happen to it. Only after Mr. Carey left did her father’s lawyer tell her that Creed, according to the will, was the new owner of the hotel.
“Creed takes fine care of me.” And she’d never seen Lord Housley since.
“Did you know Creed as a child?”
Philomena shook her head. “I’d never met him until the day he arrived and inherited the hotel.”
“You don’t find that strange?” Morgan asked.
Mena shrugged. “I never met a great many of my father’s friends, my lord. I didn’t even know Mr. Deacon until he arrived with the will.” Her father’s first solicitor, a Mr. Fenner, had died and Mr. Deacon had taken over just a year before his death.
Morgan frowned. “Mr. Fenner’s death was suspicious as well?”
“A stabbing. There have been many of those recently.” Mena sighed and turned away. Mr. Fenner’s death still bothered her. There had been no family for her to visit and give her condolences to, which had made her all the more saddened but also glad. It meant he’d not left anyone behind to mourn him, unlike her father.
"It's a beautiful day, is it not?"
The question caught her off guard. Mena glanced out of the window and saw that it was yet another sunny day that caused even the dreariness of city concrete and brick to sparkle, before turning toward him again. She wondered if he’d changed the subject because her expression had reflected her dark thoughts. "I suppose."
"You suppose?" He lifted a brow. "It's a rare day we're having. Perfect for the park."
"Yes, but when you're a lady, you're not even allowed to enjoy it. Instead, I'm forced to sit under a parasol and avoid the sun's rays at all cost. Only dogs and birds are allowed to sit in the sun." And what she'd give to be a bird and simply fly away. Birds never had to worry about arranged marriages.
"You like the sun," he said with a considering expression.
"Don't most people?" She pulled her mind away from her thoughts and returned to him. She knew she must be civil but part of her wanted to annoy him, break him from his fa?ade so that he would show his true self and she could return home.
"I know some ladies who hate sunlight." He moved, positioning himself in the corner of the carriage while stretching his legs out. They brushed her skirts, startling Mena, who moved them out of his way. He crossed his arms. "Most ladies fear sunspots."
Mena sighed. How often would she be reminded of her failings? "Well, I'm not most ladies."
He looked her over, running his gaze from her toes up to her face and causing her to blush along the same path. When he spoke, his voice was warmer. "I know."
They turned into a gate that led up to a mansion, and Durham tapped on the carriage, which caused it to come to a halt. Then he went out and a moment later held his hand out for Mena.
She frowned, yet took the offered hand and stepped down onto the graveled driveway. She recognized the beautiful white mansion in Grosvenor Square in the distance, but her view of it was momentarily cut off when Durham stepped before her, even more handsome with sunlight spilling over him. She straightened her shoulders and stared into his eyes. "Why have we stopped here, my lord?" The carriage continued on its journey to the house, leaving them behind.
"Morgan." He touched her chin once again. "As my fiancée, you can call me Morgan in private."
Morgan Platt. She'd always known his name, but Mrs. Gale had forbidden her from using it until Durham gave her the freedom to do so.
Now she had it, and she didn't want it. She didn't want to be familiar with his man in any way.
She opened her mouth to reply, but he closed it when his hand began to tilt her face back, and she quickly closed her eyes right before sunlight filled her face. A flare of warmth traveled through her, and she curled her toes with happiness right before she remembered herself and ducked her face. "I'm a lady! I can't stand in the sun."
His hands touched her cheeks and forced her gaze to rise to his. His expression was just as soft as his voice. "You're my fiancée. If sunlight pleases you, it pleases me."
Mena's heart fluttered, but she ignored it and narrowed her eyes instead. "You won't believe that once I'm tan with sunspots."
"You could never be anything but beautiful, Philomena." His thumb swept the edge of her jaw, and Mena felt another fluttering go off within her stomach. She was used to being called beautiful. She knew that she was well favored and that it was the reason Creed had asked her to help rebuild the Housley reputation, but Durham’s words seemed just as physical as his hands on her.
Before she could come up with words, he dropped his hold on her face and took her hand. After securing it on his arm, he started toward Wardington’s house.
Without her parasol, Mena felt as though she were bathing in pure day. The only parts of her that didn't feel the sun were the parts that Durham held. Instead of the sun's heat, Durham gave off a heat of his own, mixed with the scents of earth, male, and touches of the sea.
She was tempted to ask him about his journey, but questions would imply she cared for him and she didn't. She would get through today and tomorrow and then never see the marquess again.
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6
CHAPTER
SIX
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