M Is for Marquess Read Online Free PDF

wood smoke and vellum stirred up memories of the cozy cottage where Thea had grown up. Papa had been the village schoolmaster and a dedicated scholar; although her family had known lean times, the one thing she and her siblings had never lacked for was books.
    She recalled coming down with a head cold at age eleven, which had led to yet another relapse of her lungs. Weak and listless, she’d been forced to remain in bed; from the window, she’d watched with longing as her siblings worked and chattered away in the garden. How she’d wanted to share in the travails. To carry her own weight, be a full participant in the family.
    When her mama had asked what the matter was, she’d blurted, “Why can’t I be like Emma and the others? Why am I so weak?”
    “Everyone has different strengths, dear,” Mama had said. “You simply have to find yours.”
    That night, Papa had given Thea a leather volume, his blue eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. “The mind can explore even when the body cannot, my girl.”
    Thanks to the adventures of Captain Gulliver, Thea’s convalescence had passed more quickly. Wistfully, she wished her parents were alive to see how the family was thriving—even her, the runt of the litter. She’d never scale a tree like Violet or manage a household with Emma’s alacrity, but thanks to Dr. Abernathy’s treatments she could now practice at the pianoforte for hours without tiring.
    She had enough energy to pursue what she truly wanted: passion and love. The kind she’d read about in novels when she’d been too ill to leave her room. She wanted to experience those vital feelings for herself before it was too late—which meant that she had to get over Tremont. Her best years were already behind her, and she couldn’t afford to waste any more time.
    With a frustrated sigh, she browsed the shelves for a sensation novel and went to curl up by the fire. She saw a tea tray and an empty snifter of brandy on the coffee table in front of her. Odd. The staff was typically relentless in their efficiency.
    “Good evening, Miss Kent.”
    Her head jerked up. Heart thudding, she found herself staring up at Tremont’s austere face. He’d emerged noiselessly from the shelves.
    “Goodness,” she said, “you startled me. You move like a ghost.”
    “An unfortunate habit.” His mouth lifted at the corners—to some inner source of amusement? “I apologize for treading too lightly.”
    “Fools rush in where The Angel fears to tread?”
    His smile deepened at her quip, transforming him from his celestial namesake to a flesh and blood man. Indeed, in his shirtsleeves and sans cravat, he was even more disturbingly masculine than usual. His lean cheeks bore the shadow of bronze scruff, which accented the sensual line of his lips. Against the snowy linen of his shirt, his throat was strong and bronzed, the open collar offering a tantalizing glimpse of his muscled, hair-dusted chest…
    “What are you doing up at this hour, Miss Kent?” he asked.
    Hastily, she pulled her gaze up. “I couldn’t sleep.”
    “Neither could I. All the excitement, I suppose.”
    She did not reply. Not because she couldn’t think of anything to say but because of the abundance of words suddenly cluttering her brain. Did I imagine the attraction between us? Why did you leave without a word? Was my kiss that repugnant? Yet she’d never been one to confront, and so she sat there, steeped in silent tension.
    Logs crackled in the fireplace. Tremont ran a hand through his hair, a sign of his own unease perhaps. It was an improper situation; when he opened his mouth, she fully expected him to take his leave.
    Instead, he gestured to the adjacent wingchair. “May I?”
    She blinked. “If you like. It seems you were here first.”
    He settled his long, lean frame against the leather. With the ankle of one boot propped against the opposite knee, he regarded her. Master of the house, even if he was only a guest. Power, understated yet