In the Arms of a Marquess (3 page)

“And her coiffure—”

“Divine. I daresay I’ve seen nothing so smart in years. I would arrange my Penelope’s hair just like it, but of course it would not do for brown. Miss Pierce’s hair is entirely unique.”

“And
natural
.”

“She may be over the marriageable age, but she has the most maidenly address.”

“They say she keeps a monkey.
And
she has ridden an elephant.”

“Good gracious, how adventuresome.”

In the shadow of a potted palm, Tavy sipped her glass of orangeat, wishing it were black tea laced with cane syrup and cardamom. Theatergoers wandered about enjoying themselves. The play was diverting enough, but outside it was gray, London in late September just as she remembered it. And cold, just like her hands and feet and humor.

Tavy wished for sun and heat and Lal sitting upon her shoulder playing with her hair as she read, both of them ensconced in a hammock woven of soft hemp. Instead, she had carriage rides in the crowded park, supper parties, thin tea, and endless wide-eyed commentary. English society just as in Madras, simply lots more of it.

Tavy’s stomach tightened, her surroundings closing in like a cage. Albeit a pretty one.

“Have you truly ridden an elephant?”

She swiveled and met a smiling gaze. Stunning in a gown of midnight silk threaded with silver, sable tresses bound atop her head with sapphire combs, the lady had an air about her of Continental fashion.

Tavy lifted her brows. “I wish I had. Yet somehow the rumor is rife.”

“Do not allow anything they say to affect you. In a few weeks they will have entirely forgotten they said it. I ought to know.”

“Thank you, I think. Are we acquainted?”

“I feel as though we are.” The lady extended a gloved hand, her eyes warm. “I am Valerie Ashford and your sister has for years been my fondest correspondent. I know more about you, perhaps, than you would wish.” A laugh like honey spilled from her lips, and she leaned forward to kiss Tavy on both cheeks in European style. The gesture warmed Tavy. Momentarily.

“I am honored, my lady.” She curtsied, but the viscountess clucked and drew her up.

“Where is your sister? I only arrived in town today from the countryside and intend to call upon her tomorrow. Tell me she is well.”

“Very well, I am happy to report. At home with the baby. She cannot tear herself away.”

“No fond new mother can. But why are you standing in this corner all alone? You should be surrounded by eager gentlemen.” Valerie drew her from behind the palm into the light of the corridor. “With whom have you come here?”

“Lady Fitzwarren. She went searching out her friends, I believe.”

“She is delightfully eccentric. And I can see from the twinkle in your eyes that you know that. No doubt you rub along famously together.”

“I like her quite a lot.”

“Of course you do. Goodness, you
are
lovely, just as all the gossips say. Have they seen you smile like that, I wonder? Probably not. You were hiding, after all.” Her gaze sparkled, then fixed over Tavy’s shoulder. She lowered her voice. “Now who is this handsome gentleman approaching? I do not believe I am acquainted with him but he seems to know you.”

Tavy’s heart made a tiny thud as she turned. She met a pair of amiable hazel eyes and her insides righted themselves.

Foolish nerves.

Lord Crispin bowed neatly, his smile ever so pleasing beneath a long, aristocratic nose, clear brow, and thick sepia-colored hair. Tavy made the introductions, glancing at his finery. He always dressed with understated style, up to the stare but never beyond it. Neither nabob nor pink, dandy or dowd. Perfect Marcus Crispin.

“Delighted, Lady Ashford.” He bowed. “The praise of your beauty is not overdone.” His voice reflected the appreciative glint in his gaze. Tavy had seen that glint turn dozens of ladies giddy, occasionally even gentlemen. Marcus Crispin had not collected a comfortable fortune in trade and won a peerage by failing to use his charm and good looks to advantage.

“I understand you have spent time in the East Indies, like my friend here.” The viscountess touched Tavy’s arm in the gesture of an intimate.

“Indeed,” the baron replied. “It was the most fortunate coincidence that Miss Pierce and I became acquainted there.” He smiled at Tavy.

Valerie’s gaze darted between them then returned to the baron. “And how did you find that country, my lord?”

“The climate is dreadfully insalubrious, and the Hindustanis often fractious. But, if I may entertain a crude topic in the presence of ladies, the business is excellent. If one can cozen the natives in just the correct manner.” His offered a confiding smile.

Tavy’s neck felt hot and a bit sticky.

“Really?” Lady Ashford seemed intrigued. “In what manner exactly does one cozen the natives? Do tell, my lord.”

Tavy’s attention slipped away. In the weeks since her return, she had heard him expound upon his ten months in India to any number of people. His narrative rarely altered, although he always delivered it with charming animation. She should be proud to be on his arm so often, this handsome, successful gentleman whom everyone seemed to know was courting her.

Throat tight, she scanned the glittering crowd. Unfamiliar face upon unfamiliar face, fashionable ladies and gentlemen, diverting conversation.

She missed home, and the outer shell of measured, elegant propriety she had struggled so hard to affect over the past seven years had finally burrowed beneath the skin. Her heart felt chill, just like the dreary English autumn.

A flicker of the spirited girl she had once been, locked so neatly away, cried out in protest. She shushed it.

Clearly she required diversion. Whenever she had the blue devils in Madras she invented projects. Perhaps a project would help her now. Quite a large one.

The bell rang to announce the third act. Tavy turned toward the box and her gaze arrested.

In a cluster of people close by, a gentleman stood with his back to her. His black hair glistened in the chandelier light, short at the nape of his neck meeting a snowy white cravat. His broad shoulders were encased in a black coat fit perfectly to his lean, muscular form, his long legs in elegant buff trousers. On his left hand, a thick flash of gold sparkled, his skin warm-toned, like golden sand at sunset on the Equator.

Stillness washed through Tavy.

Panic swiftly replaced it, rushing from the soles of her feet to her legs and twining into her chest in hot little darts.

She had suspected she would see him eventually. Indeed, she expected it. But suddenly it seemed too soon. She was not yet ready. A few more weeks in society, after she gained her bearings, and she might be. Or possibly never.

But she could not tear her gaze from him. It clung, quivering with the fear of looking and the even greater fear of looking away. Without her willing it, it consumed every line of his body, every lock of hair and detail of the only man she had ever particularly cared to stare at.

His head turned slightly, his face averted from his companions, as though he had become aware of being watched. Tavy’s blood seemed to fuse to her bones. How well she had memorized that profile, square jaw, high cheekbones, straight nose, the careless fall of ebony hair over his brow.

His shoulders shifted, turned, and his gaze met hers.

Nothing showed in it, nothing of surprise or even recognition in the languid black eyes. He looked at her for a moment then returned his attention to his friends.

Tavy blinked, a shudder of heat and alternate cold coursing through her, so internal, so deep, it buried itself before it was able to come to the surface.

Then numbness. No feeling at all.

She assessed her heartbeat as though from a distance. Even. Calm. Her breathing regular. After seven years of wondering and waiting, it was an astoundingly anticlimactic finale. But it was a finale, at least. She now had something to write in the margins of her Falconer’s
Dictionary of the Marine
, both bible and diary to her since her fifteenth birthday. Perhaps under the heading “To Disembark.”

She pulled in a thin breath and shifted her regard to his companions, several elegantly arrayed gentlemen suitable for a marquess’s acquaintance, and a statuesque blonde with a good deal of cleavage decorating the bodice of her modish gown. The lady lifted a fawn-gloved hand and rested it upon his sleeve, and her gaze spanned the space to Tavy.

Tavy stared into the wide blue eyes. She was beautiful, all warm golden glory, luscious lips, and voluptuous curves. As gorgeous as her handsome escort. A perfect pair.

It must be the Scottish duke’s daughter. Lady Constance Read.

“May I escort you to your boxes, ladies?” Lord Crispin’s voice pulled her back.

“My party is just over there.” Lady Ashford squeezed Tavy’s fingers. “Octavia, I will call upon you tomorrow.” She moved away.

The baron took Tavy’s arm. “Are you enjoying the play?”

“The scenery is—” She flicked her gaze around, but the elegant party had gone. “It is interesting, my lord.”

“Miss Pierce, will you do me the honor of calling me by my given name?”

“If you wish, Marcus. We have been friends for two years, after all.”

“Octavia— May I call you Octavia?”

“Yes.” He already had.

“Octavia, I hope to be more than friends.”

“Thank you, Marcus. I know. My father told me, of course.”

“Of course.” He chuckled. “You are priceless.” He patted her hand and led her into Lady Fitzwarren’s box. The dowager had not yet returned. Marcus’s brow beetled. “I don’t like to leave you here alone.”

Octavia took another slow breath, this time of intention.

“Why don’t you sit with us for the remainder of the play?” she said. “I am certain Lady Fitzwarren would be happy for your company.”

“Would you?” His eyes glimmered with confidence. Life married to this man could suit her. She would have the freedom to do whatever she wished as a married woman, and an inestimable companion.

“I enjoy your company, Marcus. I quite like you, in fact.” The words felt strange on her tongue. But she did like him.

He squeezed her fingers. “I will bid my party
adieu
and return shortly.”

Alone, Tavy glanced at the unruly crowd in the pit, avoiding the boxes above. Apparently the fashionable set never remained through an entire play. Of course, she didn’t know anyone amongst that set, so really it did not signify where she looked.

She folded her damp hands, heart pattering behind her ribs. Like a caged bird’s wings. Her skin felt hot all over now and uncomfortably tight. Some sort of delayed reaction, no doubt. It had been seven years, after all. Quite a long time. Quite a foolishly long time.

Voices came from the other side of the partition, hushed and urgent, Marcus and another man. The conversation of the rowdies in the pit below had reached a clamor. As she’d done in the
bazir
and society parties in Madras for years, Tavy tried to focus upon the furtive conversation.

“I will not,” Marcus said. “I signed it once before because of our agreement—”

“And you’d better again, milord,” a scratchy voice replied, “assurin’ that ship leaves wi’out inspection, or you know what’ll happen to—”

“Don’t think you can threaten me.” Marcus’s voice crept higher.

“I just did, milord. You’d better agree or I’ll be visitin’ you at home the next time.”

“You would not dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

Footsteps sounded and Marcus appeared beside her.

“My apologies. I was detained by an acquaintance.” His face looked oddly blotched.

“Marcus, is everything all right?”

“Certainly.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “Especially now that I am with you.”

“I heard some of your conversation just now. It sounded like that man was threatening you.”

“Of course not. Octavia, I have a great many business associates, just as St. John. Some are less genteel than others, I’m afraid. But this is nothing to concern you, merely a typical transaction. Men’s business.”

He patted her hand. For the second time that evening. Tavy had the urge to remove her fingers from beneath his and throw her gaze across the theater.

The actors retook the stage, and she pinned her attention to them until the applause ended and Marcus escorted her to the carriage waiting along the crowded block.

“There you are, dear girl.” Lady Fitzwarren’s multiple chins bounced, her violet taffeta skirts billowing as she strode toward them at a clip far too rapid for a woman of her ample girth. “Crispin, you are gracious to see my charge to our carriage.”

He handed the dowager up, a rumbling fit of coughs and snuffles accompanying her ascent. She waved a scented kerchief and settled onto the squabs.

“You must join our party at Vauxhall tomorrow evening.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He smiled, but the expression did not reach his eyes, and his gaze shifted about the street. Gaslights burned amber halos across the pavement, heavy mist swirling about the people departing the theater like ghosts in a dream.