In the Arms of a Marquess (15 page)

Chapter 12

To UNRIG a ship is to deprive her of the standing and running rigging, &c.

—Falconer’s
Dictionary of the Marine

“Y
our beau seems distracted, Octavia.” Lady Fitzwarren bit into a lemon biscuit. “Have you given him his
congé?
That would explain it.”

Tavy’s hand jerked upon her teacup and tea splashed onto her skirt. “His what?” Her voice cracked.

Alethea’s head came up from her sewing.

“His rejection, dear girl,” the dowager said.

Tavy set her thumbnail between her teeth then withdrew her hand and bit her lip instead. She glanced at her sister. “I intended to this morning.”

“You did?” Alethea sat forward, setting her work aside.

“Aha.” The dowager’s gaze sharpened. “Then why haven’t you yet?”

“He has made himself scarce.”

“Nonsense. He was in the breakfast room and went out shooting with the gentlemen after that.”

“Scarce from me,” Tavy specified.

“Perhaps he senses your intent. But more importantly, what brought you to this point?”

Alethea’s soft gaze seemed to repeat Lady Fitzwarren’s query.

“I cannot really say.”

“No matter. Tomorrow we will all return to town and—”

“Tomorrow?” She wanted precisely this. But her stomach tightened.

“Tomorrow.” Lady Fitzwarren drew out the word, peering at Tavy above her teacup. Her gaze shifted to the parlor doorway.

“There you are.” Marcus entered. “I have been looking for you all over this cavernous place.”

Tavy allowed him to take her hand but she withdrew it momentarily.

“You are dressed for riding. Are you leaving?” All morning her thoughts had been muddled, head heavy from lack of sleep. What had seemed such a practical plan in the middle of the night seemed like wretched cowardice in the light of day. Walking earlier with her sister and the baby had convinced her that she could not bear even the thought of deserting Alethea now.

Marcus bowed to Alethea. “Lady Pennworthy, your husband requested a tour of the estate after Lord Styles mentioned some old Roman ruins on it. Our host suggested we go upon horseback.” His eyes smiled. “It seems Sir St. John hopes you will take the opportunity for fresh air, ma’am.”

Alethea stood. “I was awake most of the night with Jacob. I suppose a ride would do me good. Come, Octavia, let us go change our clothes.”

Tavy hesitated. “Perhaps I will remain here with Lady Fitzwarren and continue my—my . . .”

Everyone looked at her. Alethea’s gaze was gentle, Marcus’s curious, and the dowager’s unrepentantly skeptical.

Tavy sucked in a breath. “A ride sounds lovely.” She paused at the door. “Marcus, I should like the opportunity to speak with you privately while we are out, if it is possible.”

“Of course, my dear.”

Alethea asked her nothing as they climbed the stairs to their adjoined bedchambers. Entering the compartment, she squeezed Tavy’s fingers.

“St. John and I fell in love over a cluster of ancient ruins.” She smiled, but her gaze looked oddly intent.

“What on earth are you trying to say to me, Thea? That if I glance at a few moss-covered rocks with Lord Crispin my heart will finally be lost to him?”

Alethea lifted Tavy’s hand and seemed to study her fingertips one at a time. She released them. “No,” she said and crossed into her chamber. “Not him.” She shut the door. Tavy stared at it for a hard minute then continued to her own chamber.

She met the others in the stable. The sun sparkled, still high enough to promise hours more of bright daylight, and the sky shone crisply blue with a skimming of clouds upon the horizon.

“What a lovely day for an outing.” Lady Gosworth’s black curls bounced about round cheeks.

“I understand Doreé has an excellent stable,” her husband commented, peering into stalls. Tavy breathed in the earthy, comforting scent of the animals, and an arm stole through hers, slender and wrapped in cherry red velvet.

“You will ride my favorite mount here.” Constance drew her forward, halting before a stall door. “He is so sweet and smooth, one barely knows one is galloping until the road has quite disappeared.” The long-legged bay came forward to poke its head over the partition. “Isn’t he perfect?”

“Perfect,” Tavy rasped. Ben walked toward them along the row of stalls. In snug-fitting breeches and dark coat, hat and crop in hand, hair slightly tousled, and gaze fixed upon her, he stole her breath. Her thoughts. Her very rationality.

“Lady Constance has chosen well for you, Miss Pierce.”

“Of course I have.” Constance pursed her lips. “How could I have done otherwise?”

“Pray forgive me, madam.” He bowed neatly. “I forgot myself.”

“Never do it again.”

“I shall endeavor not to, but I may fail miserably.”

“No doubt.” Constance’s eyes twinkled.

Tavy’s palms were damp. She had never spoken with them together. Only a thorough cad could maintain such a light mien, relaxed stance, and roguish perfidy all at once.

“Now go.” Constance shooed him away. “Be off to mount your other guests as you see fit. Miss Pierce is mine.”

His gaze flickered to Tavy. “I will see you upon the road shortly, then.” He bowed once more and moved away. She looked after him. She could not seem to prevent it.

“Constance, I am glad I have come to know you this week.”

“Dear me, I hope not only for this week. You sound as though you plan to depart for some foreign clime again shortly.”

Tavy smiled and shifted her gaze back to the beauty. The red of Constance’s hat, gold of her hair, and high white collar surrounded her lovely face like an intricate frame.

“Will you accept Lord Doreé if he asks for your hand?” She had to know. She could not bear another moment uncertain.

“As you have accepted Lord Crispin?” Constance’s blue eyes widened innocently, but perception winked within them.

“No.” Tavy could not lie outright. She had never been able to do so with any success, and this woman who had shown her only friendship did not deserve it. “Not like that.”

Constance tilted her head.

“Miss.” A groom appeared. “Milord bade me saddle up this one for you.” He gestured to the gelding.

“I will fetch my mare and find you again upon the drive,” Constance said lightly and disappeared. The moment was gone. Tavy could not ask again. Nor would she. The answer, after all, should not matter to her.

Once the entire party was mounted, they started along the drive toward the road. Beyond an orchard of apple trees, the grass beneath speckled with fruit, a grassy field stretched obliquely toward the river. Lord Gosworth, St. John, Alethea, and several others headed across it. Content to remain far behind the enigmatic presence of her host, Tavy allowed her smooth-gaited gelding to lope along with the ladies’ rather more staid mounts until they slowed to a walk and entered upon the path across the field.

Lord Styles dropped back to bring his splendid white stallion alongside Constance’s mare, and the marquess accompanied him.

“Lord Doreé,” Lady Gosworth called, “this horse is delightful and your estate is ever so charming.”

“I am pleased you are enjoying yourself, my lady.” He pulled his big black horse back and favored the countess with a smile that turned Tavy’s heart inside out. It did not seem to matter to that faulty organ that he had kissed another man’s wife the night before, or another man’s betrothed the day before that, no matter how much either lady had encouraged him. And Tavy had no doubt Priscilla Nathans welcomed his embraces as much as she did.

A megrim settled into the back of her skull and commenced creeping its way forward beneath her eyebrows. Her contrary gaze flickered to him and she bent her head to hide it beneath the brim of her hat, allowing herself to stare at him astride his muscular mount. Man and beast made a beautiful pair, just as the first time she had ever seen him.

“My lord,” Lady Gosworth said, “my husband does all his business in East Indian trade, and he has been there twice, yet he refuses to tell me a jot about the place. He says he does not have a knack for telling travel stories. I would be so pleased to hear something of it from you if you would oblige us.”

“It has been some time since I last visited there, ma’am. You might ask Miss Pierce, however. She only recently returned to England after quite a lengthy sojourn in the East Indies.” His tone did not mock or tease. He sounded perfectly sincere. Tavy’s throat dried up like the Arabian desert.

“How silly of me,” Lady Gosworth exclaimed. “You are such a lovely girl, I had forgotten you spent so much time there.” Her look grew avid. “They say you have a pet monkey.”

Tavy nodded. “I do.”

“How on earth did you come by him?”

“I found him in the market. He was a runt, brought from America,” trapped in a horrid cage, half-starved and bleeding from unmentionable places. At sight of him, Tavy had nearly swooned, then rang a peel over the vendor’s head and took the tiny urchin home. She left him uncaged, but he had never left her.

“I daresay he is quite like my pug,” Lady Gosworth cooed. “A veritable darling.”

“I daresay,” Ben murmured.

Tavy’s gaze shot to him. Her breath failed. His eyes shone with shared amusement.

“Precisely like your pug, my lady,” she managed. “I have no doubt.”

“Whatever did you name him?” the countess asked.

She chewed upon her thumbnail through the tip of her glove. “He is called Lal,” she mumbled.

Ben’s gaze shifted. Warmth spread deep through Tavy’s middle. She should not allow it, but her body would not listen to her rational will.

“Lal.” Lady Gosworth said thoughtfully. “I don’t believe I have ever heard that name. It must be Hindustani.”

“Sanskrit, actually.”

“Whatever does it mean?”

Tavy’s eyes apparently had a will of their own as well. “Oh, nothing of note,” she replied, captive in his gaze. “D-Dear one,” she lied, as always only when he inspired it. She had named Lal because of what still simmered in her memory, her very blood, after years. And somehow knowing that the monkey spent time each day in
his
house had comforted her.

For far too long she had allowed herself to be a fool.

Desire
. Lal meant
desire
.

He must know it. His mouth curved up at one side, the crease appearing in his cheek that had once devastated Tavy. It still did. Her heart beat furiously. How could he smile at her now as though he had not been cruel only two days ago? As though he had not made love to Priscilla Nathans the previous night?

But Tavy’s nature tended toward happiness—or it had years ago, before she tried to deny it. And precisely that look on his handsome face had always encouraged her. Her resolutions of the previous night in her bedchamber wavered. She smiled. His black eyes sparkled in the slanting afternoon sunlight.

Lady Nathans spoke, and Tavy’s nascent, unwise pleasure abruptly died.

“You have given your horse a foreign name as well, haven’t you, Lord Doreé?” She gestured toward the animal.

“She is Kali,” he said simply. “The black one.”

“Oh dear, my lord.” Lady Gosworth giggled. “It seems you were not any more imaginative than Miss Pierce in choosing names.”

Tavy glanced aside. “To the Hindus, my lady, Kali is a fierce, destructive goddess. Most often she is depicted with four arms, brandishing a sword and a severed head.”

Lady Gosworth paled. “Good gracious.”

“Is that what you think of women, my lord?” Lady Nathans asked silkily. “That they are destructive?”

“No, indeed,” he replied without inflection, but he looked at Tavy.

She did not hold her tongue as she knew she ought. “Fierce, then?”

“If only it were so,” he said quietly. “It might be easier then.”

She knew they were watched. She could practically feel Lady Nathans’s gaze upon them, and Lady Gosworth’s curiosity. But she couldn’t care. For a moment, a flicker of time, Tavy was lost and she had no wish to be found. Not just yet.

In truth, never.

“Doreé,” Lord Styles called over. “Let’s have a go at the river road, shall we? I challenged Crispin to it earlier and he is game.”

Ben pressed his mount forward toward the baron.

“Must you?” Constance said. “That road is full of holes. You will lame a horse.”

“Many thanks for your concern over our health as well,” Lord Styles said with a laugh, and pushed into a canter. Ben glanced back, tipped his hat, and followed apace.

Priscilla Nathans made a rumbling sound in her throat. “That man is positively mouth-watering.”

“Lady Nathans,” Lady Gosworth admonished.

The baroness cast her an intolerant look.

The cherubic countess tipped up her chin. “Lord Gosworth says that now that we have been here to Fellsbourne, we must receive Lord Doreé in town.”