In the Arms of a Marquess (19 page)

“Now, go.” His voice was low. “Go make amends with your betrothed.”

Tavy wanted nothing else than to throw herself into his arms and beg him to never release her.

She straightened her shoulders, slid her feet into her slippers, and went to the door. No candle lit the corridor, but she did not need light to guide her way. She was lost, and no material illumination could help her now.

B
en stared at the closed door, numb to his marrow. He had done what he needed, as he always did, and he hated his dead uncle, his family, and every person across the seas that depended upon him, more than ever before.

But he had spoken the truth. He should have been more careful of her—of her virtue, then of the future. He’d told himself that a woman who welcomed a man’s touch while betrothed to another could not be a maiden. A neat, believable excuse to take what he wanted, what he had wanted since nearly the first time he set eyes upon her. Then he had lost himself in her beyond the point of safety, easily, willingly.
Intentionally
. Because part of him wanted to bind her to him permanently, to make her his regardless of the consequences.

If she found herself increasing, he would wed her. But then he would never know the truth.

Distress had flashed in her lovely eyes when he had spoken of caution. She tried to mask it, but in this she was a poor dissembler. But perhaps that moment simply marked a quick shift in her approach to securing a titled husband. A rapid recalculation in the face of his resistance. Her honesty in passion told him he was wrong to believe it. But a woman who sought to dissemble was not after all entirely honest. When he instructed her regarding Crispin, her eyes had shone with astonishment, but also guilt. She had not told him everything about her arrangement with the baron.

Secrets. Dissembling. At one time he had thought Octavia Pierce incapable of such things. But that time had been brief, little longer than the night that had just passed in which she had given herself to him as to no other man. The blood on the bedclothes proved it just as his experience of her body did.

But before she had, she made certain he hadn’t already chosen a bride.

He knew not what to believe, only that he wanted her more than air, more than the life he had been given. Now, with the sweetness of her hunger still upon his skin, he could no longer do what he should have done the moment she stepped out of his house in London: forget she ever existed. Whether by design or simple nature, she had ensnared him, and he was bound. It only remained for fate to play out his hand.

Ben had no delusions of winning. The riches of the world were already his, wealth and influence beyond what many kings enjoyed. That he only wanted one thing, the simplest and yet most impossible to assure for a man like him, was his own eternal folly.

Chapter 16

BREAKERS. A name given by sailors to those billows that break violently over rocks lying under the surface of the sea.

—Falconer’s
Dictionary of the Marine

A
t Sunday service in the chapel, Marcus appeared his usual self, all smiles and charm for the ladies and pleasantries for the gentlemen. But when the carriages arrived on the drive preparing to depart Fellsbourne, he came to Tavy with a sober brow. His eyes showed tiny rivulets of red and his skin seemed pale.

Tavy couldn’t throw stones. It had taken every ounce of skill at her
toilette
to make herself appear little better than sepulchral. Two hours of sleep and turbulent emotions haggarded a woman horridly.

“I have business to attend to as soon as I return to town, but I will call upon you after that.” Marcus took her arm as though he had the right to.

Tavy nearly snatched it away. But Ben stood nearby with the Gosworths and her family. She did not owe Ben her assistance, and she didn’t give a fig about Marcus’s troubles any longer. But his threat against her loved ones hung over her.

Tavy told herself this was the only reason she would play this farce. But she knew the truth. She could no more deny Ben than she could fly to the moon on a magic carpet. He had asked for her aid, and she would give it to him.

“This evening, then?” Marcus looked hopeful.

“Tomorrow.”

“I will take you driving.” He patted her arm.

Standing between Ben and St. John, Alethea beckoned to her with a glance. Tavy must say an appropriately grateful goodbye to their host, just as all the Marquess of Doreé’s other guests who had not spent the night making love to him.

Even as her throat went dry, hysteria wobbled in it. She went forward and made her curtsy.

“Thank you for your gracious welcome, my lord.” Every exhausted mote of her blood was alive to him.

He bowed. “The pleasure was all mine, ma’am.”

“You have a lovely home.” From Greek folly to billiards room to master bedchamber.

“I am glad you approve of it.”

“Octavia, you will ride with me.” Lady Fitzwarren bustled between them. “Doreé, you are your father’s son in the excellence of your hospitality. Your cook’s curried sole is one of the finest I have tasted.”

“I will convey to her your compliments, my lady.”

“Oh, wait.” Constance hurried over and grasped Tavy’s hands. “I will call upon you in town the moment I return. We will make a plan to go shopping, or perhaps to the museum.” Her grip was tight, her gaze peculiarly brittle.

“That would be lovely.” Tavy returned the pressure of her fingers. Perhaps Ben did not know this woman’s heart. Perhaps he was using Constance just as he was using her, with her full and enthusiastic consent.

“Come along, Octavia.” Lady Fitzwarren drew her away.

She climbed into the dowager’s carriage. Settling back upon the squabs, she lifted her fingers in parting to Alethea on the drive, and turned her gaze to the other window. The carriage pulled onto the straightaway flanked by masterful chestnuts, their fruit spilled upon the ground like loamy tears. She stared at the graceful slope of lawn toward the little Greek temple at the lake, trees nestled around its far flank. Everything sparkled after the night’s heavy rain, clean washed and fresh with fall’s golds, crimsons, and ochres on branches and carpeting the ground.

“That was a close run thing,” the dowager exclaimed upon a relieved whorl of breath. “Thank heavens.”

“Thank heavens?” Tavy’s body drooped with weariness and something more.

“Thank heavens the two of you did not fall into each other’s arms back there.”

Tavy shrugged. “Lady Constance and I have become comfortable friends very swiftly, it is true. But sometimes a friendship will begin in such a manner.”

“I was not speaking of Constance.”

The landscape dropped away toward the road and Fellsbourne disappeared beyond an autumn-dappled copse. Slowly Tavy turned from the view to the dowager.

“Are you still betrothed to Crispin, child?”

“Yes.” Marcus had showed no sign of accepting her refusal after all. And now she must renew her engagement in any case.

“I see.”

“Aunt Mellicent, I should like it if you would host a party in town. Not a particularly large gathering, but sizable enough so that everybody is not in everybody else’s pockets all evening long.”

The dowager folded her hands atop her elegantly bulging midriff. “Should you like that?”

“Yes, quite a lot. I adore parties. And I should like it to be very soon, certainly no more than a fortnight from now but preferably before that.”

“Is that so? And what else should you like, my dear?”

“For you to invite the Marquess of Doreé.”

The dowager’s lips pursed. “Anyone else?”

“No. Well, the usual sorts of people, that is. But no one else in particular.” She could not very well make a habit of visiting his house in town alone, but she must have opportunity to share with him the information she learned when she accepted Marcus. Ben would not call upon her, of course. This was not courtship.

She folded her cold hands together as the dowager’s gaze bore into her.

“Octavia Pierce,” she finally said, “I will not throw a party so that you can engage in a clandestine tryst. It goes against my better judgment if not my natural inclination.”

Tavy shook her head. “That is not my intention, Aunt Mellicent. I assure you.”

Lady Fitzwarren studied her. “No. I can see from your face it is not.” She smacked her hands upon her knees. “Well then, you shall have your party.”

“How can you see anything from my face?”

“You are all demureness, to be sure, dear. You’ve nothing to fear from the gossips.” She paused. “As long as they don’t see the two of you together.”

M
arcus appeared the next morning, dapper in a gray coat and Hessians, looking fully restored to spirits. He handed her up into his phaeton.

“What an impressive carriage,” Tavy commented.

“Only the best for you.” He snapped the ribbons. “I took this pair off Lord Michaels yesterday. Fellow’s down on his luck, you know. Doreé recommended them. He is a fine judge of horseflesh.”

Tavy mumbled acknowledgment. It seemed a poor omen that Marcus would mention Ben so immediately. Or at all.

He guided them into the park. “I am glad to have the opportunity to speak privately.”

“I expect you wish to apologize for your behavior two nights ago.”

“Forgive me, Octavia. It was unpardonable—”

“You needn’t elaborate. Gentlemen will drink spirits and say unwise things. One cannot wonder at it.” One could also not help but wonder what Ben would say to her under the influence of strong drink.

“You are a treasure, Octavia.” His smile seemed genuine.

“Thank you. You are overly fond of considering me in that light, I think.” Was guilt to be her constant companion now?

He slowed the vehicle. “I cannot fathom how fortunate I am to know you.”

“You are doing it a bit too brown, Marcus.”

“No.” He drew the horses in and turned to her as fully as the narrow seat would allow. “I am sincere in my praise, and in my affections. Octavia, you make me hope.”

A sizzle of nerves worked its way through her middle. His brow was drawn.

“Hope?”

“I am within the grip of something I should not be. I am hoping that with you at my side I will be able to master it.” He took a hard breath.

“Marcus, are you quite all right?”

“Not at all, I’m afraid.”

“Has this anything to do with the blackmailer?”

He met her gaze squarely as though he would speak, then his fell away.

“Please tell me.” She dove in. “You see, I was foolish the other night. Unthinking, really. I have been reconsidering your offer and I find that my feelings on the matter have altered.”

His face lightened, the hope he’d spoken of clear upon it now.

“But on a condition,” she added quickly. “I must know the particulars of this dangerous business in which you are engaged. If I am to be your wife, I need to understand why you, I, and possibly my family could be in danger.”

He gripped her fingers, but not too tightly. Today he was sober, and although his hazel eyes now showed distress, he was in possession of himself again.

“I wish I could tell you.”

“Yes, you have said that before. But if you expect me to be your wife you simply must. What is the blackmailer’s name and what does he want of you?”

“To be forever bound to a preoccupation that I cannot like,” he said with unusual vehemence.

“A preoccupation?”

“An obsession.” His voice was low. “An influence from which I wish to free myself.”

Tavy’s stomach churned.

“Marcus, you haven’t— What I mean to say is, you are not—”

“Am not master of my own mind in this?” He looked away to the treetops. “Yes.”

“We are not speaking of opium, are we?” Plenty of English traders and soldiers in India practiced eastern pastimes, but she had never seen the signs of it upon him.

“I only wish we were.”

“Then—” How could she ask it? But abruptly it made a great deal of sense. “Is it a-another man?”

His head came around sharply, eyes wide.
“Octavia.”

“Well, you are very mysterious and seem so thoroughly distressed about this. And despite our long acquaintance you have kissed me only that once. What else am I to imagine?”

“You oughtn’t to know about such things.” But he did not sound particularly offended, and his eyes held a crisp appreciation she had not expected.

“But I do know. So, is that it?”

He put both hands around hers. “No, it is not. And I would like to kiss you again.”

But he had not. Yet Ben had taken nearly every opportunity to do so.

“Tell me about the blackmailer and I will allow you to kiss me all you wish.”

He said nothing for a minute. “You are accepting me upon that condition only?”

“Yes.”

“Octavia, you must not seek out this man. He is a dangerous person.”

“I do not intend to,” she said with complete honesty. The lie came just as smoothly. “I only need to be assured that you are fully honest with me.” Her lungs ached.

“His name is Sheeble.”

The last mote of respect Tavy possessed for the baron of Crispin disintegrated. He should not have told her, no matter what she begged and no matter what conditions she placed upon it. Given her nature and persistence, he should know that she would not rest content with only a name. A man who cared for a woman would not put her in this danger. He had no true concern for her, only for acquiring what he wished.

Just like Ben.

“What is his business with you?”

“He wishes me to sign a bill of lading so that a ship can leave England without a full inspection.”

“A ship with illegal cargo aboard?”

His Adam’s apple jerked. “Yes.”

“What sort of cargo?”

He shook his head.

She could not bear his touch any longer, even through her gloves. She drew her hands away and placed them in her lap.

“I accept your proposal of marriage, Marcus.”

He took a breath, his shoulders rising then falling abruptly. “You will not be sorry. And I will be grateful to you for the remainder of our lives.”

“I do not need gratitude. Only honesty.”

“You have enough of the latter for the both of us, I daresay,” he said with an uncomfortable chuckle. He took the ribbons in two hands again and clicked his tongue to set the horses in motion.

Oh, yes, she had loads of honesty, thoroughly tarnished now because of her weakness for a man who would never have her. Perhaps she had tired of seeking out adventures. This one was proving to be not so thrilling after all.

In front of her sister’s house, Marcus handed her out of the phaeton and kissed the back of her hand. Tavy tried not to squirm. She declined his escort to the door.

Lal met her with a relieved chirp and leaped onto her shoulder. His tail curled around her arm in a caressing gesture, soft clucking sounds in the back of his mouth. Tavy removed her bonnet and placed her reticule on the table.

Abha stood in the corridor.

“He was not content in your absence.” His comfortingly foreign rumble met her ears like warmth. Tavy missed hearing the music of Indian voices all about her. She missed the bazaar and the port overflowing with ships, and the heat, and her veranda. “You went away too soon after your return from the country. He did not understand.”

Tavy studied her longtime companion.

“Abha, how are you getting along in London?”