In the Arms of a Marquess (24 page)

“I was naïve then. I understand some matters a great deal better now.”

“You understood then,” he said with peculiar hesitancy. But his jaw seemed harder, his gaze withdrawing further.

“No, I suspect I was the only one who did not understand,” she countered. “You certainly did. You knew all along. Everybody in the bazaar must have known, for pity’s sake. Everyone except the foolish English girl who could not imagine—” She broke off. “I should have imagined. I hadn’t any idea, and you led me to believe—”

“I did not intend to hurt you.”

“Well, you did.” Worse than she would ever let him discover. Just as now he was hurting her with the distance in his eyes.

“You were prepared.” His voice was low. “You knew what you wanted.”

“I knew nothing.” Her breaths felt tight, aching again. “You nearly made love to me that night, and I wanted you to, but I hadn’t any idea what was happening.”

“You hadn’t any idea?” Golden candlelight flashed in his eyes. “Do you expect me to believe that, when you were wearing so little? Your shift was translucent.”

“It was ninety degrees at midnight. Of course I was wearing that little! And I never imagined any person other than my maid would see my shift. I was a complete innocent. I didn’t know men wanted to undress women. I didn’t know anything. I was hot!” As now, with his flame-touched gaze searing her. “And given that you made me twice as hot, I was happy I didn’t have more clothing on. I did not know what could happen. What might have happened.”

He stepped forward.

“Now you know.” He bent to her, and Tavy went into his arms without resistance because, simply, she wanted him. She had wanted him since the moment she saw him and hadn’t the strength to resist, no matter what his purpose.

But the kiss was not angry. He held her head in his broad palm and drank in her lips, then the sensitive tip of her tongue, his perfect mouth tracing a slow, luscious exploration of her flesh. He teased her, entering only enough to make her flushed below, remembering his tongue there, then tasting her in languorous strokes, drawing fire through her and making her breathless. She twined her arms about his shoulders and sank into him.

His fingers threaded through her hair, then curved along her neck to her shoulder, trailing a path of tender pleasure. She wanted him to touch her. Her breasts ached for it. Already the astounding sensation of opening stole between her thighs, born from his kiss and his strength so close. He separated their mouths then captured hers again as his hand at the small of her back fit her against him. She touched his face, the masterful planes of beauty beneath her fingertips as his lips moved to her throat.

“That night,” she whispered, “you asked if you could touch me.”

“Let me touch you.” His voice was rough.

“Yes.”

“You begged me to.”

“Please, Ben.”

“You needn’t beg now, sweet
shalabha
. You needn’t have then.” He cupped her breasts and his caress was sublime and stunningly honest, as though he had never touched her more intimately. As though her body was something unique and precious to him to discover.

With his hands he transformed the barrier of her clothing into a tool of seduction, brushing the fabric across her nipples until she hurt with the need for him. The careful, steady strokes grew firmer, centered, and she pressed into his hands. His tongue swept between her parted lips, drew hers into him, and Tavy felt naked as though Ben had stripped her of every garment, like on that night in the garden swimming in heat, when he had given her pleasure but expected nothing in return, demanding no more than her gratification.

“I want to touch you now, everywhere I did that night,” he said huskily. “Everywhere the moonlight caressed your skin.”

But that night she had understood nothing, and yet everything at once, so naïve and so ready to fall. She was a different person now. Wiser.

“No,” she whispered against his mouth. “No.
No
.” She grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands wide. He allowed it, and she held off this man with ten times her strength by his consent, his palms spread in a gesture like supplication. But her shaking fingers around his wrists felt the trembling in him too, and his eyes were dark.

“What do you want, Ben?”

He spoke without hesitation. “Sometimes I believe I could exist for nothing more than to bring you pleasure.”

Her breath escaped upon a choking sigh. He shook her grip free and curved his hand around the back of her neck, pressing his lips to her brow.

“You thought I was like her. Like Priscilla Nathans.”

“You were betrothed, Octavia, yet you allowed me to kiss you. You welcomed my kisses.” His mouth curved into a rueful grin. “You also did a credible act of playing the indifferent society lady when you first came to my house here.”

But she could not share his amusement. “Not in Madras. How could you have thought that of me then?”

“I did not know to expect anything else of Englishwomen. I had never met a woman like you who spoke her thoughts, and all of them honest.”

“You knew Constance.”

He drew back and looked at her carefully. “Constance hides her own secrets.”

“And you? Are you hiding secrets, Ben? Oh—” She released a sound like laughter but it was not. “Why do I bother asking? I know you have secrets. Your whole life is a secret.” Where had he been for the past four days? He must have known she was waiting, as she had waited through the drenching monsoon for his return.

He gave her no answer, and she pressed her palm to his chest. Beneath wool and linen, his heart beat firm and swift like hers. It should be enough that he wanted her so much. But that alone would never be enough.

She moved several steps back.

“I am still betrothed to Marcus.”

She said it for the worst of reasons, to test his response. She should simply ask him what he intended of her now that they had been lovers. In another age she might have. But she had changed in seven years, and now part of her feared his response. Part of her wanted to see it in his eyes only, so that his words would not forever after have power over her.

He gave her what she wished. His gaze did not alter, unreadable in the candlelight, and he did not speak.

Now she must make a choice, disentangle herself from his web of silences or remain within it indefinitely. Her head argued one side of the debate, her body the other. Her heart, that obstreperous organ, clearly believed it could hover in both camps.

Dropping her gaze, she went past him and across the chamber. She paused at the door, her knuckles white around the frame, and ducked her head. “This is your reminder.”

“What reminder?” His voice sounded tight.

“You told me once to remind you to ask me for a warning. A warning when I would let you win.” She looked over her shoulder. “The next time, Ben, I think you will win.”

“I do not wish to win against you, Octavia.”

“I don’t know that you have any choice in the matter now.” She left.

B
en stared at the empty doorway. He seemed to be fated now to watch her leave him, to see her walk away without giving him what he wanted most. The flavor of her lips upon his tongue worked like whiskey in his senses, dizzying him. He needed her, had come here tonight to know the truth, and yet he would leave again less satisfied than ever. Less certain.

She was still betrothed to Crispin. Still harboring secrets. Or ammunition?

He could not believe it of her. Nothing gave evidence of that except the battering weight of betrayal swirling through him now. Honesty came through her kiss and the touch of her hands, so foreign to him. More foreign than anything else he had known, and more so now.

He bent his head and passed his palm over his eyes. On the table beside him a heavy book lay open, its pages marked with pen along the margins.

Ben recognized the marine dictionary. He’d read it as a boy, and Creighton kept a copy of Falconer’s book in the office at Blackwall. The hand in the margins was Octavia’s, the same as the single line of script she had sent him days ago, neat and clean with a playful flare to the capitals. Her notes seemed scattered, some lengthier, most impressionistic, place names and brief descriptions of sites and people, sometimes quoted phrases.

Despite all, he smiled. It did not surprise him in the least that Octavia used this book in this manner. When he first met her she had been a girl full of life and freedom. Now she was more subdued, but that spark of
vivant
still lit her warm eyes.

His fingers pressed back the journal clippings tucked in the crease to follow a note twining like a vine down the center of the page, then he halted. His name stared up at him.

He drew the three, yellowed scraps out, each from
The Times
.

The first clipping was painfully familiar. Only four days ago in his office he had read again his brother and father’s obituary, alongside the notice of his own preferment to the title. The second was a snippet of a gossip column mentioning the completed renovations of his Cavendish Square house, and musing on when he would finally make his Scottish fiancée its mistress. The third, dated more than three years later, was an article from the Board of the Admiralty listing ship owners operating out of the Port of London, followed by a catalogue of vessels, highlighting one of his own as a particularly excellent example of mercantile craftsmanship.

Ben laid the clippings on the book and worked to draw air into his lungs. She had followed news of him more than three years after he left India.
Three years.

His gaze shifted to the door again, and the hot, insistent certitude that she had spoken only truth washed up and against him, then through him—despite her betrothal, despite his fears—like a monsoon wind.

He moved across the chamber into the foyer and stood paralyzed at the base of the stairs, staring at the landing above. He could go after her. But he did not know if he would be able to discern the truth if he heard it now.

His hands fisted. When he had not found Octavia at home earlier, he went to see Ashford, to ask advice of the only person who might give him good counsel concerning Styles. But Steven was still abroad and Ben hadn’t time to wait for him to return from Paris. He must confront Styles now. Then he would be free of this ache of doubt. And of obstructions.

Nearly free.

A presence stirred in the foyer behind him. He turned and met Abha’s heavy gaze.

“I will ruin Crispin.”

Abha smiled.

Chapter 19

DEAD-WIND. The wind right against the ship, or that blowing from the very point to which she wants to go.

—Falconer’s
Dictionary of the Marine

C
rispin could not be found. The doors of India House had closed for the day, and the baron was not at his club or his flat. Nor was Styles, but Ben knew where to find his old friend tonight. He rode home, scribbled a note to his secretary, and sent it off with Samuel.

His valet met his demand for formal attire with enthusiasm.

“Which pin would you prefer, my lord?” Singh stood with his hand poised eagerly over the dressing case as Ben folded his starched cravat into a simple arrangement. “The blue diamond, perhaps? Or the ruby crescent?” Singh’s turban sported a tiny emerald, his loose cotton shirt fastened with freshwater pearl buttons. Ben suspected his valet spent a great deal more time with his jewels than he did.

He did not fault him for it. Old sailors loved swag, and Ben trusted Singh as he trusted Creighton, Samuel, and all his employees. A great deal more than he trusted his peers.

“The fire opal,” he replied.

Singh produced an octagonal cut jewel the size of the flat of his callused thumb, of brilliant apricot shot through with golden strands, and affixed it within the fall of Ben’s cravat. In the mirror, Ben stared at the jewel he had bought from a Mughal prince just before leaving India seven long years ago. Cut for a queen nine centuries earlier, the gem was precisely the shade of Octavia’s hair.

“Off to Lord and Lady Savege’s ball tonight, my lord?”

Ben nodded and headed toward the door.

“My lord?”

Ben paused.

Singh placed his palms together and bowed at the waist. “May the blessings of the universal god be upon you.”

Ben lifted a brow. “Thank you, Singh. Any particular reason why today?” He could certainly use blessings at this point. His muscles were clenched, his stomach tight as though he anticipated a fencing match or horse race. Styles would be at the Saveges’ fête.

“Upon this day five years ago, sir, you took me from that fearful galley and gave me freedom.” The former slave bowed deep again and did not rise. “I am most grateful.”

Ben stared at the top of his valet’s linen-wrapped head, at Singh’s hands rough and dark as earth. Something in him unwound. Across the chamber in the glass, a reflection of the shimmering jewel in his cravat winked.

“You are quite welcome, Singh.” He turned and went from his house.

The Earl and Countess of Savege’s home was not far. Head full, Ben walked the distance without knowing the direction he took or the time elapsed. His hostess met him in the foyer.

“Lord Doreé, what a great pleasure to see you.” She offered him a broad, generous-mouthed grin, her eyes sparkling as though she meant her welcome. It worked into Ben’s fraught senses like Singh’s words, with insidiously warm, familiar fingers.

The countess leaned toward him, grasping his hand as she had on that night five years earlier when she accosted him in an alleyway, seeking the truth as Ben did now. Then, he had known so little of himself.

He feared he still knew little. His world seemed to be turning around him, spinning more swiftly with each moment and each partially answered question. For years he had sought to trap the past behind him, locking its pain and turmoil behind bars. A quiet soul by nature, he had never sought the unrest his uncle thrust upon him, nor the hazards. Now they reached out to him, telling him they were his lot and he would be content with them. Not only content, but justified. Complete. Happy. If he could but understand whom to claim as allies, whom as foes.

“Lady Constance has been asking after you.” Lady Savege’s eyes shone with concern. “Perhaps you will seek her out and put her mind at rest?”

Ben moved into the crush of people packing the town house. He avoided such events even when welcome at them because he could not think in crowds. Born in India, the most populous land on earth, and all he had ever wanted was peace, the peace of common understanding and bone-deep joy he had found in the animated brown eyes of a freckle-nosed, long-legged English girl.

A crowd of young gentlemen surrounded Constance. Her mouth was wide with laughter and her eyes glittered far too brightly.

“She is fully in her element,” Styles said at his shoulder.

Stillness streamed through Ben’s veins like the ocean in a calm wind. “I do not think so. She much prefers her horses and the countryside.”

Styles’s regard slipped away. “And yet, she is at her most beautiful when surrounded by beaux, at her most lively and ebullient admired as she is at this moment.”

“And your admiration, Walker? To what extent will you allow it to take you?” It was a gamble. Perhaps Constance had nothing to do with the fire. Styles had treated her with indifference so often. But Ben must probe his own open wound to discover the bullet within.

“I haven’t an idea what you can mean.”

“Did you envy Jack? Did you wish you were in his place?”

The baron chuckled uncomfortably. “If I had envied him then, don’t you think I would have taken advantage of his absence by now?”

“Perhaps guilt has stood in your path.”

Styles didn’t miss a beat. “Guilt?”

“I understand you were a guest of my brother at the hunting box shortly before the fire.” Long ago, when he was just a boy, his uncle taught him that the truth was often the hardest taunt for a dishonest man to bear. “I recently learned of this. Since you had not mentioned it to me before, I wondered why.”

“I visited a time or two, but I never liked it.” Styles spoke with measured calm. “After Arthur’s death, in his absence, I found it . . . difficult.”

“Yes. You told me then.” Ben allowed that to sit. Constance had seen him, and every few moments her gaze flickered to him, then to Styles. A gentleman by her side bowed and proffered her a glass of champagne. She wrapped him upon the shoulder with her closed fan with a smack Ben heard yards away despite the orchestra. Her suitor’s eyes went wide, but he smiled. Constance was a Diamond, and Ben had seen this before, pulling her away from such company just as many times as she wished.

“Haven’t you any desire to separate her from her swains, then?” he asked casually, as though every cell of blood in his body weren’t trained upon the reply.

“Not any more than you, I’ll merit.” Styles’s gaze shifted across the ballroom. “Not given the present company.”

Ben followed his attention. Octavia stood by the shallow stair ascending to the foyer. Her gown caressed her perfect curves with a gracious touch. Her soft skin lit with the chandelier’s glow seemed pale, her eyes especially dark at the distance, her tempting mouth a straight line.

Ben met Styles’s interested regard. The back of his neck prickled.

“The fair Miss Pierce still appeals, I see.” The baron’s blue eyes glinted.

“She is tolerably attractive.” Ben forced a grin. “Why, my friend? Hanging out these days for fresher fare than the demi-reps at Hauterive’s?”

Styles’s eyes narrowed. “You know, just there for a moment you sounded like your old self again. Did our evening at the club last week have a positive effect on you after all?”

Ben thought of Fletcher James, of his lovely chair-ridden wife and the foundling hospital, of Singh and the knobby scars on his ankles and collar from where iron manacles had bound him to oar and bench, and he replied, “Yes.”

Crystal shattered. Constance’s brittle laugher cascaded above the crowd. One of her admirers produced a handkerchief with an elegant flourish. She snatched it from his fingers with a mock pout and dabbed at her skirts, champagne shimmering upon the floor at her feet.

Ben had seen enough. If he were another man he would cross the ballroom to the woman who captivated him, take her arm, and not release her for the remainder of the evening—at least not until he asked her about the journal clippings. And much more. But he was not that man. He was, in fact, finally beginning to understand precisely what sort of man he could be. Perhaps the man Octavia had waited for years ago.

From across the ballroom her warm gaze was trained on Constance, worry etching her brow.

“Good evening, Styles.” He nodded farewell to his companion. He had sown the seeds. He must now allow them to germinate.

Constance met Ben’s approach with wide eyes glistening with merriment upon the surface and distress beneath.

“Why, Lord Doreé,” she tittered, “you have only now missed the opportunity to be covered in champagne like Mr. Anders and Lord Scott here.” Her gaze circled her admirers. “But perhaps one of you kind gentlemen would supply me with another glass, and this time you can cast wagers upon whose shoes I will more thoroughly douse.” She leaned toward Ben to speak sotto voice. “Wager on Lord Scott. His pumps are marvelously shiny, so I shall aim for him.”

Lord Scott laughed, possibly as intoxicated as Constance, at least by her beauty and attention. Mr. Anders chuckled with less amusement, unhappy to be bested. Ben took Constance’s hand and drew it through his arm.

“Come now, my lady. I will convey you home and you can throw all the champagne you wish onto your own shoes.”

“You are ever so amusing, my lord,” she giggled, but did not resist. “
Adieu
, gentlemen.” She waved her fan in their direction. Ben pressed through the crowd. Her grip on his arm pinched. “What took you so long?” Her tone was entirely altered, her breath stained with wine. “I was wretched and you were not here.”

“Hush,” he murmured and drew her up the stair. Octavia stood there still, watching them.

“Darling Octavia.” Constance grasped her friend’s gloved hand. “I am sorry you did not arrive earlier. I should have had a much better time tonight if you and Ben had not both abandoned me.” Tears teetered at the cusps of her eyes.

Octavia’s gaze darted to Ben. “You are taking her home now, I hope?” she asked quietly. He nodded.

“He is rescuing me, you see. He
likes
to rescue people. He does it all the time, you know.” A tear rolled over the spot of crimson on Constance’s cheek.

“Yes. I do know.” Octavia released her hand and looked at Ben again. “Go quickly now.”

He bowed and drew Constance away and to her carriage. Once within, in the company of her hired companion, Mrs. Jacobs, his childhood friend sobbed into a handkerchief, speaking of her unhappiness only in tears. He held her hand and murmured words of comfort, but his thoughts swirled.

He had never told a soul who he truly was. His servants knew only what they must to perform their duties. Even Creighton, who kept Ben’s books, did his correspondence, interviewed captains, and examined each ship upon arrival and departure, understood only a portion of the projects Ben’s wealth and network of allies allowed. Ashford knew somewhat more, but still not all.

He wanted to tell Octavia. The longing rose in him quick and powerful as the carriage rocked along the dark London streets, an urging from deep within.

He could not. He would not put her in danger of being in possession of such information. And he had no assurance she would not tell her betrothed. Until he found Marcus Crispin and forced him to come clean, Ben could not be certain of her. Even then he could not.

But now he was finally ready to discern how he might come to be certain. He was through with watching her walk away.

T
avy awoke to mid-morning sunlight slipping through cracks in the drapes, with no desire to be awake and less desire to do anything about it. She rolled over on the soft linen, tucked her face into the crook of her arm and squeezed her lids shut. But the image of Ben’s eyes as he escorted Constance from the ball the previous night would not leave her. Tavy had only once before seen him appear so torn, just before he kissed her in the rain.

She forced her feet over the side of the bed and to the floor, then her body to the clothes press. Garbed in an unadorned walking gown, she went to the kitchen and requested a muffin and tea from the cook. She lingered belowstairs where Abha found her. Lal sat on his shoulder gnawing on an apple core. The monkey jumped to her arm and snatched the remains of the muffin from her fingers.

Abha’s regard seemed to assess her. She tilted her weary head. “Good morning?”

“
Memsahib
, I have found Marcus Crispin.”

“Found him? Has he returned to town?”

Abha shook his head.

Octavia put a hand to her brow. “I am afraid I will not be receptive to cryptic statements today. Please.”

“He did not leave London.”

“But why would he tell me he went to the country then remain in town?” she said, then understood. Marcus had lied to her. “Do you know where he is now?”

Her longtime companion nodded.

“Nowhere admirable,” she guessed.

He nodded again.

“Take me there.”

“No.”

“Well then why did you tell me?”

“So that you would know.”