In the Arms of a Marquess (7 page)
“Then what is so singular about the invitation?”
“Lord Doreé never entertains, and he is only peripherally involved in the Company, really. But this must be a Company gathering. He and St. John are well enough acquainted, of course, the number of proprietors of secure means and title as small as it is. Still, we have never socialized with him.”
“Never?”
“Some years ago, before we joined you in India, we did invite him to a dinner party or two, but he declined our invitations.”
Of course he did. “Perhaps he is an eccentric. They say very wealthy men can be peculiar.”
“Yes.” Alethea cast her a sidelong glance. “They say that about my husband as well.”
“But you don’t care a whit about it. Neither does St. John. Perhaps Lord Doreé is the same.” Tavy tried to smile, but her lips quivered. She had never spoken of him aloud before, except that one morning, to her aunt.
“Perhaps,” Alethea considered.
“He was at Lady Ashford’s party tonight.”
Alethea’s head came around. “Really? St. John and I left early, of course. Did you—”
“We spoke.”
“Good heavens. What is he like?”
“He was civil.” And beautiful. And confusing. And everything she had feared. And she could barely breathe thinking of it.
“St. John says he seems a perfectly unexceptionable person, despite his great fortune and recluse ways. But you know, it is a trial to try to wrest detailed commentary from my husband. He does not see people in quite the same way most do.” Alethea shrugged and smiled, her eyes tender.
“St. John is a good man.” Tavy squeezed her sister’s hand. “And isn’t it lovely that you can remain at home happily with me and Jacob while he goes to discover the mystery of this shooting party?”
“There is the trouble. I was included in the invitation.”
“To a shooting party?” The heart thump rattled her again, pleasure mingling with discomfort beneath her ribs. Sheer foolishness she must learn to control. Again.
“Odd, isn’t it? But there you have it. The marquess must be an eccentric, after all.” Alethea chuckled. “Although he is rather young for one. I do not think he is above thirty.”
Thirty in December.
“Well, you needn’t go.” Tavy’s throat stuck. “St. John will understand.”
“But I feel that I should. If other wives are to be there, I cannot leave St. John alone. It would not be fair to him.”
Tavy’s gaze swung to her sister’s. “Jacob is only—”
“A month old, I know. I will not abandon him, of course.”
“Alethea, you can barely part with him for five minutes yet you expect to leave him with Nurse during hours of entertainment?”
“Not exactly.” Her sister’s green-gray eyes entreated.
Tavy’s stomach tightened. “Thea, I—”
“Nurse will be there, and she is quite good, but I would be so much more comfortable if you were with me.”
“You will have St. John.” Her heart raced, the panic spreading beneath her skin much thicker than before. “You do not need me. This is ridiculous.”
“Rather, it is my wretched nerves. St. John will be out and about with the gentlemen, and I am torn between my loyalty to him and this perfect little creature. If you come, my absence amongst the wives at times will not be so marked, and I will not be so distressed.”
Tavy peered at her sister’s pleading eyes and a surge of warmth rose in her, overpowering the alarm. She drew in a breath and slid her arm around Alethea’s waist again.
“You recovered so swiftly from your confinement, I think we all have forgotten how recent it was, and how difficult the journey was for you.”
“Then you will come?”
“I will if you wish it.”
His party could prove useful. She could not ask the gentlemen point-blank if they knew Marcus’s blackmailer. But traders’ wives sometimes knew more than their husbands realized. Merely sister to a trader, Tavy herself knew more about the Marquess of Doreé than any of them would even begin to imagine.
But that meant nothing in any way that mattered. She would go to his house but she would avoid conversation with him, thereby avoiding confusion. And if every time she caught a glimpse of him her heartbeat sped and her blood warmed, that would simply be her punishment for being such a fool once.
B
en took his head between his hands and tried to focus on the rough surface of the table inches from his face. To no success. The clamor of coarse male voices and equally unrefined female ejaculations combined with the agitated sawing of a fiddle racketed through his brain, halting thought.
But dulled thought was precisely what he had sought here. He couldn’t remember how he ended up on a bench surrounded by dockworkers and sailors, nor could he really recall anything for quite some hours, except the desperate need to forget. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sank them into his hair, the haze thickening.
“Poor ducky.” A woman’s cool, callused fingers passed over his brow. “I’ll wager you ain’t been in such a state in a month of me pa’s sober days. Not here, leastways.”
“Does she truly not understand, Lil?” he uttered to the tabletop. “Could she be so naïve, or is it lies?”
“Who’s that, love?”
He swung his head around and made out the moll’s rounded features. “She has no idea.”
“Then she’s a fool, whoever she is.” Lil pursed her full lips and ran her hand down his neck and back. “Forget about her and come give Lily a cuddle.” She twined her arm around his waist.
He shook his head. “I’ve been trying to forget for years. Can’t seem to. But thank you for the invitation.”
“Always the gentleman.” She smelled of ale and something cloyingly sweet, sorghum sugar, perhaps. But her heart was good. He remembered that about her from years back. Ben tried to smile and failed.
“If she’s noddy enough to put you off, she don’t deserve you, duck. But there’s quality females for you.” Lil shrugged, her bosom threatening to tip over her tight-laced bodice. A brawl brewed across the gin house, shouts and gruff insults. Ben wrapped his hand around the bottle of Blue Ruin and lifted it to his lips.
“There there, ducky. Ain’t you had enough already?”
“I daresay he has, Lil.”
Ben slewed his gaze up. Styles hovered beside the table, swaying from side to side. Or perhaps that was the gin.
“Aw,” Lil scowled, lips tight. “Come to take his lordship away and I’ve not yet got what I came over here for.”
“What’s that?” Styles murmured with a smile.
“What I’ll not be giving the likes of you ever again.” She glared.
Styles’s grin faded.
Ben shook his head. He’d certainly drunk too much.
Lil leaned to his ear and slid a hand along his thigh. “Come on, love. I’ll take your mind off that bit o’ prim-and-proper for half price.”
A chuckle cracked in his tight chest. “Still generous, but never too generous. You give a man hope in the honesty of women, Lil.”
“You’re a peculiar cove, but I likes you. Always did. She don’t know what she’s missing.” Beneath the table she ran her hand over his crotch, lingering, then pulled away and stood up. With another dark look at the baron, she moved off through the crowd.
“What’ve you done to fall into Lil’s bad graces, Styles?” Ben pushed the bottle away and pressed his palms to the sticky table.
“No doubt she’s on her high horse since you are here. She always liked you quite a bit better than me.”
Ben glanced up and Styles’s gaze came around to meet him, shuttered. Peculiar. Unlike him.
Definitely the drink.
Ben pushed onto his feet. His clogged head spun.
Styles laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take you to Hauterive’s. Why you came in here when the company down the street would welcome you, I haven’t the slightest. Glad I came upon you, though.”
“No. I’m for home.” Ben started toward the door.
“You disappeared from Lady Ashford’s party so swiftly I hadn’t an idea of it until you were gone. If I’d have known you were heading here I would have dissuaded you.”
“Couldn’t have.” Ben pushed through the lollers at the tavern’s entry and headed toward the mews down the alley with bleary eyes but houndlike precision. If he hadn’t trekked this path hundreds of times in his university days, he would be lost now. Lost in London’s hells and lost in confounded memories, neither of which locations he particularly wished to be.
“Who was that girl you were dancing with, the one that looked like an Irish Athena, all sublime figure and eyes of soft steel?”
Ben blinked to shut out the image of Octavia’s body wrapped in the shimmering gown, her soft lips, pinkened cheeks, and the sensation of her trembling fingers within his. But behind his lids the image was even stronger, and his hand still felt hot where hers had lain.
“Good God, Walker,” he grunted, “you and Constance would make a perfect pair, both of you curious as a couple of magpies.”
“Lady Constance asked about the girl too? Is she jealous?”
“Only of your paramours.”
“Then the lady at Ashford’s is a paramour?”
Ben shook his head, his stomach rolling. “Not mine.” Not any longer.
He moved across the street in unsteady strides.
But why not? No one controlled his destiny now. His life was his own. Why not seduce a beautiful, deceitful woman, a woman whose flavor yet remained upon his tongue? Why not take pleasure where he wished?
Because he could not then and still could not believe in her deceit, although he had tried to convince himself of it again and again. To absolve himself of guilt.
He stumbled into the stable and pressed his face into his horse’s satiny neck. Taking to the bottle tonight had been a mistake. He needed clarity. A pitcher of icy water over his head would do it, just as her smile had earlier, so brief it seemed she didn’t even know she smiled, washing his vision clear for an instant as it always had.
Drunken idiocy.
He pulled his horse from the stall, jammed his foot into the stirrup and climbed aboard the big black mare. He reached into his pocket to toss a coin toward the stable lad.
“Home, Kali.” If he made it to Cavendish Square without falling off his horse or prey to footpads, it would be by the grace of God, Allah, and Vishnu combined.
“Lady Carmichael was asking after you with great interest not an hour ago,” Styles called after him.
“Lady Carmichael can take her interest and put it where it will give her the most pleasure.” Ben pressed his knees into the mare’s sides.
The wealthy, stunning widow Carmichael had been a habitué of Hauterive’s years earlier, when Ben frequented the exclusive gaming club. She hadn’t made any secret to Ben what she wanted from him. Guided by a young man’s lust and his uncle’s directive, he had given it to her. But away from Hauterive’s, amongst polite society, the lady never once acknowledged their acquaintance, not even after he acceded to the title.
He rubbed a hand over his face, Kali’s heavy hooves sinking into the street. The night hung thick with mist and soot, just like Ben’s head.
He didn’t give a damn about Lady Carmichael. A hundred such perfumed and petted females could seek him out and he still wouldn’t be interested. Lil’s businesslike honesty appealed to him much more, if not the particulars of what she had to offer.
But Ben didn’t want a woman. Like an idiot schoolboy drunk on his first bottle of brandy, he wanted a fantasy. He wanted the past. The past in which, for a few precious moments, he had willfully forgotten how the weight of the world seemed to rest upon shoulders far too young to carry it.
ROACHING A SAIL. A term used by sailmakers to signify the allowance made for the beauty in the appearance of a sail.
—Falconer’s
Dictionary of the Marine
W
aking at midday to a pounding head and mouth apparently filled with cotton lint, Ben shaved, dressed, and poured a cup of coffee into the tin bucket that was his stomach. In the stable his saddle horse, sleek-headed and strong-withered, met him with a wicker.
“My apologies for last night, old girl.” He ran his hand along her ebony neck. “But you made it home despite me. The gods were kind this time, it seems.”
She turned her face to him and he imagined compassion in her deep brown eyes.
“I shan’t do it again, I promise.” He moved to the tack room, where a groom sat polishing a harness. “Saddle Kali for the road, and have the traveling carriage readied to go to Fellsbourne. Samuel and Singh will ride in it.”
Despite Styles’s skepticism, Ben visited his principal estate at harvest time and whenever else his steward needed him. Perched upon an offshoot of the Thames, its bulk nestled at the edge of a forest of oak, pine, ash, and walnut, Fellsbourne was the single place in England Ben felt thoroughly at home. Memories lingered there, all good, of holidays from school spent with his brothers riding, shooting, practicing swordplay, and getting into trouble with the butler and housekeeper—like all hot-blooded English boys of the nobility. They’d been largely alone there, free to do what they wished, only the three of them and sometimes Walker Styles.
Ben’s father had spent little time at the estate, busy in Parliament, living in town in the exotic retreat he had created twenty-five miles away from the grave of his first wife. It was her death in childbirth that had driven him to travel four thousand miles, seeking comfort. There, in India, he discovered a beautiful native maiden with a brother eager to make a lasting alliance with an English lord. A love match, some tittered. A scandal, everyone else gossiped. A failure of a marriage that propelled the marquess back west in less than a year.
Eleven years later he finally sent for his son.
The October afternoon shone cool and mild when Ben set off from London, and the road was short. He arrived at Fellsbourne as its granite and limestone mass glowed in the amber glory of the waning sun, its ancient crenellations and modern windows tipped with gold. Depositing Kali with a servant, he turned from the house and made his way across the green.
Beside the little Elizabethan chapel, free standing in a cluster of ancient trees, a wall enclosed the family cemetery. Ben stepped into the carefully tended plot of tombstones to the newest. Three massive white marble slabs stretched across the turf. The dates etched upon his father’s and eldest brother Jack’s tombs were a mere two months later than Arthur’s, the middle brother.
Burying Jack and his father had been Ben’s first act as the Marquess of Doreé. Trained as a child to the dangers of spying, the complexities of eastern trade and Indian power struggles, the harsh realities of war, and the responsibility of hundreds of people who would someday be in his employ, the funeral had seemed oddly pure and simple, his grief profound yet clean.
He walked back around the house. A carriage stood in the drive. Constance descended from it with the aid of a footman.
She came forward upon light feet. “Do you mind that I have appeared without warning, or asking?”
He took her outstretched hand. “You know you are always welcome here.” He drew her toward the stair to the front entrance.
“Your butler in town told me you were here. He said you intend to make a week’s stay of it. Whatever for?”
“I have invited several acquaintances here upon business.”
“Always business.”
In the foyer, he removed her cloak and passed it to a footman. Her cheeks were rose-hued, her vibrant gaze skittering away from him.
“Come and have a cup of tea. You must be weary after your journey.”
“Oh, it was nothing, a short ride, of course.” In the parlor she drew away, moving to the window facing the north side of the house. “Did you already visit their graves?”
“You know me well.”
She pivoted. “Of course I do. But I do not understand why you do that. It is mawkish.”
“You should try it sometime.” But he knew she would not visit Jack’s grave. He didn’t think she ever had.
Her high brow furrowed. “Do not tease me, Ben. I don’t think I will like it just now.”
“Constance, why are you here?”
She trailed her fingertips along the windowsill, the movements agitated.
“I need distraction. I have had a wretched several days, and must put myself back to rights. Please let me stay. You will need a hostess anyway when your guests arrive.”
“You have not brought Mrs. Josephs, I see.”
“What do I need with a companion when I have your company?”
“I hardly need enumerate the reasons.”
“When does the party begin?”
“In two days.”
“Until then I will play least-in-sight and no one will even know I have been here but you.”
“And the servants. And the villagers who hear it from the servants. You are being unwise, my dear.”
“I don’t care.” Her voice was brittle. “I don’t care if my reputation is ruined and I never marry. Does that satisfy you?”
“Not if I am the reason for it, however innocently.” He moved to the sidebar and poured himself a glass of claret. “Styles is coming.”
The color drained from her cheeks. “How lovely. It will be a pleasure to see him, and in any case if I find the company tiresome I shall simply dash back to London, if I wish.”
“Constance—”
“No.” She came to him, hands outstretched to grasp his. “Do not let us be bothered by anything. You are the single spot of sanity in my life, and I shan’t allow you to ruin that.”
Ben studied her face, the beauty who had awaited her first season with feverish joy because during it she would finally marry the man she had been betrothed to since birth. The man she had adored as only a warmhearted, sentimental girl could, and whose life ended in flames mere weeks before the wedding.
“Fate is a wretched master, is it not, Ben?” she whispered as though reading his thoughts. “Aha, now I have made you smile, although I am not certain why. But I am glad of it. I don’t think I have seen that in weeks.”
“I suspect that is not true, but I will not argue the point.” He drew away and set down his glass. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am off to write a note to your Mrs. Josephs, and to instruct Samuel and the carriage to convey her hither. Will she come in the middle of the night?”
“The middle of the night?” Constance laughed. “I thought you wished to fend off gossip.”
Ben smiled again and went to the door. “I will see you at dinner.”
“You will be weary of my fidgets by the time the others arrive,” she said behind him. “Weary of your responsibility to me.”
“Never, my dear.”
B
en had recently made the rounds of the estate during harvest time. But he did so again, now without his steward, glad to be abroad and his mind occupied. Constance rode alongside the first day, but after that remained within, reading, she claimed.
He left the arrangements for his guests to his housekeeper, only conferring with his gamekeeper to assure that the armory was straightened, the fowling pieces cleaned and polished, the dogs well rested. It was a peculiar comfort to play his lordly role, despite the familiar tension that always accompanied a charade like the one he now orchestrated. But he might as well provide the gentlemen with a bit of sport while he got what he sought from them.
Rising early, he took Kali out to the river in the chill morning, then back along the inland route across newly cleared fields. As he approached the house, a traveling coach trundled down the drive.
Ben pulled off his gloves and hat as he mounted the mansion’s front steps. A gentleman and lady stood in the foyer, removing their coats, footmen seeing to the luggage about them.
“Well, well, Doreé,” Nathans blustered, cheeks red. “Splendid place you have here.”
Ben bowed. “Welcome, Lord Nathans.” He turned to the man’s wife. “Lady Nathans.”
The baroness narrowed her emerald eyes and extended a lily-white hand.
“Lord Doreé,” she purred through bow-shaped lips, short chestnut curls framing a face accustomed to being admired. “We are delighted to be here.”
Ben bowed over her fingers. “The honor is all mine, ma’am.” He turned to his butler. “Mr. Scott, have tea set out in the blue parlor, please.”
Nathans peered about the broad-ceilinged foyer, bending his neck to the dome above, frescoed with Baroque figures of Greek gods—Zeus with Hera at his side, flanked by a warlike Ares, and a graceful Pallas Athena amidst opulent clouds. Years earlier Jack had seen to restorations. Despite their father’s obsession, no hint of Brahma or Shiva could now be found in the hallowed halls of Fellsbourne.
Ben looked at Lady Nathans. Her sharp, underfed gaze was trained upon him.
“May I offer you refreshment after your long journey?” he said, allowing his gaze to slip to the well-filled bodice of her traveling gown. Her ruby lips crept into a cat’s smile.
Nathans swiveled around. “Just the thing, Doreé. Don’t mind if we do. Splendid lodgings you have here, I say. Splendid. Positively top drawer.”
“Forgive me,” Ben said mildly, “but I have just now come in from riding and must do away with my dust. Samuel will see you to the parlor.” He gestured toward the footman. Nathans followed, his lady sliding Ben a half-lidded glance before taking her husband’s arm and moving off.
Ben released a weary breath. It seemed too easy. Marcus Crispin’s business partner had a wife looking for mischief. He needn’t have invited them all here. He probably could have gotten the information he sought in a single night in London. But that was not how he intended to pursue matters now. He hadn’t operated in that manner since his uncle was still alive.
He had not forgotten how to, though. And now he had paved that path in case it should be needed.
He started toward the stairs.
“My lord,” his butler said, “Sir St. John’s carriage arrived in advance of Lord Nathans. The lady appeared interested in the house, so Mrs. Scott offered a tour in your absence.”
“Thank you, Mr. Scott. Where might I find them?”
“I suspect by now they will have reached the east wing, sir.”
Ben changed his direction, heading along the corridor to the public chambers. His housekeeper’s voice became audible as he crossed into the drawing room. He stopped short.
Octavia stood on the opposite side of the chamber in a pool of pale sunlight, her hair lit with a sprinkling of gold, face averted. A gown of winter white caressed her gentle curves and long slender legs, rendering her like the sylphlike image of Athena in the clouds, shoulders back, her stance perfectly at ease. The goddess come to life.
In his house.
Again.
“My lord.” His housekeeper’s voice came to him as though through cotton wadding. “The gentleman and his lady have retired to their chambers with the infant. I was showing Miss here the portrait of your brothers.”
Octavia’s head came around, her lips parted, brown eyes wide with honest dismay, and Ben knew himself to be, upon this occasion, thoroughly abandoned by all the gods.
“G
ood day, Miss Pierce.” He bowed.
“Lord Doreé.” Tavy could say nothing else, nor bring her shaking legs to manage a curtsy. She had not imagined she would meet him first alone at his house, or alone at all.
He was, impossibly, even more handsome than four nights ago at Lady Ashford’s, garbed now in clothing suited to the country, a loose coat, burgundy waistcoat, breeches that hugged his lean, muscular thighs, and top boots sprinkled with mud, a pair of gloves in one hand. His ebony hair was tousled as though he had just removed a hat, his face aglow from riding and his languid black eyes bright.
“It is quite a good likeness,” he said in an odd tone.
She could not form words. Or, apparently, thoughts.
He gestured behind her. “The portrait. My brothers were but twelve and thirteen at the time, but the artist captured them well.”
Tavy’s tongue would not unstick from the roof of her mouth. The housekeeper rescued her.
“How well I remember it. Masters Jack and Arthur could not be still through the sitting, fidgeting about like boys will do, like you all did once you came to live here, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Scott.” He smiled. “Has Miss Pierce yet seen the gallery?”
“No, my lord. We were to go there next.”
“Allow me to complete the tour, then. Lord and Lady Nathans have arrived and I suspect they would be best served by your capable ministrations.”
Mrs. Scott curtsied and departed. A pause ensued during which Tavy’s heart beat uncomfortably like the wings of a hummingbird and they stared at one another. Finally he filled the silence.
