In the Arms of a Marquess (13 page)

Tavy tugged her hand away.

“Good heavens.” Constance frowned. “What are you doing, tromping in here in all of your dirt and smelling of gunpowder?”

Lord Styles gestured toward the sideboard. “Nasty day out. Need a belly warmer before a hot bath, don’t you know.” He splashed amber liquid into glasses and passed them to the earl and Marcus. Ben went to the dowager.

“Lady Fitzwarren, it is a pleasure to welcome you to Fellsbourne.” He bowed, as elegant as ever in mud-spattered boots and long coat, his broad shoulders emphasized by the capes and his handsome face flushed from the cold. Tavy dragged her gaze away.

“Don’t ask what brings me here, Doreé, for I won’t tell.” The dowager tsked her tongue. “But I knew you wouldn’t mind if I showed up uninvited. Your
pater
and I were fond friends, and I spent plenty a day at his whist table—that is, when he wasn’t off proposing bills. It’s more than a shame he didn’t live to force that East Indies reform through to success. Fell apart without him leading the charge.”

“It would have put things back the way they were before.” Lord Gosworth nodded his head regretfully. “With Parliament’s hands in every nook of the Company’s business, a man can’t sell a teaspoonful of tea without a pack of idiot lords telling him what to do, not to mention our august monarch.”

Lady Fitzwarren harumphed. “It was too bad you were abroad when that bill fell through, Abel. After Doreé, you might just have had the support to see it passed.”

“Perhaps, Mellicent,” Lord Gosworth replied. “But I will speak plainly. What my fellow lords—present company excepted, of course—what my fellow lords know about trade in Hindustan they could fit inside their stays. Don’t know why we don’t all just hang the Company and go out on our own. What, what, Crispin? You were independent before Prinny pushed you into joining up with the Company. The rest of us were all in it years ago before that damn bill. But why did you take this fool’s plunge, lad?”

“I always say it is best to be in the company of successful men.” Marcus grinned and lifted his glass in salute.

Lord Styles grunted. “You’ve got it wrong, Gosworth. The Company’s better off with Parliament’s oversight. Keeps eastern wealth in the hands of those of us born to control it. It is in Britain’s interests.” He swung his glass to his lips and gulped the contents. Tavy had the distinct impression that he was already foxed, although he masked it well. But gentlemen often drank a great deal when they hunted. Lord Gosworth and Marcus looked less than clear-eyed.

But not Ben. He set his glass on the sideboard without tasting it.

“Gentlemen,” he said as a footman entered with a tray, “I suggest we leave the ladies to their tea.”

“M’wife’s probably looking for me anyway,” Lord Gosworth said pleasantly and departed.

“Until dinner then,
mesdames
.” Marcus made a pretty leg and went out with the earl.

“I won’t be chased away from the whiskey so soon.” Lord Styles cast Constance a pointed look, a sliver edge to his laughing tone. “Can’t see why you are allowing it in your own house, Doreé. You’ve never been the sort to flee in the face of a woman’s scorn.”

Tavy’s stomach tightened.

“No,” Ben said. Tavy knew she should turn her gaze away, but she did not and he met it, as she hoped and feared. “I never have.”

Then—because she was for all intents and purposes betrothed to another man, who was right to trust in her public loyalty to him even if it chafed beyond endurance, and also because apparently she had lost her talent at dissembling lately—she dropped her gaze until the Marquess of Doreé and his companion left.

Later in her bedchamber, for the first time in years, she wept. She wept for what she never had, yet still lost years earlier. She wept for her friends—Alethea, Lady Fitzwarren, even perhaps Constance—who seemed to hope more for her than she did. And she wept for the girl that once had the courage to defy convention for the sake of dreams, who now feared being hurt again more than settling for mediocrity.

Chapter 10

To PRIME A FIRE-SHIP. To lay the train and get her in readiness for being set on fire.

—Falconer’s
Dictionary of the Marine

A
fter nearly three decades of denying most of his desires, Ben’s resistance to temptation was crumbling. Each time she lifted her liquid gaze to him across a room full of people, he was twenty-two again, fantasizing about peeling the clothing from her lovely curves and making her body come alive to him, as he had done so briefly in that moonlit garden.

But she was another man’s. It didn’t need Crispin’s proprietary gestures and words to bear that home. She was the portrait of a composed society lady, just as she had been in Ben’s house in town, so different from that girl who for a moment had resurfaced in the ballroom. And she was loyal. When Crispin beckoned, she answered. When he touched her, she modestly allowed it. When he praised her amidst the company, she lowered her gaze.

She did not speak to Ben. But she looked at him. Often.

And it was unraveling him.

She could not deny the pull between them any more than he could. But given her betrothal, her purpose was clear to him now. Like Lady Nathans and all the other females Ben preferred to ignore, she wanted to misbehave with him, a man on the edge of society, within it but forever foreign.

The trouble with Octavia Pierce was that he wanted to misbehave with her too.

“In a brown study again, darling?” Constance settled herself upon the garden bench beside him, twirling a listless rose between her fingers. Ben looked up from the book in his hands.

“Seeking a moment’s privacy, which you have now effectively ended.” He closed the volume and set it on the wrought-iron seat. “Your posy is wilted. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

She looked uncustomarily blowsy, the brilliant blue of the sky reflected in her overbright eyes, her cheeks stained with pink.

“They are all inside playing cards.”

“While you are out picking dead flowers.”

She rolled her eyes. “I abhor cards.”

“Then don’t play.” Ben reached for his book again. She stalled his hand.

“How can you be here when your guests are all within? Almost all of them. Several went to the lake for a stroll.”

“Why didn’t you, then, if you are so displeased with indoor activities?”

“You are wasting time.” Impatience tinted her voice. “Isn’t this supposed to be a business gathering? Can you not complete your business and let us all go back to town?”

“Constance, you may return to town any time you like. Nothing holds you here.”

She leapt up and spun away from the bench. “I enjoy some of the company. Especially Miss Pierce. Quite a bit. She is forthright and kind and quietly clever, and I think she and I could become great friends if it weren’t for that bothersome Lord Crispin constantly demanding her attention.”

“Hm. Bored and jealous. An ill-favored combination.”

“Don’t be silly. I am not jealous.” She darted him a sharp look. “Are you?”

Ben stood and pocketed his book.

“You know, Connie, you make an excellent point about the purpose of this gathering. As I still have work to do along those lines, I beg you to excuse me now.” He moved along the garden path toward the house.

“I don’t know why you will not talk to me,” she called after him, flouncing onto the bench anew. “And now you are irritated with me.”

He strode along the slate walk toward the formal garden, another of Jack’s renovations in anticipation of the estate someday becoming his. Even as a young man, Ben’s eldest brother had a fondness for English order.

He entered beneath the long, low trellised walkway and paused. In the shade of the vine-covered path stood a woman. The woman he wanted.

At the sound of his footfalls on gravel she turned. The contemplative smile on her lips faded.

“Good day, my lord.”

“Is it?” he replied without thought, without wisdom.

“The sky is clear and the sun bright. But now I hardly know whether the day is good after all.”

She remained still as he moved toward her. She had never run away, and she would not now. Of this, he was certain.

“Does it require more than fine weather to render a day acceptable to you, Miss Pierce?”

“Why do you do that—speak to me as though we are strangers even when no one else is present?” She paused. “Except perhaps briefly at Lady Ashford’s party.”

He scanned her face. He had been wrong to relegate her girlhood entirely to the past. The slight sharpness of her chin was still there, the faintest dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose, the single red-gold lock that escaped her chignon to dangle over her temple. Spellbinding details of a woman he once thought he knew but never did.

“I was under the impression that we are, in fact, strangers,” he replied.

Her gaze retreated, twisting something uncertain inside Ben.

Mistaken uncertainty. She was like all the others. He must believe that.

“Strangers, you see,” he added, “do not bother telling each other pertinent personal information.”

“What do you mean?”

He lifted a brow.

“I did not—” She took a tight breath. “It was not my information to share at that time.”

“If not yours, then whose, I wonder? Or does he like to be the showman, drawing the attention to himself as he did when he made the announcement in such grand style?”

“You were the one to call for champagne. What was that, gracious hosting or mockery?” The corners of her lips grew taut. Ben could soften them with barely a touch, he knew. Her mouth had always mesmerized him, mobile when she spoke her mind, exquisite when she smiled, and sweet as honey when he kissed her. Until it turned hot. Then it was beyond him to describe the things he imagined that mouth doing to him.

“Would it matter which?” He tried to rein in his thoughts, to no avail.

“I do not know, precisely. I have not quite decided, but you do not make it easy.” Her gaze dropped to his lips.

“Thinking to trade up, were you?” he murmured, the rough quality of his voice unsurprising to him. “Crispin is only a baron, after all.”

“No.
No
.” A look of horror suffused her features. “You kissed
me
.”

“You wanted me to.” He stepped toward her. “You want me to again.”

“No. Yes.” She backed against a trellis post, a thin ray of light setting her hair aglow like the sky at sunset. “Yes, I did want you to kiss me. That does not make me a criminal. It only makes me—” She broke off, her gaze running across his chest and shoulders. “—rash.”

“It makes you a liar,
shalabha
.”

“Don’t call me that. I know it makes me a liar, and I am not happy with myself.”

“Would it bother him to know you are kissing other men?”

“Of course it would. And I am not kissing other men, in the plural.”

A hot finger of warning pressed at Ben’s spine, but he took another step, closing the distance between them.

“Does he care so much for you, then?”

Her lips were parted. She pulled in audible breaths, but her shoulders were back, her chin high.

“He said he does.”

“Do you return his sentiments?”

“That is none of your business.”

The heat intensified, grabbing at Ben’s gut and spreading. He flattened a palm on the post beside her head.

“Then you do not.”

“That is not what I said. What are you doing? Don’t kiss me again.” Her lashes fanned, her breasts lifting upon short inhalations to press at the edge of her gown, beautiful swells of woman. He bent his head.

“Please do not,” she whispered. “I may have changed my mind about wanting you to kiss me.”

“Walk away.”

Her gaze swam. “What?”

“You are not bound to that trellis.” Her scent filled his senses, Indian roses like he hadn’t known in years, rich and wild, moonlight in a garden and a girl in his arms he could not touch enough. “Walk away now.”

“I want to, but m-my legs—”

“Losing your courage?” He slid his hand over her hip and she exhaled a sharp sound. His palm moved along her thigh, his blood pounding. This was insanity. She belonged to another man. She was soft, slender, her gown tangling in his fingers like it had that night, driving him mad, only to find nothing beneath but her. Pure beauty. At that moment in the tropical garden with his hands on her damp, satin skin, doubt had seeped into his pleasure. But he had wanted her too much to listen to the warning.

“No.” Her whisper was barely audible.

“Then walk away.”

“I cannot.” Her tone pleaded. “My knees are too unsteady. I will fall. But you could be a gentleman.”

“I could.” He brushed his cheek against hers, her trembling beauty working through him like strong wine. “But why would I?” He touched his lips to the spot of feminine grace beneath her ear where she was softest silk.

He had not remembered poorly. She was perfect, her scent, her flavor, the intoxicating caress of her quick breaths against his skin. “You want this.” He trailed the tip of his tongue along the delicate sinew of her neck. She did not resist. Instead, she tilted her head back to allow him closer, a light sigh fluttering her throat. “And, I have been here before.” He covered her breast with his hand.

A hard breath escaped her. Feeling her was torture, the supple shape of her fitting to his palm like he was meant to have her body in his hands.

“And here,” he murmured, and slipped his thumb beneath her chemise, passing it across her nipple. She gasped and arched her shoulders as her body tightened for him, intoxicatingly rough with velvet all around. He stroked the peak with slow strokes, wanting to take it into his mouth, wanting to taste her again. Sliding his hand along her flat belly, he slipped it between her legs. “And here.”

She moaned and sank into his touch. Ben curved his palm around the back of her neck and brought their mouths together. She opened to him, her lips and thighs, inviting him to touch her as he wished. He stroked into her wet mouth and with his hand cupped her. She was soft and supple and warm, accepting his caresses. He traced his fingertips along her flesh, and through the fabric felt her grow taut; passionate woman so easily aroused.

“Ben.”
She grasped his arms.

He massaged her, kissing her throat, tasting the heady flavor of her skin with lingering ease. He could remain here with his hands on her, drinking her in and knowing he was giving her pleasure, for an eternity. But he was hard. He’d been hard since he kissed her in the ballroom. And he needed more. He swept his hands to her behind, spread his fingers and dragged her against him.

It was, perhaps, a mistake. She whimpered and clutched at his coat, meeting his kisses with hot, eager forays of her tongue. Wiggling in his hold, she pressed her hips against his and moaned softly.

Ben’s vision blurred. He held her tight to him and she did not pull away. Instead she pulled him in, fitting her body to his, her thighs and belly and breasts molding to him as she gave her mouth, and he sought there what he wanted with his tongue, needing to be inside her. She gripped his shoulders then his neck and she seemed to struggle for breaths. She broke free with a gasp but he followed her, claiming her again, and she met him with a fervor that rocked him. Because it seemed so unrehearsed and genuine, like on that night long ago. Like no other woman he had known.

With effort he left her lips to trail kisses along her jaw, seeking sanity, but she was beautiful here too, smooth and perfect everywhere, and he did not want to stop. Heat pounded in his chest and groin but doubt clamored in his head.

“You are being unfaithful to your betrothed,” he murmured.

She did not respond immediately.

“It’s you,” she finally whispered.

He went still, only his heartbeats battering a quick tempo. “Because of who I am.”

“Of course.”

Ben’s chest constricted. He released her and stepped back.

“It is unfortunate for you then, madam, that I have had enough women like you to last me a lifetime.”

Her eyes were pools of dazed astonishment, her lips swollen and hair loose where his fingers had twined through it. Blast it, she did not look like those other women. She looked hurt and shocked—this woman who kissed a man who was not her betrothed as though she were free to do so—and he could look no longer.

He moved toward the trellis’s exit.

“Damn you, Benjirou Doreé. Damn you!” she shouted after him like a Madras dockworker.

He paused, half turned from her. “Damning me for your own transgressions? Then as well as now, I suspect.”

“I waited for you.”

He knew he must move or speak, but he could not.

“I did. I actually waited for you, somehow imagining you would return. I was such a fool. I should have known better. I should have realized you knew it was wrong, meeting like that in secret.”