For Her Spy Only (Entangled Scandalous) by Robyn DeHart Page B

He could not be more than thirty. His cane leaned against the bench next to him, and his gloved hand held onto the gold knob on top. An ugly scar slashed across his left cheek, leading up to his eye.
    He looked up from his reading as if he sensed her perusal. His eyes were a startling shade of green, like the first bloom of spring after a blistering winter.
    “My name is Winifred Wilmington,” she said dumbly.
    “Indeed,” he said, then went back to his reading.
    She felt her brow furrow. “What are you reading?” she asked.
    “Shakespeare. As You Like It ,” he said.
    She was quiet for a moment, trying to recall if she’d read that particular play. It seemed she must have, but she couldn’t recall a single thing about it.
    “You know I am not afraid of you,” she said. Her mother used to chastise her about her chattiness, but Winifred had a tendency to talk when she was nervous. And the marquess’s silence had her quite addled. “I don’t think it’s very intelligent to believe everything you hear about a person.”
    “I see,” he said, not bothering to look up from his book.
    “Oh yes, people are quite spiteful with the rumors they spread.” She forced herself to stop talking as she was about to tell him a particularly nasty rumor, but that would be gossiping. She knew she became chatty when she was nervous, and she certainly did not need to say something she would later regret. And she knew the sting of being on the other end of those rumors. When Theodore had left her standing alone with the priest and the church full of onlookers, people had made all sorts of conclusions.
    “What is it that people say about me?” he asked, again not looking up from his book.
    She studied him for a moment, trying to gauge if he was toying with her. He must know what people said. Even the servants gossiped about him.
    He looked up at her and once again she was caught in those unusual eyes. His right brow rose expectedly.
    She swallowed. “That you murdered your wife.” Her voice came out weak.
    “But you do not believe that,” he said.
    “No, I do not.” She shook her head. “You are obviously a responsible and kind gentleman.”
    “ You do not know me,” he said. He set his book aside. His glove gripped the gold knob on his cane.
    “No, but you stopped to assist a stranded lady. That says volumes about your character, my lord,” she said, quite pleased with her logic.
    He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “How do you know I’m not taking you to my castle to ravish you?”
    She sucked in her breath. His words should have driven fear into her heart. They should have made her second- guess climbing into this carriage with him. Instead she became acutely aware of how she must look with her traveling cloak and bonnet. She resisted the urge to pat her hair.
    “Are you? Going to ravish me, that is?” she couldn’t help asking. No man had ever been so forthcoming with her, and the effect was rather intoxicating.
    He crooked his finger at her, beckoning her forward.
    Curiosity gripped her. She leaned toward him. He had lovely eyes, mossy green with long lashes.
    He grabbed her by the chin and pulled her closer, then caught her mouth in a kiss. So shocked by the touch, her lips parted, giving him a brazen invitation to deepen the kiss. His lips were soft and unfamiliar, yet seductive, intoxicating. Her eyes fluttered closed and her hands gripped the fabric of his great coat around his shoulders. And then the kiss was over, ending as quickly and abruptly as it had begun. He leaned back in his seat and she was left in the middle of the carriage with her eyes closed, no doubt looking very much the goose.
    “You should not be so trusting,” he said.
    He was right. Of course he was right. Yet, she felt no fear with him, even at the liberty he had just taken. She felt only curiosity and something that was probably desire, at the very least attraction and intrigue. “You never answered my question,” she shot