In the Arms of a Marquess (16 page)

“I know where I would like to receive him,” Lady Nathans murmured.

“It is a shame he is not accepted into so many houses in society,” one of the other wives nearby commented. “I daresay dozens of mamas would like to marry their daughters to a rich, handsome marquess.”

“But one simply cannot endure the notion of all that Oriental blood in one’s grandchildren,” another said with a shake of her head.

“My butler says his valet goes about in a turban. And I have heard that some lords tried to block his preferment to the title despite his parents’ marriage and his enormous fortune.”

“And I have heard that dusky men have enormous—”

“
Prissy Nathans
, control your tongue,” Lady Gosworth hissed. “There is an unmarried lady present.”

Tavy’s eyes widened. Lady Gosworth stared back.

“Well.” The diminutive countess seemed to recollect herself. “He is not all that exotic.” She swiveled to the lady riding behind. “After all, Doreé is a French name, or it was at one time.”

The other nodded. “But I understand his given name is not Benjamin, as one would expect.”

“Oh, really?”

“Apparently it is Benji—” Her brow wrinkled. “Oh, I knew I would not remember it. It is very foreign sounding. Hindustani, no doubt.”

“Benjirou is a Japanese name.”

Four sets of female eyes snapped to Tavy.

“His nurse was Japanese.” She filled the silence. “The family quite adored her. Her son saved his life when they were children, and Lady Doreé named him in her honor. They are an extraordinary family.”

“I daresay.” Lady Gosworth looked as though she had swallowed a fish whole. “Quite extraordinary.”

“Benjirou means ‘son of two tongues.’ Naturally.” Neck prickling with heat, Tavy pressed her heels into her mount’s sides and caught up with her friend.

Constance’s cheeks were nearly as red as her habit, her eyes overbright.

“Constance, are you unwell?”

“Oh.” She dashed the back of a kid glove across her cheek. “I only wish those men would not be such fools. Look there, they will break their necks careening across that field, and all for foolish pride.”

“Pride?” Tavy murmured, training her gaze to the distance. Upon the gradual slope toward the river several horses galloped close. Far afield, the other riders watched. Tavy stared at Lord Styles’s white stallion, neck and neck with Ben’s mount. “Perhaps it is rather competition.”

Constance turned toward her. “Perhaps on Walker’s side. He has always wanted what the Doreé men have.” She seemed to study Tavy’s face. Her gaze lowered. “Except, perhaps, some things.”

Someone shouted from the other group. Marcus held the lead, his mount’s tail streaming as he covered the field in giant strides.

But something was wrong. The riders upon the edge of the field broke toward the racers, but far behind. St. John waved his hat in frantic gestures. Another shout. The reins of Marcus’s horse flickered about its neck, his hands gripped in its flowing mane. He sat far forward on the animal, reached to its head, then jolted back, barely keeping the saddle.

Tavy’s breath caught. “He has lost the reins.”

“No.” Constance said. “They have broken.”

“It has bolted.” Tavy kneed her mount and it leapt forward. But Marcus and the others were nearly a quarter mile away, a drama unfolding against the green so swiftly she could not hope to catch it in time.

“No.” Constance’s voice sounded hollow as she came up beside Tavy. “Ben, don’t.”

Tavy’s heart climbed into her throat. Far ahead, the black horse flew, tearing up sod as its paces stretched across the field, closing the lengths to the maddened animal. Ben made straight for his quarry’s path to head it off. It was a fool’s gamble. A wall of hedges rose directly in the sights of Marcus’s horse, but the beast showed no sign of slowing in order to scale it.

“He will kill himself,” Constance uttered. “He will—” She snapped her crop against her horse’s flank and shot off. Tavy dug her heels into the gelding’s flanks. Ben’s horse neared the frightened beast. Then everyone seemed to be shouting. A woman screamed. The black horse surged forward. Marcus’s mount broke to the side and came to a sudden halt.

Abruptly, it ended.

Tavy could see nothing through the haze of tears. She swiped a hand across her eyes.

Dismounted, Marcus leaned into Ben’s horse, brow upon his arm, Ben beside him. The errant animal stood apart, sides heaving, its lathered neck hanging and broken reins trailing to the grass. Riders surrounded them and gentlemen dismounted. Everyone seemed to speak at once. Tavy dropped from the saddle, pressed the reins into someone’s hands, and moved forward as fast as her heavy skirts allowed.

Ben saw her coming and stepped away. The irony of it weakened her. Her heart raced for him alone.

She touched Marcus’s arm. He gripped her hands. His face looked pale, eyes peculiar. Not relieved. Frightened.

“The leathers snapped.” His voice came forth unsteadily. “He bolted.”

“You kept your seat commendably. Can you walk now?”

“I daresay my horse needs it. He is usually such a good-tempered fellow.” He drew her toward the animal, and she wondered if he forgot that he held her hand. He released her to take the reins, turning back toward the house in the distance. Heavy clouds spread across the far horizon, presaging rain.

Alethea and St. John approached upon horseback.

“Will you walk or shall we call a carriage?” Alethea’s eyes were warm.

Marcus went on as though he did not see them. Tavy mouthed
Walk
and continued at her betrothed’s side across the bumpy terrain, silent as the riders spread out, heading back, ancient ruins forgotten now. She scanned the field. Not far distant, Ben and Constance stood close, her hand in his, his head bent and their brows nearly touching. His lips moved as he spoke words Tavy could not hear. Words of comfort, no doubt.

The fear in Constance’s eyes had mirrored the terror in Tavy’s heart. She understood perfectly the need for such comfort, and it hurt more than she could bear.

By the time she and Marcus reached the house and he handed his horse’s ruined reins to a groom, the others had gone inside.

“I will check on my horse, Marcus. I don’t even know where it got to.” She pasted on a smile, but he did not return it.

“Of course, my dear.”

Tavy looked into his hazel eyes and saw nothing she recognized. Without another word, he moved toward the house.

She paused in the stable doorway, listening, then went forward along the long passage. A groom tugged his cap as she passed the box with Marcus’s horse. Stripped of saddle and bridle now, it hung its head low.

Ben stood just inside the tack room, leaning against the wall. The chamber smelled of leather and boot blacking. The saddle from Marcus’s horse sat in the center of the floor, beside it the ruined reins and bridle.

Tavy halted in the door frame. Without acknowledging her, Ben lifted his fist and his fingers uncurled. Upon his palm rested a spiny chestnut burr.

“It was beneath the saddle, wasn’t it?” she said.

“Under the blanket. Far forward, so as not to be a bother until the rider leaned into a gallop.”

“And the snapped reins?”

“Old leather. Mere unfortunate coincidence.”

Her heart felt odd in her chest, too large and heavy and empty at once.

Finally he met her gaze. His black eyes glinted in the remnants of daylight filtering through the window.

“Change your mind already? Not trying to do away with your fiancée before the vows are spoken, are you?”

“How can you jest about this?”

“I don’t know that I am entirely jesting.”

A shiver crept up her back, slow and bitter. “Why did you suspect foul play?”

“Because you told me to.”

A moment of silence spread between them. Slowly, Tavy’s eyes widened.

“When I came to your house in town?”

He nodded. Her heart turned about so hard she felt dizzy.

“You invented this shooting party because of what I asked you?”

“Clever idea, wasn’t it?” He tossed the burr into a waste bin. “Skilled beaters always rouse sluggish birds.”

Emotion boiled in her tight chest, everything she had felt since she saw him at the theater, every moment of confusion and anger, elation and hurt. She stepped into the room.

“Will you still deny to me who you are?”

He straightened, pushing away from the wall.

“I am a proprietor of the East India Company with an interest in maintaining peace and accord between my fellow proprietors and Parliament,” he said with perfect ease.

“Do you know,” she said, barely able to move her lips, “at times I think I could hate you.”

His gaze returned to hers, half lidded, the languid dip of his eyes accentuated. “I have always admired your candidness. But I am encouraged by your use of the conditional.
Could
hate is a good deal better than simply hate.”

Her throat tightened. “Can a person hate someone and want him at the same time?”

He regarded her steadily. “I should say so, when it is entirely possible, after all, to hate oneself.” He moved to the door, pausing beside her. “It was meant only to frighten your betrothed. He is too fine a horseman for his mount’s scare to have harmed him. If the leathers had not snapped, he would have brought the animal to heel on his own.”

She breathed him in, his nearness and scent and warmth. Despite everything she knew of him, nothing seemed to matter but the longing he created within her.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Let us just say habit.”

“You cannot prevent yourself from rescuing people.”

He laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. “Something like that.” He lifted a hand between them, toward her shoulder. She closed her eyes, willing him to touch her again, even the slightest, most innocent contact. Aching for it. But none came, and when she opened her eyes he was gone.

Chapter 13

To TOUCH. When a ship’s sails first begin to shiver, either occasioned by an alteration in the ship’s course, or by a change of the wind.

—Falconer’s
Dictionary of the Marine

T
he gentlemen remained at the dinner table long after the ladies retired to the drawing room. When they finally appeared, the party lacked several lords. Tavy forced her gaze away from Ben and waited for Marcus to come through the doorway. But he did not.

“Thoroughly cup-shot by now, I’ll merit,” Lady Fitzwarren mumbled at Tavy’s side on a satin sofa. “Not the ideal moment to cry off, my dear.”

“Cup-shot?”

“He took four glasses of wine with dinner, two before, and port after. Not far ahead of the others, though. Must be a celebration of the final night of their holiday in the country in such grand style. Men of business take their leisure very seriously, don’t you know.” She selected a sugarcoated delicacy from the tea tray, poked it between her lips, and chewed thoughtfully. “Dear girl, you must begin to notice such mundane details or you will be lost in society. But I suppose you only ever had eyes for the wonderful and fascinating.”

The wonderful and fascinating.

Tavy only had eyes for the Marquess of Doreé, and she was indeed lost. She tried to ignore the pounding in her blood, but at dinner she had only heard his voice amongst the many. She had eaten little, spoken less, and in general behaved like an absolute ninny.

He had invited all these people to Fellsbourne because he trusted in what she had told him at his house in town. He withheld the truth from her, made her feel like a fool, tempted her into indiscretion, and then treated her poorly. Her cheeks were hot, hands damp, tongue numb.

“Where do you suppose he has gone?”

“He is right over there, of course.” The dowager gestured across the drawing room with a scented puce kerchief, directly at Ben.

Tavy’s face flamed. She darted a glance about the chamber, but the others were all busy in conversations. Several of the gentlemen were indeed bleary-eyed. Lord Gosworth laughed too loudly. Even St. John wavered upon his feet. Tavy could not look at Ben to see if he was foxed too. She had clearly lost the knack of hiding her thoughts.

She stood like a top popping, upending her tea plate. “I will go check on Jacob and Alethea, and then retire.” She set the plate back upon the table with a little clatter.

Lady Fitzwarren rolled her eyes upward, brows steepled. “My dear, tomorrow we depart.”

Tavy hid her quivering hands in her skirt. “Yes, yes.” She could practically feel Ben in the room with the tiny hairs on her skin, like some insect’s antennae. It was unendurable.

Lady Fitzwarren examined Tavy’s twisted skirt.

“Are you certain you wish to go up just yet?”

“Of course.” She covered a pretended yawn with her palm, nerves jittering. “Today’s events overset me rather more than I like.” More than anything in years. Seven years. “I am perfectly fagged. Good night, Aunt Mellicent.” She swung around and nearly smacked into Lady Constance.

“Octavia, dear, are you leaving us so soon?” Her lovely azure eyes seemed to ask more. Or perhaps Tavy’s imagination invented it. Her head spun with guilt and confusion and edgy, unfocused anticipation.

“I am truly done in for the evening.”

Constance grasped her hand. “But won’t you remain and sing while I play for you, then we can end the holiday upon a more comfortable note, quite literally.”

Tavy snatched her fingers away. “No. No, thank you. You play so beautifully I would only ruin it with my indifferent voice. Good night.” She dipped a curtsy and fled.

Heart speeding and legs shaking, she hardly knew where to go. Her bedchamber loomed like a prison offering nothing but an endless night of pacing.

She hurried out through the parlor’s terrace doors into the garden, to the pebbled path. Peeking from behind thick, black thunderclouds, a corpulent moon lit the formal beds and walkways, illuminating every leaf, petal, stone, and flower in silvery-blue brilliance. Tavy walked quickly, and far. Exertion would work the fidgets from her blood and clear her head.

She came to the covered trellis where Ben had kissed and touched her, and her labors fell to ruin. Standing within its shadow, she felt everything again, his heat, his intimate caresses, the pain from his words.

She whirled about and rushed back to the house.

Bed. She would go to bed and tomorrow she would be free of his impossible presence again in her life. After that she would avoid places he might be, a simple enough task given the wives’ gossip. He was not universally received in society. Tavy could manage her life perfectly well without ever encountering him again.

Windows were dark as she neared the house and entered through the parlor. She paused. Marcus sat hunched over in a chair near the sputtering fire, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The terrace door snapped shut but he did not respond until she stood before him and spoke his name.

“Octavia?” His eyes were streaked with red, his aristocratic face pale, thick hair mussed from his fingers raking through it. Even his cravat was askew and crushed.

“Marcus, are you unwell?”

He grabbed her fingers.

“Stay with me. Do not leave.” His voice was clotted, and the pungent scent of wine soaked the air.

She tugged at her hand but he held it fast.

“You are foxed, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He released her abruptly and dropped his face into his palms. “Yes. Mauled, yet still without an idea of how to—” His head snapped up. “You mustn’t cry off. You mustn’t, Octavia.”

Her eyes widened. “How do you know I intend that?”

“I always expected it, especially since— But you cannot.”

“I cannot?” She backed up. “You are disguised and I did not wish to have this conversation with you in such a state. Frankly I hadn’t any idea you could be in such a state. But I fear you have mistaken my measure.”

He stood up, swaying a bit.

“I haven’t mistaken it. I know you are clear-headed, forthright, and honest. I know you haven’t the ability to be cruel and that you forgive easily.”

“Good heavens. You know those things about me? Are you certain?”

He clamped her hand in his again. “Certain. You mustn’t cry off.”

“You said that already, twice. Marcus, I am at a complete loss. If I am clear-headed then allow me to state with perfect confidence that you are not in love with me.”

He seemed to try to focus his gaze. “Do you require that your husband offers you such sentiments?”

She stared. “That is beside the point, which is that I cannot fathom why you are so attached to this betrothal. I will bring a suitable portion to a marriage, of course, but you are hardly impoverished, and you are handsome and charming. At least, usually. There must be a dozen young ladies with fine dowries who would marry you in the blink of an eye. Again I ask, why me?”

“Because I know I can trust you.”

“That you have reason to need to trust me so desperately is ample reason for me not to return the favor.” She pulled away again and moved swiftly across the chamber, then turned. “You are involved in illegal business dealings, aren’t you?”

He began to shake his head, but instead his shoulders slumped.

“Marcus, I cannot marry you. I should thank you for the honor. I should be grateful you bestowed it upon me. But at this moment I cannot.”

His brow lowered. “You must marry me. You haven’t a choice now.”

Tavy’s spine stiffened. “Are you threatening me?”

“Only with my life if you cry off.”

“No, that is foolishness.” But memory of the chestnut burr halted her. “It makes no sense.”

He pivoted away, covering his eyes with his palm again, then turned back around to face her.

“My life is in danger, Octavia. If you do not marry me yours may be as well. Perhaps even your family.”

“How on earth—”

“I don’t know!” His eyes were wild. “I don’t, God help me.” His voice weakened. “But you must marry me and it must be soon. Three weeks by the banns, or sooner if I can find a bishop that will sell me a special license.”

“You cannot threaten me into marrying you.” She fisted her shaking hands. “I will not do it.”

He gripped her shoulders. “You must. You will. You will make it well.” His fraught gaze bored into her, losing focus quickly as though the images behind his eyes were more powerful. Abruptly he released her and strode across the chamber, knocking against a table as he went. The door slammed behind him.

Knees like aspic, Tavy sank onto a chair and pressed her frigid hands between her thighs. She tried to breathe evenly, but the thickness in her throat and prickling behind her eyes would not abate. Through the darkened window, lightning flickered distantly. A tear slid down her cheek. Thunder rumbled, low and slow.

She stood, passed her palm across her damp face, and moved to the door. Sniffing hard, she pulled the panel open.

Precisely the person she expected to see stood in the corridor. In a house full of servants, this particular footman, the one she had seen first at Ben’s London house, seemed to be nearly everywhere she went. His ubiquity reminded her of Abha.

“Pardon me.” She cleared her throat.

“Miss?”

“Can you tell me where I might find your master now?”

“I believe my lord is without, miss. At the lake, if I’m not wrong.”

She turned back into the parlor toward the terrace doors.

“May I fetch your wrap, miss?”

“No, thank you.” She was hot enough already. Foolish and heedless of her better judgment as well. But her hands felt numb and tears still wobbled in the back of her throat.

She walked quickly, straight to the lake. Thunder rolled closer now, but the moonlight-dappled path still shone bright. A modest Greek folly graced the lake’s bank, its Doric columns and limestone pediment austere above the silvery expanse. Ben stood at its edge, silhouetted by the glittering water.

He turned to her.

She did not break stride. If she slowed, her legs might not carry her the distance. He remained still as she ascended the shallow steps, heavy rumbles cascading over the treetops.

“I told Marcus I suspected him of dishonest business dealings and that I could not marry him.” Her voice sounded hollow between stone and water. “He said I must, that his life depended upon it and possibly mine and my family’s. He was foxed, but I believe he was quite serious.” She dashed fresh tears from her cheek. This was not how it was supposed to be. This was all wrong, horridly so.

Lightning flickered. Ben moved to her and surrounded the side of her face with his hand. He tilted her chin up and scanned her features.

“Did he hurt you?” His voice was harsh. His warm skin against hers and the worry in his eyes slipped through her like spring water, washing away fear.

She shook her head.

“Then why are you crying?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I do not like being threatened.”

He released her but did not move away. “I have learned something. It concerns a ship and cargo. Illegal, as you guessed. But I haven’t enough information yet. I must pursue another avenue first.”

“I don’t see how you have any time for that.”

His brow furrowed. The moonlight, skittish now behind clouds, cast his features into carved relief. He was beautiful, and Tavy drank in the vision of him so close, like on that other night so many full moons ago.

“Well,” she took a deep breath, “it seems to me that you spend a great deal of your time—” She bit her lip. “—otherwise engaged.”

He stared at her mouth. “I would certainly like to.”

Her heartbeat tripped. She lifted her chin. “I saw you with Lady Nathans last night. At her bedchamber door.”

His gaze swept up to hers.

“So, you see,” she continued, the crackle in her voice matching a sizzle of lightning close by, “I am somewhat skeptical of your dedication to this project.”

“Lady Nathans was how I learned of the ship.”

Tavy’s mouth dropped open. “You—You were with her to—to . . . ?”

He held her gaze steadily.

“And she—she—”

“Enjoyed a brief sojourn into the exotic.”

Tavy stared. And abruptly understood. Her heart turned over.

He looked, of all things, resigned. But beneath the surface in his eyes shone a hint of something quite different. Something she had seen there for an instant seven years earlier when Aunt Imene said those horrible words. Something of despair.

“Did— Does she know why?” she finally managed.

“Not entirely.”

“Still, you must be quite an actor.” She schooled her tone to nonchalance, her heart racing. “But I suppose she is very beautiful. It could not have been all that difficult for you to maintain the pretense. Or perhaps it was not pretense on your part. Not all, at least, despite your avowal of a surfeit of such women.”