M Is for Marquess (2 page)

Thea wondered what it would be like to draw such attention. She was an observer by nature, more comfortable watching than being watched. The sole exception was when there was a pianoforte in front of her. Then everything—the audience, the world—melted away to the smooth glide of ivory beneath her fingertips, the immersion into a realm beyond the ordinary, where only soul-deep sensation existed.

She often got so lost in the music that the applause startled her out of her reverie. At times, guests called for an encore. But only one man had ever truly heard her.

Her hands curled in her gloves, her fingers tingling with the memory of thick, tawny locks sliding between them. The dark, delicious flavor of her first kiss drenched her senses. The familiar mix of longing and humiliation rushed through her.

Don’t be a ninny,
she chided herself.
If he wanted you, he would not have left. He would not have disappeared without a word for three months.

“Tired, dear?”

Thea looked up into Emma’s concerned brown eyes. She managed a smile. The last thing she wanted was to worry her sister, who tended to be overprotective as it was.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“It was quite the walk in from the promenade. And you were up early with Olivia this morning—”

“There’s no need to fuss.” She cut Em off gently. “You know I love to play the doting aunt.”

Married to a duke, Emma could have an army of nursemaids at her disposal if she wished. But that wasn’t the Kent way. They were country-bred middling class folk, and despite Ambrose, the eldest brother, and Emma both marrying into the upper classes, the siblings retained much of their original outlook on life.

Family stuck together through thick and thin. Older Kents watched over the younger ones. Thus, after Olivia’s birth, Thea had gone from her brother’s home to her sister’s to help care for the newest member of the family.

Emma frowned. “It rained yesterday, and you know how your lungs get after the rain.”

At the mention of her health, Thea tamped down a spark of frustration. It wasn’t fair of her to be annoyed at Emma, whose habitual fretting stemmed from years of looking after all the Kents—and her especially. At age five, Thea had contracted the croup, the coughing and fever lasting nearly a fortnight. Others of her family had gotten ill, too, but everyone else had recovered fully.

She, however, remained vulnerable to coughing fits, the sudden spasm of her lungs. For years, the breathing ailment had stolen her energy and restricted her activity, and she’d faced the prospect of living life as an invalid. Then a miracle had occurred. She’d come under the care of Dr. Abernathy, a brilliant Scottish physician, and he’d prescribed a novel treatment of exercises and salt water rinses to strengthen her respiratory system. Over the past year, her constitution had gradually improved, and hope blossomed within her.

Physically, she knew she’d never be as robust as her siblings, but her will was as strong as theirs. She would give anything to live a full life, one unhindered by her body’s limitations. One in which she would know the kind of passion she’d thus far only experienced through music.

“I do appreciate all that you’ve done, Thea. Olivia is rather a handful—even more so than Polly was at that age.” Emma tipped her head, her sable curls glinting where they caught the light. “It must come from Strathaven’s side of the family.”

Thea smothered a grin. “I think His Grace has settled in nicely.”

“He has, hasn’t he?” Smiling, Emma paused to look at enormous birds labeled as “Emus” chasing each other around a gated pen. “Marriage has been good for both of us.”

Feeling an insufferable pang of self-pity, Thea inwardly sighed.
What’s wrong with me?
She was so happy that Emma and Ambrose had both found worthy partners—no one deserved love more than her siblings. Yet being around people in love made her crave a taste of that intensity, that life-altering ardor. And at four-and-twenty, she was running out of time.

By Season’s end, she would be firmly on the shelf. After that, she’d be like an apple that had rolled out of view, growing wrinkly and moldy in some dark corner with no one to notice… except perhaps ants. But who wanted to be noticed by ants? The things she wanted—a passionate love match, a husband and children of her own—would be out of her reach forever.

Apparently, Emma caught wind of her thoughts. “On the topic of marriage, I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Me?” Thea kept her eyes on the prancing birds, the flutter of brown and black feathers.

Emma’s expression turned resolute, a familiar crease deepening between her brows. “You’ve been in the doldrums ever since the Marquess of Tremont left Town. Strathaven does business with Tremont, and they’re friendly, as you know. I can ask him to—”

“
No
, Emma.” Thea’s lungs constricted at the notion. “You promised you wouldn’t interfere. Please don’t make me regret sharing my feelings with you—feelings which have faded, I assure you.”

The last part was a lie but better than the alternative. Of all her siblings, Thea felt closest to Emma, who was older by just a year. But Em had a tendency to think that she knew best for everyone and, as a result, could be a bit managing.

Em gnawed on her lower lip. “I’m still convinced that the marquess was interested in you. For months, he was so attentive. I don’t understand his sudden departure.”

Though her habit was to confide in her sister, Thea had kept one secret to herself: the kiss she’d shared with Tremont. After all, what woman wanted to divulge that she’d wantonly thrown herself into a gentleman’s arms, experienced moments of heavenly pleasure… only to be summarily rebuffed?

Trying for an offhanded tone, she said, “Perhaps he had things to attend to at his estate.”

“But to leave in the middle of the Season? And without a word to anyone? After the time he spent in your company,” Emma said with an indignant huff, “he could have at least sent a note.”

Her sister did have a point. Since last Season, Tremont had been paying respects to Thea. Nothing that would raise eyebrows, just the occasional dance or turn around the ballroom. She’d found herself drawn to the enigmatic widower. Not merely because he was attractive—which he certainly was with his classical features and virile physique—but because she sensed in him a kindred spirit.

On the surface, he was the perfect gentleman—
The Angel
, as the ton liked to call him. He didn’t gamble, drink much, or indulge in the other excesses common to men of his station. His manner was polite to the point of being devoid of any emotion. He favored austere fashions, his crisp cravat and gleaming boots as spotless as his reputation.

Yet beneath all that masculine restraint, she sensed passion, potent and yearning.

She’d never forget his first words to her. She’d just finished performing her favorite piano sonata at Emma’s engagement party, and guests had approached to offer accolades on her playing. The last in line had been a tall, broad-shouldered stranger. He’d looked to be in his mid-thirties, a man in his prime. The chandelier had glinted off the gold in his hair, cast shadows over a face of stark male beauty.

“It began like a gentle rain,” he’d said, his deep voice lifting the hairs on her skin, “and ended like a thunderstorm. Thank you for reminding me of the human spirit. Of its passion and folly, its ability to endure.”

Breathless awareness had gripped her. The fibers of her being tautened, quivering with the readiness of an instrument about to be plucked. A feeling she’d waited a lifetime for.

Mesmerized by the intensity of his slate grey eyes, she’d whispered, “Thank you… um,
who
are you?”

His slow, self-deprecating smile devastated her senses. “My manners aren’t usually this shoddy. Forgive me. Gabriel Ridgley, Marquess of Tremont, at your service.”

And so her feverish infatuation had begun.

For his part, he’d never actively encouraged her attachment, nor had he discouraged it. They’d talked, danced, strolled in the garden, all of it properly chaperoned. All of it friendly and polite. At times, she’d thought that they were about to turn a corner—that he might declare his feelings—only to have him withdraw, his eyes opaque as steel. As cool and impassive.

Finally, she hadn’t been able to stand it any longer. For the first time in her life, she’d acted recklessly. She’d grabbed life by the horns—and been flung aside.

“He doesn’t owe me anything.” Then, because it had to be said, “Please don’t meddle, Em. It’ll only make matters awkward if he and I cross paths in the future.”

“Fine. You’re better off without him, if you ask me,” her sister declared. “Tremont always struck me as a bit of a cold fish.”

If only his kiss
had
been cold, then she might have forgotten him more easily. But in those few precious moments before he’d rejected her, his lips had set fire to her blood, awakening dormant yearnings. Desires that now infused her dreams, made her toss restlessly in her bed...

“And speaking of fish, he’s not the only one in the sea. Instead of moping, you ought to make the most of the remaining Season. Meet potential suitors. You’ve been so preoccupied with that blasted Tremont that you haven’t noticed anyone else.”

Actually, Thea had noticed the handful of gentlemen who’d shown her attention… who might have even courted her, had she encouraged them. They were all substantially older than she was, widowers with heirs securely in place. Men who could afford to take on a fragile wife to be a companion in their dotage or an ornament in their drawing room. Men who would peck her on the cheek, pat her head, and send her off to her separate bedchamber.

Men who didn’t understand her at all.

Yet the one man who did—who’d seemed to see to the vital, pulsing heart of her desires—didn’t want her. For weeks, the reasons for Tremont’s rejection kept her mind spinning like a top. Was it because her constitution seemed too weak? Was she too old? Not pretty enough? Perhaps it had been her kiss—too brazen or too inexperienced?

Or maybe he’d never reciprocated her feelings at all. Maybe he’d seen her only as a platonic companion. Maybe his heart still belonged to Lady Sylvia, his departed wife whom everyone said had been a paragon of virtue…

Stop it
, Thea told herself firmly. The answer lay as out of reach as a mirage. Which meant she must cease obsessing over it or she would be driven to Bedlam.

“If I meet anyone of interest, you will be the first to know.” She gave her sister a pleading look. “Now can we
please
drop the subject?”

Emma huffed out a breath. “I only pester because I care, you know.”

“I know.” Drawing her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, Thea forced a smile. “We’d better catch up to the girls.” By the camel house, two bold dandies were bowing before Rosie. “They’re getting more attention than the menagerie.”

“That’s Quality for you,” Emma said, sighing. “They’re here to watch each other not the animals.”

A lady sporting a full plumage of peacock feathers in her hat strolled by.

Thea murmured, “How can you tell the difference?”

Her sister laughed, dispelling any lingering tension.

The next hour passed quickly given the distractions of the various displays. They met up with Strathaven and Violet, the latter chomping at the bit to see the kangaroos. The other girls wanted to go too; feeling the familiar fatigue creep over her like fog over the Thames, Thea scanned the bustling environs for a bench and proposed to wait there.

“I’ll stay with you,” Emma said.

“No, go and enjoy yourself. I’d like a few moments of quiet. Truly I would.”

Emma looked ready to argue, but Strathaven put an arm around her waist. “Don’t fuss, love. Let Dorothea enjoy a respite from the mayhem. We won’t be gone long.”

Thea gave her brother-in-law a grateful look.

With a wink, he led Emma and the others away.

Thea made her way to the seat. But a pair of ladies beat her to it, forcing her to look for another. She spied one in the distance; away from the main walk, the bench was set by a sparkling pond, partially hidden by a cluster of trees. Lured by the promise of solitude, she headed over.

A few minutes later, she sat in the enveloping shade. The leaf-scented coolness was a balm to her senses, and she smiled at the frolics of the water fowl honking and flapping their wings, splashing diamonds across the water’s surface. Just as she began to relax, a boy’s voice cut through the calm.

“Please, Mademoiselle Fournier, I cannot keep up.”

“You do not wish to miss the feeding of the bears, do you?” The female voice bore a crisp French accent. “You must hurry, or we will miss it.”

Shading her eyes, Thea spotted the pair: a small, tawny-haired boy, simply and expensively dressed, led by the arm by a woman whose drab gown and bonnet pronounced her as his governess. They were on the other side of the pond, heading toward the trees along the perimeter of the gardens.

The child dug in his heels. “I do not think that this is the way to the bears. And what about Papa? He said he would be right back—”

“Your papa will find us. You must listen to me.
Allons-y
.”

The governess yanked impatiently at her charge’s arm, and the boy whimpered, “Stop, please, you’re hurting me!”

Thea found herself on her feet, dashing over. “Pardon,” she said between breaths, “what is going on?”

The governess’ head whipped in her direction. The woman was in her twenties, exceptionally pretty, with even features and a slim figure. Her dark shrewd eyes roved over Thea, and her expression smoothed like a sheet over a bed.

“Nothing to concern you,
mademoiselle
,” she said.

“Your treatment of this child concerns me.” Thea turned to the boy, whose blue-grey eyes took up much of his thin face. Freckles stood out against the paleness of his skin. Gentling her voice, she said, “Are you all right, dear?”

“Y-yes, miss.”

The boy’s quivering reply indicated that he wasn’t fine. Not by a long shot.

“Are you being taken against your will?” she said.

“I am his governess,” the Frenchwoman snapped. “You are interfering in business that does not concern you. Come, Frederick, we must go.”