In the Arms of a Marquess (14 page)

He struggled for steadiness.

“Lie to yourself,” he finally said, a lifetime of control assuring the indifference of his tone. “Lie to the both of us, as you wish. Then as now, it is all the same to me.” He strode from beneath the trellis.

It had to be all the same, lies and truth. For seven years he had nursed regret and anger, pretending he had forgotten, but it was there all along. It could not be undone now with a few words, especially not when her hand bore another man’s ring. But the warmth of the afternoon sun beat down upon him like a curse, like the golden tropical days he had spent in her company.

He remembered like it was yesterday.

Returning to his house that morning after it all—after the night and her body in his hands, after her aunt’s scorn and her own wide-eyed accusation—he told his mother and aunt his intentions. The objections of Octavia’s aunt meant nothing to him. Her uncle, George Stack, a trader for the East India Company, knew well enough the influence Ben’s uncle had wielded with natives and Englishmen alike, and now Ben himself. Her guardian would not deny Ben his wishes. He would have her if she would have him.

But even as he spoke the words, he knew. He’d known from the first, when intrigued became enchanted, then enchanted lost. She was not part of the plan for him, and he would suffer for the weakness he had allowed himself.

Tears streaming down her Brahmin face, his aunt begged him to reconsider. The potential for disaster was too great so soon after his uncle’s death. According to her husband’s last wish, she had not thrown herself upon the funeral pyre as customary, and many of his native business associates were unhappy with this breach of tradition. They claimed that the family had become too western and could not be trusted. As well, if Ben took an English wife, he would lose his allies amongst the Mughal princes.

“Remember the treaties your uncle negotiated, the peace he established between rivals,” his aunt entreated. “All that would be for naught if you do such a reckless thing at this fragile time, Benjirou. You will lose everything my husband spent his life building.”

Then his mother came to him, urging him to think of his family, his cousins, their husbands and children. He would put them all in danger. Would he not reconsider this decision? Ben stared at their pleading faces, and the weight of his destiny descended upon him like an avalanche. They did not demand. They asked. It was his choice to make. At twenty-two, he alone commanded the fates of hundreds. His life had never been entirely his own. Now it was not at all.

“Benji,” his mother had said softly. “What of this girl?”

“What of her?”

“Do you know her?”

He knew her laughter, her smile, her fearless directness. He knew that when he was with her, he felt at once vital and at peace, and when he was not he only wanted to be with her again. He knew that the flavor of her lips and her hands on him made him mad with need.

“Do you know what is truly in her heart?” she asked. “Would it be worth all that could be lost if you someday discover her lust for status and wealth to have been powerful enough for her to put aside other concerns?”

Other concerns . . .
The Indian blood that ran through his veins and shadowed his skin, that for years had made his life hell amongst the blue-blooded, pink-hued sons of Britain.

But she had a penchant for the exotic, her aunt had said. He should have guessed that. Even at that young age he had already had more than his share of women who took an extra thrill in being with him, believing themselves especially wicked. Women who wanted to feel and appear wicked even more than they wanted pleasure. He had used that to his uncle’s advantage, and the pleasure he got from those encounters was great. The pain was greater still.

Something had told him Octavia was not one of those women—her clear gaze, her unselfconscious enjoyment of the simplest pleasures, the eager innocence of her touch. Still, she believed what her aunt said of him. He had seen it in her eyes, heard it in her voice. She believed the worst because she had no reason not to.

“No.” The word came from his throat rough. “It would not be worth it.”

He got his horse and went out to the cotton fields that day, needing the distance from his family and space to come to terms with what he must do. But the next morning, despite all, he called at her house.

“You are not welcome here.” Her aunt barred the door as though he were a barbarian who would storm through if hindered.

“By you, or your niece?”

Her nostrils flared. “She does not wish to see you again.”

“Then she should tell me so herself.”

“She told
me
so in no uncertain terms, sirrah. She said she was mistaken in encouraging you to imagine she had any particular attachment to you.” Her gaze raked him with distaste, as though he did not even merit disdain. For nearly a decade Ben had been the recipient of such appraisals from his schoolmates, even his masters at university. He thought he had become accustomed to it.

“Then good day, madam.” He bowed, mounted his horse, and rode to her uncle’s warehouse office.

Stack met him with a wary, anxious face that suggested he knew perfectly well Ben’s position in Madras. Ben spoke to him briefly and clearly, and without awaiting a reply departed. He would not be gainsaid in this matter.

That afternoon, a half-Japanese manservant presented himself for work at the Madras home of Mr. George Stack. The Englishman employed the native without question. When the family departed for Bengal the following morning, the new manservant went with them. Thereafter, every three months, a letter arrived for Ben wherever he was. Like clockwork.

Even then he never wondered if what his mother and her aunt had said about Octavia was true. He had not wondered until she came to his house with a fiancée then kissed him anyway. Until she became a player in a game between wealthy men, at least one with something to hide.

Perhaps Crispin’s possessiveness had to do with Styles. Something Ben did not wish to consider. But he knew he must. He needed to learn the truth, and he needed it to justify his suspicions. Because if it was not her fault that matters had gone as they had seven years ago, then it was his. And that simply could not be.

Chapter 11

To SINK. To force a vessel under the surface of the water.

—Falconer’s
Dictionary of the Marine

T
he following day Ben set off with his gentlemen guests for another interminable morning of spraying birdshot at flying targets.

“Up to my ears in contested lading bills,” Lord Gosworth grumbled, pouring iron pellets down his gun barrels.

“You and I both.” Lord Crispin watched the earl load his weapon. “Still, soon as I am back in town I’ll be stopping in at Tattersall’s for a new set of carriage horses.” He turned to Ben. “Do you know of any fine animals coming up for auction, Doreé?”

Ben lifted a brow. “Only what anyone might.”

Crispin grinned. “Always seeming to know news of the trade before anyone else does not qualify you as generally omniscient, is that it?”

Ben studied the man. The baron was roughly his own age, well set up, and he never showed himself poorly amongst ladies or gentlemen. Nothing flickered in his gaze now, no hint of secrecy, guilt, or even ire.

“I am humbled by your praise, sir, if praise is intended.”

“Of course it is. If I had half your blunt, Doreé, I’d be a happy man indeed.”

“Got yourself a pretty little girl there.” Gosworth set the gun cock to his shoulder. “Should be perfectly happy already.”

Crispin blinked. Twice.

Wings pounded the air. The earl fired, the blast echoing across the field. A bird dropped.

“Fine shot, my good man!” Nathans shouted from a distance, saluting with his gun. “Fine shot.”

“Fool of a novice,” Lord Gosworth mumbled. “He’ll get himself killed waving his piece around like a schoolboy.” He moved toward his prize.

Crispin’s gaze seemed to struggle for focus. He looked straight at Ben, his regard uncustomarily cloudy. Ben’s breath slowed. As a boy he had been taught to recognize the moment of weakness in his adversary, and to take advantage of it.

“Lord Crispin,” he said quietly, “may I assist you in any way?”

Crispin’s brow pleated. “I— No.” He looked toward his partner. “Nathans, you know. Not accustomed to gentlemanly sport.” But his tone lacked conviction, and his brow remained beetled.

Ben nodded, and continued after the earl toward the thicket.

A
fter dinner, he encouraged the gentlemen to enjoy a round of billiards, instructing the footman to maintain full glasses. Conversation turned to business. Lord Gosworth complained of tea smugglers undercutting the profits of honest traders, drawing round agreement. Someone mentioned recent opposition in Parliament, another the blasted missionaries poking their noses into everything. Crispin remained subdued.

Pennworthy took his leave early, preoccupied with his wife and colicky infant. The others bade good-night at intervals until finally only Nathans remained, as Ben had hoped. He invited him to the library nestled in a far corner of the house and ladled brandy into him until the man finally fell upon the divan with a mighty snort.

Ben poured himself a drink—his first of the evening—and sipped it pensively, watching the bluff fellow snore and despising himself for what he was about to do.

He set Samuel to guard outside the library door and made his way to the other end of the house. Lady Nathans reclined in the drawing room, alone, where according to Ben’s servants she had been every night until late. Waiting for him or some other lucky fellow.

“Your husband, it seems,” he leaned his shoulder against the doorpost, “has some trouble holding his liquor.”

She barely batted a lash. “But you haven’t, apparently, my lord?” She unfolded herself from the sofa with feline sinuousness, assessing him from brow to toe. Appreciation shone in her narrow emerald gaze, and clear intentionality. “How convenient for you.”

He laid aside his regret. For the moment. “For both of us, my lady.”

She moved toward him, a studied
provocatrice
.

“He mentioned something before he dropped off.” Ben mimicked intimacy with his tone. “A matter preying upon his mind lately concerning his partner.”

She halted inches away, the unmistakable scents of Parisian perfume and promiscuous female twining in his nostrils.

“Oh, no, that is impossible. My husband hasn’t any mind upon which a matter might prey.” She slid the tip of her tongue along the berry-red curve of her lower lip.

“You are harsh on him, I think.” He allowed his gaze to dip to her bosom covered by a thin gown more suited to London than the countryside.

“But, you see, he is rather harsh on me.” She tilted her chin up, her chestnut curls glistening in the candlelight. “In one particularly unpleasant manner.”

“What manner is that?”

She traced a fingertip along the lapel of his coat to his waist. “He has no idea how to please a woman.” She paused and her tongue darted out again to moisten her lips. “Carnally.”

Her actions and words roused nothing in him, neither desire nor surprise. Women like Priscilla Nathans had always spoken to him in this manner, as though he understood bestial nature better than civility.

“Pity for him,” he murmured.

“Pity for me,” she replied, her fingers descending. “Until this moment.” She cupped his groin.

Ben reached down and smoothly lifted her hand away.

“This moment would no doubt be better enjoyed in a more private location, my lady.”

Her bosom rose upon a breath, her jeweled eyes glistening with triumph.

“Abigail Carmichael said you could not be enticed these days, but I told her I could move you.”

Not yet. Not even the slightest bit. Dear God, he was out of practice. But he had always been able to perform upon demand. Like the trained animal they imagined him to be.

“Let us see about that, shall we?” he replied.

She pressed her breast to his arm as they ascended the stairs. The corridor stretched dark save for a lamp set at the far end. She opened her bedchamber door. Within, coals simmered upon the grate, a pair of candles illuminating the bed table. The maid had recently visited; they would not be disturbed. But suddenly Ben could not wait to complete his task, and the blatant appetite in the woman’s eyes told him he might rush matters without forfeiting his goal.

“Tell me,” he said just above her lips, “of the nature of your husband’s partnership with Marcus Crispin.”

Her eyes narrowed. She took his hand and placed it upon her breast. Her lashes fluttered.

“What do you wish to know, my lord?”

Relief skidded through him. She understood the game. He stroked and she smiled in victory.

“What motive would a man have to blackmail Crispin?”

She guided his hand to cool, smooth skin above her bodice, then beneath the garments.

“But one, I should say.” She tilted her head back and her eyes slitted. Ben gave her what she desired, but his mind went to Octavia’s soft skin beneath his hands, her wide, needy gaze, and his body stirred in response. Finally.

“What is that?” Imagining Octavia while touching another woman turned his stomach. He withdrew his hand, gripped the coquette’s waist and bent to set his mouth upon her neck. By any standard Priscilla Nathans was stunning. That should suffice.

“A ship,” she breathed, sliding her hand low once more. “A cargo. Always the same.”

“The same?”

“As two years ago.” She grasped his cock.

His jaw tightened. “Illegal goods?”

“What else? Come inside now.” Her voice was thick with desire. “Now.” She drew him within. The door clicked shut and she reached to lock it.

“No.”

Her fingers paused upon the key. Her thin brows lifted. He moved behind her, covered her hand on the lock, and rounded her waist.

“I must know what cargo.” He stroked up to the heavy swell of her breast, barely brushing it. “Exactly.”

“And you will not remain unless I tell you.” She had probably been playing this game for years already. “What if I don’t know?”

“Then you will learn it.”

“If I do?”

He moved around her to the door, allowing a lazy look in his eyes as he scanned her body.

“Then, my dear Lady Nathans, you will have what Lady Carmichael does not.”

Her eyes glittered, her breaths fast. Ben stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind him. Leaning back against the wall, he inhaled a shuddering breath and willed his stomach to cease churning.

He could not. Not tonight or any other night, and not only because of the cuckolded tosspot in his library. He could not do it because of the woman sleeping elsewhere in his house. Not even
for
her sake. It felt too much like a betrayal. A betrayal of a woman who should mean nothing to him yet for whom he designed his every action and word.

He scrubbed a hand across his face. If he had truly left behind those days of bowing to his uncle’s will, he must leave them all behind. She was marrying another man and yet she kissed him with a hunger equal to his, like Priscilla Nathans giving herself to him while the man she owed her loyalty to slept nearby.

He pushed away from the door, disgust roiling through his gut, for the woman he had just left panting, for the one he wanted, and for himself most of all. For years he had avoided this tangle of regret and desire by avoiding anything that would remind him of the young man he had once been. He lived quietly on the peripheries of society, and damn it, he’d been happy. At least content.

Then Octavia Pierce stepped back into his life.

He strode down the corridor, blind, but not from the dim lighting. Blind, confused, and angry because after seven years he was a puppet once more dancing to another’s tune. But there was no puppet master at whom to direct his anger now. Only himself.

T
avy clamped a palm to her mouth and willed herself not to be ill. Why hadn’t she remained in the nursery for a minute longer? Then she would not have seen him.
Her
. Him kissing her. Her hand upon his—

She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and willed away the image, throat thick.

She must not cry. Foolish girls cried. Foolish girls who believed a man’s pretty words. And now she hadn’t even pretty words. He had kissed her the day before, touched her, but never said he wanted her. Not this time. This time he had done it to hurt her.

The corridor was silent. They must be in her bedchamber now. Tavy’s knees shook. She had been quick enough to steal back into the darkness of the adjacent corridor as soon as she glimpsed the tableau around the corner. But now she lacked the steadiness of nerves to move.

She must. She remembered so well her own cries when he had given her pleasure. She could not bear it now if she had to hear—

She shoved away from the wall, ran along the corridor and threw herself into a shadowed alcove. Sinking against the wall, she covered her face with her palms.

“What am I doing?” she whispered, wanting Lal’s arms about her neck, his soft comforting croon in her ear. For years he had been her sole confidant, holding her secrets silently. Nearly seven years, since she began keeping secrets.

“What have I already done?” She should not have allowed the betrothal to last even these few days, not with her heart full of another man. Ben touched her and she came alive. He spoke and something profound and powerful inside her swelled. He caught her staring at him and she hadn’t the strength to look away.

She pressed her face into her hands. She must escape him. Perhaps she could go to the countryside with Alethea. But St. John’s work kept him in town. Perhaps a seaside cottage alone? She could hire a companion. Or back to India, four thousand miles away? Uncle George still lived in Calcutta.

All foolishness. No distance would suffice. It never had.

He was not the man she wanted to want. He took what he wished without regard for others, as he had done with her years ago. But she could not live the rest of her life in that shadow. Tomorrow she must end her betrothal. Then she would apologize to Alethea for abandoning her and Jacob, and she would leave.