My Wicked Marquess by Gaelen Foley

later, when there weren’t prying eyes everywhere. Max decided to go. At least he had accomplished what he had set out to do tonight—he had let her see him, so at least she need not worry that some harm had come to him on her behalf.
    On second thought, it might be slightly vain of him to think she even cared. His face hardened at the dark drift of his thoughts. He withdrew from the deserted ballroom and headed for the nearest exit.
    He did not belong here, anyway.
    Â 
    Safely ensconced in the ladies’ lounge, Daphne gave her reflection a firm look in the mirror. Having had a few moments to steady herself, she knew what she had to do, and it did not include one more moment of hiding in here like a coward.
    She had to go out there and talk to him.
    Talk…to the Demon Marquess.
    She swallowed hard at the prospect, faltering for a moment. Her ladylike sensibilities protested at the notion of approaching a man to whom she had not been properly introduced. But if Albert had told him lies about her, her pride insisted on defending her reputation.
    Somehow this mattered more to her at the moment than the confrontation with Albert that she had planned. Why she cared so much what this stranger thought of her, she dared not examine. She preferred to tell herself it was simply a matter of etiquette. The man had saved her life. The least that she could do was go and say thank you.
    Gliding back out to the party, she moved with a graceful but alert stride, glancing around for him watchfully from behind her open fan.
    He was no longer standing in the doorway of the crowded dining hall, nor did she see him in the ballroom. Daphne frowned. Where had he gone? Just when she was starting to fear she had missed her chance, she spotted him striding down a lonely marble hallway toward a side door of Edgecombe House.
    He’s leaving?
    Oh—dash! She picked up her skirts and hastened after him, her heartbeat quickening in time with the soft pattering rhythm of her satin-slippered footfalls. Her stare was glued to the broad V of his back.
    Say something! she ordered herself. He’s getting away!
    He was almost to the few stairs at the end of the corridor. These led up into a small foyer before a rarely used door. She knew she had to stop him, but Daphne now found herself ridiculously tongue-tied.
    Oh, this was so unlike her.
    â€œUm—excuse me.” Her voice came out as barely a whisper, too soft for him to hear. She rushed after him, determined to try again—not that she had any idea of what she’d do with such a dangerous beast once she had caught him.
    Watching him, she could not help admiring his bold, confident walk ahead, as if he could march through fire and not get burned. “Excuse me!” she called in a louder tone. She faltered—rallied quickly. “Er, don’t I know you?”
    He stopped in his tracks.
    Daphne winced at her decidedly unoriginal greeting, then bit her lower lip. At least this time it seemed that he had heard her call to him.
    She waited, wide-eyed, for his reaction, not knowing what to expect. But she decided on the spot to hide the fact that she already knew his name.
    Just in case he had been making fun of her with Albert, why give him the satisfaction of knowing she had cared enough to note that information?
    Ahead of her, he stood very still; he had not yet turned around.
    If he had, she might have seen the startled flicker of victory in his eyes, and then the sly satisfaction that curved his lips.
    â€œI beg your pardon, sir.” Her heart thumping, Daphne bolstered up her courage and took another uncertain step in his direction. “You are leaving—so soon?”
    Finally, his motions wary and deliberate, the darkly handsome marquess pivoted to face her. His guarded stare traveled over her. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly, “there is any reason for me to stay.” He lifted one eyebrow slightly after his words, as though