Suzanne Robinson (4 page)

“What?”

While he stuffed his pain into a deep pocket of his mind, Alexis got up and locked the drawing room door.
Both of them knew that neither her mother nor anyone else would dare disturb the marquess unless summoned. He pulled the curtains closed, walked back to Ophelia, and sat beside her.

Drawing on the arousal that still simmered within him, he let it loose in his stare. Until she made her blunder, he hadn’t been serious about his physical pursuit. Now he touched his fingertips to her lips and deliberately drew her attention to his own with a soft whisper of her name.

It was the opening tactic in a campaign he never lost. He used no other words. They would make her think. He used his body—as he would a saber—and the girl responded. By pressing close, he could feel her chest rise and fall. Putting his hands on her hips, he held himself back from her and ran his tongue from her lips, down her throat to the flesh above her breasts. He kissed her there once, twice, a third time. After stroking his tongue over the places he’d kissed, he whispered her name again.

His breath made her wet skin goose bump. Ophelia muttered something. To his surprise, she pushed at his shoulders and brought him down beneath her. Once he was supine, she attacked his lips.

Still more unexpected were her breathless words. “It’s been so hard to wait for you.”

His eyes widened, and he tried to ask how long she had been stalking him, but she drove her tongue into his mouth. He submitted until her hand began to steal down his chest. It fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, then moved toward his groin. At that moment he ground his teeth until his jaw hurt, summoning the will to thrust her from him and rise. She toppled aside, her crinoline swinging up to bump her nose. Grinning, Alexis began to straighten his clothing. It was a mean grin, mostly because he was in pain. Unshed tears made his eyes sting. Furious at himself for his gullibility, he willed the tears away as he always did. Why couldn’t she have been different?

He’d been wrong to take this risk. His gaze wandered to a Chinese vase. He should never have forgotten that he was different—condemned to feed his starving soul on the stale water and moldy bread of sensuality. He’d learned young that no banquets of true affection existed between men and women of rank.

Alexis shook his head. The morning’s ride must have addled him. All he really wanted was to swim along the surface, not to dive deep and be swept into an undersea current. Yet this revenge against Ophelia was leaving him feeling soiled and disgusted with himself. He couldn’t seem to stop, though. He needed to escape the hurt, and anger burned it away.

“Alexis.”

Something in her voice, a change in timbre, a faltering, caused him to glance up from buttoning his trousers. She had straightened her clothing. She rose and put her hand on his cheek.

“What’s wrong? Alexis, you are so beautiful.”

“Thank you.” He turned away, not wanting to hear, but she pursued him.

“How chivalrous you are to wait for me.”

He picked up his coat, then drew back the curtains. Ophelia hastened to finish buttoning her collar. She came to him as he fastened his coat.

“How long shall we wait?” she asked.

“Wait for what?” He brushed the hair back from his brow.

“To make the announcement of our betrothal.”

He lifted his eyes to hers. His brows shot up. “Ophelia, my dear, you said you knew what I wanted, and then you gave it to me. Part of it, that is.”

The air shot out of the girl’s lungs. She stepped back and opened her mouth to scream. He fastened a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her to him.

“If you bring them down on me, I’ll call a physician to examine you for proof of virginity.”

“Oooooh!”

He released her, smiling at her ladylike outrage.

“I could kill you.”

“If I’m dead you can’t marry my title.”

To his surprise, Ophelia’s fury disappeared. If a face could become an accounting ledger, hers did in the second before her self-control reasserted itself.

Mountain goat to the bone. Alexis’s shoulders drooped. It served him right for being such a bloody fool.

Ophelia began to indulge in tears. He wanted to slap her, but even now he couldn’t bring himself to do violence to a woman. So he stopped the tears by pressing his mouth against her neck. The sadness always went away for a while if he took physical solace, so he sucked at the base of her throat while his thumb rubbed over the material that covered her nipple. As desire built, hurt faded enough so that he could almost ignore it. He spoke with his mouth grazing her skin.

“We mistook one another. That doesn’t mean we can’t make the best of what’s passed between us.”

“But you have to marry me.”

“Hush.” He nipped at her lower lip. “You’ll learn not to try to force me, and then we’ll get along much better.”

He kissed her once. As he walked to the door, she remained standing in the middle of the room smiling at him in a self-satisfied way that he knew meant she hadn’t given up. He left her to think of ways to subdue him. He was used to women who spent most of their time away from him doing just that. One more would make no difference.

It was time for Kate to dress for the ball. Ophelia’s latest Improving Work was transforming Kate Grey into a belle,
so it was Ophelia’s fault that dressing had become a tactical nightmare that lasted for hours. Kate was at the mercy of two maids because of this terrible ball, and her cousin was turning out to be a benevolent bully. Ophelia sat in a chair in her dressing gown and personally directed the transformation.

Underthings. They weren’t so bad. Then came the corset. A skirmish over how tight to lace it. Kate won. Next, the camisole and the hated stiff petticoat. Then another petticoat. And another, and another, and another, and one more. Finally the dress. It was hefted overhead by means of long rods and dropped like a net over an insect. When it was in place, the buttoning started.

At last Kate was able to turn and look at herself in the mirror. The gown was white, all lace and pearls. If she hadn’t been so squashed and loaded down, she would have gasped. Even with her hair mussed, she looked so different, not herself at all. Kate looked down at her breasts. If these low-cut gowns were the fashion for balls, she was lucky her waist was so small. The difference in size between it and the rest of her would keep the dress from falling off.

Ophelia floated over to the mirror while Kate was gawking at her reflection. “Didn’t I tell you that gown would do wonders?”

“I don’t know,” Kate said. “What do you think?” She turned around in a circle.

“Oh, lovely, lovely. Only …”

“Something wrong?”

“Well, yes. You see, it’s your hair.” Ophelia pursed her lips and looked at Kate’s head. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. In your own interest, of course. I mean, well, the color is what you might call garish.”

Kate put her hand to her hair and blushed. Ophelia rushed to her and gave her a hug.

“There. I’ve said it and I’m glad. Now I can tell you
what to do about it. A chignon.” Ophelia turned to one of the maids. “Minnie, a chignon. And Jane, bring that spray of white flowers for Miss Kate’s hair.”

It didn’t take long to subdue the unfortunate curls into a ball at the back of Kate’s head. The flowers were brought and afixed around the knot. Kate gazed at the results and tried not to be hurt. She had forgotten about her hair. It was like wearing a fireball on her head. Ophelia was kind to have thought of it, even if Kate couldn’t help the ache it brought to her throat to have it described with a delicate grimace.

Ophelia put her cheek to Kate’s and hugged her again. They stared at each other in the mirror, and Ophelia whispered, “And now let’s take care of those spots.”

Kate felt the heat rush to her face. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we want to cover up as many of those little freckles as we can.”

Kate tried not to turn red, but it was no use. She concentrated on making her face a blank so that no one would notice the tears she was holding back. She hadn’t known that other people were disgusted by her freckles, and Ophelia was too much of a Lady to say so. Kate swallowed hard and allowed Ophelia to apply powder papers, one after the other, until her face was almost as white as her gown. As she worked, Ophelia chattered.

“You’ll never guess who called, never.” She didn’t wait for Kate to guess. “It was the Marquess of Richfield.” Squirming with the effort not to jump up and down, Ophelia paused and watched Kate as if she expected her cousin to swoon at her news.

Kate nodded politely. She put her hands behind her back to hide their fidgeting.

“Officially he came to visit Mother, but it was on account of me.” Ophelia waved a powder paper and beamed at Kate. “I mean to have him. Oh, you should see him. His
eyes are the most brilliant green and his hands—Kate, he’s tall and—and everything!”

“That’s nice.”

“Nice? Indeed yes he’s nice. Didn’t you hear what I said? He called on Mother, and he’s the Marquess of Richfield. The Richfield lands take up most of the county. Kate, I’m talking about Alexis Phillipe Charles Michael Carlyle de Granville.”

“All of them?”

Ophelia tapped Kate’s forehead with the powder paper. “No, silly chit. There’s only one. Those are his names. And there are three or four more titles, but I forget them all. The important thing for you to understand is that he sees the Queen and he owns half of England.”

Kate smiled and let Ophelia natter on. Her glance strayed to the book of engravings lying on the table beside her bed. She would put it away along with her thoughts about the Marquess of Richfield. Both were scandalous for her to possess. Kate knew a staked claim when she saw it, and Alexis de Granville was well marked.

After powdering Kate’s nose one last time, Ophelia stepped back to judge her work and smiled.

“Got most of them. I must go, but I’ll be back to take you down. Don’t muss your dress.”

With that, Ophelia was gone. Kate turned her back to the mirror. With the help of the two maids, she stepped into her dancing slippers, then they left, too. Kate stood still in the middle of the room, feeling chilled. She couldn’t sit down for fear of wrinkling the gown. Walking across the room, she leaned her forehead against the window as she had that afternoon. The pane was cold, but she paid no attention.

It wouldn’t do to cry. A veteran of the American frontier didn’t cry over garish hair and freckles. Besides, the tears would spoil the powder.

Much later Kate was standing beside Aunt Emeline,
who dozed in an armchair. Before her was the polished ballroom floor, and across it swept a blur of skirts and trousered legs. Standing with her was a young man whom Ophelia had introduced as Mr. Arbuthnot. Kate clenched her gloved hands together and searched her mind for something else to say. Each time she tried to begin a conversation, something went wrong. Perhaps Englishmen weren’t interested in the argument between the Northern and Southern states on slavery, or in the beauty of San Francisco Bay. Of course. She must talk about England. Fixing a smile on her lips, she tried again.

“I have read some of the stories of Mr. Charles Dickens lately.”

Mr. Arbuthnot was watching a group of laughing cavalry officers. Kate glanced down at her hands, then looked up and smiled again.

“Are you interested in history, Mr. Arbuthnot?”

The young man dragged his gaze away from his friends and looked down at her. “History? Can’t abide the stuff. Ah! Here is Miss Maitland. I’ll leave you two ladies to rest after all this dancing, shall I?”

Without waiting for her answer, Mr. Arbuthnot bolted away. Kate saw him rejoin the officers he’d been with before Ophelia made him talk to her. As she watched, Mr. Arbuthnot made a comment, and several pairs of male eyes glanced at her. There was a round of smirks among them. Kate turned her back.

“Really, Kate, what did you say to Weedy to make him rush off like that?” Ophelia patted her upper lip with her kerchief and smiled at a gentleman passing by.

“I don’t know. I asked him—”

“Shhh.” Ophelia grabbed Kate’s arm. “Don’t turn around. Keep looking at me and smiling. He’s here. It’s so late, I thought he wasn’t coming.”

“Who?”

“The marquess. You can turn around, but don’t let him
see you looking at him. He’s the one talking to Lord Bunton and Mother.” Ophelia giggled. “He’s so much taller he has to bend down to hear old Bunty. No, over by the doors. See the one with the black hair?”

Kate saw him, and there it was again, that feeling of magic. The world grew fantastical. Colors suffused with brightness, and her spirits lifted as though she’d discovered her own gold mine.

She stared at Alexis de Granville until Ophelia nudged her. The marquess wasn’t looking their way, however, for his progress about the room was hindered by friends. He took a step, then was stopped by a couple. After exchanging a few words, he began to move again, only to be brought up short by a pack of young officers. She couldn’t hear what he said to them, but the whole group closed around him, quiet and attentive for once. Alexis laid a hand on one man’s shoulder, gave him a sweet look, and said three words. She started when every officer in the group burst into laughter, including the young man who was the brunt of the marquess’s comment.

He left them before they’d recovered and ran into a blockade of skirts. Beside her, Kate heard Ophelia growl as a mama and her two daughters cooed at him. By this time, however, Ophelia’s mother had decided to rescue Alexis, and the blockade evaporated under the attack of this worthy battleship. He was captured and towed to port in front of Kate and Ophelia.

As he came closer, Kate could feel the tug of the magic. She was sure it was real now, because she’d seen it work on a roomful of people. She wasn’t imagining things. People fought for his attention; they claimed him as they would a prize. Yet she sensed a hesitancy in those who sought him out. It was as though they approached an unpredictable deity who might favor them or strike them dead according to his whim. And in a few eyes, she perceived wariness.

He was standing in front of her. She was aware Ophelia and her mother were talking, and she was sure he was introduced to her, for he took her hand. The warmth of his penetrated to her innermost self, and she couldn’t keep from staring at him. He wasn’t looking at her, though. He was looking at Ophelia, who had put her hand on his arm as though he were a wayward child in need of guidance. Ophelia’s mother was gushing. Ophelia was purring.