Magic in the Stars (2 page)

And still, she could not back down. She nodded at the driver
to knock again. He pounded with vigor.

One panel creaked open. The light from the foyer illumined a
shirt-sleeved, well-built, almost ascetic-looking man with a thick head of
unruly brown hair. He loomed over Aster’s below-average height, which made him
large enough to be a footman. But no footman—or gentleman—opened a door in such
dishabille while wielding a billiard cue, with a giant basset hound on his
heels.

His hollowed, unshaven cheeks were softened by a curl of
brownish hair across his wide brow. She had been led to believe that all Ives
were black-haired, tall, and broad like oxen, so this must be a servant. She
dipped her umbrella to cover her face.

“I must speak with the Marquess of Ashford immediately,” she
said in her coldest, most formal tones. “It is a matter of life and death.”

***

Life and death
? Theo
shoved Hog aside and peered around the door.

An enormous blue umbrella painted with—
Egyptian hieroglyphs
?—met his gaze. Umbrellas were generally waxed
canvas, black, and weighed enough to make a grown man think twice about
carrying them. Judging by height—or lack thereof—and the pair of small,
feminine boots planted on the doorstep, he assumed the visitor to be female.

What the devil would a
lady
be doing here? In a howling storm?

Pushing back a yipping puppy, Theo lowered his eyes to peer
below the canvas edge. A luscious bosom covered in a shimmering iridescent
waterfall of silk rewarded his curiosity. He almost salivated like Hog over a
sheep shank. He’d definitely been without a mistress too long.

A damp draft wafted a light floral fragrance around him,
stunning him into near paralysis. After the noxious odors of his brothers and
the moldering manor, their mysterious visitor was literally like a breath of
fresh spring air. Anxiously, he awaited the umbrella’s tilt to reveal its
owner.

She took her damned time.

“May we come in?” a melodic voice inquired from behind the
blasted canvas, revealing nothing. “We’ve come from London and must speak with
the marquess on a matter of urgency,” she repeated more insistently over
yapping dogs and his brothers’ attempts to hush them.

Damn, another of Ashford’s mistresses? Or another desperate
female determined to trick the dolt into marriage? Most generally, decent women
did not show up on their doorstep without invitation and escorted by no more
than a carriage driver.

Intrigued despite his cynicism, Theo stepped aside and
ushered the iridescent peacock into the war zone that he called home. “Ashford
isn’t here, but come in and dry off, Miss . . .”

“Lady Azenor Dougall.” Unfazed by the excited puppies
rushing at her, she crossed the threshold, leaving the umbrella dripping on the
covered porch.

Azenor
? Despite a
tingling warning at the odd name, Theo was distracted by the petite female
marching into the zoo he called home as if she owned it. Lighting the gray
gloom more brightly than the foyer’s gas lamps, she glanced around at the
billiard table, his precariously perched telescope, the romping spaniels, and
his half-dressed and staring brothers as if she visited Bedlam on a regular
basis.

An enormous hat adorned in vibrantly-hued peacock feathers
concealed her hair and her expression. Theo ached to sweep the eyesore away,
but he couldn’t drag his gaze from the shimmering rainbow of fabric encasing a
figure so curvaceous, he forgot to breathe.

Damn Duncan for claiming all the good women.

“When can we expect Ashford home?” she demanded, tilting her
head just enough for him to see beneath the hideosity that concealed her hair.

Huge, dark-lashed eyes shimmered with the beauty of
midnight—he could almost see stars against a dark blue sky. Pert nose, plump
rose lips, soft oval face—she was all curves everywhere he looked. He was
having a hard time
not
looking. As
were his brothers, their arms now full of wriggling puppies.

If a heavenly body like this inhabited his home, he’d come
down from the roof more often.

“Lady Azenor.” He belatedly remembered to bow. “I’m
Theophilus Ives, Ashford’s brother.” He jerked his head inelegantly at his
gawking siblings. “Erran Ives and Jacques Ives-Bellamy, who were just about to
order tea, if you would like some.”

Theo shot the dunces a telling look. Any tea in the kitchen
would be stale, since they never drank it, but someone had to perform the
niceties—and remove the damned yapping dogs.

Theo hoped he’d phrased the introduction appropriately. His
mother had died only a few years after Erran’s birth. His father had never
remarried, and the social graces hadn’t been high on Theo’s list of lessons or
interests. He preferred stars to people.

A black-gowned scarecrow behind the shimmering angel grunted
a warning, startling him into realizing the lady had accompaniment.

In response to the grunt, Lady Azenor sparkled, even as she
frowned. Theo couldn’t stop gawking like a looby.

“Lord Theophilus,” the lady purred with satisfaction,
apparently placing him on the family tree despite his incomplete introduction.
“This affects you, also. I repeat, when do you expect the marquess?”

“Not at all this evening, given the weather. And if his
fiancée has anything to say about it, probably not the rest of the week.”

Her plump lips pursed in what might have been displeasure on
any other woman. On this one—she seemed posed for kissing. Theo couldn’t
unscramble his addled brain from wanting to hustle her somewhere private, back
to appropriate behavior.

If she was Dunc’s mistress, could she be persuaded to desert
his brother’s riches in favor of a man without wealth or title, a gentleman who
wouldn’t let her travel the roads in a storm?

“Is there a fire where my lady might warm her hands?” the black-garbed
servant inquired with a hint of acidity.

So much for impressing her with his nonexistent charm and thoughtfulness.

“Of course, this way . . .” Theo finally tore
his gaze from the angel to note that Jacques and Erran still stood there as
frozen as he. “Tea!” he ordered, before offering his arm and wondering where in
hell he might find a fire.

A woman who didn’t run screaming from her first sight of the
Hall was a treasure worth pursuing, even if it was his damned titled brother
she wanted.

Azenor hesitated at taking the gentleman’s offered . . .
shirtsleeve. Lord Theophilus, like his brothers, was garbed most
inappropriately in loose linen, doeskin breeches, and scuffed boots. She was
almost terrified to look closer—she could see bare chest. With hair.

Lord Erran at least wore an expensively embroidered gold
waistcoat—not so his brothers.

They were all big men. Of course they were big, she scolded
herself, taking a deep breath and delicately placing her glove on his . . .
muscled . . . arm. They were Ives, after all. It was to be
expected, even if Lord Theophilus wasn’t quite the bear of a man his younger
brother Erran appeared to be. The heir had more of the lean, studious look of a
monk, except for the waves of hair. And the unshaven jaw.

“I do apologize for disturbing you in such an inopportune
manner,” she found the words to say, while trying to curb her awareness of his
lordship’s masculinity. His broad shoulders and trim hips ought to be declared
one of the seven wonders of the world. Or perhaps she simply lacked sufficient
knowledge of male anatomy, given that
most
gentlemen wore coats, waistcoats, and neckcloths to cover themselves.

“No disturbance at all, my lady,” Lord Theophilus assured
her in an acerbic baritone.

Without explaining the presence of a telescope and billiard
table in the rotunda, he led her through a dreary corridor with unlit lamps and
frayed carpet. The air smelled of mold and damp ashes. If it were not for the labor
laws the marquess supported for poor overworked women and children, she’d be
thinking twice about the worth of saving Ashford and his household. She did
sometimes wonder if interfering with the universe’s design was interfering with
the hand of God. But she simply could not in all good conscience let anyone
suffer if it could possibly be prevented.

“As much as we appreciate your company brightening our
dreary day, you really should not have come out in this beastly weather,” his
lordship said bluntly. “A servant would have sufficed.”

“As if you would have paid heed to a servant,” she retorted,
recovering a little more of her spirit. “Or that I should send servants out in
weather I wouldn’t venture into myself. Besides, given the position of the
planets, we would have to stay inside all summer if we feared a little rain. We
are in for a few miserably wet months.”

“Indeed.” Without any other acknowledgment of her
prediction, he indicated that she enter what appeared to be a study. The
illumination of the gray day through tall, uncovered windows revealed piles of
books and papers scattered across a threadbare rug, several wing chairs, and an
imposing desk.

A wealthy marquess really ought to have servants lighting
fires and lamps—and answering doors. Azenor recalled the chaotic scene greeting
her earlier of half-dressed men, stacked furniture, and barking dogs. Perhaps
all sane servants had fled the premises, or at least the female ones had. An
all-male household would undoubtedly be a trial.

Not that she knew about such things. Her baby brother had
barely been toddling when she’d seen him last. All her other siblings were girls.

Lord Theophilus lit a lamp on the desk, then stirred the
embers in the grate until a small blaze warmed the room. He glanced around
until he located a worn leather chair. He unceremoniously dumped off a stack of
papers and tugged the chair closer to the fire. When he didn’t provide a seat
for Jennet, Azenor neatly gathered the books on a second chair and removed them
to the floor, gesturing for her companion to pull it next to her.

His lordship hastened to help Jennet lift the chair—a
belated polite gesture, as if his skills were rusty.

With a little time to recover from the shock of his
proximity, Azenor studied Ashford’s heir. There was steel and grace in Lord
Theo’s movement—but he did not sport the bronze coloring of an active
outdoorsman. He would look sleek and sophisticated in proper attire, the kind
of man one would expect to be a courtier or politician. But the sheaf of papers
in his waistband revealed his true calling of absent-minded scientist.

His features were angular and striking but not overtly
handsome. His most distinguishing characteristic, aside from the unshaven
square jaw that made her squirm uncomfortably, was a pair of exceedingly light blue-gray
eyes that seemed to pierce her innermost soul.

She realized she was staring and hastily took the seat
offered.

This wouldn’t get any easier. She gestured for Jennet to
hand her the tapestry valise she used to carry her charts.

“I could wish Ashford were here as this most concerns him. I
must rely on you to convey the urgency of the situation,” she explained,
rummaging through the valise for the appropriate scroll.

“Had you sent word—” He cut off his criticism with the
arrival of a footman and tea tray.

Not a maid, she noted. Probably a wise choice on the part of
the housekeeper. A household of virile males and no female authority would be
ungovernable around young women . . . which ought to make her
nervous and didn’t.

If she could not have a family, she must dedicate herself to
duty. Given the eccentricity of her family’s habits, the Malcolm librarian
could not afford to be of a nervous nature.

From what she remembered, Lord Theo’s chart showed a man who
ignored authority, who acted without consideration for others, but who was also
capable of charging at challenges like an idealistic knight in shining armor.
In other words, he was a difficult, complicated man but not a violent one.

It was the marquess’s dire chart causing her the most concern.

She waited until the tea had been poured and the servant
departed before continuing with what she had to say. “I apologize for abruptly
appearing on your doorstep. I do not always have the advantage of adequate time
to send polite notes. It is not as if I spend all day studying charts of every
member of the family. I would need a tribe of astrological scholars, and as far
as I am aware, I am the only one in the kingdom.”

His lordship choked on his tea.

His reaction was not unanticipated. She had fretted all the
way here over how to make the marquess understand the dangers he faced.
Scientific men simply refused to accept what they couldn’t measure and tuck
neatly into a tract or treatise.

She unrolled her scroll and launched into her practiced
speech. “I have been working diligently at creating the zodiac charts of all
known Malcolms. Since the Ives family started marrying into ours eighty years
ago, we’ve also had to include all your births. I must say, that has caused
more work than one person can conceivably handle.”

“Perhaps you need a tribe of scribes,” he said, studying her
artwork from beneath a sardonically lifted brow.

“I need another librarian,” she said acidly at his
absurdity, “but so far none of my cousins have seen fit to produce one. That’s
beside the point.”

It wasn’t as if
she
would ever be able to marry in hopes of reproducing herself. She smoothed out
the vellum and tapped the fourth house at the bottom of the chart. "Your
brother has dangerous transits to half a dozen points that suggest catastrophe,
possible death, and secret enemies. And
all
are in the fourth house of home and family.”

She glanced up at Theo, narrowing her eyes. “And
you
also have disruptive transits to
points that indicate possible death of a sibling and a change in your
occupation. I
cannot
overstate the danger
of this next month or two to your brother, you, and your whole family. Remember
that if your brother dies, your life will change beyond measure."