She dimly recalled him suggesting it to her the prior evening, but she had been within such a dreamy haze she could scarcely remember it. Besides that, she had thought anything he said at the time were just the words of a man consumed by desire. What did he mean by asking her this?
“I, um, suppose I could. In private,” she said. “And there is no need to call me Lady Phoebe. Phoebe is just fine. It is what most people I know well call me anyway.”
She was rambling a bit now, but she was taken off guard by his request.
“Very well,” he said, a smile spreading over his face. “Phoebe.”
As she watched, his smile slowly dropped, his gaze becoming much more intense as he focused on her face. His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and his lips stretched into a line as he moved in ever so much closer to her. Was he going to kiss her again? Was she going to let him?
She closed her eyes — apparently they were going to do this once more, here in the open, where anyone could see them — but then a scream rent through the air, and they jumped back in surprise.
“What in the hell — Maxwell!” he called, and he started after his dog, who was busy shaking out his wet fur all over a group of ladies.
Phoebe picked up her skirts and chased after them, curious to see exactly how the marquess was going to handle this situation.
This was turning into an interesting outing, after all.