When the Marquess Met His Match (14 page)

And even if he had access to the physical relief another woman might provide, it wouldn’t have mattered, for he didn’t want any other woman. Perverse fellow that he was, he wanted Belinda, a woman he not only could not afford but whose opinion of him could not be considered by even the most self-deceptive fellow to be much above an ant’s knees.

During the six days that followed, he attended race meetings, called on old friends, played staid rounds of whist at White’s, and tried his best to forget about her and about that kiss. By the time he arrived at Victoria Station on Friday, he felt he was reasonably back in control of his mind, his heart, and his body.

And then he saw her standing on the platform, and he knew he’d spent the past week fooling himself. When she turned at the sound of his calling her name, he felt the world tilt a little sideways, and he knew that even if a decade passed before he saw her again, he would still remember every detail of her face—the exact blue of her eyes and the luminous glow of her skin and the delicate arch of her brow. Worse, he suspected he’d still feel the same sensations a decade from now—a dry throat, a pounding heart, and an inability to say a single word. And when he found himself alone with her in a first-class compartment, it didn’t take long for his imagination to set to work and put him right back in the suds, and he feared that if things kept on this way, by the end of the house party, he’d be well and truly mad.

Desperate, he cleared his throat. “It seems we shall have fine weather for the journey.”

Before he’d even finished the sentence, he was grimacing at his own inanity. The weather? Really? That was the best he could do?

“Yes,” she agreed, turned her head, and looked out the window. She said nothing more.

In the silence, he tried to think of what to say next as he studied her profile. She wore a traveling hat of cream-colored straw topped by a massive quantity of ostrich plumes in various shades of blue, with a brim that curled down on one side of her head and up on the other. The upside faced him as she stared through the glass, and the light washed over the pale, translucent skin of her cheek, her impudent nose, and the finely cut lines of her chin and jaw. He could read nothing in her profile of what she might be thinking or feeling; indeed, she seemed precisely the same as the woman he’d first met—cool, polished, and wholly indifferent to him. Yet he knew how much fire lay beneath her smooth surface.

It was probably best not to think about that.

He took a deep breath and tried again. “It seems a bit stuffy in here. Since it’s so fine today, and we’re now outside the city, perhaps I should open the window a bit? Bring in some fresh air?”

“If you like.” She leaned back as he rose to slide down the window sash, but she didn’t look at him. Instead, she continued to gaze outside.

It was clear he needed a topic that would require more from her than these brief, uncommunicative replies, but he was rather at a loss. He’d never been so ill at ease around a woman, but knocking him off his trolley seemed to be Belinda’s special gift. Women often found his lighthearted wit and offhand charm quite likeable, but those particular talents never seemed to cut any ice with Belinda. She seldom laughed at his jokes, and she didn’t usually find him either witty or charming. And, most aggravating of all, he’d had the idiocy to admit to her that using humor was his favorite way of hiding his weaknesses.

“Tell me about our hostess,” he said at last, settling back against his seat. “What’s Margrave’s duchess like?”

“Edie?” She looked at him, pulled away at last from her seeming fascination with the view. “That reminds me of something I wanted to ask you. How did you know she and Margrave had made a marriage solely based on material considerations? I didn’t even know that fact until very recently, and I helped bring them together.”

“Margrave is a friend of mine. We were at school together. He’s usually off in Africa somewhere, but he does come to the Continent occasionally, and whenever he is in Paris, he looks me up.”

“I see. And was it Margrave’s marriage that led you to decide on the same course?”

“Not really, no. I knew Margrave and his wife had agreed to marry for material considerations. But at that time, the thought of marrying anyone myself never even entered my head. In fact, I was determined not to marry at all.”

“Until your father cut you off?”

“Yes.” He met her cool gaze with a hint of defiance. “Just so.”

“And you require a wife with a dowry because his decision is irrevocable? Could he not be persuaded to relent once you are married?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been told he is quite willing to do so, but only if certain requirements are met, and I have no intention of meeting those requirements.”

“And what are these requirements?”

“Given our conversations regarding my preferences, can’t you guess? Allow me to offer a hint,” he added before she could answer. “Landsdowne loves imposing his will on all and sundry, moving people about like chess pieces on a board. I, being a contrary sort of fellow, don’t care to oblige him by being one of those chess pieces.”

She frowned, thinking it out. “So you are choosing to marry, but you intend to deliberately choose the sort of woman he would disapprove of. A Roman Catholic girl, for example, or an American. And she has to be rich, because if she’s the sort he won’t approve, he won’t reinstate your income.”

That wasn’t the entire reason, of course, but he thought of Kathleen and decided it was best to leave it at that. “Yes.”

She tilted her head, studying him thoughtfully. “Do you do everything in life in opposition to what your father wants?”

“As often as I can. You find that appalling, I daresay.”

“No,” she said quietly. “I find it sad.”

There was a hint of compassion in her eyes, and he didn’t like it. It hurt, deep down, in places he didn’t want anyone to know about. “Sad?” he echoed, and gave her his most provoking smile. “On the contrary, aggravating Landsdowne provides me with a great deal of entertainment.”

“Yes, I suppose it does,” she agreed, not seeming the least bit surprised.

He wriggled on his seat. “Damn it, Belinda,” he said in aggravation, “what is it about you that always makes me feel like a bug on a pin?”

She smiled a little at that. “Why don’t you like talking about yourself?”

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” he countered, glad for the opportunity to divert the conversation. “I’d wager many people wonder what’s underneath your exterior. I know I do.”

She looked away, staring down at her lap. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“No? Allow me to explain.” He slid onto his knees in front of her, ignoring the way she stirred in her seat. “You are so cool, one would think butter couldn’t melt in your mouth. But . . .”

He paused, placing his hands on either side of her hips, resting them on the roll and tuck leather. “But that’s a front, isn’t it?”

He leaned forward, his abdomen brushing her knees, and the contact started the slow burn of desire inside him. He was heading into dangerous territory, he knew, but just now, he didn’t much care. “I don’t know much about you, Belinda Featherstone,” he murmured, “but I do know one thing. I know that underneath that prim, cool exterior of yours, you are hotter than hellfire.”

One of her black brows rose in a gesture he guessed was supposed to intimidate him. “I believe any woman, prim or not, hot or not, would consider your proximity at this moment as an advance upon her person, which means you are breaking the promise you made to me less than a week ago. Do you break all your promises to women so easily?”

That defeated him, and they both knew it. He sat back, cursing himself for ever making such a ridiculous promise, and he could only watch as she reached into her morocco traveling case and pulled out a book, opened it on her lap, and began to read. Conversation, clearly, was no longer an option, and he was right back where he’d started upon boarding the train—with the delectable Belinda right across from him and not a distraction to be found.

Not having not had the foresight to bring a book, he gazed out the window, but even the prettiest English countryside was no match for the view opposite him, and it wasn’t more than five minutes before he was giving in to the inevitable.

He started at her high, cameo-pinned collar, and as he began working his way down, it occurred to him that it was a fortunate thing her navy-and-cream traveling gown was so elaborate. With its countless ruffles and flounces, its dozens of buttons and ribbons, and undergarments that were no doubt equally complicated, he was hopeful that undoing the whole ensemble in his imagination would take longer than their train ride. Because if she was naked before they reached Norfolk, and he had to sit here with that sort of view in his head, blocked from touching her by his idiotic promise, he would have to walk to the back of the moving train and hurl himself onto the tracks.

Chapter 11

H
e was still watching her. Belinda didn’t look up from her book, but she didn’t have to, for she could feel his gaze on her like the blazing sun. Her knees still burned where they’d been pressed against his body, and his words seemed like a brand on her brain.

Under that prim, cool exterior, you are hotter than hellfire.

She was now, and it was all his fault.

Belinda tried to concentrate on her book, but that proved an impossible task with him watching her. He knew it, too, the wretched man.

“You know, if you’re pretending to read,” he murmured, “you probably ought to turn a page every once in a while. It’s more convincing that way.”

She looked at him over the top of her book and found that he was lounging back in his seat in an indolent pose, one shoulder propped against the window, a slight smile curving his mouth.

She frowned. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you staring is rude?”

“I know, but I can’t help myself. I’d rather look at you than the view outside. Much prettier.”

“Such lavish compliments,” she said as she turned a page. “But they’re wasted on me.”

“Don’t I know it?” he said with a rueful look. “Still, that doesn’t make them any less true.”

She sniffed. “I daresay you’d deem any young woman preferable to a view out a window.”

“Well, yes,” he acknowledged, his smile widening. “I am a man, after all. Besides,” he added, straightening in his seat with a glance at the window, “Cambridgeshire isn’t precisely my favorite part of England. Bad memories.”

“Oh?” Intrigued, she lowered her book to her lap. “How so?”

His smile faded, and he was silent so long, she thought he wasn’t going to answer her question. “Does it matter?” he asked after a moment.

Belinda studied his profile, the sudden rigidity in his shoulders, the press of his lips. “Yes,” she said softly. “I think it does.”

“I can’t imagine why it should. The past never matters.” He fell silent, and he seemed to find the view through the window much more fascinating now than he had before.

He was not a man who cared to talk about himself, and this was a rare opportunity to learn more about him. She had no intention of letting it pass. “You may not think it matters, but it does. I realize you hate answering questions of a personal nature, but you shall have to overcome your reluctance. Any woman who would consider marrying you will want to know more about you.”

“You’re right, of course,” he said with a sigh, and turned to face her. “As a boy, I’d hoped to go to Cambridge, for I’d always been fascinated by chemistry and science. I was forever asking questions, pestering anyone and everyone who had any scientific knowledge—my tutor, the brewing master at Honeywood, the local doctor, the owner of the chemist’s shop. I collected butterflies, bugs, and tadpoles. I even—” He broke off and smiled at a past memory. “I even set up a laboratory at Honeywood once. I had to smuggle in the apparatus, and Mr. Hathaway and I had to keep it a secret, of course, but we did some smashing experiments.” He paused, his smile fading. “For a while.”

Belinda frowned. “But I don’t understand. Why should you have had to smuggle in equipment and keep it a secret?”

He shot her a rueful look. “If you knew my father, you wouldn’t even have to ask that. Anyway,” he went on before she could probe further, “some of my experiments were very successful, particularly those I did on the use of chloride of lime for hygienic purposes. When I was at Eton, I wrote a paper proposing the addition of chloride of lime to public water supplies to curtail the spread of typhoid, and my professor sent it on to Cambridge with a recommendation of my abilities. I was invited to submit my application and come to be interviewed. I did, and I was accepted.”

Belinda frowned in puzzlement, thinking of the comment he’d made to Geraldine that day in the National Gallery. “But I don’t understand. Didn’t you attend Oxford?”

“Of course.” He smiled again, but this time, the smile did not reach his eyes. “All Landsdowne men go to Oxford.”

“But if you wanted to study the sciences, surely Cambridge would have been better. And if you were accepted, then why didn’t you go?”

“A Landsdowne go to Cambridge?” The lightness of his voice could not quite conceal the pain beneath it. “That would be absurd, Belinda. No Landsdowne has ever attended Cambridge.” He swallowed and looked away. “I was reminded of that axiom when my father forwarded the retraction of their acceptance on to me. They’d sent it to him . . . by mistake, he said.”

Belinda pressed her fingertips to her lips, feeling slightly sick. “He forced them to withdraw their acceptance.”

“Of course. There’s a reason Oxford has Landsdowne College, you know. As I said, all Landsdowne men go to Oxford. For a short time in my life, I forgot that fact.”

He stood up abruptly. “I believe I’ll walk the carriage and stretch my legs. Excuse me.”

He departed without another word, and as she watched him go, Belinda suddenly understood the meaning of his offhand comments at the ball.

“No wonder you have no expectations about life,” she murmured, as he walked away. “Why should you if they’ll only be snatched away?”

S
HE DIDN’T SEE
Nicholas again until just before the train pulled into the station at Clyffeton. He made no reference to their earlier conversation, and neither did she, but when their eyes met, she felt as if a barrier between them had broken down. Odd, she reflected, that a ten-minute conversation could provide a sense of intimacy that even that scorching kiss hadn’t achieved. Very few people, she suspected, knew about Cambridge.

She didn’t have much time to dwell on it, however. Upon their arrival, they found Edie’s driver waiting for them with one of the ducal carriages, and with the help of Trubridge’s valet, the porter secured the luggage, and they were soon on their way to Highclyffe.

Margrave’s estate was a sprawling Italianate structure of limestone and granite, with a dome at the center and wings on either side that seemed to stretch out endlessly into the distance. The grounds consisted mainly of boxwood hedges formed into elaborate, geometric designs, spires of yew meant to resemble the cedars of central Italy, and more fountains, temples, and statues than the palace of a Roman emperor.

“Are we still in England?” Nicholas asked, as they started up the long drive lined with chestnut trees. “Or have we somehow been magically transported to Tuscany?”

Belinda laughed at that, welcoming his propensity for humor at this moment. “Yes, the third duke—or the fourth—I forget which—fell in love with Italy while he was on his Grand Tour. He razed the previous house to the ground and built this.”

“The opposite of Landsdowne, then.” He turned from the window to look at her. “Landsdowne Abbey still has its castle keep, and some of the original fortifications are still in place. It sprawls, like this house, but it wasn’t designed that way. It’s simply been added onto with each generation, and my father, being all about family traditions, has never pulled any of it down, even the parts that are crumbling.”

“And Honeywood?” she asked. “Isn’t that your estate? What’s it like?”

“Ghastly.”

“I don’t believe you. What does it look like?”

“Tudor. It’s all white plaster and red brick, with diamond-paned windows and dark oak half-timbering.”

“But that sounds charming.”

“The outside’s all right. But the interiors are simply awful. You see, upon my parents’ marriage, Honeywood became the depository for all the worst pieces of Landsdowne art and furniture. My father, unlike most of our ancestors, happens to have a certain amount of taste, and since Honeywood was entailed to me through my mother in their marriage settlement, Landsdowne had no compunction about culling the most hideous paintings, sculptures, and furnishings from the other estates and using them to furnish Honeywood. It’s a mishmash of all the worst examples of art from every period since Queen Elizabeth.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not.” He laughed, shaking back his hair. “If you don’t believe me, ask Chalmers here. He’s seen the place. Or better yet,” he added, saving the valet from having to express an opinion, “come down to Kent with me and see for yourself.”

Before she could assure him such an invitation could merit only a refusal, and before she could ask any more questions about his estate, the carriage turned into the wide, graveled drive of Highclyffe and came to a halt. Edie was standing with a row of servants in front of the wide stone steps that led to the immense front doors, waiting to greet them. With characteristically American abandon, the duchess came running to envelop Belinda in a hug the moment she was out of the carriage.

“Oh, I’m so glad you could come,” she said laughing, as they pulled apart. “It’s been far too long since you last came to Highclyffe, and I do want you to enjoy yourself.”

“I’m sure I shall.” She gestured to the man beside her. “Edie, may I present the Marquess of Trubridge? Lord Trubridge, the Duchess of Margrave.”

“Duchess,” he greeted her. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”

He bowed over her offered hand, and she gave Belinda a meaningful glance over his head. When he straightened, she bestowed on him her most radiant smile. “Not at all, Trubridge. I’m happy to have any acquaintance of Belinda’s down for one of my parties. Especially a man as handsome as you.”

He laughed, accepting her words with an ease that said he was quite accustomed to such compliments. “You flatter me, Duchess. You’ve some lovely grounds,” he added, successfully diverting the subject. “I hope you don’t mind if I do some exploring while I’m here?”

“Not at all. Go anywhere you like.” She paused and glanced at Belinda. “Would you care for refreshment, or would you prefer to be shown your room?”

“My room first, if you please. Perhaps tea afterward?”

“Of course.” She turned to the servants standing nearby. “This is Wellesley, the butler at Highclyffe. And Mrs. Gates, the housekeeper. I see you’ve brought your valet with you.”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.” She beckoned the butler forward. “Wellesley, will you show Lord Trubridge to his rooms? And Mrs. Gates, take His Lordship’s valet along to his room, if you please. Oh, and have Molly take up her ladyship’s maid? I,” she added, hooking her arm through Belinda’s, “will show Lady Featherstone her room myself.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Wellesley turned to Nicholas. “If you will follow me, my lord?”

The two men turned toward the house, but as Belinda and Edie followed, the duchess slowed their pace.

“Darling,” she murmured once the others were out of earshot, “you’ve been holding out on me.”

“Holding out? I’m not sure I understand your meaning.” But she had a reasonably good idea.

“You told me Trubridge was a rake, but you didn’t tell me he was such a treat to look at.”

Belinda gave her friend a reproving look. “Handsome is as handsome does.”

“Oh, I do hate it when you sound like a minister’s daughter. And given that your own father is such a scapegrace, I can’t imagine where you get it from. Where is the old rascal these days, by the way?”

“Somewhere in Nevada. Silver mines or something.” She waved a hand. “I confess, I stopped listening to his schemes years ago. I’ve seen him make a fortune only to lose it so many times, I’ve lost count.”

“But for all that, you still love him.”

“I know.” Belinda sighed, fearing she had an incurable weakness for the scoundrels of the world. “Inexplicable, but true.”

“Speaking of scapegraces, I expect Trubridge to be quite a success with the ladies this week. I have nine single women coming, and you’ll surely find one to suit. All of them have heaps of money.”

“Who are they?”

“Well, there’s Rosalie Harlow, but I know you won’t want her for Trubridge since Sir William—”

“What?” Belinda stopped so abruptly that she caused Edie to skid on the gravel before she was able to stop as well. “Rosalie’s here?”

“Yes. She and her mother arrived on the morning train. Is that a problem?” she asked in surprise as Belinda groaned.

“It’s not a problem, it’s a disaster! Oh, Edie, why didn’t you tell me you’d invited Rosalie and her mother? You know the girl is one of my clients!”

“Of course I know. As I started to say, I was aware that you’re trying to pair her with Sir William Bevelstoke, which is why I invited him, too.”

“That’s lovely, but it won’t matter. Don’t you see?”

“Sorry, no. I’m utterly fogged. I thought I was being so clever by bringing her and Sir William together this week, and that you would be pleased. And as for not telling you, I simply forgot. What with packing to come down and all that, sending you a note before I left London completely slipped my mind. But why should it be a problem? Mrs. Harlow assured me you had arranged no fixed engagements for them during Whitsuntide, and I added them to the guest list on the spur of the moment. After all,” she added with a laugh, spreading her arms wide “when you have a house with fifty bedrooms and forty people already coming, what’s a few more?”

Belinda waved aside her discussion of bedrooms. “You’re missing the point. I’m trying to keep Rosalie away from Trubridge. I fear she’s become infatuated with him.”